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your lipstick’s barely dry when he walks in.

tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, still in his three-piece suit like he owns the entire fucking floor—and he does. ceo na jaemin, the man you were hired to assist. except somewhere between fetching schedules and filing contracts, you became something else.

his favorite distraction.

tonight, it’s the office gym.

the executive one. the one hidden two floors above, keycard access only, always empty after hours. he drags you inside like he’s done it a hundred times, lips already on your neck, one hand squeezing your ass while the other yanks your skirt up.

“fucking missed this pussy,” he mutters, voice low, thick with tension. “my wife’s been on my case all week. nagging about date nights like i give a shit.”

you hum in response, palms sliding under his shirt. “you still fucking her?”

he chuckles against your collarbone.

“nah. wouldn’t touch her even if she begged.”

god, this was so wrong…

then he slams you against the cold glass of the shower stall, knee pushing your legs apart.

but why does being bad feel so good?

you gasp, heartbeat spiking. he doesn’t give you time to adjust. his fingers are in your panties, tugging them down, already spreading you open with practiced ease.

“wet for me already?” jaemin groans. “god, i love how easy you are.”

you whimper when he drags the head of his cock through your folds—slow, teasing, before shoving it in deep.

you cry out, fingers scrambling for purchase on the tile.

he grunts behind you, pace unrelenting. the slap of his hips against your ass echoes in the stall, each thrust rougher than the last. water isn’t even on. he wants to hear you. feel everything.

“you think she knows?” he pants. “thinks her perfect husband’s balls-deep in his little secretary every other night?”

“she probably suspects,” you moan. “you never hide it.”

he laughs.

“no point hiding something that feels this good.”

he reaches around, fingers finding your clit with expert pressure. your legs shake.

“gonna cum already?” he teases. “fuck, i love when you make a mess all over my cock. gonna stretch this pussy until you can’t walk tomorrow.”

you sob into the glass, thighs quivering. his grip never loosens.

when he pulls out, you almost cry from the loss—but he just spins you around, lifts you up effortlessly, and slides back in while pinning your back against the shower wall.

“there,” he growls, fucking into you from below. “want you to look at me when you cum. let me see how wrecked i’ve made you.”

your orgasm hits with a cry, body spasming, nails digging into his shoulders. he grits his teeth, thrusts deeper, and finishes inside you with a guttural groan, keeping you wrapped around him as he empties every drop.

you barely recover before the next scene begins.

* * *

“stay under the desk.”

his voice is sharp now. curt. in control.

you kneel between his legs as he settles into the plush leather chair, laptop open in front of him. an online board meeting. six other faces appear on screen—legal, finance, international development—and none of them have a clue what’s happening just out of frame.

your lips close around his cock.

jaemin doesn’t flinch.

“the merger timeline’s being pushed up?” he says smoothly, voice deep and composed. “good. we’ve wasted enough time on that contract.”

you bob your head slowly, hollowing your cheeks, tongue swirling around the tip.

his thigh tenses.

he places one hand on your head—casual, like he’s just resting it there—but you feel the subtle twitch of his fingers as he controls your rhythm.

“any objections to moving the date up two weeks?”

you swirl your tongue again and swallow him deeper. his breath hitches. no one notices.

you suck harder, letting drool drip from your chin, hands resting obediently on his thighs. he’s pulsing in your mouth. every time you gag, he lets out a subtle grunt—low enough to pass as a breath.

“i’ll sign off on it tomorrow,” he mutters.

you suck him until his abs flex and he bites his lip.

“meeting’s over,” he says, voice tight. “send me the updates.”

the moment the screen goes dark, he grabs your jaw and pulls his cock out, slick and throbbing.

then he slaps it against your cheek.

hard.

“filthy little cocksleeve,” he sneers, slapping your other cheek with it. “can’t go one day without choking on this, huh?”

you moan, tongue out, eyes glassy.

“open wider.”

he slaps your lips with the tip, smearing precum across your tongue before sliding back in.

“fuck, i should keep you under my desk permanently,” jaemin growls. “mouth like yours shouldn’t be wasted on anything else.”

he uses your throat like a toy, hips jerking forward until your eyes water. you grip his thighs, letting him use you, spit dripping down your chin.

“look at you,” he laughs. “taking my cock like a trained little whore.”

when he finishes, he paints your tongue with it, then presses your lips shut with his fingers.

“swallow it.”

you do—without blinking.

* * *

you ride him after hours.

his suit jacket is still on. your blouse is unbuttoned, skirt bunched around your hips, hands braced against his chest as you bounce on his cock. the office is dim, but you can see everything in the glass behind him—your reflection, the way your tits bounce with every thrust, the dark look in jaemin’s eyes.

he grabs his phone mid-thrust.

you don’t even think about it until he hits dial.

your heart stutters.

“hi, baby,” jaemin says sweetly. “yeah. still working late.”

you freeze, but he grabs your hips and forces you to keep riding him.

“project deadlines, you know? my secretary’s helping me catch up. she’s been so…” his breath catches when you clench, “…so hands-on.”

you moan despite yourself, face heating.

“what’s that?” he murmurs, cock still buried deep. “you miss me? aww. i’ll be home soon.”

then he smirks at you. evil. gleaming.

“actually—hold on. lemme put you on speaker.”

your eyes widen. you try to slow down.

he doesn’t let you.

his phone rests on the desk now, his wife’s voice faint on the other end—rambling about dinner, about plans, about nothing.

and you’re on top of her husband, being fucked raw.

“mm, you hear that?” he groans loud enough for her to hear. “you hear how wet it is, baby?”

your eyes roll back.

he thrusts up into you, hard.

“you never sounded like this,” he spits into the phone. “never took my cock like she does. maybe that’s why i stopped giving it to you.”

you cum.

loud. obscene. crying out as your cunt clenches tight around him.

he groans with you, slamming into you faster, chasing his own high with brutal thrusts.

“fuck—i’m gonna breed her now,” he says into the phone. “fill her up until my cum leaks down her thighs.”

“jaemin—!” his wife cries. he ends the call mid-sob.

then he grabs your chin.

“say it,” he snarls.

“say what?” you pant, body twitching.

“say whose pussy this is.”

“yours,” you sob. “it’s yours—it’s always been yours—”

he cums with a broken growl, gripping your hips as he pumps you full. you collapse against his chest. both of you ruined. sweaty, flushed, reeking of sex.

he strokes your back once. soft. satisfied.

then he grabs your chin again.

“i’m clearing your schedule tomorrow morning,” he murmurs. “i’m not done with you yet.”

m i k a 🌷: leave a comment, send an ask, or message me if you would like to be added to any of my taglists! the main taglist is linked on my pinned post!

anytime he desired, he'd grant himself access to your curved mounds, his palms pressed to your flesh, almost completely covering them, with his thumbs picking and pinching at your perky nipples.

and by "anytime", that truly meant anytime. while gaming, he'd pull you onto his lap facing the monitor so he could idly flick one hand up to your breasts between rounds, squeezing and kneading even as he focused on the screen. while cuddling, he loved having your back pressed flush to his chest, arms encircled tightly around you while both hands cupped your tits.

if you were being honest, it got irritating at times. he'd interrupt you mid-chore or while you were buried deep in some necessary yet pestering paperwork just to slip his warm, eager hands under your shirt without hesitation, completely ignoring your small complaints and whines.

"just continue what you were doing. pretend i'm not even here, okay? just want to feel you.."

you couldn't even refuse him though you wanted to due to how distracting it was because he constantly begged and pleaded for you to let him.

and that was only the beginning. things only intensified once he got you beneath him. or on top. he wasn't particular about the position.

when things grew heated between you two, two of his fingers soon dragging slowly in and out of your soaked folds, one of his hands still stays gripping onto one breast, his mouth sucking and tongue lapping at the pink peaks.

he's always murmuring words against your skin during sex, his voice low and rough with lust. "fuck, i love these pretty little tits so much," he'd groan, "fit so damn well in my hands."

the same can be applied to when he has his mouth occupied between your legs. his tongue is busy elsewhere, flicking against your already-swollen clit and puffy pussy lips, yet his hands still do not dare leave your cleavage.

he's a hungry, hungry man.

oh, and when he finally sinks himself fully and completely raw into you... guess where his hands love to grip? it's ridiculous, honestly. whether you're riding him, underneath him in missionary, or even from the back, his hands and fingers are constantly toying and kneading your tits that bounce in perfect rhythm with his movements.

he'll be snapping his hips up into yours repeatedly, the head of his cock hitting that sweet spot deep inside you so deliciously to the point that your limbs have gone numb and your eyes are rolling back into your head, but he maintains his relentlessness.

"so fuckin' tight... jesus christ, you're perfect.. love every inch of you."

and by the time things are finished, your poor tits are covered in lovebites and flushed red from his grip, and not to mention, your body is trembling from the after effects of the earthshaking orgasm he just gave you, the tears of overwhelming pleasure still pricking your eyes.

he'll be chuckling softly (like the absolute ass he is) while cleaning up the combined juices belonging to both of you from between your thighs, his gaze still roaming over those soft curves of your chest that he's so enamored with.

"my god, look at you," he murmurs.

he disposes of the dirtied tissues and climbs on top again, hovering over your shaking form.

"your tits are always pretty, but they look best like this."

a small pause.

"should i try cumming on them next?" he questions with that extremely infuriating smile of his.

you laugh breathlessly, shoving him off you.

"oh my god, shut up!"

The next morning hits like a hangover he didn’t earn.

Haechan shows up twenty minutes early — unheard of — coffee in one hand, cap pulled low, hoodie zipped to the chin. He's already snapping at the lighting guy before the man even opens his mouth.

“Move the key light three inches left. It’s going to wash her out. Again.”

The crew exchanges glances. He’s always been sharp, but today he’s mean.

Snapping at the sound guy for a mic that’s “too hot,” telling makeup to “Don’t overdo her lips today. I don’t want them looking bitten on camera” when they’re literally just glossed.

Everyone chalks it up to a bad night.

Only Haechan knows the truth: he spent the entire night replaying your orgasm on loop, coming twice more in the shower just trying to get you out of his system.

It didn’t work.

He’s halfway through giving notes to a PA when—

You laugh.

Soft. Bright. Somewhere behind him.

He goes still.

His eyes snap to you before he can stop them.

You’re standing near the monitors, robe loose, hair still a little messy from sleep with that same soft, nervous-excited smile you had yesterday. You wave at the crew, thank them again for the compliments.

For a second, he just watches.

Then your eyes flick up.

You catch him staring.

You hold it—just long enough to feel intentional.

His grip tightens around the coffee cup.

He looks away first. Too fast. Clears his throat. “Places in ten.”

–

The scene today is POV. Simple setup: male talent (thank fuck it’s not Chad this time) on his back, you riding him, camera mounted to mimic his view. Intimate. Close. Lots of eye contact, body rolls, hands on hips/thighs/waist for leverage. The kind of shot that sells “connection”.

Haechan hates it already.

He calls action. You climb onto the bed, robe slipping off your shoulders, skin glowing under the soft ring lights. The actor’s hands find your waist immediately—professional, practiced.

You sink down slowly, taking him inch by inch until you’re fully seated on his cock, a soft, involuntary moan slipping out as the stretch hits just right.

You start slow, grinding down in lazy circles, head tipping back on a breathy moan that’s half-scripted, half-real.

Haechan’s staring at the monitor like it personally offended him.

Except he doesn’t look away.

His jaw tightens as the feed fills with you—every shift of your hips, every soft expression.

It’s wrong. It’s his job to watch, to adjust, to make it look good.

But there’s a split second, buried under all of that, where it hits him differently—heat curling low in his stomach, sharp and unwanted.

It should be him.

The thought arrives before he can stop it.

Followed immediately by something uglier—the actor's hands on your waist, thumbs pressing into skin that Haechan can almost feel in his own palms.

He doesn't say anything. Obviously. He just grips his coffee harder than it needs to and watches you move, hating every second of how much he can’t look away.

“Camera’s too high,” he mutters. Then louder: “Cut. Reset.”

The crew groans internally. Second take, not even thirty seconds in.

You sit back on your heels, confused but obedient. Your co-actor slides out carefully.

Haechan stands and walks over. The set goes quiet.

“I need to adjust you,” he says, voice coming out rough. “The angle’s off. You’re blocking the shot.”

He’s lying.

The angle’s fine.

He just… needs to touch you. Once. Just once. To see if it’s as bad as he remembers from yesterday’s guiding scene.

You nod. “Okay.”

He steps between your parted thighs—still kneeling on the bed, robe open just enough that he can see the curve of your stomach, the dip of your waist. He doesn’t look down. Not yet.

His hands hover for half a second, then settle.

Left palm on your hip bone. Right on the soft dip above your waist.

The second his fingertips meet your skin, something in his brain short-circuits.

Soft.

Warm.

Giving under his grip like you were made to be held. Your skin is velvet-smooth, still carrying that faint post-shower heat, and when you shift slightly to give him better access, the flesh yields just enough to make his thumbs dig in involuntarily.

Fuck, she feels like this?

He’s touched hundreds of bodies on set. Guided hands, adjusted poses, repositioned limbs like they were props. Never once did it feel like this—like electricity arcing straight to his cock. Never once did his pulse hammer in his ears just from palms on hips.

He slides his hands lower—slow, “professional”—fingers splaying over the tops of your thighs. soft, thick, trembling just a little under his touch. He presses gently, spreading them wider for the camera (bullshit excuse), and your breath hitches. Tiny. Barely audible.

But he hears it.

His thumbs stroke once—once—along the inner curve of your thigh. Not high enough to be inappropriate. Just enough to feel the heat radiating from your core, close enough that he can smell your skin, your faint vanilla lotion, the ghost of arousal that’s already there.

You’re looking up at him. Eyes wide, lips parted. Not acting.

He’s losing it.

Mentally he’s already flipped you onto your back, spread you wide, buried his face between those thighs until you’re crying his name.

Physically, he’s still just…

Adjusting.

Hands shaking now. He can feel the tremor in his own fingers and prays you don’t notice.

“Like this,” he rasps, voice so low it’s almost a growl. He rolls your hips forward a fraction—guiding the motion you’ll use later—making your body arch just so. The movement drags your skin against his palms again, plush and perfect, and he has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from moaning.

Your thighs flex under his grip. A soft exhale escapes you.

He freezes.

For one heartbeat, neither of you moves.

Then he forces his hands away. Steps back like he’s been burned.

“Better,” he mutters. “That’s… better.”

He turns to the crew before anyone can see how blown his pupils are. “Roll it again.”

He drops back into his chair, legs crossed to hide the obvious bulge straining against his jeans. One hand scrubs over his face. The other fists on his thigh so hard it’ll bruise.

On the monitor, you start moving again—hips rolling exactly the way he just positioned you. Slow. Sensual. Eyes flicking to him every few seconds like you’re checking if he approves.

He approves.

He approves so much he might come in his pants if you keep looking at him like that.

And the shoot’s only just started.

The cameras are rolling again. Reset complete. The POV rig is mounted—sleek, invasive, positioned right where your co-actor’s eyes would be if this were real. It captures everything from below: the slow roll of your hips, the bounce of your breasts, the way your thighs flex around his waist as you sink down inch by inch.

Haechan is back in his chair but his posture is rigid now, his fingers digging into the armrests. He’s trying—God, he’s trying—to be the detached professional. Voice steady. Directions clipped. But every word comes out rougher than the last.

“Action.”

You start moving. Slow grinds at first, building rhythm. Your co-actor’s hands rest on your hips—light, guiding. You lean back just enough for the camera to catch the arch of your back, the sway of your body.

Haechan’s eyes are glued to the monitor feed. The POV angle fills the screen: your face hovering close, lips parted, eyes locked straight down the lens. Straight at him.

He swallows hard.

“Eyes on the camera,” he directs, voice low but carrying. “Hold it. Make it feel like you’re looking right at them. Right at me—at the viewer.”

He means the viewer. He swears he means the viewer.

But the way you obey—immediately, intensely—your gaze piercing the lens like it’s his face instead. The way your lashes flutter when you sink down — just once, involuntary, like even you can't help it.

It wrecks him. Through the screen. Through every layer of professionalism he's clinging to.

You ride harder now. Hips circling, rolling, taking your co-actor deeper. Soft moans spill out, breathier than yesterday, less controlled. Your hands brace against his chest for leverage as your back arches, head tipping just enough for your hair to fall over one shoulder.

Haechan shifts in his seat, but the friction against his aching cock makes his vision blur at the edges.

“Hands up,” he says, sharper than he means to. “Grip her—firm. Support her rhythm. Make it look possessive—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening. “Just keep her steady.”

Your co-actor obeys instantly. His palms slide up your sides, cupping your breasts—thumbs brushing the undersides before he squeezes gently, holding you steady as you bounce.

The monitor shows it all in perfect, filthy detail: the way your tits fill his hands, the subtle give of soft flesh under his fingers, the way your nipples visibly tighten at the contact.

Your mouth falls open on a gasp—real and unscripted, your eyes locked on the camera.

Never leaving him.

Haechan’s breath stutters. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, staring so hard the rest of the room fades out. Onscreen, you move like you’re chasing something just out of reach—hips rolling, body tightening, every motion sharper than the last.

And those eyes.

Fixed. Wanting. Burning straight through the lens.

A groan almost slips out. He catches it at the last second—turns it into a cough, hand flying to his mouth. The crew doesn’t notice. Or if they do, they don’t say shit.

Inside, though—

He’s coming apart.

Fuck.

Look at her.

Taking it so well. Moving like that…

For the camera.

For me.

He can’t stop the thoughts.

They come fast and hot, one bleeding into the next— imagining those are his hands instead—kneading, pinching, rolling your nipples until you’re whining his name. Imagining it’s his cock you’re riding, your walls tightening around him, your eyes locked on his like it’s always been him.

“Keep the pace,” he rasps, voice catching on the last word. “Don’t speed up yet. Build it. Let her feel every inch.”

You listen.

Slow, deliberate rolls that make your thighs tremble. The actor's grip tightens, thumbs circling your nipples, and you arch into it with a soft, helpless whine that hits Haechan straight square in the chest.

His free hand drops to his thigh. Fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.

He's rock hard. Has been for the last ten minutes. The denim isn't hiding anything anymore and he knows it and he can't bring himself to care because every roll of your hips on that monitor feels like it's happening to him. Every moan sounds like it's for him.

Then your eyes flick — subtle, barely a second — right to where he's sitting behind the monitor.

Just for a second.

But it’s enough.

He bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood.

“Perfect,” he mutters, barely audible. “Just… fucking perfect.”

The take keeps going.

You keep looking at the camera like it’s him. He keeps watching like he’s the one buried inside you.

And he knows—deep in his aching, throbbing core—that he’s not making it through this shoot without losing it.

Not when you’re like this.

Not when it feels like you’re fucking him through the lens.

And then—

“I’m gonna cum.”

Soft. Broken. Barely above a whisper but the mics catch every syllable.

Cameras still rolling. Your hips still grinding down slow and filthy. Eyes still locked on the lens.

On him.

Wait—

Was that line in the script?

He can't remember. The script is a blur he barely glanced at because all he could think about was you — your skin under his palms earlier, your thighs trembling when he spread them, the way your breath hitched when his thumbs drifted just a little too close to where he really wanted to touch.

He doesn’t know if you’re acting.

He doesn’t know if you’re telling the crew.

He only knows you're looking straight through the camera — straight through the POV rig — straight into his eyes like the lens doesn't exist. Like there’s no crew, no fucking monitors. Just the two of you in this dimly-lit room.

Just him buried inside you.

Just him feeling every clench as you chase that edge.

“Keep going.”

His voice comes out wrecked—rougher than he’s ever let it sound on set.

It’s supposed to be a direction.

It doesn’t sound like it.

“Keep going,” he repeats, quieter this time, leaning so far forward the chair creaks. “Don’t stop. Ride it out. Let it build… let it happen.”

The crew thinks he’s talking to both of you.

He’s not.

He’s talking to you.

Telling you to keep moving like this—slow, deep, greedy—until you break.

On the monitor, the POV feed is unforgiving.

Your face fills half the frame— eyes glassy and pleading, lips parted. Your thighs shaking harder now, rhythm faltering as you get close.

You whimper — higher, needier.

“Haechan—”

His name.

Not scripted. Not “director.”

Just him.

Gasped out like a secret. Like a prayer.

His grip white-knuckles the armrest.

On screen you arch back, spine pulling into that perfect, filthy curve. Your hips stutter, grind down once—twice—and then—

You come.

For real.

Again.

Your body locks up, walls clenching tight, thighs snapping shut around your co-actor’s waist as a broken sound tears out of you. Your whole body trembles through it, shaking and helpless.

And still—

You don’t look away.

Your eyes stay locked on the lens. On him.

Tears gather at the corners, your expression wrecked from how intense it is, but you don’t blink. Don’t break.

Like you’re coming for him.

In his head, it’s his cock.

Has been since the second you said his name.

He can almost feel it — the way you'd flutter around him, chasing every last pulse while he holds your hips down and makes you take it. His mouth against your ear, voice barely above a whisper: "There you go. Just like that." — while your nails rake down his back and your mouth falls open on his name again and again.

On the monitor, you’re still riding it out—small, helpless rolls of your hips, soft whimpers fading into shaky breaths. The actor's still moving, chasing his scripted finish, but Haechan stopped seeing him a long time ago.

Only you.

The way your lips tremble like you want to say something else. Something that isn't in the script.

He's shaking.

Actually shaking in his chair.

"Cut," he rasps.

The set comes back to life. Crew members move in, lights shifting, someone calling out for water.

Haechan doesn’t move.

He stares at the frozen frame on the monitor — your face, blissed out, eyes still half-lidded and aimed exactly where he's sitting. Like even after the word "cut" you're still looking at him.

Still waiting.

He drags a hand down his face.

He has never come this close to breaking on set. Never once.

Never been this close to saying fuck the cameras, fuck the crew, fuck the rules—and just taking what’s felt like his since the moment you walked onto his set.

But he stays seated.

For now.

Because if he stands up right now everyone in this room will know exactly what you did to him.

And because he knows—deep in that aching, throbbing part of him—that the second this shoot wraps…

He’s not making it through another conversation with you without snapping.

—

The crew wraps fast—lights clicking off one by one, someone shouting about the boom mic, laughter echoing down the hall as people start heading out. You linger near the set, robe tied tight, skin still flushed and buzzing from the last take. Your thighs ache in the best-worst way.

But all you can think about is Haechan.

He's already moving — hoodie up, head down, fast and purposeful like he's trying to disappear. No goodbye. No "great work." Just gone, same as yesterday.

Something twists in your chest.

You follow before you can talk yourself out of it. Bare feet quiet against the cold floor, heart pounding so loud you’re sure he’ll hear it before you even reach him.

He slips into one of the side rooms—the green room no one uses because the AC’s broken and it always smells faintly like old coffee. Door half-open. You hesitate, then knock softly.

“Come in,” he mutters, voice tight. Distracted.

You push the door open.

He’s pacing. Three steps forward, three back. Hand dragging over his face,  hoodie shoved low, hair a mess underneath. His breathing’s uneven, his shoulders are rigid, jaw clenched so tight you can see the muscle jump. Like he's one wrong word away from snapping.

You swallow. “Um… Haechan?”

He freezes mid-step. Doesn't turn around.

You take a small step inside. "I just wanted to ask about my performance. Was it… okay? The last take — I know I went off-script a little. The moaning and… saying your name. I thought it worked for the scene but if it was bad I can—"

“Stop.”

Sharp.

Too sharp.

You flinch.

He exhales hard through his nose, hand dragging through his hair. "I need to be alone right now. Just… go."

The words hit cold.

Your throat tightens. You nod, quick and small. "Oh. Okay. Sorry, I didn't mean to—"

You turn to leave, shoulders curling in, feeling suddenly small and stupid. Of course he didn’t want to talk. Of course—

Behind you, he makes a strangled sound—half groan, half curse.

“Wait.”

You freeze. Hand still on the door.

He’s right behind you now.

You didn’t even hear him move.

He's just — there, close enough that you can smell sweat and cologne and something underneath both that makes your brain go quiet.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says, quieter now. Rough. “Fuck. I’m sorry.”

You don’t turn right away. Can’t.

Your voice comes out small. “You sounded like you hate me.”

A beat of silence so thick it hurts.

“I don’t hate you,” he says, voice low, strained. “Not even a little.”

You finally look at him.

His jaw is tight, eyes cutting away then back, like he keeps making a decision and unmaking it. Like whatever's happening behind his face is costing him something.

"Then why…?"

He lets out a short, humorless laugh, dragging both hands down his face again.

“Because I’m trying not to lose my fucking mind right now. And every time you’re in the same room as me, I—” He cuts himself off, jaw ticking. “You did good. You did too good. That’s the problem.”

Your heart slams against your ribs. “Too good?”

He steps closer.

Not touching. Never touching.

But close enough that you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. Close enough that you can see the tension in his arms, fists clenched at his sides.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Too good. Too real. Too fucking perfect. You came on camera—twice now—like that, looking right at me, saying my name like it’s the only word you know, and I’m supposed to just… direct?” He exhales sharply. “Pretend it doesn't affect me? Pretend I'm not sitting there so hard it hurts, trying not to come in my jeans while the whole crew thinks it's just another day?"

Your breath catches.

He keeps going, voice dropping. "You have no idea what you do to me. How many times I've had to walk away so I don't drag you off that set and finish what you started. And then you come in here asking if you did a bad job?"

He exhales, sharp. "Fuck, baby. You almost killed me out there."

The pet name slips out before he can stop it.

His eyes widen a fraction — like he heard it too — but he doesn't take it back.

You’re shaking now. Not from the cold.

“I thought…” Your voice wavers. “I thought I ruined it. Or that you were mad.”

He shakes his head slowly. “I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at myself. For wanting this. For wanting you.”

His throat bobs once.

“For not being able to look away when you fall apart like that.”

Silence stretches between you.

He's so close now his hoodie brushes your robe. You can feel the heat of him everywhere — chest, thighs, everywhere.

"I should go," you whisper, even though your feet won't move.

"You should," he agrees, voice rough. But he doesn't step back. Doesn't open the door wider.

Instead, his hand lifts—slow, hesitant—and hovers near your cheek. Not touching. Just… there. Fingers trembling like he’s holding himself back by a thread.

“But I don’t want you to.”

Your eyes close for a second.

When you open them, he’s still there. Still looking at you like that.

"Tell me to stop," he says quietly. "Tell me to fuck off, and I will. If you don't want this I'll back off. I swear I will." His voice dips. "But if you don't…"

He lets it trail off.

Let it sit there between you—promise and warning all at once.

The air feels too thick to breathe.

You don’t tell him to leave.

You don't move at all.

And that's all the answer he needs.

The room feels smaller now. Air thick with everything unsaid.

Haechan's still standing too close, hoodie brushing your robe, hand hovering near your cheek like he's afraid one wrong move will break whatever this is.

Your eyes drop.

Land on the small damp spot already darkening the denim.

Your breath catches audibly.

He follows your line of sight—and freezes.

Color rushes up his neck, his ears, his cheeks — he looks caught, exposed, like you just found something he's been hiding for hours.

Which you have.

You swallow. Your voice comes out small, shy, almost disbelieving.

"Is that… because of me?"

A small pause. Eyes flicking back up to his.

"I did that?"

Haechan exhales sharply. His Adam's apple bobs. He doesn't look away — can't — and his voice cracks when he answers.

"Yeah."

Just that.

No excuses. No deflection.

“Yeah, baby. You did that.”

The pet name slips again, softer this time. Careful. Like he’s testing it. His eyes search yours like he's waiting for you to bolt.

You don’t.

Instead your knees hit the floor.

A soft thud against the carpet.

You're eye level with his hips now, close enough to see the way his thighs flex when he shifts slightly. Hands hovering uncertainly just above his thighs. Not quite touching.

Haechan jolts. Hands fly up like he’s going to stop you—then stall midair.

“What—what are you doing?” His voice is strangled, panicked. But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t step back. His legs stay planted, breath coming faster, cock twitching visibly under the fabric like it’s begging for attention.

You look up at him.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, and it almost sounds real. "I didn't mean to make you this hard. It must've been so difficult. Trying to direct like that. All day."

A strangled sound leaves him—half laugh, half something rougher.

"Difficult doesn't even—" He cuts himself off the second your fingers brush the button of his jeans.

You don't ask permission. You just do it.

Button pops. Zipper rasps down slow, loud in the quiet room. You tug the waistband down with it.

He sucks in a sharp breath.

You don’t look away.

You gasp—quiet, involuntary. Eyes widening, lips parting.

He’s… bigger than you expected. Thick, flushed, the curve of him making your stomach drop as you take it in.

Haechan makes a broken noise in the back of his throat. One hand shoots to the doorframe, knuckles going white. The other hovers near your head—like he wants to thread his fingers through your hair but doesn’t trust himself not to pull.

“Fuck—wait—”

Too late.

You lean forward and take him into your mouth.

No teasing. Just warm, wet heat enveloping the head, tongue flat against the underside as you sink down on the first go.

Haechan actually stumbles a little at the feeling of it.

"Shit — oh my god —" His voice cracks, hips jerking forward before he catches himself. Hand finally lands in your hair — not pulling, just holding, trembling. "Baby — fuck — you don't have to —"

But you do.

You hum around him — and the vibration makes his whole body shudder. You pull back slow, lips dragging, tongue swirling around the head before sinking down again. Deeper this time. Cheeks hollowing. Hand wrapping around what your mouth can't reach, stroking in time.

He’s already losing it. Head tipped back against the door, eyes squeezed shut like the sight of you on your knees might actually kill him.

"You — fuck — You’re gonna fucking ruin me," he rasps. "Been hard for you since yesterday… and now this—fuck—”"

You pull off just enough to speak, lips brushing the tip.

"I'm sorry it was hard for you." A soft kiss. "Let me make it better."

Then you take him again — deeper, faster, throat relaxing as you work him with everything you've got.

“Fuck—good girl—such a good girl—”

His grip tightens. Hips start to rock — shallow, helpless thrusts he can't stop. Low, broken moans spill out of him.

He’s close. You can feel it in the way his body tenses, the way his thighs shake, the way his breath stutters like he’s trying to warn you and can’t get it out in time.

“Baby—I’m—fuck—I’m gonna—”

You don't pull off.

You take him deeper.

Suck harder.

Look up at him with those same wide eyes you gave the camera all day.

And that's what breaks him.

Haechan comes with a strangled groan—hips snapping forward, cock pulsing hot and thick down your throat as he spills. You swallow around him, throat working, not spilling a drop.

He's trembling when it's over. Hand still fisted gently in your hair, thumb stroking your cheek like he’s trying to calm himself down.

You pull off slowly. Lips swollen and eyes glassy.

And he just… stares.

Like he doesn’t know what to do with what just happened.

"Fuck," he breathes. "You're unreal."

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, suddenly shy again. "Did that… help?"

He lets out a weak, disbelieving laugh and drops to his knees so you're face to face. Cups your jaw in both hands, thumbs brushing your swollen lips.

Then he kisses you — hard, desperate, tasting himself on your tongue like he's claiming every second of what just happened.

The door's still unlocked.

The crew's still somewhere in the building.

But right now?

None of that exists.

Only this.

The kiss starts desperate — hands cupping your face like you're something about to vanish if he lets go.

He pulls you up from your knees in one smooth motion, body flush against his, and walks you backward until the small table catches the backs of your thighs. Lifts you onto it without breaking the kiss.

Your legs part around him instinctively. Robe falling completely open, skin cold against the surface while he presses in close.

He groans into your mouth the second he feels how wet you are — how slick your thighs still are from earlier.

“Fuck.”

The sound gets swallowed by your mouth as he kisses you harder, tongue against yours, messy and desperate. One hand tangles in your hair while the other slides down your side—finally, finally touching without cameras, without excuses, without pretending any of this is professional anymore.

"Been wanting this since the second you walked on set. Wanted to touch you. Taste you. Make you come for me instead." A pause, voice dropping to almost nothing. "Not some lens. Not some script. Me."

He drops to his knees so fast it almost hurts — kneecaps hitting the floor, hands gripping your thighs, spreading them wider.

He goes still for a second.

Just — looks.

Like he's been starving for this exact view and now that he has it, he doesn't know where to start.

Then he dives in.

No buildup. No teasing.

Just his mouth on you like he's been thinking about nothing else all day.

The first drag of his tongue against your clit makes your whole body jolt, your hips jerk off the table before you can stop them.

You gasp sharply, fingers flying into his hair. He moans into you. Loud. Unashamed. Like he's the one being taken apart, the vibration making your thighs shake harder around his head.

His tongue flicked against your clit relentlessly while his nose stayed pressed against your mound, buried so deep between your thighs it was like he never wanted to come up for air.

"Fuck." He groans, hot and muffled against your folds. "You taste so good."

He pulls back just enough to bite down on the inside of your thigh — not hard, just enough to feel it. Just to hear the sound you make. Then licks over the sting before burying himself back in.

His hands slide under your thighs to pull you closer to the edge of the table, lifting, tilting your hips so he can get deeper — and then his tongue is inside you, curling, and you cry out sharp enough that you slap a hand over your own mouth.

His nose nudges against your clit while his tongue pushes deeper, dragging another broken sound from your throat before he comes back up to suck your clit between his lips slow enough to make your whole body shake.

And every time you react—every twitch of your hips, every pull at his hair, every helpless little sound—he moans against you again, hands tightening on your thighs like it’s getting him off too.

“Look at you,” he rasps, pulling back just enough to speak. His lips are wet, chin shining under the light, eyes completely blown. “Moaning like that for me. Fuck, baby—come on my tongue. Let me feel it.”

He dives back in.

Two fingers slide inside you, curling deep enough to make your back arch off the table while his mouth stays locked on your clit, sucking in a messy rhythm with every thrust of his hand.

You stop trying to stay quiet. You’re loud now—completely unable to stop it. Gasps turning into broken cries of his name.

“Haechan—oh god—”

He whines against you. Actually whines.

His hips jerk uselessly against nothing, cock hard again already, but he doesn’t touch himself once. Doesn’t seem to care. All he cares about is the way your thighs lock around his head like you never want him to stop.

Every reaction you give him only makes him groan louder against your skin, hands tightening around your thighs like he’s getting drunk off this.

"That's it," he growls, voice vibrating against your clit. "Come for me. Come on my face."

And you do.

Harder than on set. Harder than anything.

Your whole body locks up with it, thighs tightening around his head as a sob rips out of your throat, back arching while you pulse around his fingers.

He doesn’t stop—keeps going, moaning against you like he’s the one coming, still licking through every aftershock like he can't make himself stop.

When you finally slump back, trembling, chest heaving, he pulls away slow.

Lips swollen. Face a mess. Eyes glassy and dark and so blissed out it almost hurts to look at.

He rests his forehead against your inner thigh.

Breathing hard. Pressing soft, reverent kisses to your skin like he's grateful.

"Jesus," he whispers, voice hoarse. "I could do this forever."

He looks up at you with this dazed little smile that somehow feels filthier than anything he’s said so far.

"But we're not done."

His hands slide up your sides.

"Not even close."

He rises slowly from his knees, hands sliding up the backs of your thighs, lifting you just enough to keep your legs around his waist.

Then he’s kissing you again.

Harder this time. Messier. Tongue pushing into your mouth so you can taste yourself on him, and the second you do, your stomach twists. You make this pathetic little sound into the kiss, fingers digging into his shoulders, and he groans back like the sound alone could finish him off.

“Fuck,” he mutters against your lips, voice rough. “You taste so good.”

You can barely think straight after that.

One hand braces against the table beside you while the other reaches down between your bodies, guiding himself against you. He’s still hard—still twitching from your mouth earlier, from watching you come apart on his tongue.

He wraps a hand around himself and slowly drags the tip between your folds, collecting the slick already dripping out of you. The accidental brush against your clit made you whimper.

The head of his cock catches at your entrance.

He presses forward just enough to part your folds, the blunt head stretching your entrance slightly before he stops.

You look at him and his eyes are already on yours, dark and intense enough to make heat crawl up your neck all over again.

No words. Just that heavy, burning stare — like he's memorizing you. Every flicker across your face. Every breath.

Then he pushes in.

Slow.

So fucking slow.

Inch by thick inch, stretching you open, filling you until your breath hitches and your nails bite into his hoodie.

And he keeps looking at you.

Doesn’t look away once.

He watches the way your brows pinch when he bottoms out — the way your mouth falls open, the soft sound you make when he settles deep inside you.

One hand pinning your thigh wider, exposing you fully as he watches his cock disappear into your dripping cunt. The sight alone — his cock splitting your swollen lips, veins dragging against your inner walls — makes his grip tighten against your skin.

“Fuck,” he breathes.

His voice actually shakes a little.

“Look at you.”

Heat floods straight to your face.

“Taking me so well.”

He stays buried inside you for a long moment, like he’s letting himself feel it. Letting you feel it too.

Then he starts to move.

Slow at first. Pulling back just enough before thrusting deep again, hips rolling instead of snapping, grinding against every sensitive spot until your legs start trembling around him.

His forehead presses against yours, breaths mixing together, and when you look up at him, he’s already staring.

“You feel that?” he whispers.

Another slow thrust.

“That’s me.”

Your stomach twists hard.

“Inside you. Finally.”

You can’t even answer properly. Just nod helplessly and cling to him while your hips keep chasing him without meaning to.

He kisses you again, messy and deep, before pulling back just enough to look at you.

“Eyes on me,” he murmurs.

The same words he gave you on set. But this time there's no camera. No crew. No pretending. 

“Don’t look away. I want to see every second of you cumming on my cock.”

He pulls back an inch, the drag of his cock along your walls making your breath catch, before pushing deeper again. The stretch hits harder this time, enough to make your legs tense around him, your pussy fluttering helplessly as he sinks halfway back in.

Every thrust knocks another broken sound out of you. The wet squelch of your soaked folds taking him echoes through the room while his hips keep rocking into yours, deep enough to leave you trembling around his waist.

And every time he bottoms out, the grind against your clit pulls another helpless sound from your throat.

Sweat slips down his skin, warm against your chest, and you lock your legs tighter around his waist, pulling him even closer.

One of his hands slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit in slow, firm circles, pleasure cutting through the fullness hard enough to make your whole body jerk. The other stays at the back of your neck, keeping you close.

Your body responds instantly, hips lifting to meet every thrust as the rhythm builds into something hotter, steadier. The fullness turns almost dizzying, every slow plunge hitting that sweet spot and making your walls flutter around him.

You’re already shaking.

Still sensitive from his mouth. Still completely full of him.

“Haechan—”

His name comes out embarrassingly wrecked.

“Yeah?” he groans immediately, hips stuttering for the first time. “Say it again.”

Your whole world narrows to the sounds between you — the sharp smack of skin, the wet slide every time he thrusts back into you, your broken moans mixing with his rough breathing.

The pressure inside you snaps so suddenly it almost scares you.

Your whole body tightens around him as you come with his name on your lips, vision blurring at the edges from how intense it is. Your thighs lock around his waist, and he lets out this wrecked sound like he can feel every pulse of you.

And he watches every second.

Like he can’t look away even if he wants to.

The way your body arches toward him like he’s gravity itself.

That’s what pushes him over.

He buries himself deep one last time and comes with a low, broken moan, hips twitching against yours while he rides through it. Even after, he stays close, staring at you like he’s still trying to process what just happened.

He doesn’t pull out.

The small room still smells faintly of coffee and sex, the air thick and warm from everything you’ve already done.

Haechan catches his breath against your neck, pressing soft, lazy kisses along your collarbone like he’s still savoring the taste of your skin. Then he pulls back just enough to look at you.

His eyes are dark. Still hungry.

One hand slides under your thigh while the other braces at your waist before he lifts you off the table in one smooth motion. Your legs wrap around him instinctively, ankles locking behind his back as he carries you across the room.

The movement makes you feel every inch of him still buried inside you, deep enough to pull a shaky breath from your lungs, and Haechan groans quietly at the way you tighten around him.

He steps out of his jeans halfway across the room, kicking them aside without a second thought before dropping onto the old leather couch against the wall.

The couch leather is cool and slightly sticky against Haechan’s bare back, creaking softly beneath him as he sinks deeper into it, thighs spread wide, eyes fixed on you the entire time.

Your robe is long gone now, discarded somewhere on the floor with his hoodie. Nothing between you but skin, heat, and the lingering throb of wanting more.

His hands are already on you.

Warm palms slide up the backs of your thighs, fingers spreading possessively over your skin as he guides you into his lap. Your knees sink into the worn cushions on either side of his hips, chest pressed flush against his.

Every tiny movement drags your nipples against his, sends another pulse of heat straight through you. You can feel his heartbeat hammering beneath your hands — fast, uneven, matching the ache building low in your stomach.

And the way he looks up at you —

Like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted to touch.

His hands slide to your hips, fingers digging in just enough to guide, not force. He doesn’t rush. Just keeps you there for a second, letting you feel the slow pulse of him still inside you.

“Ride me,” he says, voice low and rough, eyes never leaving yours.

“Slow,” he murmurs. “Like you did on set… but this time it’s just for me.”

You lift yourself slightly, one hand gripping his shoulder while the other guides him back inside you. He feels hot and heavy against your slick folds, the head of him catching at your entrance before slowly sliding deeper.

The stretch hits harder like this — facing him, every inch sliding in with a slow, burning glide that makes your breath hitch audibly. You sink down inch by inch, feeling the way he throbs inside you like a second heartbeat while his eyes stay locked on your face the entire time.

When your ass finally meets his thighs—fully seated, stuffed full— Haechan’s head falls back against the couch with a low groan. His hands flex hard against your hips like he’s trying to hold himself together, eyes squeezing shut for half a second before snapping open again.

And then he’s looking at you.

Like he can’t stand missing a single second of this.

“Fuck—baby,” he breathes.

His hands wander up your back before settling on your hips, helping guide you into the same slow roll that already has both of you breathing harder.

“You feel so good,” he groans softly. “Still so fucking tight…”

You start moving properly then — slow lifts until only the head remains inside followed by deep, dragging drops, grinding down every time your hips meet his.

The angle is perfect. Every roll presses against that spot inside you while the friction between your bodies sends heat shooting straight up your spine.

Wet sounds fill the quiet room — slick, rhythmic, embarrassingly loud — mixing with your uneven breathing and the occasional creak of the old couch beneath you.

Haechan’s hands roam everywhere.

Thighs. Waist. Up your sides.

Thumbs brushing beneath your breasts before he cups them fully, palms hot against your skin as his fingers toy with your nipples until they ache. Then he leans in and takes one into his mouth with a groan, sucking hard before switching to the other while you whimper and grind down harder against him.

But somehow he always comes back to your face.

A hand cups your jaw, thumb dragging lightly across your bottom lip as he keeps your gaze fixed on him.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Keep looking at me.”

The words sound dangerously close to his on-set directions, except softer now. Rougher around the edges. Possessive in a way that makes your stomach twist.

Every time you sink back down, your clit catches against the coarse hair at the base of him, sending a sharp pulse through you. The pressure building inside you feels different this time — deeper, heavier, like something tightening low in your stomach every time he thrusts up into you.

“I wanna see every time you feel good,” he says quietly. “Every time I make you feel good.”

His mouth finds your neck, sucking lightly while his teeth graze your pulse.

His hips start rolling up to meet you now, deep controlled thrusts that make you gasp every time he bottoms out.

You whimper softly, hips faltering for a second when he thrusts into you again.

“That’s it,” he groans, voice cracking this time. “Just like that—fuck.”

His grip tightens at your hips.

“Your face when you take me…” He breaks off with another breathless sound, eyes dragging over your expression. “God.”

His thumb finds your clit, circling slow and firm in time with your hips. The pressure builds so intensely your thighs start shaking around him, pleasure twisting almost painfully low in your stomach—too much fullness, too much heat, too much him.

He angles his hips just slightly on the next thrust, hitting that spot perfectly while his thumb presses harder against your clit.

“Haechan—”

His name comes out broken and pleading. Your thighs are trembling, burning, but you can’t stop.

The release crashes over you so suddenly it steals the breath from your lungs.

Something inside you snaps.

You cry out, back arching hard your breasts press into his face as your walls tighten around him in sharp pulsing waves. Wet heat floods between your thighs, soaking him, the couch, both of you, and the sound of it makes Haechan groan low in his throat like he can’t believe what he’s feeling.

“Fuck—yeah, that’s it—”

He’s moaning with you now, hips stuttering while he watches your face like he’s completely gone from it.

“So pretty,” he breathes brokenly. “Fuck… you’re so pretty when you come.”

He doesn’t stop moving. Keeps thrusting through it slowly, dragging out every tremor until you’re whimpering from the overstimulation, thighs shaking so badly you can barely stay upright.

Only then does he finally let himself go.

One last deep thrust, burying himself inside you as he comes with a wrecked groan of your name, arms tightening around you while both of you shake through it.

You collapse against his chest afterward, breathing hard, skin damp with sweat and everything else. His arms wrap around you immediately, holding you close like he doesn’t want an inch of space between you.

Open-mouthed kisses press against your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.

“Jesus,” he whispers, voice completely ruined. “You just… fuck.”

You hide your face in his neck, suddenly too embarrassed to look at him.

He laughs softly under his breath, still sounding wrecked, fingers sliding gently through your hair.

“Don’t hide from me,” he murmurs. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Another kiss presses against your hairline before he shifts you carefully in his lap, still inside you and softening slowly, until you’re curled against his chest.

For a long moment afterward, neither of you moves.

Just breathing.

Skin sticking together.

The faint drip of your combined release somewhere beneath you.

His heartbeat slowing beneath your cheek.

His lips brush your ear, smile warm against your skin.

Sugar Daddy!Jaemin who dropped his other sugar babies as soon as he had you in the palm of his hand. The other girls didn't seem 'worthy' in his eyes anymore , they only spent his money on gambling , something that he didn't like. He liked making his girls happy , he liked seeing his girls spending money on things they'd actually use — especially clothes and make up, he had a thing for it when his girls got all dolled up for him. They all didn't do that and if they did , they looked cheap in his eyes — expect for you. "You're my favorite , do you know that?", he'd whisper against your skin while his lips brushed feathery light from between your breasts down to your belly button.

Sugar Daddy!Jaemin who had been spoiling the shit out of you ever since you started being his sugar baby. With the others , he had a rule that he'd only spend a certain amount of money that would get higher and higher every two weeks — he didn't apply that rule to you. The money he was willing to spend on you was unlimited , he'd even buy you a whole island if you asked.

Sugar Daddy!Jaemin who doesn't only spoil you with materialistic things but also with actions. You knew the minute you met him that he liked to take care of others. He'd cook and bake for you , anything that you wanted to eat and whatever the time was. He'd brush your hair and even style it for you if you asked. He always took such good care of you that you were starting to think he was paying you to let him take care of you.

Sugar Daddy!Jaemin who also spoils you in bed — another rule he broke. Originally , he didn't get sexual with his sugar babies — making out and kissing , sure , but no sexual interactions. But for you , he broke his own rule. You were just too tempting , too willing , too much of a goddess — who was he to not worship you?

Sugar Daddy!Jaemin who is a giver , not a receiver. He loved to make you happy and feel good. His head game was a 10/10. He'd make you cum at least 3 times before his cock even gets close to your pussy. He was obsessed with your taste on his tongue , obsessed with the way you'd gasp and whimper whenever he sucked on your clit or the way your hips would buck up into his face. In the beginning , he refused whenever you wanted to refuse the favor , but who was he deny you when you were practically pleading to suck his cock?

Sugar Daddy!Jaemin who delays his own orgasm just to pull more out of you. He was an absolute beast in bed , a reason why he refused sex in the beginning — he was worried you wouldn't be able to keep up with his sex drive or rather how many orgasms he'll pull out of you (as dumb as it sounded). His sex drive wasn't high per say, it just lasted really long — and with long , i mean the foreplay you'd be receiving. As I mentioned , he's an absolute giver , it brings both you and him pleasure along with satisfaction — he never disappointed you in bed.

Sugar Daddy!Jaemin who , as mentioned somewhere above, has a thing for seeing his girls all dressed up. It was innocent at first , but when it came to you, a flame of fire ignited inside of him. The effort you put into your outfit , clothes that he bought you , the effort you put into your make up with products he bought you or gave you his card for, the nails you got done with the design he chose along with his initials hidden in it — it was all for him , you got dolled up for him. Just for him to slowly undress you like a present , just for him to have you crying your make up off from the pleasure and overstimulation he'd give you — all for him.

Sugar Daddy!Jaemin who loved using toys on you. It wasn't unusual for him to add toys during sex , he was working with them and as long as they'd make you moan and tip you over the edge ,he was good to go. He especially liked to use handcuffs and blindfolds on you for sensory play and licking parts of your body he knew were sensitive.

Sugar Daddy!Jaemin who was always dominant , even outside the bedroom. He'd remind you to use your manners and to keep foul words out of your mouth in public. He had a talent for making people shut up , no , not with violence or anything like that , but with his action. He was the type of guy who'd simply listen while you'd yell at him and keep his voice calm while being reasonable — yes , it did made people feel bad about themselves or immature.

Sugar Daddy!Jaemin who'd call you by petnames such as princess , angel, baby, darling , sweetheart or dear.

Sugar Daddy!Jaemin who likes to finger you just as much as eating you out. Most of the times , he'd use the tongue and finger combo just to make you squirt right into his face — what can he say , he's nasty like that and will smile into your pussy while getting suffocated.

Sugar Daddy!Jaemin who confuses you with his behavior. You thought you were only his sugar baby , so why were the lines between the sugar daddy-sugar baby establishment and romance blurring ? He was treating you more like a lover rather than just someone who splurges his money?