#cherryberrycheol

You slip into the water, the quiet slosh a welcome sound after hours cooped up in your air-conditioned room. The resort pool glitters under the moonlight, cool and inviting against the lingering heat of the day. It’s late, the usual splashing families long gone, leaving just you, a few other residents and the gentle hum of the pool filter. You float on your back, staring up at the star-dusted sky which is dimmed by the lights of the resort, letting the water cradle you. Peace.

Then you feel it. That prickle on the back of your neck, the unmistakable weight of someone’s gaze. You roll onto your stomach, treading water, and scan the poolside lounge chairs. There, half-hidden in the shadow of a potted palm, is him. The guy from breakfast yesterday, the one with the intense dark eyes that seemed to follow you as you piled fruit onto your plate. And the day before that, lingering near the pool bar while you sunbathed. Tall, broad-shouldered beneath a simple t-shirt, with that gorgeous face—big, soulful eyes framed by long dark lashes and thick brows, surprisingly plush lips set in a strong jaw. Handsome in a way that feels solid, capable. Like he could easily lift you, pin you, whatever he wanted. The thought sends a warm shiver down your spine that has nothing to do with the water.

He doesn’t look away when you catch him. Just holds your gaze, a faint, almost imperceptible tilt to his head. Not creepy. You find it intriguing. A little thrilling. You hold his look for a beat, letting a small, knowing smile touch your lips before deliberately turning away, diving under the surface. The cool water rushes over your heated skin. Yeah, his attention strokes the ego. Especially when you resurface a few meters away, glance back and he’s still watching, a lazy, appreciative curve now playing on those lips.

You see him everywhere after that. Catching his eye over coffee cups at the bustling breakfast buffet, his gaze lingering a fraction too long. Passing him on the path to the beach, a shared, fleeting look that crackles in the humid air. He’s always there, a quiet, attractive presence you’ve started unconsciously searching for. The attention is a constant, low thrum under the surface of your holiday relaxation.

The heat of the afternoon sun gives way to the softer warmth of early evening. Seeking something more soothing than the cool pool, you head towards the secluded hot tub tucked away near a screen of lush tropical plants. Steam rises invitingly from the bubbling water. Perfectly empty. You shed your light cover-up, leaving just your swimsuit, and slip into the deliciously hot water with a sigh. Bliss. The jets massage your tired muscles, the steam curling around your face.

You’ve barely closed your eyes when you hear the soft splash of someone else entering the water. Already preparing to feel the disappointment of disturbed solitude you open your eyes again just to see if whoever joined you is tolerable enough to stay. But it’s him. Of course. He settles on the opposite bench, the hot tub suddenly feeling much smaller. Water laps around his broad chest. His dark hair is slightly damp, clinging to his forehead. Those big eyes fix on you again, but this time, there’s no pretense of looking away.

“Seems like we have similar taste in relaxation spots,” he says, his voice a deep rumble that resonates pleasantly in the steamy air. It’s smooth, confident.

“Looks like,” you reply, your own voice sounding slightly breathless even to you. You adjust your position, sending ripples across the surface between you. “It’s the best one. Always quiet.”

“Quiet is nice,” he agrees, a slow smile spreading across his face. It lights up his features, making him even more disarmingly handsome. “Especially for unwinding. Or... getting acquainted.” He leans forward slightly, resting his arms on the tiled edge. “I’m Seungcheol.”

You offer him a smile and your own name in return. The space between you feels silently charged, thick with the steam and something else entirely.

The conversation flows easily, surprisingly natural despite the simmering tension. You talk about the resort, the food, the awful humidity, your lives back at your hometowns. His eyes never really leave yours, or sometimes drift lower, appreciative, unhurried. The heat of the water sinks into your skin, but it’s nothing compared to the warmth spreading through you under his unwavering attention. He laughs at something you say, a rich, genuine sound, and shifts closer, ostensibly to hear you better over the bubbling jets. His knee brushes yours underwater. Neither of you pulls away.

His gaze drops to your mouth. “You have a really nice smile.”

The compliment, however basic, delivered in that low voice, feels like a physical touch. “Thanks,” you murmur, your heart pounding against your ribs. The air crackles. The few inches of bubbling water between you might as well be a mile. “You're not so bad yourself, Seungcheol.”

He doesn’t hesitate. He moves, closing the distance smoothly. One large hand comes up to cradle the side of your face, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. His skin is hot, damp and this sensation sends an involuntary shiver down your spine. “Not so bad, huh?” he repeats, a playful challenge in his eyes that’s quickly overtaken by pure heat. “Let’s see about that.”

His lips meet yours. It’s not exactly tentative, he only searches your eyes for half a second to see that you want it. The kiss is confident, searching, immediately deep. A jolt of pure electricity shoots straight through you and your lungs refuse to cooperate at first. You take a choked breath against his mouth, your hands flying up, one tangling in the damp hair at his nape, the other gripping his solid shoulder. He tastes faintly of chlorine and mint, and something that you can only describe as him. The kiss deepens, turning hungry. His other arm wraps around your waist, hauling you effortlessly off your seat and onto his lap, straddling him. The jets churn violently around you.

The hot water sloshes as you grind against him. The thin barrier of your swimwear does nothing to hide the hard ridge of his growing erection pressing against your core, or the way your own body pulses in response. His hands are everywhere—sliding up your back beneath the water, fingers tracing the edge of your swimsuit top, palming the curve of your ass, pulling you harder against him. Your own hands explore the expanse of his chest, his shoulders, the damp skin of his neck. Soft moans escape you, muffled against his mouth, lost in the sound of the bubbling water. He groans, low and guttural, when you roll your hips, seeking more friction. His lips leave yours to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw, your neck, sucking gently at the sensitive skin just above your collarbone. You arch into him, gasping, your fingers tightening in his hair.

You whimper, burying your face in his neck, breathing in the clean, masculine scent of him mixed with steam. His hands slide lower, under the edge of your bikini bottoms, fingers brushing against the slick heat there. You gasp, pushing yourself harder against his touch, against the hard length of him. It’s frantic, messy, the water making everything extra challenging but impossibly erotic. You’re teetering on the edge though it keeps, ironically, slipping away from you, the world narrowed down to the feel of him, the sounds you’re both making, the churning water…

“Hey, is this thing on? Looks steamy over there!” A loud, cheerful male voice, startlingly close, cuts through the haze of pleasure like a bucket of ice water.

You freeze. Seungcheol goes rigid against you. His hand stills instantly beneath the water, but he doesn’t pull it away completely. His head whips around towards the path leading to the hot tub. You follow his gaze, your heart hammering against your ribs. Two figures are silhouetted against the resort lights, approaching.

“Shit,” mutters under his breath, low and urgent. His eyes snap back to yours, dark and dilated with arousal and sudden frustration. The spell is shattered, replaced by a jarring wave of exposure. He pulls his hand from your swimsuit, his touch lingering for a fraction of a second, a silent apology and promise. He shifts his body subtly, creating a sliver of space between you, trying to make the scene look less like what it was: two strangers moments away from combusting in a public hot tub. You hastily remove yourself from his lap.

The newcomers—a couple laughing together—reach the edge. “Mind if we join?” the man asks, already stepping in, oblivious to the crackling tension he just interrupted.

“Not at all,” Seungcheol manages, his voice rough but surprisingly calm. He throws you a look—intense, frustrated, simmering with the heat that hasn't dissipated, only been banked. He leans close, lips brushing your ear, breath hot and sending a new shiver down your spine despite the warm water. “Room 312,” he murmurs, the words barely audible over the renewed bubbling and the newcomers’ chatter. “Top floor, west wing. In an hour. Don’t make me wait. Please.”

He doesn’t wait for your answer, just gives your thigh a final, firm squeeze under the water, a silent anchor point, then smoothly pulls himself out of the tub in one fluid motion. Water streams down his body as he grabs his towel, not even bothering to dry off, just wrapping it loosely around his hips. He throws one last searing glance your way before turning and walking swiftly down the path, disappearing into the shadowy foliage without a backward glance at the oblivious newcomers now settling into the water.

You’re left sitting in the suddenly too-crowded tub, your body humming with unmet need, the ghost of his hands and lips imprinted on your skin. The water feels tepid now. The laughter of the other couple jars your nerves. An hour. Room 312. Top floor, west wing. Your heart kicks against your ribs again, a frantic, exhilarating rhythm. The decision feels inevitable. You take a deep, shaky breath, the scent of chlorine and tropical blooms suddenly sharp in your nostrils, and start counting down the seconds.

The steam from the hot tub still clings to your skin like a phantom caress as you stumble back towards your own resort room, the gravel path crunching unnaturally loud under your sandals. Every nerve ending feels electrified, raw, and hyper-aware. The taste of him lingers on your lips. The imprint of his large hands on your hips burns beneath the thin fabric of your bikini. And his words, low and desperate in your ear, echo like a strangely pleading command you have no intention of disobeying: Room 312. Top floor, west wing. In an hour. Don’t make me wait. Please.

An hour. It stretches before you like a lifetime and a blink simultaneously.

Inside your cool, impersonal room, the silence is jarring. You lock the door, leaning your forehead against the smooth wood, trying to catch your breath that keeps hitching in your chest. Your reflection in the full-length mirror startles you—flushed cheeks, kiss-swollen lips, eyes wide and dark with a mixture of lingering arousal and dawning panic. What are you thinking? He’s a stranger! The thought crashes through the haze of desire, sharp and cold. You barely know his last name, let alone anything substantial. This is reckless, potentially dangerous, the kind of thing you read about in cautionary tales.

But then the memory floods back: the confident pressure of his lips, the possessive squeeze of his hand, the pure, unadulterated heat in his eyes that promised oblivion. The way your body responded instantly, arching into his touch, grinding against him with a desperation that shocked you. The ache between your legs, momentarily soothed by the churning water but now throbbing back to life, persistent and undeniable. It wasn’t just lust, though that was a roaring fire. It was a connection, intense and immediate, crackling in the humid air between you since that first locked gaze by the moonlit pool.

You pace the small room, the plush carpet muffling your frantic steps. Stranger danger wars with stranger sex fantasy. Your sensible side screams retreat. Your body, humming with anticipation, screams go. You glance at the clock. Forty five minutes.

Shower. You need a shower. To wash off the chlorine, the steam, the feeling of his skin against yours. Or maybe just to stall. The water is lukewarm, a feeble attempt to cool the internal furnace. You scrub mechanically, your mind racing. What if he’s not what he seems? What if it’s awkward? What if you change your mind halfway through? What if you don’t change your mind and it’s incredible? The last thought sends another jolt of heat straight to your core.

Drying off, you face the mirror again, the panic subsiding slightly, replaced by a fluttery, nervous excitement. You’re going. The decision settles, warm and heavy in your stomach. You want this. You want him. The reckless abandon of it thrills you almost as much as the memory of his touch.

Now, what to wear? The simple sundress you packed—light blue cotton, spaghetti straps, falling just above the knee. It’s innocent enough for walking through the resort corridors, easy to slip off. But is it too innocent? Too try-hard? You rifle through your suitcase. A silky camisole? Too obvious. Jeans? Absolutely not. The sundress it is. Underneath... You hesitate, holding a simple cotton brief. No. You reach for the one piece of lingerie you brought on a whim, delicate black lace bikini bottoms, barely there. Too much? The critical voice pipes up again. He’ll just take it off anyway. But the thought of him seeing it, his big hands peeling it down your legs... You pull them on. The lace feels foreign and exciting against your skin. No bra. The dress is forgiving enough, and the thought of his hands, his mouth, finding you bare beneath the thin cotton sends another shiver through you. Definitely too much. But you leave it. This is your secret, your small rebellion against your own inner voice.

You check the mirror once more. Hair slightly damp, falling loose around your shoulders. Minimal makeup reapplied—just a touch of gloss on your still-sensitive lips. The flush on your cheeks is genuine. You look... eager. Vulnerable. Ready. Your heart hammers against your ribs like a trapped bird.

Five minutes. You grab your keycard, take a deep, shaky breath, and step out into the softly lit hallway. The walk to the west wing elevator feels endless. Every guest you pass seems to look at you knowingly. The elevator ride to the top floor is agonizingly slow, the mirrored walls reflecting your nervous fidgeting. The plush carpet of the top-floor corridor swallows the sound of your footsteps. Room 312. It looms at the end of the hall. You pause, hand raised to knock, your pulse roaring in your ears. Last chance to turn back.

Before your knuckles can connect, the door swings open.

He fills the doorway, backlit by the warm lamplight inside. Changed out of his swim trunks into low-slung grey sweatpants that cling to the powerful lines of his hips and thighs, and nothing else. Your breath catches. The poolside glimpses, the hot tub proximity—none of it prepared you for the sheer impact of him like this, half-dressed and waiting. His torso is a sculpted landscape of muscle—broad, defined shoulders tapering to a narrower, incredibly taut waist. The planes of his chest are smooth, his lower abdomen dusted with just the faintest hint of dark hair leading down under the waistband of his pants. His arms are thick with muscle, veins subtly tracing his forearms. His dark hair is towel-dried, slightly tousled. And his eyes... those big, dark eyes lock onto yours, intense, searching, simmering with the same heat from the tub, but tempered now with a watchful stillness.

“Hey,” he says, short greeting a low rumble in his chest. His gaze sweeps over you, taking in the sundress, the bare shoulders, the nervous energy vibrating off you. A slow, appreciative smile touches his lips, but his eyes remain serious, focused. “You came.”

“Told you I would,” you manage, your voice barely above a whisper. You never told him that, what are you even saying? You try very hard not to fiddle with your hands and leave them unmoving at your sides to hide the anxiety that’s been festering in you for the past hour. The proximity, the sheer maleness of him, is overwhelming. The nervous flutters intensify, mixed with a fresh wave of pure desire.

He doesn’t point out your words, just steps back, opening the door wider. “Come in.”

The room is spacious, a luxury suite. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a breathtaking view of the moonlit ocean. A large bed dominates the space, neatly made but looking suddenly, profoundly significant. The air carries a faint, clean scent—soap, maybe cedar—mixed with the undeniable, warm scent of him.

He closes the door softly behind you, the click of the lock echoing in the sudden quiet. You stand awkwardly just inside, the confident woman from the hot tub replaced by this jittery version. He doesn't immediately move towards you. Instead, he leans back against the door, studying you, his gaze traveling over your face, down your neck, lingering on the thin straps of your dress. The silence stretches, thick with anticipation and your own racing thoughts.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice softer now, deeper with concern. The question is simple, but the weight behind it is immense. It’s not perfunctory. He’s genuinely checking. His intense gaze holds yours, waiting, giving you space. “Being here? After the tub... things got intense fast. I need to know you're still good. That this,” he gestures loosely between you, “is what you want. Right now. No pressure. None at all.” His eyes are unwavering, open. “You can say no. You can leave. Right now. Just tell me.”

His directness, the absolute seriousness with which he asks, cuts through your nervous haze. It’s the opposite of the demanding stranger persona your anxiety had conjured. And it loosens the knot of tension in your chest.

You take a shaky breath, meeting his gaze. The desire is still there, a live wire, but the fear is receding, replaced by a growing certainty. “I’m... nervous,” you admit, the honesty surprising you. “But I’m good. I want to be here. I want…” You trail off, heat flooding your cheeks again. I want you. The words hang unspoken but felt.

He pushes off the door, closing the small distance between you in two slow strides. He stops just before touching you, his presence enveloping. “Nervous is okay,” he murmurs, his voice a low vibration you feel in your bones. “Tell me if anything feels not okay. At any point. Promise me.” It's not a request; it's a non-negotiable term.

“I promise,” you whisper.

His hand lifts, slow and deliberate, giving you time to pull away. His knuckles brush your cheek, a feather-light touch that sends sparks skittering across your skin. “You look beautiful,” he says, his eyes tracing the line of your jaw, the curve of your neck exposed by the sundress. “This dress…” His thumb strokes your cheekbone, mirroring his touch in the hot tub, but gentler now. “Can I take it off you?”

The question, so blunt yet so considerate, steals your breath. You nod, unable to speak. His fingers find the thin straps of your sundress. He eases them down your shoulders with agonizing slowness, his gaze fixed on the revealed skin. The soft cotton pools at your waist, then falls completely, puddling around your ankles on the plush carpet. You stand before him in just the delicate black lace bikini bottoms, suddenly exposed under the warm lamplight.

His breath hitches, a soft, audible intake. His gaze roams over you, hungry, appreciative, but still controlled. “Fuck,” he breathes, the word thick with awe. “Look at you.” His eyes linger on the swell of your breasts, the dip of your waist, the lace hugging your hips. “Perfect.” His hand returns to your cheek, then slides slowly down your neck, over your collarbone, coming to rest lightly on the curve of your breast. His touch is warm, possessive, yet infinitely patient. “Still good?”

“More than good,” you breathe, the nervousness melting under the heat of his admiration and his touch. Your hands lift almost of their own accord, drawn to the solid wall of his chest. Your palms flatten against warm, smooth skin, feeling the powerful beat of his heart beneath. The contrast between his hard muscle and the softness of his skin is intoxicating.

He leans down, his lips finding yours again. This kiss is different from the hungry clash in the tub. It’s slower, deeper, a rediscovery. His tongue slides against yours, tasting, exploring. His hand cups your breast fully, his thumb circling your nipple, teasing it into a hard peak. A soft moan escapes you, swallowed by his mouth. Your fingers curl against his chest, nails scraping lightly.

He breaks the kiss, his lips trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw, your neck, returning to the sensitive spot just above your collarbone he’d discovered earlier. He sucks gently, then soothes it with his tongue, sending shivers down your spine. One arm wraps securely around your waist, pulling you flush against him. The hard ridge of his erection presses insistently against your lower belly, even through the fabric of his sweatpants. The evidence of his desire is thrilling.

His free hand drifts lower, fingertips tracing the top edge of your lace panties, dipping just beneath. “These are a surprise,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice husky. “A very fucking good one.” His fingers slide lower, tracing the seam of you through the damp lace, finding the heat and slickness waiting there. You gasp, pushing your hips forward against his hand, seeking more pressure. “So wet already, princess,” he groans, his fingers applying delicious friction. “Just for me?”

The sudden endearment sends a jolt through you. “Yes,” you whimper, your head falling back as he adds a second finger, rubbing in slow, deliberate circles. “Just for you.”

He eases his hand away, eliciting a soft sound of protest from you. Before you can process it, his hands are on your hips, turning you gently. You face the large bed now. His hands slide down to your waistband. “Lift your foot,” he instructs softly. You comply, and he carefully peels the lace down one leg, then the other, letting them fall. He guides you back until your knees hit the edge of the mattress. “Sit.”

You turn and sink onto the cool duvet. He stands before you, his eyes dark pools of desire as he drinks in the sight of you completely bare. The intensity is almost too much. Then, without breaking eye contact, he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his sweatpants and pushes them down, along with his boxer briefs, in one smooth motion.

Your breath stops.

He is magnificent. Powerfully built everywhere—thick thighs corded with muscle, a firm, sculpted ass, the defined V-cut leading down from his hips. And his cock... thick, long, already fully erect, curving slightly upwards from a neat nest of dark, coarse hair. The contrast is striking—the smooth expanse of his chest and stomach giving way to this thatch of dark curls framing his impressive erection. You usually prefer smooth, but the raw masculinity of it, the primal contrast, sends a jolt of pure, unexpected desire straight through you. You can’t tear your eyes away.

He sees your stare, a slow, knowing smirk playing on his lips. “See something you like?” His voice is thick with amusement and pride.

“You're... yes,” you breathe, the honesty raw in your voice despite the fact that words are miserably failing you at the moment. The sheer size is intimidating and thrilling all at once. “You’re… incredible.”

He steps closer, his cock bobbing slightly. He places one knee on the bed between your legs, then the other, kneeling over you, caging you in. His hands frame your face. “You’re the incredible one,” he counters, his thumb brushing your bottom lip and your gaze darts up to meet his. “You sure you’re ready for this?” His eyes search yours again, the question layered. Ready for him? Ready for the intensity he promises?

Your answer is to lean forward and press a kiss to his abdomen, just above his navel. Then lower, tracing a short path with your lips towards the dark trail. You feel him tense, a sharp intake of breath. You look up at him, meeting his heated gaze. “Show me what you can do,” you whisper.

A groan rumbles deep in his chest. He shifts back slightly, giving you space. “Fuck yes. But first…” He guides you gently to lie back on the bed. “Let me taste you.”

He moves down your body with deliberate slowness, kissing his way down your sternum, over the swell of your stomach. He nips gently at your hip bone, then spreads your thighs apart with firm hands. He pauses, looking up at you from between your legs, his eyes holding yours, asking permission one final time. You nod, biting your lip. His gaze drops, focusing on you with an intensity that makes you tremble. Then he lowers his head.

The first touch of his tongue is a revelation. Slow, broad strokes from bottom to top, savoring you. He groans, the sound vibrating against your sensitive flesh. “So sweet,” he murmurs, his breath hot. Then he zeroes in, his tongue circling your clit with firm, focused pressure, flicking over the swollen bud, trying different methods until he finds the one that works best for you. Your back arches off the bed, a mewl tearing from your throat. His hands grip your hips, holding you steady as he devours you. He alternates between broad, lapping strokes and pinpoint flicks, building the pressure relentlessly. One hand slides down, his thumb pressing rhythmically against your entrance while his tongue works your clit. Then, a thick finger slides inside you, curling upwards, finding that sweet spot instantly.

“Oh god! Seungcheol!” You writhe, your fingers tangling in his damp hair, holding him to you. He adds a second finger, stretching you gently, his tongue circling your clit. The combination is overwhelming—the wet heat of his mouth, the skilled thrust and curl of his fingers, the pressure building like a tidal wave. He's relentless, attuned to every gasp, every twitch of your body. “Yes! Right there! Don’t stop!”

“Come for me, princess,” he rasps against you, his voice thick and muffled. “Let go. I've got you.” His tongue lashes your clit faster, his fingers pump harder, curling perfectly. The coil snaps. Pleasure explodes through you, white-hot and shattering, radiating out from your core in pulsing waves. Your thighs clamp around his head as you cry out, body bowing off the bed, lost in the sheer, blinding ecstasy he wrings from you.

He gentles his touch as the tremors subside, lapping softly, easing you down. He presses a final, lingering kiss to your inner thigh before crawling back up your body. He kisses you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his lips. His cock, rock-hard and leaking, presses against your stomach. “Fuck, that was beautiful,” he murmurs, his eyes dark with satisfaction and renewed hunger. “You’re so fucking responsive. Looks like no one fucked you properly in a while.”

You’re still trembling, floating on the aftershocks, but the sight of him above you, the feel of his hard length against you, reignites the fire. “I need you,” you gasp, reaching between you to wrap your hand around him. He hisses, his hips jerking forward into your touch. He’s impossibly hard, velvety smooth skin over the hot girth of him. “Inside. Now.”

He kisses you again, hard and promising. “Condom,” he breathes against your mouth. He leans over to the nightstand, fumbling slightly, ripping open a packet with his teeth. You watch, mesmerized, as he rolls it on with efficient, slightly shaky hands. The sight of him sheathing that thick length is intensely erotic.

He settles back between your thighs, his weight braced on his forearms on either side of your head. The broad head of his cock nudges against your slick entrance. He holds your gaze, his eyes burning into yours. “Ready?” he asks, the word strained. “Tell me.”

“Ready,” you breathe, lifting your hips to meet him. “Please.”

He pushes forward slowly, inexorably. There’s a moment of intense pressure, a delicious stretch as your body yields to accommodate his size. You gasp, nails digging into his shoulders. He pauses, fully seated but not moving, letting you adjust. “You okay?” His voice is tight with the effort of holding still.

“Okay,” you gasp, the fullness incredible, overwhelming. “Move. Please, Seungcheol.”

He begins to move, slow, deep thrusts at first, withdrawing almost completely before sinking back in. The friction is exquisite, the stretch perfect. He keeps his eyes locked on yours, watching your reactions. “Feel so good,” he groans, his breath coming faster. “So tight. Fucking perfect.” He drops his head, his lips finding yours, his tongue licking into your mouth with wet sounds mixed with your breathing. His pace gradually increases, his thrusts becoming deeper, more powerful. Your legs wrap around his waist, heels digging into the firm muscles of his ass, pulling him deeper still. The slap of skin against skin fills the room, mingling with your gasps and his guttural groans.

His hand slides between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit again, rubbing firm circles in time with his thrusts. The dual sensation is almost too much. “Look at you,” he rasps, his voice rough. “Taking me so well. My perfect little fuckdoll.” The slight degradation, the possessiveness in his tone, sends a fresh jolt of heat through you, coiling your muscles tighter.

“Harder,” you beg, arching your back. “Don't stop!”

He growls, a purely animal sound, and obliges. His thrusts become harder, faster, pistoning into you with a force that steals your breath. The bed creaks in protest. He shifts slightly, changing the angle, and suddenly he's hitting that deep, sweet spot with every plunge. Stars burst behind your eyelids. "There! Oh god, Seungcheol, right there!" you scream, your body tightening around him like a vise.

"Come on, princess," he commands, his voice ragged. "Come on my cock. Now." His thumb presses harder, his thrusts become brutal, perfectly angled. The command, the relentless stimulation, tips you over the edge again. Your orgasm crashes over you, even more intense than the first, a wave of pure, mindless pleasure that rips a scream from your throat. Your inner walls clench rhythmically around him, milking him.

He curses, a low, drawn-out groan. "Fuck! That's it. Squeeze me just like that." He drives into you a few more times, hard and deep, then buries himself to the hilt with a final, shuddering thrust. His body tenses, a guttural cry tearing from his throat as he finds his own release, pulsing deep inside you. He collapses onto his forearms, his forehead pressed to yours, both of you gasping, trembling, slick with sweat.

He stays buried inside you for long moments, catching his breath, pressing soft, almost reverent kisses to your lips, your cheeks, your forehead. “Jesus,” he finally breathes, his voice wrecked. “You’re... fucking unreal.”

He eases out of you carefully, disposing of the condom. Then he gathers you against him, pulling you onto your sides facing each other, your bodies still humming. His arms wrap around you, strong and secure. One big hand strokes your hair, the other rests on your hip. “Alright?” he murmurs, his lips brushing your temple. “That was... intense.”

“Intense is an understatement,” you manage, snuggling closer into the solid warmth of his chest, listening to the rapid thud of his heart slowing down. “But yeah. Alright. More than alright.” You trace the smooth skin over his pectoral muscle. “You’re... you’re really good at that.”

Seungcheol chuckles, a low, satisfied rumble, then kisses the top of your head. His hand drifts down, cupping your ass, pulling you tighter against his softening cock and you can feel the warm wetness of your release between your thighs even more like that.

The tremors from your climax are still rippling through you, a sweet, fading echo that leaves your muscles liquid and weak. A profound, sated exhaustion is already seeping into your bones, a heavy warmth that makes your limbs feel like they are filled with sand. When his lips find yours again, the kiss is different—slower, hungrier, but tinged with the same shared fatigue. It tastes of salt of sweat and him, already a familiar, intoxicating flavor. His hands move over your body with possessiveness that is both thrilling and daunting, mapping your spent form as if assessing its limits for what comes next.

“Round two,” he murmurs against your mouth, the words a dark, thrilling promise, though his voice is even more ragged now, stripped raw and breathless. He rolls off you, the loss of his weight and heat a sudden chill. He sits up on the edge of the bed, his broad back to you, and you see the muscles there tremble faintly with the aftermath of his own release. He takes a deep, shuddering breath before turning to look at you over his shoulder. His eyes are black with intent, but the lids are heavy. “Turn over. On your knees.”

The command is direct, but it lands differently now. A fresh wave of heat, liquid and urgent, pools low in your belly, but it’s followed immediately by a deep, internal tremor of fatigue. Already? your body seems to cry out. You feel fucked out, overstimulated after just two orgasms, every nerve ending raw and singing. Pushing yourself up is an effort. Your arms shake, your core muscles protesting as you awkwardly get onto your hands and knees, presenting yourself to him. The position is profoundly vulnerable, and the awareness of his gaze burning into you, taking in the sight of your well-used, sensitive flesh, makes you shudder and clench with a mixture of anticipation and sheer, overwhelming sensitivity.

“Fuck, look at that,” he groans, his voice thick with awe and a lust that seems to override his own tiredness. His hand comes down, not in a slap, but in a firm, possessive grip on one cheek, squeezing, kneading the flesh. You flinch, the sensation almost too much on your sensitized skin. “All mine for the night.” He leans forward, and you feel the hot, wet stroke of his tongue, lapping up the evidence of your release from your inner thighs. The obscene, sloppy sound he makes vibrates through your oversensitive core, and you drawl a throaty moan, a jolt of pleasure-pain shooting through you. “So fucking sweet.”

You gasp, your arms trembling violently now, struggling to hold yourself up. The mix of reverence and filth in his act is dizzying. He’s worshiping and defiling you all at once, and your body, though exhausted, responds to his filthy devotion with a fresh, aching throb of need.

You hear the tear of another foil packet, his movements slightly slower, less efficient this time. The rustle as he sheathes himself again seems louder in the heavy, post-coital silence. Then his hands are on your hips, his grip firm, almost bruising, holding you in place. The broad, sheathed head of his cock nudges against your tender entrance, teasing, circling, smearing your wetness. The contact is electric, almost too intense.

“Tell me you want it,” he demands, his voice a low, evidently tired growl against your ear as he leans over you, covering your body with his. His chest is slick with sweat as it presses against your back.

“I want it,” you pant, the words a breathless struggle. You push your hips back against him, the movement feeling sluggish in your exhaustion, but the need is still there, persistent and insatiable. “Please, Seungcheol. I need it.”

“Beg for it,” he insists, nipping at the shell of your ear. “Tell me how much you need this cock.”

The vulgarity, the sheer nastiness of his words, sends a final, desperate jolt straight to your core. “I need it,” you whimper, your voice breaking with fatigue and want. “I need your cock. Please, fuck me. I need you to fuck me hard.”

With a grunt of approval that seems to come from the depths of his being, he pushes forward. There’s no slow easing this time, but the thrust is not as brutally swift as before. He drives into you in one long, steady motion, burying himself to the hilt in the deep, claiming angle only this position allows. The force of it is breathtaking, a choked cry ripped from your throat at the overwhelming fullness, the delicious stretch around him. You are so full, so thoroughly possessed.

“God, yes,” you moan, your head dropping between your shoulders, your spine arching.

He sets a punishing pace, but it is a tired pace still, the rhythm of it born of muscle memory and stubborn will rather than boundless energy. He pulls out almost completely before slamming back into you, each thrust a profound jolt that shakes your entire weary body. The sound is obscenely loud—the wet, sloppy slap of skin on skin, the creak of the bedsprings, his guttural, breathless groans, your high-pitched, overstimulated mewls. He leans back, his hands locked on your hips, using them as leverage to piston into you with a relentless, driving force that you feel is costing him as much as it is you.

“You take me so fucking good,” he rasps, his voice strained and hoarse with the effort. “So deep like this. Can you feel it? Can you feel how deep I am inside you?” Every word is pushed out on a labored breath.

“Y-yes!” you cry out, your fingers clutching weakly at the rumpled sheets, your body rocking helplessly with his movements. Each thrust hits a spot so deep and sensitive it borders on painful, a blinding pleasure that your exhausted system can barely process. “Right there! Oh god, don't stop!”

He doesn’t. His pace is unwavering, a testament to his stamina, but you can feel the fine tremor in his thighs where they press against yours with every slap of flesh against flesh, the sheen of new sweat on his skin. One hand leaves your hip and slides around your front, fingers finding your oversensitive, swollen clit. The touch is almost too much, and you jolt, arms giving out, a sob catching in your throat. He rubs rough, frantic circles that match the rhythm of his thrusts, the dual assault pushing your screaming nerves towards another shattering peak.

“You gonna come again?” he grunts, the question a breathless challenge. “Gonna come all over my cock while I fuck you like this? Do it. Cum for me. Now.”

The command, the relentless stimulation amidst the crushing fatigue—it’s too much. Your orgasm crashes over you, a violent, convulsing wave that is as much a release from tension as it is pleasure. You scream his name into the mattress, the sound muffled, your body bowing and shaking as your inner muscles clamp down on him, milking his length for what it’s worth. You feel him pulse inside you in response, a hard, sharp throb.

But he doesn’t stop. He rides out your climax, his thrusts becoming harder, more erratic, chasing his own. The room is a cacophony of spent sex—your sobbing, exhausted breaths, his animalistic, tired grunts, the sopping sound of your cunt taking the pounding, the wet, rhythmic slapping that seems to grow louder and louder as you both lose the strength to care.

Bang. Bang. BANG.

A sudden, furious pounding on the wall from the adjacent room cuts through the noise. A muffled, angry shout follows. “Keep it down in there, for Christ’s sake! Some of us are trying to sleep!”

Seungcheol freezes, buried deep inside you. For a second, there is silence, save for both of you panting, chests heaving. You heave a breath of relief thinking you can finally put your frying nerve endings to rest. Then, a slow, wicked, breathless chuckle rumbles in his chest. He leans over you again, his lips at your ear, his breath hot and ragged.

“Oops,” he whispers, his voice dripping with dark amusement. He gives a slow, deliberate, utterly exhausting roll of his hips, making you whimper. “We’re being too loud, princess.” He does it again, a lazy, deep thrust that feels like it reaches your soul because the moan that leaves you comes exactly from there. “Think we should be quieter?”

Before you can answer, he slams into you again, hard, a direct contradiction to his question. A broken, tired cry escapes you. He does it again. And again, and again, each thrust a monumental effort.

“Answer me, pretty,” he demands, punctuating each word with a sharp, deep, weary thrust. “Should we be quieter?”

“N-no!” you manage to sob, the last of your energy going into pushing back against him. “Don’t stop! Fuck me, please!”

He laughs, a low, vicious sound of pure, exhausted delight. “That’s my girl.” He covers your mouth with his hand, muffling your sounds. “Then I’ll do exactly what my sweet princess is asking of me. But you’ll have to be quiet for me. We don’t want anyone banging on our door next time, do we? So can you be quiet?” He sets a final, brutal, fast pace, his thrusts becoming shorter, harder, more focused, fueled by a last reserve of strength. The only sounds are the wet slap of flesh, the bed hammering against the wall, and his ragged, stifled breathing. You try to stifle your cries against his palm, your body trembling with the struggle of staying quiet under such an intense, final assault.

He’s relentless, driving into you with a single-minded focus. You feel the tension coiling in him, the telltale tightening of his fingers on your hip, the way his whole body strains. With a final, gut-deep groan that he stifles against your shoulder, he pours himself into you, his body shuddering violently with the force of his release, a complete and total expenditure.

Seungcheol collapses over you, both of you spent, slick with sweat, and utterly demolished. His weight is a crushing, comforting pressure. He is heavy, boneless, and so are you. He removes his hand from your mouth, replacing it with his lips as soon as you turn your head to the side, kissing your shoulder blade softly, his breath coming in ragged gasps against your skin.

After a long moment, he carefully, slowly, with obvious effort, pulls out and disposes of the condom. He returns a moment later with a damp, cool towel, moving with a weary tenderness. He gently cleans between your thighs, the act starkly contrasting the animalistic way he just fucked you. He helps you turn over onto your back. Your legs feel like they don't belong to you, your entire body humming with a deep, sated, absolute exhaustion.

But the look in his eyes, as he kneels on the bed between your legs, is still dark with hunger, though it’s now blurred by fatigue. His cock is already half-hard again, a testament to his insane stamina, thick and heavy against his thigh. The sight sends a fresh, aching throb through your oversensitive core, a pulse of pure need that feels separate from your body’s desperate plea for rest. It is daunting. The thought of moving, of taking control of your body once again, feels like an impossible task.

“Your turn on top,” he says, his voice a hoarse, broken scrape. He lies back against the pillows with a heavy sigh, his hands going behind his head, putting himself on display for you. He is a magnificent feast for the eyes—all hard muscle, dark trail of hair leading and bushing around his cock, and rampant, male hunger—but you can see the weariness in the lines of his face, the slow rise and fall of his chest. “Ride me. I want to watch your pretty tits while you bounce on my cock, wanna see you come undone.”

The command is irresistible, but your body screams in protest. A soft, pathetic whimper escapes you. “Seungcheol... I’m so tired,” you breathe, the admission feeling both vulnerable and necessary. When you made a decision to follow your little stranger sex fantasy you didn’t think it would turn into this multiple round thing of your pussy getting absolutely destroyed. You thought that you’d get one decent round at best and go back to your room. And now here you are, your muscles feel like water, your core aches with a pleasant but deep soreness. “I don’t know if I can.”

His expression softens a fraction, the intense hunger in his eyes shifting into something more patient, more coaxing. He reaches out, his hand finding yours, lacing your fingers together. His grip is strong, but his skin is warm, comforting. “I know, baby. I know you are. I am too.” The pet name makes something in your chest squeeze tightly. He brings your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles. “But just for a little while. Just show me. Let me see you. You don’t have to do all the work.” His thumb strokes your palm. “Come here.”

His gentleness undoes you. It coaxes a second wind from somewhere deep within your spent reserves. You nod, a slow, hesitant movement. Crawling over him is a monumental effort. Every muscle protests. You straddle his hips, your knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his powerful thighs. Your hands splay across the hard, sweaty planes of his chest for balance, and you feel the frantic, tired beat of his heart beneath your palm. He guides himself to your entrance, his eyes locked on yours, dark and demanding but also incredibly patient.

You sink down onto him slowly, achingly slowly, taking him inch by exquisite, overwhelming inch. A low, mutual moan of effort and pleasure escapes you both at the feeling of being filled and enveloped so completely this way. Once he’s fully sheathed, you pause, your body trembling from the strain of holding the position, adjusting to the deep, stretching fullness that is now a familiar, welcome ache. If this is going to be just a resort fling, you think, it’s going to be the one you’ll remember for the rest of your life and brag about to all of your friends until they are sick of hearing the story.

His hands come to rest on your hips, his thumbs drawing slow, soothing circles on your skin. “Move,” he commands, but his voice is now a rough, encouraging whisper. “Just a little. Show me how much you like it.”

You begin to move, a slow, hesitant, rolling grind of your hips. It’s not the energetic bounce of fantasy; it’s a tired, sensual undulation. The angle is different, allowing you to control the depth, the friction. You rise up with a shaky, trembling effort until just the tip remains inside you, then sink back down, taking him all the way with a heavy, satisfying sigh. His eyes flutter closed for a second, a low, appreciative groan rumbling in his chest. Then his hands come up to fondle with your breasts, massaging the undersides, rolling and lightly tugging on your pebbled nipples, and making you moan louder than you should. You throw your head back, eyes rolling into your skull from pleasure.

“Eyes on me, pretty,” he grits out when he notices you’re not looking at him. It makes you snap your head back and meet his gaze only to find it burning with intensity that belies his exhaustion. “I want to see your face when you cum.”

You try to increase your pace, but it’s a feeble, bouncing motion, your thighs burning with the effort. Your hands brace on his chest, your nails digging into his skin for purchase. The sounds are different now—softer, wetter, the slick, tired sound of your bodies joining over and over, mixed with your breathy, exhausted moans and his gruff, whispered encouragements.

“Yeah, just like that,” he groans, his own hips lifting slightly to meet your downward strokes, taking some of the burden from your weary muscles. His hands tighten on your hips, helping you move, guiding you onto him. “Fuck, you look so good on my cock. So fucking perfect.”

You feel another orgasm building, a slow, deep coiling in your belly, different from the sharp, frantic peaks before. This one is a slow, rising tide, built on exhaustion and overstimulation and the profound intimacy of his unwavering gaze. You’re so close, teetering on the edge of something vast and warm. He sees it on your face, in the way your movements become even more languid, more focused.

“Play with your clit,” he orders, his voice tight but soft. “Make yourself cum. I want to watch you fall apart.”

You obey, one hand sliding between your bodies with a tired sigh, your fingers finding your swollen, hypersensitive bud. The touch is almost too much, but it’s the final key. With a soft, broken cry, you shatter, a slow, deep, rolling orgasm that feels like it drains the very last dregs of your energy. Your inner muscles clench around him in slow, rhythmic pulses, your body slumping forward onto his chest as you ride out the long, gentle waves of pleasure that draws an orgasm from him as well and you feel his cum fill you in rapid bursts. But you’re too fucked out to care that he just came inside you without a condom. You’re on a pill anyways.

He holds you through it, his arms wrapping around you, his hips still moving in tiny, gentle circles, prolonging the sensation. When the last tremor subsides, leaving you completely boneless, he gently rolls you over onto your side, slipping out of you. He spoons behind you, pulling you tight against his chest, both of you slick and trembling and utterly spent. He nuzzles into your hair, his breathing slowly evening out.

“You're incredible,” he breathes, the words slurred with impending sleep. He holds you tighter, a full-body embrace that feels like both a claim and a shelter. One hand rests possessively on your hip. “Round three... after a nap,” he mumbles, his voice fading.

You don’t know how long you sleep. It’s a deep, black, dreamless void, a complete systems shutdown for your utterly spent body and mind. Consciousness returns not with a jolt, but as a slow, warm tide. The first thing you’re aware of is the weight. A heavy, solid arm draped across your waist, anchoring you to the bed. The second is the heat. The press of a powerful, sweat-damp chest against your back, the solid line of his body curled around yours, fitting against you like a second skin. The third is the soft, even puff of his breath against the nape of your neck.

You are still exhausted, a deep, cellular weariness that makes the idea of moving seem impossible. But beneath that, something else is stirring. A low, familiar hum of awareness. The scent of him—sex, sweat, skin—is everywhere, intoxicating even in your semi-conscious state. The memory of what you did, what he did to you, plays in a hazy loop behind your eyelids.

You shift slightly, a tiny, experimental movement, and a soft, contented sound rumbles in his chest behind you, much like a purr. His arm tightens around you, pulling you infinitesimally closer. His hips press forward, and you feel him, thick and already half-hard again, nestled against the curve of your backside. A fresh, aching throb answers deep in your own core, a pulse of pure need that feels separate from your body’s fatigue. It’s a stubborn ember refusing to be extinguished.

He stirs, his lips brushing your shoulder blade. “You awake?” His voice is gravelly with sleep, deeper and even more rough than before.

“Barely,” you murmur, your own voice a sleep-rasped whisper. You turn in his arms, a slow, languid movement that feels like swimming through honey. Facing him, you see his eyes are half-lidded, dark pools in the dim room. The intensity is still there, but it’s softened by sleep, by unguarded tenderness. He looks younger and gentler like this, and the sight makes your chest ache. Not that he looks particularly rough any other time you can recall seeing him around the resort. But there’s something special about the fact that he’s so comfortable with showing his softer, vulnerable side to a practical stranger. And that it happened to be you.

His hand comes up, his knuckles brushing a stray strand of hair from your cheek. The touch is infinitely gentle. “Feel okay?”

You nod, nuzzling into his touch. “Sore,” you admit quietly. “In the best way.”

A slow, sleepy smirk touches his lips. “Good.” His thumb traces the line of your bottom lip. His gaze drops to your mouth, and the air in the room shifts, thickening once more. The tenderness is still there, but it’s being rapidly overtaken by a renewed, hungry focus. The sight of his eyes darkening, the feel of him hardening fully against your thigh, banishes the last vestiges of your sleepiness, replacing it with a different kind of heaviness—a liquid, anticipatory warmth.

The idea, the want, forms fully in your mind. You want to taste him. You want to swallow his sleep-rough groans. You want to prove your own hunger can match his, even now.

Without breaking eye contact, you slowly push against his chest. He lets himself be guided onto his back, his head sinking into the pillow, his eyes watching you with curious, dark intensity. The sheet pools around his hips, putting his magnificent body on display once more—the hard planes of his stomach, the thatch of dark curls, his cock standing thick and eager against his belly.

You move down the bed, positioning yourself between his powerful, spread thighs. The perspective is new, intimidating. He is so much larger than you like this, all muscle and male power laid out before you. You can see the faint tremors of fatigue still in his quadriceps, the slow, deep rise and fall of his chest.

You look up at him, meeting his heated gaze. His expression is a mix of awe and stark, ravenous hunger. He has given so much, taken so much. Now, you will take this.

“My turn,” you whisper, your voice stronger now, laced with a newfound, brazen intent.

A sharp, approving groan escapes him. “Fuck yes,” he breathes, his hands coming up to rest behind his head again, surrendering to your control, his biceps flexing with the movement.

You don’t start slow. You’re both past slow. You lean forward and take the broad, velvety head into your mouth, swirling your tongue around the flared crown, tasting the distinct, musky, sleep-warm flavor of him. He jerks beneath you, a guttural, broken “Fuck!” bursting from his lips, the sound raw and startled.

Emboldened, you sink down, taking as much of him as you can. He’s big, stretching your jaw, the thick length hitting the back of your throat. You gag instantly, a reflexive, convulsive choke, tears springing to your eyes. You pull back, gasping for air, a string of saliva connecting your lips to him.

“Easy, princess,” he rasps, his voice strained with concern, though his hands remain fisted behind his head, not on you, giving you control. His entire body is tensed, a statue of held-back need.

You shake your head, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, your eyes burning. “Don’t be easy,” you gasp, your voice hoarse with the effort, with desire. You look him dead in the eye, your own vision blurred with unshed tears. “Use me. Use my mouth. I want you to fuck my throat. Use me to your heart’s content.”

Your words are the final key to his restraint. A raw, animalistic sound tears from him, something between a groan and a growl. His hands leave his hair and gently, but with undeniable firmness, tangle in yours. “You’re sure?” he grunts, every muscle in his body taut and quivering with the Herculean effort of holding back. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

The concern, amidst the filth of what you’re asking for, unravels you. “Please,” you beg, holding his shaft with one hand and trailing kisses and broad licks along the underside of him. “I want it. I want to feel you lose control. I want all of it.”

That’s all the permission he needs. His control shatters. He guides you back onto his cock, not forcing, but leading, feeding himself into your willing mouth. This time, when you gag, he doesn’t pull back. He holds you there, his hands a steady, gentle pressure in your hair, letting you adjust to the overwhelming feeling of him stretching your throat, the primal panic of choking on it. Tears stream freely down your cheeks, dripping onto his thighs. The sensation is a dizzying mix of slight suffocation and intense, dirty arousal, a complete surrender. You think you can cum from just that.

He begins to move, a slow, shallow, experimental thrust of his hips. The sounds are obscene—wet, gagging, choked breaths from you, his ragged, praise-filled groans from above. “God, your mouth,” he chokes out, his voice wrecked, awe-struck. "So warm, so good. So fucking good for me. Taking me so deep.”

He picks up the pace, his thrusts becoming deeper, more rhythmic, building a filthy, wet cadence. You relax your throat, giving yourself over to him completely, letting him use you for his pleasure. Your own hands move between your own legs, fingers frantically circling your oversensitive, swollen clit, the degradation and the sheer intimacy of the act pushing you towards another shocking, dry peak. Your body bows, a silent scream caught in your throat around his length as your muscles clench around him.

He’s lost in it, his head thrown back against the pillows, the cords of his neck standing out in stark relief. His abs are clenched, his hips moving with a piston-like rhythm that is both brutal and perfectly controlled. “I’m close,” he warns, his voice a strangled, broken thing. “So close. Gonna cum down that pretty throat. Gonna fill you up.”

You redouble your efforts, taking him all the way, your nose pressed into the coarse curls at his base. You hum around him, the vibration wringing a shattered shout from him.

With a final, powerful thrust, he holds himself deep, and you feel his release pulsing hot and bitter down your constricted throat. You swallow convulsively, again and again, taking everything he gives you, until he’s utterly spent, his body going completely limp, a profound shudder wracking his frame.

He gently, carefully, pulls you off, his cock slipping from your bruised lips with a soft, wet pop. You collapse forward, your forehead resting on his muscular thigh, gasping for ragged, grateful lungfuls of air. Your face is a mess of tears, saliva, and him. You are wrecked.

In an instant he is moving. He gathers you into his arms immediately, pulling you against his heaving, sweat-slick chest. He doesn't seem to care about the mess. He presses kisses to your hair, your forehead, your tear-stained, salty cheeks, murmuring soft, incoherent praises into your skin. His own voice trembling, his heart hammering a wild, slowing rhythm against your ear. He holds you tighter, his embrace fierce and protective. “You okay? Talk to me. Was that too much?” The vulnerability in his question is stark.

You shake your head, nuzzling into the warm skin of his neck, your arms wrapping around his broad back. You feel hollowed out, purified, and completely his. “It was perfect,” you murmur, your voice raw and abraded. “You’re perfect.”

He laughs softly, a sound of pure, sated, astonished wonder. “You’re crazy,” he states and it’s filled with so much affection your heart squeezes tightly. He scoops you up effortlessly, manhandling you to stay tucked to his side and pulls the tangled sheets over both of you. He spoons around you again, his body a solid, warm fortress against your back. His hand rests over your heart, feeling its slowing beat.

“Sleep,” he commands, his lips whispering against your shoulder, then briefly reaches out to turn off the nightstand light. This time, it is a gentle order. “I’ve got you.”

You smile in the darkness, your body humming with a deep, sated, absolute contentment. You are already halfway to oblivion, safe in the circle of his arms. “Sure, try and stop me,” you whisper, but the words are a dream, lost to the deep and well-earned peace that claims you both.

The peace of sleep is a shallow pool this time, and you both drift in and out of its warm edges. True, deep rest feels like a distant country, unreachable from the heightened, sex-saturated plane you now inhabit. His arm is still a heavy, welcome weight across your waist, his body a furnace at your back. You float in a hazy limbo, aware of the dull, pleasant ache between your legs, the salt-and-sex scent on the sheets, the steady, strong beat of his heart against your spine.

You shift, a minute adjustment, and his hold tightens instinctively. A low, sleep-blurred sound vibrates against your back. His hips press forward, and the hard, insistent girth of him, already half-ready again, nestles more firmly against the curve of your backside. A soft, answering throb of need pulses deep within you, a quiet but persistent echo of the chaos that came before. It’s a want that doesn’t require acrobatics or screaming passion. It’s a simple, profound need for closeness, for the feeling of him inside you, even if you’re both too wrecked to move.

You press back against him, a slow, languid roll of your hips that is more suggestion than motion. It’s all the language either of you has energy for

He understands. A hum of approval rumbles in his chest. His hand, which had been splayed possessively on your stomach, drifts down. His fingers are warm and slightly rough as they slide down to your entrance, finding you still slick, still swollen and impossibly sensitive from earlier. You gasp softly at the contact, your body arching back into his.

“Still so wet,” he murmurs, his voice thick and blurred with sleep, the words mumbled into the nape of your neck. “Even now. Even after all that.” His touch is not seeking to incite a frenzy, but to confirm a connection. One thick finger slides into you with an effortless ease that makes you whimper. It’s not a thrust, but a presence, a gentle claiming. “This still mine?”

“Yours,” you breathe out, the word a sigh.

He withdraws his finger, and you hear the soft, fumbling rustle of another foil packet. His movements are slow, clumsy with exhaustion. The tear of the packet is loud in the quiet room. He sheathes himself with a tired, unrushed motion. Then his arm is back around you, pulling you tight against him. He guides himself to your entrance, the broad head nudging against you, and with a single, slow, rolling thrust of his hips, he sinks into you from behind.

You both let out a simultaneous, shuddering groan. It’s not a sound of frantic passion anymore, but of deep, profound relief. The feeling of him filling you this way, in the spooning position, is incredibly intimate. It’s lazy and deep, a connection that requires almost no effort. He doesn’t move immediately, just stays buried to the hilt, his body molded to yours, his breath warm on your shoulder.

“Okay?” he slurs, his lips moving against your skin.

“More than okay,” you whisper, pushing back against him, wanting to feel him even deeper.

He begins to move, but it’s nothing like before. There is no pounding rhythm, no frantic slapping of skin. His thrusts are slow, deep, and languid, a gentle rocking of his hips that rocks your entire body with it. It’s a lazy, luxurious fuck, all about the sensation of fullness and connection rather than the frantic race towards a finish line. The sounds are soft: the wet, slick slide of your joined bodies, his deep, quiet groans, your breathy sighs. His hand slides up to cup your breast, his thumb idly circling your nipple, not to tease it to a peak, but simply to hold you, to feel you.

It’s nasty in its own way—the sheer familiarity and repetitiveness of it by now, the way he can be buried inside you with such casual, sleepy possessiveness after just several rounds spent together. It’s filthy in its tenderness. You feel yourself coiling slowly, a warm, lazy build of pleasure that spreads through your exhausted limbs like honey. There are no screams, no commands. Just the slow, inexorable climb, fed by each deep, rolling stroke.

“Come on, baby,” he murmurs, his voice a sleep-rough vibration against your back. “Let go. Just let it happen.”

His words, so soft and encouraging, are your undoing. Your orgasm washes over you not as a crashing wave, but as a warm, rising tide. It’s a full-body shudder, a series of soft, internal flutters that milk his length, drawing a long, low groan from him. He follows you over, his own release a quiet, pulsing warmth deep inside you, his hips stuttering to a halt as he buries himself as deep as he can go.

For long minutes, you both lie there, still joined, breathing in ragged unison. The world has narrowed to this bed, to the feel of his chest rising and falling against your back, to the weight of his arm around you.

Eventually, with a soft sigh, he pulls out and deals with the condom yet again. You expect him to collapse back into sleep, but instead, you feel him shift and leave the bed. You make a small sound of protest at the loss of his heat, but he murmurs, “Shhh, baby, I’ve got you.”

He returns a moment later with a fresh, warm, damp towel. This, somehow, feels more intimate than anything else that has happened. Gently, with a tenderness that makes your throat tight, he cleans you. He wipes your mixed releases between your thighs, over your stomach, the care in his touch so profound it borders on reverence. He is meticulous, wiping away the evidence of your shared pleasure with a focus that speaks to you of deep, inherent respect for the partner, be it one night stand or something committed. You just watch him and know it’s true.

Once he’s done, he drops the cloth aside and pulls the duvet over both of you. He gathers you back into his arms, facing him this time. His eyes are heavy-lidded with exhaustion, but they search yours in the dim light coming through the window. His hand comes up to cradle your cheek.

“You’re staying,” he says. It’s not a question, but there’s a vulnerability in his tone that asks for confirmation anyway.

“Yes,” you whisper, nuzzling into his palm. “If you’ll have me.”

A slow, tired, but genuine smile touches his lips. “Try and leave,” he jokes softly, but his eyes are serious. He takes a deep breath, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. “And… all of that. Everything we did. It was… it was still good? For you? You tell me if anything ever isn’t. Even now. Even after.”

The question, coming after such raw, animalistic intimacy, after such tender aftercare, unravels you completely. A sob catches in your throat, not of sadness, but of overwhelming emotion. He’s checking in. After he’s owned every part of you, after you’ve begged him to use your throat, he is still ensuring your consent, your comfort. It is the most heartwarming, devastatingly caring thing anyone has ever done.

“Seungcheol,” you breathe, your eyes welling up. “It was perfect. Everything was perfect. You’re perfect.”

He lets out a breath, as if he’d been holding it—and you suppose he was,—and pulls you tightly against him, tucking your head under his chin. He holds you like that for a long time, just breathing you in, his hands making slow, soothing circles on your back.

“Get some sleep,” he murmurs finally, his own voice already getting heavier with drowsiness. “Proper sleep this time.”

You nod against his chest, snuggling into his solid warmth. Just as you’re drifting off, on the very edge of consciousness, his voice rumbles again, a low, sleep-slurred promise.

“Gonna make you cum over breakfast,” he mumbles, his words barely intelligible. “While you eat your fruit. My fingers inside you… gonna be so lazy and good… and then take you on a proper date.”

The filthy, tender promise hangs in the air, a final gift before sleep claims him entirely. A slow smile spreads across your face in the dark. You are staying the night. Of course you are. And the morning, you know with absolute certainty, will be just as perfect.

*.(๓•͙ ˕ •͙๓).* like + reblog + comment if you enjoyed your time reading this!

A/N2: this fucking text took me ALL FKING DAY to read through and edit and I’m tired and it’s late where I am and I hope to go to bed asap. My brain is officially fried and frayed and everything else, I can’t comprehend words anymore to save my life or whatever they say in this case. Even with the volume of it I don’t think it’s the filthiest thing I could’ve produced but I think it’s nasty enough for the first huge thirst trap that this is. Also I can’t write Seungcheol without attaching strings in the end, I just can’t. It’s unfathomable to imagine letting go of such man after THIS! Anyways hope you liked reading this monstrosity ᐢ ᴗ . ᴗ ᐢ

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It didn't.

It got so much worse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I was literally a wall away."

"That's a wall too far."

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

"Food can wait," he murmurs.

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

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

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

"Cheol."

"Mm?"

"You're doing that thing."

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

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

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

"I hate you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He says that and lets out a shameful pathetic mewl.

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

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

Today, that's going to be him.

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

Hard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Good boy."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Because I want to sit on your face."

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

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

"Get on the floor then."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Shut up and move."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your phone rings.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You okay?" your team lead asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then you let yourself fall apart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here's the thing about Seungcheol. He is a walking contradiction and everything about him grates on your nerves the wrong way. The way he's wearing ridiculous compression shirts that should be illegal and you hate him for it. You hate him in a way that makes you clench your teeth when he shuffles into the kitchen at noon on a Saturday, hair ruffled, those ridiculous plush lips wrapped around a protein shake straw while he blinks at you with eyes so big and brown they should be reserved for baby cows or animated Disney characters, not your flatmate who spends approximately fourteen hours a day alternating between screaming at Valorant and deadlifting twice his body weight in the gym.

You hate the way his thick brows furrow when he's concentrating on a boss fight, the way his dimples carve themselves into his cheeks when he laughs at something stupid in whatever anime is currently playing on his second monitor. You hate that he owns compression shirts—multiple, in different colours and sleeve lengths—and that they cling to his chest and shoulders like it's their personal responsibility to showcase every contour of muscle underneath. You hate that he's your flatmate and you have to see this every single day.

You especially hate that he's bitchless.

To be fair, it shouldn't bother you. It really shouldn't. But it does anyways. The man has no personal life to speak of. His social calendar consists of online gaming sessions with his friends—Wonwoo, Woozi and Hoshi, their voices floating through his headset or just speakers at all hours of the night—and occasional trips to the gym where you assume he intimidates everyone else into silence with those shoulders until a woman approaches and then he's the one intimidated. Because Seungcheol doesn't date. He doesn't bring anyone home. He doesn't even seem to look at other people when you're out together grabbing groceries or picking up takeout. You assumed in your mind that maybe he's gay but no, your gaydar doesn't go off when you observe him. And the way he turns into a mess specifically when women are involved only proves that it's not the case. He's just got no game.

You found out exactly how bad it is when your friend Jess came over one time while you were getting ready to go out. She arrived a little early and you'd told her to just come up, it's fine, my flatmate is harmless. And she'd walked in, taken one look at Seungcheol on the couch in his compression shirt and gaming headset, controller in hand, and literally stopped in her tracks.

"Oh," she'd said. And then, because Jess has no filter: "That's your flatmate? The loser you're always complaining about?"

This is when Seungcheol had chosen the moment to pause his game and look up. Had seen Jess—Jess with her perfect hair and perfect makeup and perfect body in her perfect girls-night-out dress. And he'd fucking frozen. His mouth had opened and no words came out. His ears had turned this deep, mortified red that crept up his neck and spread across his cheeks, and he'd just… sat there. Staring silently.

You'd had to physically drag your friend to your room to break this embarrassing staring contest.

"Holy shit," she'd whispered, clutching your arm when you locked the door behind you. "He's hot. Like, actually hot. Why didn't you tell me he was hot? He's gorgeous. Those eyes? Those lips? And his body, oh my god, I bet if he stood up and faced us I'd see everything through that shirt—"

"He's a loser," you'd hissed back, rummaging through your makeup bag with more force than necessary, annoyance spiked through the roof. "He watches hentai. He has a figure collection and he argues with strangers on Reddit about coolest Naruto characters."

"I don't care if he collects toe nail clippings," Jess had said flatly and you sent her a disgusted look. "I could climb him like a tree."

And then you'd gone back to the living room and Seungcheol had still been sitting there frozen, ears burning, apparently incapable of forming words while Jess smiled at him and said goodbye. He'd managed a single, jerky nod. That was it. You'd had to restrain yourself from turning around and hissing at him something along the lines of dude, what the fuck?

Later, when you came home from your brunch with friends, you'd found him in the kitchen breathless and chugging water like he'd just run a marathon. Maybe he did. You didn't know and you really didn't want to find out.

"Dude," you'd said, leaning against the doorway. "What was that?"

He'd looked at you with those big cow eyes, still flushed. "What was what?"

"My friend Jess earlier. You couldn't even talk to her. She said hi and you short-circuited."

His flush had deepened. He'd shrugged, mumbled something about needing to game, and fled to his room.

And you stood there in the kitchen, annoyed for reasons you couldn't name. Because he doesn't shut down around you. He never has. From the day you moved in, he's been normal—annoyingly normal, the kind of normal where he leaves dirty dishes in the sink and eats your snacks without asking and makes dumb jokes about your music taste. He teases you about your recent Bridgerton obsession. He complains when you use all the hot water. He argues with you about whose turn it is to take out the trash.

He never once looked at you like he looked at Jess—like he'd forgotten how to function, like he was seeing someone worth being nervous around.

And you don't know why that bothers you. You don't know why it sits in your chest like a splinter, why it surfaces every time you catch him laughing at his monitor or flexing in the hallway mirror he hung there to check his form after workouts. You don't know why, when you meet your friends at the cafe every month and Jess inevitably brings him up—So, how's the hot flatmate? Still not talking to women?—you feel something twist that you can't identify.

You tell yourself it's just annoyance. He's your flatmate. You have to live with him. Of course you're going to have feelings about him.

You tell yourself a lot of things.

Doesn't mean they're true. Doesn't mean you are going to admit it.

You're at the club. It is loud and sweaty and exactly the type of place you usually love but tonight it's just annoying. The bass vibrates up through your feet and into your bones and the guy who bought you a drink keeps trying to put his hand on your waist, and his friends are all watching from the booth like they're waiting to see if he'll score. You've been dickless for four months. Four months of this—guys who are cringe, guys who're boring, guys who can't hold a conversation, guys who think grinding on you for thirty seconds counts as foreplay.

You're tipsy enough that the irritation has morphed into something sharp and hot under your skin. Tipsy enough that when you stumble into your apartment at three in the morning, kicking off your heels and dropping your purse on the floor, you're primed to be annoyed by whatever you find.

What you find is Seungcheol on the couch.

He's in his usual spot, controller in hand, headset pushed down around his neck. The TV is on some game you don't recognise. He's wearing grey sweats and a tank top that leaves his shoulders bare, and his hair is messy like he's been running his hands through it, and he looks up when you come in and blinks those big eyes at you.

"You're back late," he says. "Good night?"

Something inside you snaps.

"No," you hear yourself say. Your voice comes out flat and maybe a little slurred. "It was a shit night. All guys are shit. Every single one of them."

His eyebrows go up. He pauses the game, sets the controller down, gives you his full attention in a way that's almost unsettling. You feel it grate on your nerves. "That bad?"

"They're all cringe." You're walking toward the couch now, you're not sure why, your feet carrying you forward while your brain churns with four months of frustration and this other thing that's been building since Jess came over and he couldn't even look at her properly. "They don't know how to talk to women. They don't know how to do anything. They just—they stand there and expect you to be impressed that they bought you a drink."

Seungcheol's lips twitch. Those plush, stupid lips. "Sounds rough."

"Don't laugh at me."

"I'm not laughing." He's not. He's looking at you with an expression that you can't read, but there's something careful and soft about it. "Do you want water? You seem—"

"I seem what?"

"Frustrated."

The word lands in your chest and explodes. Frustrated. Yeah. That's one way to name it. Four months of no sex. four months of shitty dates and cringe club guys. four months of watching your flatmate exist in his compression shirts with his pretty face and his complete lack of interest in y—

"Do you think I'm attractive?"

The question comes out of nowhere, before you can even properly finish your line of thought. You don't know you're going to ask it until it's already hanging in the air between you. Seungcheol's eyes go wide. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

"What?"

"You heard me." You're standing right in front of him now, close enough to touch. The alcohol is doing things to your brain, lowering all your inhibitions, letting the splinter in your chest work its way out. "When Jess came over you couldn't even talk to her. You just sat there like a—like a loser." In your head you know you sound bitter, it registers with delay like everything else. Your sober self wishes you didn't say that, that you weren't mean like that. But you are. You're drunk, you're frustrated and you're unreasonably mean. "But you talk to me fine. You're always fine with me. So either you think I'm not worth being nervous about or—"

"Or what?"

"Or I don't know. Fuck!" You throw your hands up. "I don't know what I'm saying. I'm drunk. I'm going to bed."

You turn to leave. You make exactly one step before his hand closes around your wrist.

"Wait."

The word is quiet. Different from his usual voice—lower, rougher. You turn back. He's still sitting on the couch, but he's looking up at you now with an expression you've never seen on him before. There's something dark in those big brown eyes. And it makes your stomach flip.

"You wanna know why I'm not nervous around you?" he says slowly. "Because I live with you. Because I see you every day. Because if I got nervous every time you walked into the room in one of those little dresses or bent over to get something from the fridge or came out of the shower with your hair wet, I would literally never be able to function. I just had to become cool with a bunch of stuff real quick."

Your heart stops. Then starts again, too fast.

"What?"

"You asked," his grip on your wrist tightens, just slightly. "I'm answering. Yes, I think you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. I've thought that since the day you moved in. I've jerked off to you more times than I can count. I have to leave the room sometimes when you're wearing certain things because I can't handle it. But yeah, that's why I'm not nervous. Because I've had eight months to get used to the fact that you're out of my league and nothing's ever going to happen, so I might as well just… exist around you and pretend I'm fine."

He stops. Breathes. His ears are red, you notice. That same mortified shade from when Jess was here.

You should either start a proper conversation with him or just leave and pretend it never happened, that the next morning you don't remember a thing. Instead, what comes out of your mouth is: "Okay, then prove it."

His brows draw together. "Prove what?"

"That you thought about me the way you say you did. That… that you want me." You don't know where this boldness is coming from. The alcohol probably. The frustration. The four months of nothing and the way his words are seeping into your skin, warm and electric. "Show me."

For a long moment, he just stares at you and you think he's going to chicken out. Then his expression shifts—you see a hint of something hot and hungry that makes you hold your breath.

"You're drunk," he says. But his voice is rough now, and the sound of it does things to your insides.

"Tipsy. Not drunk," you argue as you step closer, enough that your knees bump against his. "So, are you really going to say no and lose your chance?"

Seungcheol answers with a tug of your wrist, pulling you down onto his lap.

You land straddling him, your dress riding up your thighs, your hands bracing on his shoulders. His shoulders are solid under your palms—all that muscle from all those hours in the gym, all those compression shirts hiding exactly what you're feeling now. His hands settle on your hips, fingers pressing into the curve of your waist, and he looks up at you with those big dark eyes and you realise you've made a terrible mistake.

Because you want this. You want this so badly it sends your pussy aching.

"Last chance to change your mind," he murmurs.

You kiss him.

His mouth is soft, lips chapped but still soft. You knew they would be—you've spent too much time staring and sneaking glances at these lips not to have imagined this—but the reality of it is different. He kisses like he's savouring you slowly, one hand sliding up your back to tangle in your hair. You make a sound against his mouth, embarrassing and needy, and you feel him smile.

"Yeah?" he breathes. "You like that?"

"Shut up."

He laughs low in his chest, and then he's kissing you again and his hands are moving, pushing the strap of your dress down your shoulder, tracing the line of your collarbone with fingers that are somehow gentle and rough at the same time. You rock against him without meaning to, chasing friction, and you feel it—the hardness pressing up against you through his sweats.

It's big.

You pull back, breathing hard. Look down. Then back up at his face, incredulous. Slowly getting even more irritated.

"Is that your cock?" The word is obscene, too direct, but the alcohol loosens your tongue and you don't take it back.

His ears go red again but there's still something smug in his expression. "Yeah."

"That's… that's all you?"

"I mean, it's mostly me. Little bit of you, I guess, since you're the reason it's happening."

You probably should say something clever that regains the upper hand, that makes you feel less like you've just had your breath knocked out of you. Instead what comes out is: "I need to see it."

His eyebrows shoot up. "Right now?"

"Of course right now. When else?" You hiss, your voice edged with frustration and want and that strange fuzzy impatience that alcohol brings. You're just annoyed that he's even asking, that he's making you wait when you can feel him against you and every nerve in your body is screaming for more.

Seungcheol hesitates for half a second—you can see him weighting something, maybe concern for your tipsy state or his own restraint—and then reaches down. You shift back just enough to give him room, watching as he lifts his hips and pushes his sweats and boxers down. Just low enough. Just enough for his cock to spring free, heavy and thick against his stomach.

You stare.

You've seen dicks before. You're a grown woman, you've had sex, you know what they look like. But you don't think you've ever seen one quite like this in real life. It's not the longest you've ever encountered—a bit above average maybe—but the girth. The fucking girth. His cock is so thick your mouth actually waters at the thought of trying to fit it anywhere.

"Well?" His voice is strained. "Good? Bad? Terrifying?"

"Shut up," you whisper again, and reach down to wrap your hand around it.

Seungcheol groans. And he sounds so raw and desperate. Especially when his head falls back against the couch cushion and reveals his neck. You find the sight vulnerable in the most exciting way. He lets out a smaller, choked groan and the sound goes straight between your legs, makes you clench around nothing. He's hot in your hand and the weight of him feels obscene. You can't even close your fingers all the way around the base, and the stretch of your thumb and middle finger trying to meet sends a little thrill straight through your tipsy haze. He's veined, flushed dark at the tip, and there's already a bead of precum pearling at the slit that makes your mouth water.

You swallow.

"Fuck," Seungcheol breathes, and the word is punched out of him like you've done something devastating with just your palm. His hips twitch again, involuntarily, and you watch the way the muscles in his stomach jump with the movement. "Your hand—fuck, your hand feels—"

You cut him off by squeezing, just a little, and his whole body jerks.

The couch creaks under you both. You're still straddling his thighs, your dress bunched up around your hips, and you can feel the heat of him radiating through his sweats against the inside of your bare leg. His hands have found your waist again, fingers pressing into the soft give of your skin like he needs to hold onto you or he'll fly apart.

"I can't even close my hand around you," you murmur, and it comes out wondering, almost awed. You're not trying to flatter him. You're genuinely fucked by the reality of it, the sheer size of him, and the alcohol in your system makes everything feel heightened, more immediate. "How is this… how do you even—"

"I know," he says, and there's something stupidly apologetic in his voice, which is so ridiculous you almost laugh. "I know, I'm sorry, I just—I'm big, okay, I've always been—"

"Don't apologize for your cock," you snap, but there's no heat in it. You're too busy stroking him again, watching the way his precum smears under your thumb, making the glide easier. "God, you're so thick. You're so fucking thick, Cheol!"

He makes a sound at that. A sound you've never heard a man make before—high in his throat, desperate, like you've wrung it out of him against his will. His ears are burning red, his cheeks flushed, and he's looking at you with those big dark eyes like you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen and also maybe a little terrifying.

"You can't just… say shit like that," he gets out. "You can't just—"

"I can say whatever I want." You lean forward, bracing your free hand on his shoulder, and your face is inches from his now. You can smell him—clean soap and warm skin underneath, something that's just him. "I'm the one with your dick in my hand. I think that gives me privileges."

His laugh is strangled. "Yeah. Yeah, okay. Privileges. Got it."

You kiss him again, because you can't not. Because his mouth is right there and you want to taste the sounds he's been making. He meets you halfway, desperate and eager, and this time there's nothing slow about it. This time it's all teeth and tongue and the slick slide of your lips together, and his hands are moving on your body like he's trying to map every inch of you at once while he has a chance.

One hand slides up your back, pressing you closer. The other grips your hip hard enough to bruise, and you want that, want to wake up tomorrow with the ghost of his fingers stamped into your skin. You're still stroking him, slow and messy because you're distracted by his mouth, by the way he groans into you when your thumb sweeps over the head.

"Off," you gasp against his lips. "Take this off. I need to feel you."

You're tugging at his t-shirt, and he helps, pulling back just long enough to yank it over his head and toss it somewhere across the room. And then your hands are on his chest, his shoulders, and god. You've watched him in those compression shirts. You've watched the way his muscles move when he's lifting, when he's doing those stupid pull-ups in the doorway of his room. But seeing it up close, feeling it—

He's built. Thick in a way that matches the rest of him, broad shoulders and a chest that your hands can't quite span, with a happy trail dusting down his stomach in a line that makes you want to follow it with your tongue. You do, actually. You dip your head and press your mouth to the base of his throat, feel his pulse jumping under your lips, and then you're kissing down, down, across his collarbone, over the swell of his pec.

"Fuck," he gasps. His hands are in your hair, not pulling, just holding, like he can't decide whether to guide you or just let you do whatever you want. "Fuck, baby, your mouth."

Oh, you like that. Baby. You like the way it sounds falling from his lips, rough and wrecked and like he doesn't even realize he's said it. You drag your tongue across his nipple just to hear what sound he makes and he whines, really whines, and you feel it everywhere.

"S-sensitive," he admits, voice strained. "They're… fuck, that's—"

You do it again. Slower this time, circling, and then you bite down just lightly and he bucks underneath you, his cock jumping in your hand that you wrapped around him again.

"Jesus Christ," he pants. "You're going to… I can't… if you keep doing that I'm going to cum and I really don't want to cum yet."

You lift your head, looking at him through eyes that feel heavy-lidded and drunk. "Why not?"

"Because I want to be inside you when I do." He says it simply, like it's obvious, like there's no other option he'd even consider. And the way he says it, the certainty in his voice—it makes something hot and tight curl in your stomach.

"Yeah?" you hear yourself ask. "You want to fill me up? Want to fill my pussy?"

His pupils blow so wide his eyes look black. "Yes. Fuck, yes. I want… I want to be so deep inside you that you can't tell where I end and you begin. I want to feel you cream around me. I want—" He breaks off, swallowing hard. "I've thought about it. So much. Too much. Jerking off in my room thinking about your cunt and what it would feel like."

The word sounds obscene coming from him. Cunt. Like he's been saving it up, hoarding it, waiting for permission to use it. You rock against him again—a reflex, an instinct—and you feel him pressing up against you through the soaked fabric of your panties.

"Then do it," you say. "Fuck me. Fill me up. Make me feel every inch of this big fucking cock."

Seungcheol kisses you once more, hard and claiming, and then his hands are on your hips and he's lifting you like you weigh nothing, shifting you back just enough to reach between you. His fingers hook into the waistband of your panties and he looks at you, questioning.

"Off," you confirm. "Now."

He slides them down your legs, slow, deliberate, watching the way they peel away from your dampened skin. You manoeuvre yourself to kick them off before straddling his lap again. And then his hand is between your thighs and you gasp because of how good his hands feel, how rough his palms are from the gym, how that roughness drags against the slick heat of you in a way that makes your vision go spotty.

"You're so wet," he murmurs, delighted. "Fuck, baby, you're soaking. Is this all for me?"

"Yes," you manage. "Yes, it's… I've been… every month, thinking about—"

"I know." He slides a finger through your folds, collecting your wetness, and you whimper at the sensation. "I know, me too. Every time you walked past my room. Every time you left for the club in those little dresses. I'd hear you come home and I'd lie there and think about doing this."

He pushes a finger inside you, just one, and you cry out. You're so sensitive, so wound up, and the stretch of him even just one finger has you clenching down immediately.

"God, you're tight." His voice is wondering. "You're so fucking tight, baby. I don't know how I'm going to fit."

"You will." You're grinding down on his hand, desperate for more. "You will, I can take it, I want it—"

He adds a second finger and you see stars.

It's a stretch, a real stretch, and you're suddenly very aware of exactly how big he is, how much bigger than his fingers he's going to be. But it's a good stretch, the kind that makes your mouth fall open and your hips start moving on their own, riding his hand while he watches you with those dark, hungry eyes.

"That's it," he murmurs. "That's it, baby, take my fingers. Get yourself ready for me."

You're babbling. You're not sure what you're saying—something about more, about please, about I need you inside me—and he's drinking it all in, curling his digits inside you, finding that spot that makes your whole body jolt.

"There?" he asks, and he's smug about it, the bastard. "That the spot?"

"Fuck you."

"Yeah?" He crooks his fingers again, deliberately, and you keen. "You want to? Because right now you're the one riding my hand like a desperate little slut."

The word hits you like a shot of something hot and sharp. From anyone else it might make you angry, but from him—from Seungcheol, your flatmate who leaves his protein shakes in the sink and does pull-ups in the doorway and looks at you like you hung the moon—it makes you clench down on his fingers so hard he groans.

"Yeah," he breathes. "Yeah, you like that, don't you? You like being my desperate little slut, getting off on my fingers on the couch like a fucking dream."

"Cheol—"

"I've got you." He pulls his fingers out and you whine at the loss, but then his hands are on your hips again, guiding you forward, and you feel him—the blunt head of his cock pressing against your entrance, slippery with your wetness and his precum. "I've got you, baby. I'm going to take care of you."

He doesn't push in. He just holds you there, letting you feel the pressure, the promise of it, and you're so desperate you could cry.

"Please," you whisper. "Please, Cheol, I need—"

"I know what you need." His voice is rough, restrained, and you think he's holding himself back with everything he has. He probably is. "But I need you to look at me. I need you to see me when I do this."

You meet his eyes. They're dark and soft and it makes your chest ache, even through the haze of lust and alcohol.

"Okay," you whisper. "Okay."

And then you sink down.

It's too much. It's immediately, overwhelmingly too much. He's so thick—thicker than his fingers, thicker than anything you've ever had inside you—and the stretch burns in a way that makes you gasp, makes your nails dig into his shoulders. You can only take half of him before you have to stop, trembling, your forehead dropping to his.

"Fuck," he breathes. "Fuck, baby, you're so tight. You're so fucking tight around me."

"You're so big." It comes out wrecked, broken. "I can't… you're too—"

"You can." His hands are stroking your back, soothing, even though his voice is strained with the effort of holding still. "You can take it. You're doing so good, baby. Just breathe. Let yourself adjust."

You try. You take a breath, then another, and slowly the sharp edge of the stretch dulls into something more bearable. More than bearable—good. Full in a way you've never felt full before, it's like he's reaching places inside you that no one's ever touched. And maybe he is.

"Okay," you whisper. "Okay, I'm… I think I can—"

"Take more," he urges. "Just a little more, baby. I need to be deeper."

You sink down another inch and moan. He fills you completely, impossibly, and you can feel yourself stretching around him, accommodating him, taking him. It's the most intense thing you've ever felt, and you're drunk and fuzzy and every sensation is amplified, overwhelming.

"That's it," he groans. "That's it, fuck, you're taking me. You're taking all of me, baby, look."

You look down. You shouldn't have looked down. Because you can see it—the place where your bodies meet, the way you're stretched around him, the way his cock disappears inside you and you're taking it, every thick inch from the tip to the base.

"Oh my god," you whisper.

"Yeah." His voice is wrecked. "Yeah, that's... fuck, you feel..."

He can't finish. You start to move.

It's clumsy at first. You're still adjusting to the stretch, still tipsy, still overwhelmed by the sheer fullness of him. But then you find a rhythm, rocking against him, and his head falls back and he makes these sounds—these desperate, broken sounds that you want to bottle and keep forever.

His hands guide your movements, helping you, and you can feel him everywhere. Stretched around him, full in a way you've never been full before. Every nerve ending is on fire, every sensation heightened by the alcohol in your system and the reality of what's happening.

"Look at me," you demand, but it comes out softer, needier than you intend. "I want you to look at me."

He does. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, and he looks at you like you're sacred and he can't believe he's allowed to touch.

Your insides clench around him and you whine.

"You're so beautiful," he says, so wrecked and fucked out already. "Fuck, you're so... I've wanted this for so long—"

You lean down and press your lips to his, swallowing his words, and he responds with a desperation that matches your own. His arms wrap around you, pulling you close, and he starts to thrust up into you from below, changing the angle, and something inside you zips up your spine.

"There," you gasp against his mouth. "Right there, don't stop, please."

Seungcheol doesn't stop. He fucks up into you with a rhythm that's steady and deep, hitting that spot inside you with every movement. The sound of it—the wet, sloppy sound of his cock sliding into your soaked cunt—fills the room along with your moans and his grunts.

"You feel that?" he murmurs against your throat. "You feel me hitting that spot, baby? Feel how deep l am?"

"Yes—fuck—yes—" he's kissing your cervix with his tip and it feels like your brain is getting fried.

"I'm so deep inside you." His voice is reverent and filthy all at once. "I'm so deep I can feel your heartbeat. Can you feel mine? Can you feel me pulsing in your tight little cunt?"

You can. You can feel every twitch, every throb, every inch of him buried inside you. The pressure is building, coiling tight in your belly, and you're going to cum—you're actually going to cum, and it's going to rip through you full force.

"That's it," he breathes. "I can feel you getting tighter. You're close, aren't you? You're going to cum on my cock like a good little slut."

"Cheol—"

"Say it." His hand tangles in your hair, gently pulling your head back so he can see your face. "Say what you are. Say whose cunt this is."

"Yours," you gasp. "It's yours, I'm yours, I'm your—your good little slut, I'm-"

"Come for me."

You shatter.

It rips through you like nothing you've ever felt, wave after wave of pleasure so intense you can't breathe, can't think, can only cling to Seungcheol and sob against his neck while your body clenches around him over and over. He groans, hips stuttering, and you feel him pulse inside you, feel the hot rush of him filling you up, and that sends you over again, another wave crashing through you as he keeps cumming and cumming.

"Take it," he groans. "Take all of it, baby, fuck—"

He's still spilling inside you. You can feel it, hot and wet, flooding you, and there's so much of it, more than you've ever felt, and it's dripping out around him, soaking both of you, and you're still clenching, still coming down from your high when you realize.

He's still hard.

He's still hard, still buried inside you, and you can feel him twitching, feel the way he hasn't softened at all, and you look at him with wide eyes.

"You're—"

"I know." His voice is rough, almost apologetic again. "I'm sorry, I just… I always… I can usually go again, right away, and I—"

You think that this is what gets you. He's capable of being absolutely filthy and obscene and yet, at the end of the day he's the same silly guy who can't talk to women. He never really learned to be a self-absorbed jackass.

"Then do it."

He stares at you. "You just came. You're probably sensitive."

"I am sensitive." You shift on him, just slightly, and the sensation of his still-hard cock moving inside your oversensitive, cum-filled cunt makes you gasp. "I'm so fucking sensitive I can barely breathe. But I want more. I want you to use me."

His eyes go dark. "Use you?"

"Fuck me again." You're pleading now, desperate, the remnants of alcohol and the orgasm making you bold. "Fuck me until I can't walk. Fill me up so full I drip for days. I want to sit while I work tomorrow and feel you soaking through my panties. I want to remember this every time I move."

His expression cracks open, almost pained. "Fuck, baby. You can't say shit like that."

"I just did." You clench around him deliberately, and Seungcheol groans. "Now move."

He does.

He flips you in one smooth motion, laying you back against the couch cushions and looming over you, and he doesn't even pull out—just starts thrusting again, deep and hard, and you squeal.

It's too much. It's so much. You're oversensitive, still clenching from your orgasm, and every thrust sends sparks through your whole body. You can feel his cum inside you, feel it slicking the way, feel it dripping out of you with every stroke, can imagine it forming a ring of white around Seungcheol's shaft, and the obscenity of it—the sheer filth of it—has you moaning uncontrollably.

"Look at you." His voice is strained, wrecked. "Look at you taking my cock again, still full of me. You're so fucking perfect. This cunt was made for me."

"Yes—yes—"

"So tight. So wet. I can feel my own cum inside you, baby, I can feel it slicking us both up." He drives deeper, somehow deeper, and you keen.

"You're so messy. Such a messy little cunt, dripping with me, and I'm going to keep filling you up until you can't hold any more."

"Cheol—"

"I'm going to fuck you until it's all you can think about." His hand slips between you, fingers finding your clit, and you jolt. "Until you're walking around with my seed dripping down your thighs and all you can remember is my cock stretching you open."

You're going to crash again. You can feel it building, impossibly fast, your oversensitive body hurtling toward another climax.

"That's it." He's watching your face, reading every expression. "That's it, baby, come for me again. Cum on my cock while you're still full. I want to feel you squeeze it out of me."

The dirty talk, the pressure on your clit, the feeling of him so deep inside you—it all crashes together and you shatter again, coming with a scream that you barely recognize as your own. Your body clenches around him violently, rhythmically, and he groans and slams into you, holding himself deep as he spills again.

You feel it. Feel the hot spurts of him filling you again, even fuller than before, and there's so much that it's overflowing, dripping out around him and down your ass, soaking the couch cushions beneath you. He keeps going, keeps pumping into you, and you keep clenching, riding out wave after wave until you're both shaking and spent.

He collapses on top of you, barely holding his weight on his elbows, and you lie there together, breathing harshly, hearts pounding.

"Holy shit," you whisper.

"Yeah," his voice is muffled against your neck, lips pressing soft kisses that melt your brain. "Yeah. Holy shit."

You lie there for a long moment, just breathing.

You can feel him finally softening inside you, can feel the mess between your legs—so much cum that it's still leaking out, warm and wet against your skin.

"I meant it," you murmur. "What I said. I want to feel this tomorrow."

He lifts his head, looking at you with those big dark eyes. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You reach up, touch his face. "I want to sit at my desk and think about it dripping out of me." You're not sure if you're saying it because you're still intoxicated or just riding the ecstatic high of your orgasm. You don't even know if you're gonna mean it in the morning. But right now? Yeah, you do mean it.

Seungcheol chuckles, a little incredulous, and kisses you soft and sweet, so in contrast to what just happened. "Good. Because I'm not done with you yet."

You raise an eyebrow. "Again?"

A small, smug smile stretches his lips. "Give me ten minutes."

You laugh, and then wince as the movement shifts him inside you. "I'm going to need more than ten minutes. I'm going to need a proper nap. I can barely feel my legs."

"That's the goal." He kisses your nose, your forehead, your eyelids. "Can't walk. Can't think. Just full of my cum and remembering exactly who put it there."

You feel your cheeks heat up when you actually process his words: "I really hate you."

He grins. "No you don't."

"No," you admit. "I really don't."

You close your eyes with a satisfied sigh and slowly feel your body getting heavy, limbs leaden and like your brain all too heavy at once. You haven't felt so tired in a while. Somewhere in the back of your mind you think you should get up. Go (more like crawl) to your room and process what just happened and figure out what this means for your living situation. Instead you stay there, curled against his chest, his softening cock still inside you, and you fall asleep to the steady thump of his heartbeat.

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

The week crushes you with its merciless press of deadlines and demands that leave you feeling like a roadkill. By Friday, you're a hollowed-out shell and want nothing else but get obliviated with a few drinks. However, the idea of calling your friends to join you, of having to narrate the same soul-crushing story again, makes your skin crawl. You love them, but you simply cannot handle anyone else's shit on top of your own.

So you go alone.

The bar is a dim, humming sanctuary. You stake your claim on a bar stool, ordering the first cocktail with a gesture that hopefully reads as 'leave me the hell alone'. It's the second one, deceptively sweet on your tongue, that finally starts to loosen the knots in your shoulders. You're deep in the pleasant, buzzing void when a presence materializes beside you.

"Is this seat taken?"

The voice is low, a soft rumble that cuts through your haze. Two cocktails in, you couldn't give a shit. You shake your head without granting him a glance. In your periphery, you see him settle onto the stool, the movement easy. He orders a whiskey, neat. The clink of the glass as the bartender sets it down is unnaturally loud.

Of course, he talks. "Rough week?"

Annunciation flares, hot and immediate. You just want to get drunk in peace, to not be perceived. The irritation finally forces you to turn your head, a sharp retort dying on your lips.

Your tipsy brain takes a stumbling, syrupy second to process him. Gorgeous isn't the right word. It's insufficient. You blink, half expecting him to be an illusion that has to dissipate and reveal a mediocre Bob sitting by your side. But he remains, solid and real. Big, round eyes fringed with lashes you'd kill for, thick eyebrows that do most of the talking—one quirks up now as you stare, silent and stupid. His lips are distractingly full, and his features are soft and strong at the same time. A single, crystal clear thought cuts through the alcohol: You have been criminally underfucked. A man like this, for just one night, seems like a divine solution.

You signal the bartender for another drink. You know you shouldn't, but if you're going to survive this conversation without doing something truly unhinged, you need the liquid courage.

"That bad, huh?" he asks, a small smile playing on those lips.

"You have no idea," you murmur.

The longer you talk, the less you hear the actual words. You're distracted by the whole of him. His scent—something masculine like bergamot and cedar—messes with your head. The muted blue henley he wears stretches taut over what are clearly broad shoulders and strong arms; his jeans do nothing to hide the powerful thickness of his thighs. You can already imagine the solid weight of those arms around you, and your thighs press together of their own volition. You have to consciously wrench your mind back to the present, offering a non-committal hum in response to something he said.

His name is Seungcheol. You learn this when he offers it, his gaze steady and knowing, as if he can read every illicit thought scrolling behind your eyes.

Somehow, the conversation twists into a dare. A challenge in your tone, a spark in his.

"My place is closer," you say, the words out before you can reconsider. It's not a question. It's a statement. A decision.

"Then let's go," is all he says, his voice dropping an octave.

Now you're in the back of a taxi, the city lights streaking past the windows like liquid gold. The silence inside the car is an entity of its own. It's thick with the unspoken, charged with a static tension that makes the fine hairs on your arms stand up. He's not touching you, but you can feel the heat of his leg mere inches from yours. You stare straight ahead, your hands clenched in your lap, but your entire being is hyper-aware of him. The scent of his perfume is stronger in the enclosed space, and you can see the solid line of his thigh from the corner of your eye.

You could probably straddle him right here, and the driver wouldn't even blink. The thought is so vivid, so tempting, that a shiver runs down your spine. But you're not that insane. Not yet. You just watch the city blur, counting the seconds until you're alone with him.

All hell breaks loose the moment the apartment door clicks shut.

The sound of the lock engaging is a starting pistol. In one fluid motion, Seungcheol has you spun around and pinned against the solid wood. His big hands are everywhere at once—cupping your jaw, sliding down your spine, gripping your hips to grind you against the hard muscle of his thigh covered in the rough fabric of his jeans. His mouth crashes down on yours, and every coherent thought you've ever had evaporates.

Kissing him is exactly what you imagined—maybe even better. It's not gentle; it's all hungry lips and slick, hot pressure. You can't breathe, and you don't care. A broken sound, half-whimper, half-sigh, escapes you.

"So responsive," he murmurs against your lips, his voice a dark, rough thing that vibrates through your very bones. His teeth scrape your bottom lip. "Knew you would be."

"Just- just get on with it," you gasp out, tugging at his henley.

He chuckles, the sound low and wicked. "So impatient." He captures your mouth again, swallowing your next retort, his tongue tangling with yours until your knees go weak.

But you don't want to stay by the door. With a strength fueled by pure, frantic need, you push at his chest, backing him off. Your fingers lace with his, and you lead him into the darkness of your bedroom.

The impatience from the hallway explodes into a frenzy here. Clothes become the enemy. Your hands fumble with buttons and zippers, a tangled, breathless dance. When he finally pulls his henley over his head, your mouth actually waters and you catch yourself gulping at the sight. The dim light from the streetlamps outside cuts across his torso, revealing a build that is nothing short of devastating. Thick, defined muscle layered with a tantalizing softness—a body built for strength and comfort. You can swear this realisation pushes you to ovulate a week earlier than you're supposed to because suddenly, all you can think about is that you need this man to rail you into oblivion and fill you up real good. And as your eyes follow a thin happy trail leading to the waistband of his jeans, you find yourself swallowing thickly.

But when it's his turn to remove his underwear, the world tilts on its axis.

You prop yourself up on your elbows, disbelief wiping lust clean from your face. He's... small. Adorably, comically small. A short, cute fucking cock, resting innocently against a thatch of dark hair, a stark, almost hilarious contrast to the godlike miracle of the rest of him. A wild thought flashes: he was too perfect, so the universe had to balance him out. You press your lips together, a Herculean effort to keep from laughing or letting a truly stupid, tactless comment slip. Your face, you're sure, says it all despite your efforts. The sharp, clawing desire you felt moments ago recedes, not out of disgust, but sheer, baffled surprise. Your mood isn't ruined, just... recalibrated.

To your astonishment, Seungcheol isn't offended. If anything, his confidence seems to amplify, a lazy, knowing smirk playing on his lips. "See something you like?" he taunts, his voice a low purr.

You let out a disbelieving huff of a laugh. "It's... cute."

His smirk widens. "Go on. Play with it."

You laugh again, for real this time, but you comply. Why not? The guy is still ridiculously pretty. Your hand wraps around him easily, your fingers meeting with room to spare. A condescending, almost cooing comment slips out as you give a slow, experimental pump. "So tiny," you whisper, leaning down to kitten-lick the limited length of the underside.

Seungcheol just watches, utterly entertained, which strikes you as unusual. It rings a faint, distant bell in the back of your head, but you're too tipsy, too caught in the absurdity of the situation to do the math.

It's just a minute in, your movements becoming lazy and rhythmic, that you realize something is off. The sensation in your palm is changing. It feels less... contained. You stop, pulling back to observe, and your brain short-circuits.

You are watching a metamorphosis. His shaft is expanding, thickening, lengthening right before your eyes, transforming from a cute novelty into a weapon of mass destruction, no less. The understanding hits you like a physical blow: he's a grower. A huge fucking grower. At this point you're certain this is his little game, his secret power, and he probably gets off on the whiplash of reactions.

You swallow thickly, your throat dry. Now sitting in your hand is a solid, heavy eight inches of cock, the circumference so thick your fingertips strain to meet. The way the tip is narrower than the formidable shaft makes the rest of him look even more substantial—not that it makes that much of a difference, he's still obviously big without the visual illusion.

You are shocked into silence.

Now it's Seungcheol's turn to have fun. A deep, triumphant chuckle rumbles in his chest. "What's wrong?" he coos, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. "Cat got your tongue?" he taunts softly, his hand coming up to cup your cheek, his thumb stroking your jaw. "You were so talkative before."

You find your voice, a thin reedy sound. "You… you're…"

"I'm what?" he prompts, leaning in, his breath warm against your ear.

"A monster," you whisper, half in fear, half in reverence.

He genuinely laughs at that and you're mesmerised to see his dimples showing again. "Don't worry, I know how to use it."

From that point on, the night descends into the wildest, most primal experience of your life. But fear not—he is chivalrous, in his own way. He doesn't just plough into you. He preps you first, with a devastating expertise that leaves you sobbing. His fingers, thick and clever, find a rhythm inside you that has you coming apart with a broken scream, your back arching off the sheets. He stretches you with two, then three, then all four of his digits, scissoring them until you're panting and begging for something, anything more.

"Lube," he commands, his voice rough with his own restraint.

You can't move, your body a boneless, oversensitive puddle. "D-drawer," you manage to slur, pointing a limp hand towards the nightstand. "Top."

He retrieves it, and the sound of the cap snapping open is obscenely loud. He lubes himself up generously, the slick, sticky sound making you shiver, then applies more to your throbbing, already-drenched heat. He positions himself at your entrance, the narrow, blunt head of him a terrifying promise.

"Breathe," he orders, his eyes locked on yours.

He pushes inside.

To Seungcheol's credit, he wields his weapon with the skill of a master. Just like he promised. He doesn't rush, is painfully, exquisitely slow and patient, giving your body time to stretch and accept him. And still, when he finally sheathes himself fully in your tight heat, you feel ripped in two, stuffed so full you can't remember your own name.

A broken, continuous sound falls from your lips—a mix of a sob, a mewl, and a prayer. You realize he doesn't need to hunt for any specific spot; the relentless, thick pressure against every single inch of your inner walls is enough. You're ready to cum again immediately, every minuscule shift and rub against your assaulted nerves sending lightning through your veins.

It only destroys your brain more when he begins to thrust, slow and deep at first, smearing the lubrication, the wet, filthy sound squelching in the quiet room.

This is where the condescension returns, but it's laced with a dark, almost possessive heat that doesn't feel cruel. Maybe because you're already crying and drooling onto your own pillow, your mind turned to mush.

"Look at you," he grunts, his voice strained with effort. "So fucking tight. Taking me so well." His pace picks up, stealing your breath. "What were you saying before? Something about... cute?"

"N-no," you choke out, the word barely recognizable.

"No, what?" he demands, driving into you harder, nailing a spot that makes you see stars.

"Not- not cute," you stammer, your mind blanking. "Big... s'so big."

"I know," he breathes hotly against your ear. "Stop thinking. Just feel it."

And who are you to argue?

It matters even less when he decides to make a portable fleshlight out of you. He pulls out with a slick, obscene pop, leaving you feeling gaping and empty. Before you can protest, his hands are on you, manhandling you with effortless strength off the bed. He pulls you up, your limbs useless and shaky, and guides you into a full nelson, his arms hooking under your knees, his chest a solid wall against your back as he stands up straight by the bed.

From this impossible position, he sheathes his rock-hard cock back into your cunt, which now clenches around him even tighter, the new angle making everything feel brand new and more intense. A helpless, overstimulated keen is torn from your throat. You're lightheaded, but the dizziness triples when you catch your reflection in the dark window across the room. The visual is devastating: the powerful bulge of his muscles as he holds all your weight, the way his thick dick disappears into your body, the utterly wrecked expression on your face. You cum right then and there, a silent, seizing explosion that makes your vision tunnel.

The way your cunt violently milks his cock makes Seungcheol curse, a raw, guttural "Fuck!" that hotly hits the back of your neck. He falters for a single second, then resumes, hammering into you throughout your violent orgasm, not giving you a second of reprieve until you're oversensitive and babbling, "Too much, please, 's too much."

It is not the end, however.

With a grunt, he throws you back onto the bed, face down. He mounts you from behind, one hand angling your hips up for his use, and rams back into your well-used, thoroughly stretched cunt. There's no slowness this time; your body has already been molded to his shape. One of his thick arms snakes around your neck, not choking, but holding you in a firm headlock as he lays his full weight atop you, his muscles bulging with the effort of his punishing pace and cutting off your oxygen just enough. You feel dizzy, owned, completely and utterly conquered.

He batters your cervix like this, fucking into you with animalistic grunts, as you keen and whimper and whine, reduced to a mindless, pleasure-drunk creature. You feel the exact moment he loses control, his thrusts becoming erratic, stuttering. You feel his dick begin to pulse and jerk violently inside you.

"Gonna fill you up," he snarls, his voice ragged. "Take it. Take all of it."

He spills deep inside you with a long, low groan, flooding your abused opening with his release, giving a few final, harsh thrusts to make sure every drop is seated within you. Only then does he collapse, crushing you into the mattress with his spent weight, too tired to pull out and roll off.

And you are frankly glad for the crushing weight of him. It's surprisingly grounding when your soul threatens to leave your body. The pressure of him the only solid thing in a universe that has been reduced to the smell of sex and sweat, the sound of your ragged breaths mingling, the feel of his heart hammering against your back.

Your mind is still fogged and swimming in bliss, tiny spent mewls escaping you on exhales, but you already know for a fact you won't be able to walk straight tomorrow—and a few days after too—after being fucked this properly. And yet, you'd let Seungcheol ruin you all over again before you even get a chance to recover. If only he would want to.

And with the way Seungcheol's lips begin a slow, lazy trail from your shoulder to the sensitive skin of your neck, a low, appreciative hum vibrating through his chest and into yours, you think he's very, very willing.

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

The bright red digital numbers above the elevator doors flicker to a halt, signalling your arrival. A soft, almost imperceptible ping echoes in the sterile silence of the corridor, a sound you’ve become closely familiar with over the past few years. It’s a little past 4 PM, and the company building hums with late afternoon lethargy, most of the day’s frantic energy already spent. Your own errands are finished, leaving you with restless energy that could only be quelled by one thing: surprising your boyfriends.

Lately, you’ve been seeing each other a lot less than usual. Or rather, you have been seeing them less. The two of them, working in tandem on their unit album, are practically symbiotic, existing in the same creative bubble every day. And if you were brutally honest with yourself, the shift in routine affected you. A lot. Despite your repeated assurances to both Seungcheol and Mingyu that you were totally fine, that you understood the demanding, all-consuming nature of their schedule—and you truly did—it did little to soothe the quiet, petty ache in your heart that sometimes left you feeling… abandoned. A nascent fear of missing out was taking root, its vines curling around your ribs with a suffocating squeeze.

It was that very feeling that propelled you here today. You’d gone so far as to casually check in with their manager, confirming that their afternoon was slated for studio time—perfect for a drop-in. You love seeing Cheol and Gyu in their element, a sight both awe-inspiring and insanely attractive. There’s specific magic in the way Seungcheol’s brow furrows in concentration as he dissects a beat, his fingers moving over the mixing board with the confidence of someone who’s been doing it for years. It’s in the way Mingyu closes his eyes, fully immersing himself in the booth, his voice cutting through the melody with sharp verses that are nothing short of captivating, especially when you think that he wrote them all himself. Witnessing the meticulous curation of their creative child, seeing two handsome men be absolute experts at what they do while radiating passion—there’s nothing sexier.

Yet, the shadow of their impending departure looms large. The list is endless: finalising the choreography, the gruelling music video shoot, the content filming, the Going Seventeen episodes they still have to squeeze in. You actively stop yourself from mentally cataloguing it all, because each item is a stepping stone that leads them away from you. They will leave, and you’ll have no chance of seeing your men for even longer stretches. And when they return, jet-lagged and exhausted, they will be just as busy, already preparing for the next thing. And then the world tour will start, and they will leave again.

How absolutely awful, unfair, and utterly demoralising.

Your melancholic train of thought is finally broken as you stand before the familiar studio door. You try the handle out of habit, finding it locked, though the distinct, muffled thump of a bassline bleeds through the studio’s soundproofing. Sighing, you land a few sharp, deliberate knocks against the heavy wood, ensuring your arrival is noticed over the music.

The sounds behind the door quiet down abruptly. Not even a minute later, you hear the definitive click of the lock, and the door swings open just a crack. Mingyu’s head peeks out, his handsome features initially set in a questioning, slightly distracted frown that instantly melts away the second he registers it’s you.

Your face breaks into a warm smile, but before you can even offer a greeting, his eyes grow comically wide with surprise. “Hyung!” he shouts, his voice booming with joy that’s surely audible across the entire floor. “Our baby is here!”

He doesn’t just open the door; he swings it wide open, a grand, sweeping gesture. He steps aside just enough to allow Seungcheol, who’s swivelled around in his chair by the control panel, a clear glance of you standing in the doorway. And then, several things happen in a delightful, chaotic simultaneity: the door is opened even wider, you are swept clean off your feet, and dragged inside the ambiently lit studio. The world tilts, and suddenly you are crushed against the solid, unyielding wall of muscle that is Mingyu’s entire body. He smells of pomegranate cologne and warm skin.

He kicks the door shut with his foot, the lock engaging again with a quiet thunk, all while holding you aloft with an effortless strength that never fails to make your head spin. He then proceeds to squeeze you in his arms, a full-body hug so tight it forces a tiny, breathless squeak from your lips. The sound is what triggers him to finally loosen his grip, his large hands shifting to cradle you instead, afraid his enthusiasm might have actually hurt you.

Meanwhile, Seungcheol watches the entire spectacle unfold from his chair, a fond, adoring smile playing on his lips, making his dimples show and his eyes crinkle at the corners. He looks tired, you note, but the sight of you seems to have washed some of the fatigue away.

“Okay, okay, you big bear,” you laugh, patting Mingyu’s broad shoulder as he finally, reluctantly, sets you down on your feet. He immediately swoops in to peck your lips, a quick, firm kiss that tastes of iced americano, and your insides flutter with affection in response. The cage of his arms loosens, and you finally have a chance to cross the short distance to the room’s centrepiece—the mixing console—and greet your other boyfriend.

“Hey, baby,” Seungcheol murmurs, his voice a low, warm rumble that vibrates right through you. You stop between his parted thighs as he swivels the chair fully towards you. His hands come up, snaking around your thighs to pull you closer as you lean down to press your lips to his. His kiss is slower, more deliberate than Mingyu’s, a silent ‘I missed you’ spoken against your mouth. His arms slide up to your hips, giving a couple of soft, possessive pats on your butt before resting there comfortably.

“What are you doing here, princess? Not that I’m complaining,” Seungcheol asks, his thumbs drawing absent-minded circles on your hips. His gaze is soft, taking in every detail of your face.

“Just missed you,” you murmur, the simplicity of the statement holding the weight of all the unsaid loneliness of the past week. “Finished my stuff early. Thought I’d ambush my favourite producers.”

Mingyu comes up behind you, his chin hooking over your shoulder, enveloping you in a sandwich of their combined warmth. “Best ambush ever,” he declares, nuzzling into your neck. “We’ve been stuck on this one adlib for an hour. You’re a welcome distraction.”

But that was a couple of hours ago. The initial euphoria of your surprise visit gradually settled into the comfortable, familiar rhythm of their work. Soon after the greetings, they returned to the track, the professional focus snapping back into place with an almost audible intensity. Seungcheol was back at the panel, headphones on, listening to a take with a critical ear, while Mingyu was back in the vocal booth, fine-tuning a single line over and over.

And you, after the excitement wore off, were back to watching them from the plush couch in the corner. You took a few candid photos, a short video of Mingyu making a silly face through the glass between takes, a shot of Seungcheol’s profile illuminated by the cool blue light of the screens. But there are only so many moments you can capture before you start to feel like a spectator again—an observer in their world, not a participant. The old, petty feeling of being left out begins to creep back in, coiling in your stomach.

So, at some point, you begin to sigh—loudly, dramatically—shuffling and tossing yourself around the couch cushions in a deliberate, albeit playful, attempt to gather at least some crumbs of their attention. While Cheol is focused on the panel and Gyu is in the booth, recording a particularly tricky run, the elder still catches your restlessness. He begins throwing you more and more frequent looks over his shoulder, his eyes a mix of amusement and gentle admonishment, silently willing you to behave. To every such look, you respond with an increasingly devilish, challenging smile, pushing your luck just to see how far you can go.

You leave the couch and take another chair by his side, drawing your knees up, letting your foot swing idly in the direction of his chair, your socked toe accidentally-on-purpose lightly kicking his seat. He catches your ankle, his grip firm but gentle, and gives you The Look—the one that says ‘I see you, and you’re being a menace, and we will address this later.’ It only makes your smile widen.

It’s Mingyu’s voice, slightly tinny through the booth speakers, that finally breaks the silent standoff. “Hyung, my throat is starting to feel a little raw. Can we take five? I need water.”

Seungcheol doesn’t take his eyes off you, a slow smile finally gracing his features as he releases your ankle. He presses the intercom button. “Yeah. Break time. I think our audience is getting restless.” He winks at you, and your heart does a little happy flip.

Mingyu emerges from the booth, stretching his arms high above his head with a groan. “I’m starving. Did we even eat lunch?” He collapses onto the couch and you quickly return to sit next to him. Mingyu is immediately slumping against your side, his head heavy on your shoulder.

“You had a protein bar at 2 PM,” Seungcheol deadpans, finally taking off his headphones and running a hand through his hair. He looks at the two of you curled up on the couch, and his expression softens immeasurably. “Takeout?” he suggests, already pulling out his phone. “My treat. For our very distracting, but very welcome surprise visitor.”

The collective decision is unanimous, and for a beautiful, fleeting moment, surrounded by the low hum of expensive equipment and the warmth of your two boyfriends, the world outside this studio, with all its deadlines and distances, ceases to exist.

The wait for the food settles into a comfortable, tangled silence. Seungcheol has you sideways in his lap, his arms locked securely around your middle like a living seatbelt, his chin resting on your shoulder. Your legs are a dead weight across Mingyu’s thighs, and he absentmindedly runs his large, warm hand up and down your shin, his fingers tracing idle patterns on the fabric of your sweats. They talk over your head, their voices a low, familiar rumble that vibrates through you. The conversation meanders from the minutiae of their day—a frustrating software glitch, a particularly good iced coffee—to the looming, exciting chaos of their upcoming weeks.

“The flight to LA is what, eleven hours?” Mingyu muses, his thumb pressing a soothing circle into your calf muscle. “I’m gonna pack my neck pillow. The one you got me, baby. The really ugly comfortable one.”

“It’s not ugly,” you mumble into Seungcheol’s neck, but your heart isn’t in the defences. Your mind is already on the eleven-hour flight, the ocean they’ll cross without you.

Seungcheol’s chest expands with a deep breath beneath your cheek. “Yeah, eleven. We land, probably hit the ground running. Scouting locations the next day, I think. The schedule our manager sent is… intense.”

“It’s going to be worth it,” Mingyu says, and the excitement in his voice is genuine, infectious, and it makes you feel all the more petty for the sulk you’re nursing. “The treatments for the music video, the concepts… hyung, it’s going to be so cool.”

They talk about rented house that is more like a set, about the boat for golden hour and night shoot, about surfing and playing pool not for fun, but for teaser content. From their talk you pick up that the whole concept is about two young (and attractive) guys living their life leisurely, enjoying it to the fullest. Each word is another brick in the wall separating their world from yours. You listen, silent, tracing the seam of Seungcheol’s t-shirt with a fingertip, the sulk solidifying into a hard, quiet knot in your chest.

Sure enough, Cheol notices. He always does; his attunement to your moods is a sixth sense. They both possess it. Communicating your feelings has never been particularly complicated with them, their empathy a constant, safe harbour in your relationship. This time, however, you find the words stuck in your throat. You don’t want to be the party pooper, the rain on their dazzling parade. This unit debut is a monumental thing, a dream they’ve meticulously built. You know the history, the slight pivot from Mingyu’s initial desire for a solo debut to this powerful collaboration—a testament to their bond and shared ambition. Your own feelings of lack feel insignificant in comparison.

And so, naturally, what’s noticed by one is immediately telegraphed to the other. A glance passes between them over your head, a silent conversation held in raised eyebrows and slight nods. Suddenly, the comfortable tangle of limbs shifts. You’re being gently manhandled, pulled upright until you’re sitting properly in Seungcheol’s lap, facing them both. They crowd in against the couch, two muscular, concerned bookends, their focus entirely on you.

“Hey,” Mingyu says softly, his hand coming up to cup your cheek, forcing your downcast eyes to meet his. “What’s going on in that pretty head? You’ve gone all quiet.”

“It’s nothing,” you try to deflect, offering a weak smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “Just listening. It all sounds amazing.”

Seungcheol’s arms tighten around you. “Your voice says ‘amazing,’ but your whole body is saying something else, princess. Talk to us.” His tone is gentle but insistent, brooking no argument. They are set on coaxing your truth out into the open, refusing to let you bottle it up.

Before you can formulate a proper response, a sharp buzz from Seungcheol’s phone on the coffee table fractures the moment. The takeout has arrived. Seungcheol lets out a soft sigh of frustration, his forehead resting against your temple for a brief second. “Don’t think this conversation is over,” he murmurs, his voice a warm promise against your skin before he carefully extricates himself from the couch and heads out to retrieve your food.

The moment the door clicks shut, Mingyu shifts closer, his body a solid, comforting line of heat beside you. “He’s right, you know,” he says, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “We can tell something’s up.” He doesn’t push further, instead choosing to redirect the conversation back to LA, but this time, he paints a different picture. “You know, they rented this huge house in Malibu. For the shoot, but it has, like, six bedrooms. And we’re supposed to be there for a week. There’s a boat, sure, for the MV, but maybe we could sneak out for a sunset cruise just for us… if we had company.”

He talks about driving up the Pacific Coast Highway, not for a photoshoot, but for the view. About playing pool at one of the bars they will scout, after the crew has left for the day. He carefully, deliberately, weaves you into the narrative of their work trip. “I’m the unit leader, you know,” he adds, a hint of playful boastfulness in his tone that makes you smile despite yourself. “I have… some sway. If a certain someone wanted to come along, and if that certain someone could maybe take some time off work… I’m just saying, it’s a possibility.”

By the time Seungcheol returns, arms laden with bags of food that fill the room with the savoury scent of garlic and spices, he’s met with two identical sets of pleading, hopeful puppy eyes. He stops in his tracks just inside the door, his eyes narrowing suspiciously as he glances between your suddenly bright expression and Mingyu’s Cheshire cat grin.

“What?” he asks, setting the bags down cautiously. “What did I miss? Why are you both looking at me like I’m the last packet of kimchi?”

“Mingyu says I might be able to go to LA with you,” you burst out, unable to contain the hopeful tremor in your voice.

Seungcheol’s suspicious gaze shifts to Mingyu, who just shrugs, still smiling. “I said it’s a possibility. If she can get the time off. And if her incredibly generous and handsome boyfriends pull some strings.”

The conversation continues as you unpack the containers of tteokbokki, fried chicken, and sides. Seungcheol, being the pragmatic general leader he is, confirms the logistical truth while sitting cross-legged on the floor, handing you a pair of chopsticks across the table. “It’s possible, baby. The company’s renting the place, there’s space. But you have to understand,” he says, his expression softening as he sees your excitement. “I can’t promise we’ll have much free time. It’s not a vacation for us. It’s work. You might be alone in that big house a lot.”

You lean forward, cutting him off before he can dissuade you. “I don’t care. I just want to be there. I want to be included. Even if I’m just reading by the pool while you’re on set. It’s better than being here, missing you.” The honesty spills out, raw and simple.

The look they exchange is filled with such fond adoration it makes your chest ache. They find it endlessly endearing, this dichotomy of yours: how you always act so tough and self-sufficient, playing the role of the understanding, independent girlfriend, only for them to inevitably discover that all you’ve ever truly wanted is to simply tag along, to be near them, to have their attention.

When the food is gone and the containers are stacked neatly back into the bags, a contented lethargy settles over the three of you. You splay out on the couch like a languid cat, your head in Mingyu’s lap and your feet tossed over Seungcheol’s thighs. You are warm, full, and happy, the earlier melancholy soothed by the promise of inclusion. You are so content, in fact, that you completely miss the significant, unspoken glance that passes between your two boyfriends. You miss the subtle shift in the atmosphere, the charged quiet that descends after Seungcheol clears his throat and stands up.

“Alright, back to work. My turn to lay down some verses,” he announces, stretching his arms above his head with a short groan. His eyes meet Mingyu’s for a fraction of a second too long.

You suspect nothing as they return to their stations. Mingyu gently pats his thighs. “Come here, supervisor. Best seat in the house.” It’s a common occurrence; the two of them are endlessly touchy-feely with you, and touch is your shared, primary love language. So you go, settling comfortably into his lap, his arms coming around your middle to cage you in gently as he focuses on the control panel.

He gives Cheol directions through the microphone, his voice professional and clear. “Try it with a little more rasp on the second line, hyung. Yeah, like that. Really lean into the consonant.” You resign yourself to observing, content once again to just witness their creative process, to feel included in this small way.

It’s not until fifteen minutes in, lulled by the low thrum of the instrumental and the rich sound of Seungcheol’s voice pouring through the monitors, that you finally register the change. Mingyu’s hands, which had been resting innocently on your stomach, have crept under the fabric of your tank top. His palms are warm and slightly rough against your skin, brushing slow, deliberate circles into your ribs. His touch is idle, almost absent-minded, as if he’s not entirely aware he’s doing it. But then his fingers inch higher, skating along the sensitive skin just beneath the curve of your breasts, and a full-body shiver wracks your frame.

In the booth, Seungcheol’s eyes, previously closed in concentration, snap open as if he feels the shift on the spiritual level. He’s watching you through the glass, his verse trailing off. He doesn’t look annoyed. A slow, knowing smile spreads across his face as he sees your breath hitch, your head loll back against Mingyu’s shoulder. Mingyu’s lips find the shell of your ear.

“You’re being so good, just sitting here,” he murmurs, his voice a low vibration that has nothing to do with the recording. “So pretty for us.” His thumbs sweep higher, finally brushing the undersides of your breasts, and you gasp softly.

Seungcheol’s voice comes through the speakers, deep and laced with dark amusement that goes straight to your core. “Getting a little distracted, Mr.Producer?” he purrs into the microphone. “I can’t focus with this kind of view.”

What unfolds after is categorically, gloriously unfair. But as Mingyu’s hands slide up to cup you fully and Seungcheol’s heated gaze pins you through the glass, any thought of complaint evaporates.

Who are you to complain?

The world tilts on its axis, or perhaps it’s just you being manoeuvred with a dizzying, practised efficiency. Somehow, in a tangle of eager limbs and soft, hungry laughter, the three of you end up crammed inside the vocal booth. The space, designed for one, maybe two people, becomes an intimate, pressurized capsule with the three of you inside. You are sandwiched between your beefy boyfriends, their larger frames caging you in, their body heat a palpable, intoxicating force. They are delighted, their eyes dark with shared intent that feels both thrilling and overwhelming, a full scale assault on all your senses that you welcome with a racing heart.

It starts, deceptively, with a return to normalcy. They shift from the heated moment at the console back to their professional personas, and for a fleeting second, you think that was it—a brief, spicy interlude now concluded. They begin anew, their voices taking on a didactic tone as they explain the process to you.

“Okay, baby, listen up,” Mingyu says, his voice a low murmur near your ear as he adjusts a large set of studio headphones over your head, the cushioned ear cups sealing out the room's ambient noise. “We’re gonna show you how the magic really happens. Something you’ve been missing out on all those other times you just lazed on the couch.” He boops you on the nose when you roll your eyes at his teasing comment.

Seungcheol, on your other side, leans over to the small control panel inside the booth, flicking a switch. “We’re routing the booth mic to your headphones. Live monitoring. You’ll hear everything exactly as we do when we record. Every breath, every little sound.”

His voice comes through the headphones crystal clear, an intimate whisper directly inside your skull, simultaneously layered over the real-life sound of him speaking right next to you. It’s a disorienting, incredibly cool effect.

“Whoa,” you breathe out, and the word echoes in your own ears, amplified and immediate.

“See?” Mingyu grins, his voice also doubling in your headset. “Fun, right? Now, say something else.”

“Hello?” you whisper like they do in those ASMR videos, giggling at the weird sensation of hearing your own voice with such pristine clarity.

“So pretty,” Seungcheol’s voice purrs in the headphones, and you can’t tell if he said it out loud as a passing compliment or with intention.

It’s fun. A unique, behind-the-scenes glimpse into their world. Until it’s decidedly not just fun anymore. They start slow, so insidiously gradual you fail to register the exact moment their instructive crowding transforms into something else entirely. The technical explanations fade, replaced by a different kind of tutorial.

You get pressed back into the solid wall of Mingyu’s chest, his hands settling on your hips, not to move you, but to hold you in place. Seungcheol, facing you, continues his ‘demonstration’, his hands slipping under the hem of your tank top. His palms are warm and slightly rough against the soft skin of your stomach, splaying out possessively.

“You have to be really relaxed in here,” Seungcheol murmurs, and the mic picks up every low vibration of his words, piping them straight into your head. His hands slide higher, caressing your ribs, rubbing soothing circles that feel anything but soothing. “Tension comes through on the recording. Right, Gyu?”

“Mmm, absolutely,” Mingyu’s voice agrees in your ear, his lips brushing against your hair, a dual sensation that makes you shiver. His hands on your hips tighten just a fraction. “You have to let go. Let us take care of everything.”

They start with a litany of compliments and praise, their words weaving through the live feed in your headphones, layering over the physical sensation of their lips on your shoulders, the nape of your neck, the sensitive skin of your throat.

“So good for us, princess,” Seungcheol whispers, his breath hot against your collarbone, the mic catching the wet sound of his kiss.

“Our perfect girl,” Mingyu adds, his voice a low rumble against your back. “Just melting for us. Listen to how pretty your breathing is.”

And you are melting. Your head falls back against Mingyu’s shoulder, your breathing hitching, becoming heavier, and the headphones amplify every shaky inhale and soft, shuddering exhale, feeding it back to you, pulling you deeper into the sensory spiral.

Then Mingyu’s fingers slip past the loose waistband of your sweatpants, finding the dampening fabric of your panties beneath. He doesn’t push them aside, not yet, just rubs slow, firm circles over the centre of you through the cotton, the pressure building with a maddening patience.

“She’s already so wet, hyung,” Mingyu reports, his voice thick with awe and desire, and the fact that he’s saying it both, for you to hear through the mic and for Seungcheol to know, sends a fresh wave of heat through you.

While his fingers work you through your panties, Seungcheol’s hands are busy above. He palms your breasts through your tank top, his thumbs finding your nipples and brushing over them until they pebble into hard, aching points against the fabric.

“And so responsive,” Seungcheol answers, his voice dark with pleasure. He hikes the tank top up, and the cool air of the booth hits your heated skin, followed immediately by the warm wetness of his mouth. He lavishes attention on one breast, sucking deeply, his tongue flicking over the peak before he grazes it with his teeth, making you cry out. The sound is loud and sharp in your own ears.

They are sickeningly sweet throughout it all, their whispered encouragements a stark contrast to the claiming roughness of their hands and mouths.

“Our pretty little cockslut,” Seungcheol murmurs against your breast, the degradation disguised as the highest form of praise, and you whimper, the crude word sparking through you.

“That’s it, baby. Just take it. You’re doing so well,” Mingyu encourages, his fingers finally slipping beneath the barrier of your panties to find you slick and throbbing.

You can feel the hard ridge of Mingyu’s erection pressing insistently into the small of your back through the rough denim of his jeans. In front of you, Seungcheol is squishing you against him, his own hips beginning a slow, subtle grind against your hip as he continues his worship of your breasts, your neck, your stomach—touching, licking, sucking dark bruises onto your skin that you know will linger for days.

Meanwhile, Mingyu is slowly, expertly fingering you, curling his fingers inside you to find that spot that makes your knees buckle. He brings you to your first climax with relentless, gentle pressure, his other arm banded across your stomach to hold you upright as you shudder against him, a broken, gasping moan echoing deafeningly in the headphones.

After that, the atmosphere shifts, shedding the last vestiges of playfulness. It turns wilder, more desperate. They help you onto your knees on the padded floor of the booth, the world narrowing to the two magnificent men standing over you. With cooperation that speaks of years of familiarity with one another, they unbuckle their jeans and free themselves.

They are both big, a fact you are never not acutely aware of, but the differences are stark and thrilling. Mingyu is long and straight, a perfect, hammering length. Seungcheol is impossibly thick, a heavy weight in his hand, with an upward curve that you know hits all the right places. You’re left panting, crawling closer on your knees, your mind hazy with lust, utterly unable to choose who to serve first. It’s pathetic, and a tiny, sane part of your brain cringes at your eagerness, but if having two insanely hot, devoted boyfriends did anything to you, it was this—unleashing a suppressed, ravenous cockslut that existed solely for their pleasure and your own.

They take turns at first. While one fucks your face with slow, controlled thrusts, the other is fisting himself and watching you work your mouth, their groans and whispered filth a symphony in your headphones.

“Look at her, hyung. Takes it so good,” Mingyu grunts, his hands gently cradling your head as Seungcheol watches, his own hand stroking his length.

“Wider, baby. Let me see,” Seungcheol commands, and you obey, opening your jaw until it aches, the echo of obscenely wet sounds intensifies in your ears.

Then Mingyu gets an idea, his eyes lighting up with mischievous heat. “Hyung, come here.” He shifts, standing face-to-face with Seungcheol, their bodies framing your vision. At first, they just rub their shafts together against your cheeks, smearing precum on your skin, a lewd display that has you whining with need.

“Open up, princess,” Seungcheol orders, his voice rough. “Let us in.”

They guide themselves forward, and the broad heads of their cocks press against your lips simultaneously. You open as wide as you can, and they push in. The stretch is immediate and obscene. You have a small mouth, and the invasion of two such girthy cocks is overwhelming, stretching your lips to a painful thinness, poking the insides of your cheeks out. You gag instinctively, even though they aren’t aiming for your throat, tears springing to your eyes.

“Fuck, that’s... tight,” Mingyu grits out, his head falling back.

“Feel that, Gyu? Fuck, she’s trying to suck us both,” Seungcheol moans, his hips giving an aborted thrust.

And you are. You try to swirl your tongue around them both and wrap your strained lips around them tighter, moving your head a fraction of an inch to slurp them deeper. But the practicality of the fantasy soon wins out. As much as they clearly enjoy the sensation of being pressed together in the hot, wet confines of your mouth, they can see the strain on your face.

“Shit, baby, okay, too much,” Seungcheol is the first to pull back, his thumb stroking your tear-streaked cheek. “Don’t wanna hurt you.”

“Feeling us throb against each other, though... fuck,” Mingyu adds, pulling out as well, his breathing ragged. “That was so hot. You’re so good for trying, baby. So perfect.” This is the thing about your men—they will experiment and if it fails they will never make you feel bad for it.

They go back to taking turns, and the relief of focusing on one at a time makes you redouble your efforts. First, it’s Mingyu. He holds your head in place, his touch gentle but his thrusts becoming wilder, abandoning control. He fucks your mouth with a desperate rhythm that makes you gag and sputter, your throat working around him

“Gonna cum, baby. Right there. Take it, take it all,” he chants, and his release hits the back of your throat, bitter and warm. He holds himself deep, his thighs trembling. “Swallow, pretty girl. Can’t make a mess in the studio.” You obey, working your throat until you’ve swallowed every last drop. He pulls out, panting, and strokes your hair. “Good girl. Didn’t spill a drop. Hyung, your turn. She’s all yours.”

Seungcheol doesn’t waste a second. He fists his hand in your hair, pulling it back away from your face so he can watch. He goes slower but pushes deeper, his incredible girth stretching your lips wide, the curved head nudging right against your throat, making it bulge visibly with each thrust.

“Look at that,” he rasps, his eyes glued to where he disappears into your mouth. “Taking me so deep. My perfect little throat slut.” He loves a hint of breathplay, and he holds himself deep, suffocating you gently on his thickness, holding you there until your jaw locks and your eyes water. Then he starts to move again, a torturous rhythm of deep, shallow thrusts. The wet, gurgling, squelching sounds are grotesquely loud in the studio headphones, a filthy soundtrack to the act. He holds back his release, drawing it out, watching you fall apart beneath him.

“Cumming, baby. Right down your pretty little throat. Don’t you dare waste it,” he grunts, and his release floods your esophagus, just as bitter as Mingyu’s. You squeeze your eyes shut and will your stomach not to rebel, swallowing convulsively around him. Spit and cum bubble around the base of his shaft as he stills, pulsing, before finally pulling out with a soft, satisfied sigh.

After that, the three of you collapse into a heap on the floor of the booth, a tangled, sweating, spent mess. The headphones are askew but still somehow on, now transmitting the ragged symphony of your combined panting. Your boyfriends are immediately all over you, their hands gentle and concerned, checking you over.

“You okay, baby? We didn’t go too far?” Mingyu asks, wiping a stray tear from your cheek with his thumb.

“Your jaw okay? Your throat?” Seungcheol queries, his voice soft now, all the earlier roughness gone, replaced by pure, unwavering care.

To their delight, you are miles away, floating deep in your subspace. You can’t form coherent thoughts, let alone words. Your world has narrowed to the taste of them on your tongue, the ache in your jaw, the throbbing, empty ache between your legs that has been cruelly ignored while you were busy giving them brain. You’re pulsing with need, so turned on from servicing them that your own pleasure is a screaming, desperate thing.

In response to their questions you just whine, nuzzling into Seungcheol’s neck before turning your head to press a soft, open-mouthed kiss to Mingyu’s bicep. Your hips give an involuntary, tiny roll against nothing, seeking friction.

They both feel it, see it. A shared, predatory grin passes between them over your head.

“Oh, I see, princess,” Seungcheol chuckles, a dark, promising sound. “Don’t you worry.”

“Did we neglect our precious little baby?” Mingyu coos, his hand sliding down your stomach, his fingers tracing the waistband of your not-yet-discarded sweats. “Left you all throbbing and untouched after you were so good for us?”

“That won’t do,” Seungcheol concludes, his voice firm. “We can’t have our good girl feeling dissatisfied. That definitely calls for compensation.”

The world dissolves into a symphony of sensation and sound, a dizzying vortex where the only anchors are the two solid, powerful bodies that bracket you. Held aloft in a modified full nelson, your sweats and underwear long since discarded to some forgotten corner of the booth, you are the blissful, helpless centre of their universe. Two sets of strong arms are locked beneath your thighs and around your body, suspending you in the air, your weight nothing against their combined strength. And between your bodies, the devastating, core-deep connection: two thick, hard cocks driving into your slick, obscenely stretched pussy in a relentless, alternating rhythm.

The stretch is immense, overwhelming, a delicious burn that borders on pain before tipping over into pure, mind-numbing pleasure. Every thrust from Seungcheol, impossibly thick and curved, is followed by Mingyu’s longer, smoother stroke from behind, spearing you on a continuous, rolling wave of sensation that leaves you mewling and whimpering. And every pathetic, wanton sound you make is captured, amplified, and fired directly back into your skull through the studio headphones, a filthy, private soundtrack that drives you pathetically insane.

Their grunts, the wet, rhythmic squelch of their relentless pace, their whispered filth—it’s all right there in your head, a cacophony of debauchery.

“Look at her take it, Gyu,” Seungcheol grunts, his voice a rough, breathless rasp in your ears. His hips snap forward, burying himself to the hilt and making you choke on a gasp. “Fuck, so tight, even after all these years of us stretching her pretty little cunt around both of us. You feel that?”

“God, yes, I feel you,” Mingyu moans from behind you, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. His thrusts are deeper, slower, but no less powerful. “You’re rubbing right against me inside her. Hot little sheath made just for us.” His hands, secured under your thighs, find purchase on your hips, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh there. “Our personal fucktoy. Isn’t that right, baby? Just a warm, wet hole for us to use.”

Their words, so crude and degrading, are delivered with a tone of absolute reverence, and the dichotomy makes you clench around them both, drawing twin groans from your boyfriends.

“Fuck, she liked that,” Seungcheol laughs, a dark, thrilled sound. He leans in, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath hot on your face. “You like being our little fucktoy, princess? Our dumb, drooling cocksleeve?”

You try to form a word, a plea, anything, but all that escapes is a broken, guttural moan as Mingyu shifts his angle, hitting a spot so deep it makes stars burst behind your eyelids. The tip of his cock is kissing your cervix, you’re certain. Your jaw goes slack, saliva gathering at the corners of your mouth, your tongue lolling out slightly. You are a mess, utterly fucked dumb, and they are revelling in it.

Seungcheol shuts you up with a searing, open-mouthed kiss. His tongue licks into your mouth, smooth and warm, claiming you with possessiveness that has you seeing white. It’s deep and wet and filthy, and you’re sure you cum a little just from the taste of him, the sheer dominance of the act. Your body convulses around them, a weak, tremulous orgasm that has them both cursing, their thrusts stuttering.

“Jesus, just from a kiss?” Mingyu pants, his voice full of awed wonder. “You’re so fucking easy for us. So perfect.”

You’re delirious, lost completely in the press of their bodies, the smell of their sweat and sex, the overwhelming feeling of being so small and utterly manhandled by them. They are stretching you out so deliciously, filling you beyond what any normal person would think possible, and the tears that have been welling in your eyes finally spill over, tracing hot paths down your temples and into your hairline as you break the kiss and your head rests against Mingyu’s shoulder just for a moment. You can only keen and groan, the sounds jerky and short, punctuated by their powerful, driving thrusts.

“Look at her cry,” Seungcheol murmurs, pulling back from the kiss to watch your face, his own expression a mask of rapt fascination. “So pretty. Crying because she’s so full of us. Because it feels too good to handle. Poor baby.” He uses his grip on you to adjust your angle slightly, and the new depth he achieves has you sobbing.

Then Mingyu, who’s fucking into you with deep, measured strokes from behind, reaches one large hand around your hip. His fingers find your oversensitive, throbbing clit, already swollen and aching from the relentless friction of Seungcheol’s thick cock ramming into your spongy softness. His touch is expert, circling the bundle of nerves with a firm, precise pressure that is sheer torture.

“There we go, baby,” Mingyu coos in your ear, his voice a low, intimate rumble. “Let’s get you there again. Cum for us. Squeeze our cocks while you do it. Milk us dry, you perfect little slut.”

The dual stimulation is too much. It’s an avalanche of sensation, a direct, white-hot line to your overloaded nervous system. Your brain fizzes into static, a complete and total mush. You know your body sags, going completely boneless in their hold because you feel their arms strain with the renewed effort of keeping you suspended, their biceps flexing powerfully against your skin.

“Fuck, she’s gonna cum,” Seungcheol grits out, his rhythm faltering as he feels the first violent clench around his length.

“That’s it, baby, let go,” Mingyu encourages, his fingers working faster, his own thrusts becoming shallower, focused on grinding against that spot inside you.

Your orgasm crashes over you with the force of a tidal wave, silent for a second before a ragged, shattered scream is torn from your throat, echoing deafeningly in your own ears. Your vision tunnels, your entire body seizing up, convulsing around the two cocks buried deep within you. The pulsating, milking contractions are intense, drawing ragged groans from both men.

It’s a race between them then, to finish while you’re still riding your high, your spasming muscles pulling their releases from them.

Mingyu finishes first. With a guttural, broken cry of your name, he slams into you one final time, his body going rigid against your back. You feel the hot, sudden spurts of his cum painting your inner walls, the sensation so intimate it wrings a breathy, oversensitive moan from you. The feel of his release, the way his hips jerk against you, is the final push for Seungcheol.

“Fuck! Gyu—!” is all Seungcheol can manage before he’s following right over the edge, his own orgasm triggered by the feel of Mingyu pulsing inside you alongside him, and another powerful, involuntary squeeze of your abused pussy around his girth. He buries himself as deep as he can, his thrusts turning into shallow, frantic jerks as he empties himself into you, his release mixing with Mingyu’s, filling you to overflowing.

The intimate rubbing and pulsing of them against each other inside you, the feeling of being so utterly claimed and filled, prolongs their releases, drawing them out into shuddering, breathless moments. They stay like that, locked together inside you, holding you aloft as they ride out the last waves of their pleasure, their heavy pants and your own weak, hitched breaths the only sounds in the booth, amplified grotesquely in your headphones.

The sound of it all—the wetness, the ragged breathing, their low groans—is making you dizzy, a pleasant sickness rising in your stomach from the sensory overload. You float in a hazy, post-coital limbo until Mingyu, with a tenderness that contrasts violently with the preceding frenzy, gently tugs the headphones from your head.

The sudden silence is jarring, a vacuum of sound. You breathe out a long, shuddering sigh of relief, as if you’ve been held underwater for an eternity and have finally broken the surface.

“Whoa,” you slur, your tongue feeling thick and clumsy in your mouth. “It’s... quiet. Nice.”

The guys laugh quietly above you, the sound warm and real, not a distorted feed in your ears. Seungcheol presses a kiss to your sweaty temple. “Yeah? Too much for our baby?”

“S’nice to hear you... for real,” you mumble, nuzzling into his neck, still feeling properly, thoroughly fucked out.

Then comes the aftercare, a practised, gentle ritual. They don’t just drop you. They carefully, slowly, lower your boneless body until your feet touch the padded floor, but your legs immediately betray you, buckling like jelly. Mingyu is there in an instant, his arms coming around you to hold you upright, taking your full weight against his chest. “I’ve got you, baby. I’ve got you.”

Seungcheol carefully pulls out, a soft hiss escaping his lips at the sensation. He tucks himself back into his jeans before turning his full attention to you. “Okay, sweetheart? Just breathe.” He runs a hand over your hair, your back, checking you over with a clinical tenderness.

Then it’s Mingyu’s turn. He presses a soft kiss to your shoulder before gently passing your wobbling form into Seungcheol’s waiting arms. He quickly cleans himself with a wet wipe—of course they have a whole stash conveniently in the studio—and pulls his pants back up. Seungcheol, meanwhile, lifts you as if you weigh nothing, carrying you out of the humid, sex-scented booth and into the cooler air of the control room, laying you down gently on the large, comfortable couch.

Mingyu trails behind, gathering your discarded underwear and sweatpants. He gently tugs your tank top, which had been rucked up under your armpits all this time, back into place, his touch achingly soft. They move around you in a silent, efficient dance, a well-rehearsed routine of care that they performed many times before. They tenderly clean the sticky mess between your legs with cool, soothing wipes, patting you dry before carefully pulling your underwear back on and your soft sweatpants back up your legs. Mingyu retrieves a bottle of water from the mini-fridge, unscrewing the cap and holding it to your lips.

“Small sips, pretty girl,” he murmurs, supporting your head as you drink. The water is cool and blissful on your parched throat.

Every action is interspersed with kisses—to your forehead, your cheeks, your knuckles—and a constant stream of soft, reassuring praise.

“You did so well, baby.”

“So good for us, our perfect girl.”

“Just rest now, we’ve got you.”

“So beautiful like this, all ours.”

Their words and touches are a lifeline, slowly pulling you back from the depths of your fucked out subspace, anchoring you back to reality, back to them.

Later, when coherence has returned and you can form full sentences again, sitting curled between them on the couch with Mingyu’s jacket thrown over your shoulders, Seungcheol stands up and walks over to the control panel with a mischievous glint in his eye.

“Wanna hear something, baby?” he asks, his voice light.

Before you can answer, he hits a button. The studio speakers crackle to life. And your own voice, breathy and desperate, fills the room.

“Please... oh god, please...”

You freeze, your entire body lighting up with a fierce, all-consuming blush. Your eyes go wide with horror as the recording plays—the wet, obscene sounds of their thrusts, your choked sobs, Mingyu’s growled “Cum for us, you perfect little slut,” Seungcheol’s dark purr of “Take it all, our dumb, drooling cocksleeve.”

“Oh my god, turn it off!” you squeak, burying your burning face in your hands. “That’s so embarrassing! Delete it! Delete it right now!”

But your two boyfriends are beaming, beyond proud. Mingyu wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side while Seungcheol grins, utterly unrepentant.

“Delete it? Not a chance,” Seungcheol says, a wide, boyish smile on his face. “This is going straight to our private clouds. This is our new comfort recording for the upcoming tour.”

Mingyu nods enthusiastically, nuzzling into your hair. “Yeah. For when we’re in different time zones and missing you so much it hurts. Now we can just put this on and it’ll be like we’re right here with you. Or... you’re right here with us.”

The horror slowly begins to melt away, replaced by a warm, fluttering ache in your chest. The embarrassment is still there, a hot prickle on your skin, but it’s overshadowed by the overwhelming love you feel for these two ridiculous, wonderful, insatiable men.

“You’re both insane,” you murmur, but you’re smiling now, unable to help it.

"Insane for you," Seungcheol corrects softly with a meaningful wiggle of his eyebrows after finally putting the audio on pause. He returns to the couch and leans in to kiss you, his lips soft and sweet now against yours.

Something tells you, as you look at their proud, loving faces, that this recording will not provide comfort. It will only serve to starve all of you, to ache for each other with a fierce, desperate longing that will make every second of their tour feel like an eternity. It will be a beautiful, exquisite torture, a constant reminder of the devastating intimacy waiting for them at home. And by the time they’re back, you will all be ravenous.

*.(๓•͙ ˕ •͙๓).* like + reblog + comment if you enjoyed your time reading this!

Tagging those who expressed interest in the comment section of the original post. Thank you everyone and I hope you liked it: @jaja-salute @aikikim @jupittergirl @xchelseaaaa @assoulacaratassil

You're bored. You've been bored for the past hour, maybe more. The restaurant is the typical high-end quiet place that whispers luxury and closed society in ways people who don't come from wealth—especially old money—would totally miss. The music here is a suggestion, not an obvious presence. Somehow you're glad today isn't a live band day; you'd develop a migraine faster.

You sit at a round table—your dearest mother and father on your left, and this guy with his family to your right. You don't even make an effort to memorise his name. It's either Nathan or Henry, but you couldn't care less.

It's a familiar routine with you and your parents. For the past couple of years, the closer you get to thirty, the more insistent they become on using you as an ace card in your father's business game. Finding you a match that brings the most prosperous deal to the table. Every time you think too deeply about the fact that your own family is trying to sell you off in hopes that some wealthy son will think with his… secondary brain and want to marry you, you shut the thought down. It makes you want to puke.

This one is the worst so far, you think. Not a single attempt at conversation from him sparks even a hint of interest. And the more distracted you become, the more often you catch your father's infuriated stare and your mother's hand subtly pinching your thigh or side every few minutes. They've been more insistent, less patient recently, exhausting their options with increasing speed the more you sabotage them.

You think you've been somewhat smart about your tactics. Sometimes it's as obvious as today. Sometimes you give them false hope—a smooth dinner, maybe even one date—but it never moves past that.

Tonight, as you subtly observe the young man beside you, the urge to shut him down grows stronger. Actually, you hate men, period. Well, most of them. But you hate these ones most of all, the kind who try so desperately to look like they mean business, masking how badly they want to be respected, to climb. You often imagine men like him taking orders from those above them, or how in secret they might want to be pegged.

The thought makes you chuckle quietly as you trace the stem of your glass with your index finger.

"Something on your mind?" a voice cuts in. It's him—Henry or Nathan, as you continue to wrack your brain between two options—leaning slightly toward you with a smile that is supposed to be charming or even private but is just empty.

You glance at him, your own smile thinning. "Just appreciating the crystal." Your voice is flat, devoid of invitation.

He blinks, off balance for a second, then recovers. "It is fine quality. My father imports these from a family-owned studio in Munich."

You hum, noncommittal, and take a slow sip of water. Of course your daddy does.

The conversation doesn't go anywhere else from here. Your thoughts of this guy being pegged real hard are interrupted and your smile is wiped from your face quite a few minutes later the moment your father calls your name, drawing the table's attention to you. You look up, an eyebrow arching—a habit you picked up from someone your father would hate to know hangs around you quite a lot.

"Did Henry say something funny, sweetheart?" The lighthearted tone is deceptive. You see it in his eyes, that silent warning to behave.

You couldn't care less. Your expression turns impassive. So, it is Henry.

"No, he didn't," you say evenly. At least not to me remains unsaid. You haven't been listening at all, trying to entertain yourself with your thoughts. But your parents read between the lines anyway. You hate that they choose to put you on the spot as reprimand. Maybe they think it's right, getting back at you for embarrassing them. You're not sure how they expect silent compliance when they raised you to be sharp, or how they expect obedience after violently attempting to take away the only thing that ever made you happy. There's not a chance you'll trust or listen to them again after that.

"Care to share with the table what you were giggling about, then?" your father presses, his jaw tight beneath the pleasant facade.

Your expression hardens, challenging him silently. This, like many other things with you and your parents, is a familiar dance. He built you like a son—independent, opinionated—but hated it every time you turned on him. Now he wants you docile. Quiet. Probably dumb. He should know he's treading dangerous territory when he pokes you like this.

You feel your entire body lock into fight mode.

"Darling," your mother whispers under her breath, a barely audible plea. It's meant to placate you, to stop you from rising to the bait, from making a scene. And just for her—because while she's had her moments, she's endured enough of your father's bullshit, and she doesn't deserve more, certainly not because of you—you force your shoulders to relax. You plaster on a polite smile.

"Sorry, Dad," you say, your tone saccharine sweet. "It was rude of me to drift off. I apologise." You offer a brief, contrite smile to Henry's parents. His mother looks intensely uncomfortable, her eyes darting between her son and your father. You pity her, though you pity yourself more.

Henry's father clears his throat, attempting to steer the conversation back to safe, tedious waters. "As I was saying, the merger prospects in the southeast sector are quite promising, provided the regulatory…"

His voice fades into a dull buzz. You tune it out, focusing on the cool weight of your fork in your hand. Henry, emboldened by your supposed apology, tries again.

"Do you follow the art scene? There's a new exhibition at the National Museum I was planning to attend this weekend."

You turn your head toward him slowly. "I find most curated exhibitions to be a little… sanitised. I prefer art with teeth. The kind that makes people uncomfortable."

He stares, his smile stiffening. "I… see."

You don't elaborate. The silence between you stretches until his mother gently asks your mother about the floral arrangements for a spring charity gala. The script resumes.

It's all good, though. It has to be over soon. You take a slow, deep breath and brace yourself.

However, as you let your eyes wander beyond the table, before you can even exhale, something catches your attention—and your breath. You look behind your father and fully freeze, forcing your expression to remain neutral so it doesn't raise any alarms in your parents.

There, a couple of tables away, you spot Seungcheol. He's just finished shaking hands with some suited man and is sitting back down as the other leaves. You wonder how long he's been there. Probably a while; it looks like he just concluded a business dinner. Has he noticed you yet?

Your question is answered almost immediately. Seungcheol looks up from the glass of whisky he's tapping lightly on the tablecloth, and his gaze lands on you—smouldering, knowing. He's been here for long enough. He's been observing. To any outsider he looks unreadable, calm, but you see the way his eyes blaze, the way they briefly flicker toward the man on your right. To you, his quiet possessiveness is so glaringly obvious it burns through the distance and right into your skin. It makes you want him more than you should in this moment. Far more.

You swallow hard, suddenly salivating. He looks so good in his black suit and shirt, the top button already undone. And just to make it worse, he slowly reaches up and undoes another one as he holds your stare, the corner of his naturally downturned plush lips quirking up just barely. Fucking tease, you think, but force your expression to stay blank.

You don't even notice you're sitting up straighter, tauter, breathing shallowly, until a polite laugh from your right snaps you back. You feel pulled out of water—disoriented, breathless, lost. You down the rest of your wine, grab your clutch, and excuse yourself from the table with a placid smile, your voice impressively steady as you speak up.

Your mother gives a tight, approving nod. Your father's eyes narrow slightly, but he says nothing. Fortunately, neither of them has noticed Seungcheol, who is already standing, moving casually in the direction of the bathrooms that are thankfully absolutely out of sight.

He's there when you round the corner, leaning against the wall opposite the restroom doors, watching your every step. You move past him as if he isn't there, pushing into the women's lounge.

The faint ambient music is slightly louder here in the quiet. You walk toward the counter with its several sinks and wide wall mirror, setting your clutch down. A tremor runs through you in anticipation as you watch the door in the reflection. You're not disappointed. It opens, and Seungcheol steps through, locking it behind him with a soft click. His eyes sweep the space, checking the open, empty stalls. You hear him hum in satisfaction before his footsteps approach.

"Hi, beautiful," he murmurs, his hands finding their familiar place on your hips. His lips go to your neck, planting a kiss that makes you shiver and grab the edge of the counter. "You look splendid, baby."

"Ain't so bad yourself," you respond, a cheeky smile playing on your lips as his eyes meet yours in the mirror. Amusement dances in his expression. "What are you doing here? Didn't expect to see you," you add, changing the topic briefly even though you can guess.

"Had to close a deal with a new supplier for my father. Nothing interesting." Seungcheol explains, his voice a low rumble near your ear. You hum in understanding as he lands another soft kiss, this time on your shoulder, before turning you around to face him. "You, however," he says, his eyebrow raising inquiringly. "What was that?"

You have to bite the inside of your bottom lip to suppress a smile—both because he looks so hot when he's possessive like this, and because his eyebrow thingy is one of the little quirks you find the most charming in him.

"Just the usual. My parents trying to set me up to land them a generational business deal," you shrug with an eye roll. Your hands come up and begin picking at the lapels of his jacket absentmindedly. You're tired, and Seungcheol can tell. He knows. After all, your parents tried desperately to ruin your relationship with him five years ago.

They were fine with you doing whatever you wanted during college, and you really thought it was possible to stay with Seungcheol. He had everything on their list: an old-money background, a family business that promised a ridiculously prosperous merger with your father's company. And on top of that, you were happy. You actually loved him. But as soon as you had your degree, they did everything to pull you apart. It's because you suffered so much under their relentless pressure that Seungcheol suggested you pretend to finally break up and see him secretly instead. Whether your parents think they fully succeeded or they know you're still seeing your "ex" and are simply choose to ignore the truth for now, you don't know and don't care—as long as they don't try to lock you away again.

You still don't fully understand what triggered your father's hostility toward the Choi family, but you have a hunch. It likely had something to do with his huge, fragile ego being lethally bruised by Seungcheol's father in some way. Why your mother supported him so fiercely on this matter—is a real mystery you can't seem to solve to this day.

"So wound up," Seungcheol coos, bringing you back to the present. You blink, looking up from where your fingers have been beginning to trace the open collar of his shirt. "Do I need to help my baby relax?" he asks, brushing your cheekbone with his knuckles in a feather-light touch. You lean into it—a reflex you can't control. His tone is suggestively soft, and you feel yourself shiver, a familiar warm heaviness settling low in your belly. "Yeah?" He smiles knowingly when your fingers unconsciously clutch the fabric of his lapel.

You shake your head, forcing your body to relax. "No, Cheol, we don't have time for that. They'll grow suspicious if I'm away too long," you say, brushing the fabric to straighten it out before removing your hands from him, feeling regretful that you have to leave, and turn around to grab your purse.

But before you can, Seungcheol comes half a step closer, pressing you gently into the counter and bracketing you with his arms. You startle briefly, your hands flying to the front and pressing onto the marble edge for support, before you look up to see him in the mirror, behind you.

"Sorry, princess. Can't let you go without marking you up properly," he whispers, his lips pressing softly right beneath your ear—that sensitive spot he knows quickly makes you weak in the knees. Your updo is working against you, giving him far too much access. He nuzzles there afterwards, and you notice your breathing already turning shallow. "I really don't like the idea of you going back out there there all stiff and tired and nervous, hmm." He purrs. You see him watching you through the reflection, not a hint of serious sympathy on his face.

His warm brown eyes, framed by those long, fluffy lashes and heavy lidded with intent, are hypnotising. He lifts his head just enough so his lips brush against your ear as he whispers, "Want you to reek of me when you head back."

You swallow thickly, attempting to grasp some control, but you know there's none left. "Cheol," you try, appealing to a conscience you know is absent when his greed for you is stoked. Seungcheol isn't controlling, isn't toxic, but he hates sharing what's his. And you are his.

Over the past couple of years as your parents grow more insistent, Seungcheol's patience for staying secret thins in geometrical progression to their efforts. Seeing you in the company of another man, even against your will, only stokes that primal need to mark his territory.

However, you've been deranged for a long time now when it comes to Seungcheol. Because it turns you on to know that people around you will see that you're his, whether it's subtle or obvious. The thought alone makes your skin flush hotter under his mouth.

"Just a little," he coaxes, his voice a velvet promise. "Enough so only you and I know." His teeth graze the spot, not biting, just threatening, and a helpless sound escapes you. "That's it," he murmurs approvingly, one hand moving from the counter to your hip and up over your curves until he gently tilts your head to the side. "Let me take care of you. Let me remind you who you belong to."

You close your eyes for a second, surrendering to the sensation, to the feeling that always comes with being in his arms. The feeling that you're at the right place.

Seungcheol's lips are warm and soft when they press over the spot his teeth just grazed.

You feel both his hands settle on your hips again, their heat seeping through the silk of your dress. His palms caress and squeeze the flesh there, eliciting soft sighs from your lips.

A hum builds deep in his throat, low and approving, as his mouth moves again—slow, leaving a wet trail over your skin until he tugs on your earring with his teeth. It's just enough to make your pussy clench needily around nothing, and you moan in a whisper. "Cheol.."

He smiles at you through the mirror, lazy and satisfied, when you press back into him reflexively, seeking. "Bend over for me, princess," he murmurs, and gently presses his palm between your shoulder blades.

You comply, leaning over the cool marble counter, holding yourself up on your forearms.

"Good girl," he praises, his voice thick. He begins to lift the slip of your dress, bunching the cherry red fabric up over your waist.

You watch Seungcheol in the reflection, seeing his eyes run over your legs and ass appreciatively. Extra so, since you're wearing his favourite colours. "So pretty," he murmurs, his voice rough. "This colour against your skin... fuck." His fingers trace the dip of your spine until he hooks a finger into the waistband of your matching red lace. He tugs, seemingly fascinated. "Wearing my colours to a dinner with another man? My little rebel," he chuckles, and lets go, allowing the band to snap against your skin.

You flinch, biting the inside of your lip to stifle a whimper. He hums in satisfaction, continuing his path of exploration as if he hasn't done it a hundred times before. Seungcheol's touch is loving in its thoroughness, murmuring praises as he reaches the backs of your thighs. But his next action is pure degradation. He kneads the swell of your ass for a moment, and then his palm lands on your bared skin with a sharp, stinging slap. The sound echoes crisply in the tiled room. You gasp quietly, your fingers splaying against the counter. Heat blooms instantly, contrasting with the cool air.

"One more," Seungcheol says softly, relishing the way his handprint flares red on your skin.

He delivers another, a fraction harder, on the other cheek. Your body jolts forward, and a quiet, punched-out mewl escapes you. "Good girl. Taking everything so well." He pats your butt affectionately as you wiggle slightly.

You hear the clink of his belt buckle, the rasp of his zipper, and the shuffle of fabric as he slips out of his suit jacket. He folds it neatly by your purse before meticulously rolling his sleeves up. More rustling, and then you feel him pressing against your backside—the warmth of his body, the way his hardening cock presses into your skin.

His fingers hook into the side of your flimsy lace panties, peeling the material off your wet cunt and simply pushing it aside. The air hits your now-exposed folds, making you clench involuntarily. Seungcheol runs two fingers through your slit, gathering wetness, and lets out a gratified groan right by your ear as he leans over.

"Soaked already," he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. He presses the pads of his fingers against your clit in slow, circling pressure that makes your knees threaten to give out. "All this for me? Just from sitting there, knowing I was watching?" He continues stroking through your folds, smearing and collecting your arousal. He slips a finger inside you, just to the first knuckle—a tease rather than relief—and you whimper, pushing back against his hand. "Greedy little thing. Does your pussy miss me this much, baby girl? Hmm?" Seungcheol asks, and sinks his finger deeper, making you melt and clench around the invading digit.

"Yes, Daddy," you sigh, and your whole body shudders when he adds a second finger. "Please..." You know you need to be quiet, but you can't. If he continues teasing you like this, you're going to have a hard time keeping it down.

"Please what, love? Use your big girl words," he encourages, his voice dripping with both malice and adoration for the way you're coming undone so easily.

"Please fuck me. I need your cock so bad," you breathe, your eyes bleary and desperate when you meet Seungcheol's in the reflection. The corner of his mouth quirks up in approval.

He doesn't play with you for long after that. Withdrawing his hand, you hear him spit into his palm—the sound lewd and thrilling. The slick, rhythmic sound of him fisting his cock follows, working himself to full hardness, spreading the spit as a crude lubricant. His other hand returns to your hip, holding you firmly in place.

Seungcheol guides himself to you, the rounded, hot head of his cock nudging against your entrance, catching. He swipes through your folds slowly, once, twice, coating himself in your arousal for good measure, teasing your quivering hole until you're pushing back against him in silent plea.

"Shhh," he soothes, though he's the one torturing you, dragging it out. "I've got you."

Before the begging can fully form on your lips, he snaps his hips forward, rough and unceremonious, burying himself inside you in one brutal thrust. The force jerks you forward, your forehead nearly touching the mirror. A ragged gasp is torn from your throat as you're stretched, filled, conquered. He wraps a hand around your throat and pulls you against him, making you arch and present even more so he can go deeper. His other hand slides over your mouth just in time to muffle the small cry that escapes you as your eyes roll back.

"Good fucking girl," he rasps, his breathing already growing heavier. He pulls almost all the way out and snaps his hips forward again, bottoming out in one swift motion that knocks the air from your lungs. You moan into the hand still covering the lower half of your face.

"Take it, baby."

Seungcheol picks a slow, forceful pace that sends an echo of slapping skin through the tiled bathroom with every thrust. His hand moves from your mouth to your neck, squeezing lightly, making your head spin. His hips snap into you in a grinding motion, the tip of his cock reaching deep enough to kiss your cervix every time.

You feel his hands move again. He manhandles you gently, making you brace against the mirror instead of the counter. His hands find your waist, just beneath the bunched-up dress, as he continues to grind into you, slow and deep. Your body moves with his, pushed into the counter with every snap of his hips. Your vision swims as you watch him through the mirror—eyebrows pinched in concentration, lips slightly open, the tip of his tongue just visible with the effort. He'd look adorable if he weren't taking you apart in a restaurant bathroom, making your entire body jolt, your breaths coming in lewd sighs and soft moans.

Seungcheol catches you watching him and sends you a half-smirk before leaning over your body. One hand fondles your braless breast through the fabric of your dress; his lips find your skin, leaving a sloppy trail of kisses on your neck.

When he straightens again, the hand that isn't on your waist goes to your already dishevelled updo. He pulls out the pins holding it up, allowing your hair to spill across your back. "Much better," he murmurs, low and satisfied, before gathering your hair in his hands. He makes a makeshift ponytail, yanking your head back against his shoulder for just a moment before letting go. "Such a pretty slut for me, aren't you?" He lands a sharp slap to your ass, and then another.

Then he picks up the pace, fucking into you with abandon. All you can do is take it, breathing heavily and doing your best to stay quiet while your pussy gets dicked down so good. He makes you pant like a dog with the pace he sets, your tongue sticking out because he hits your spots and makes your brain melt away.

An insistent buzzing registers somewhere in the back of your mind—your phone. It's most likely your parents, trying to figure out where you went, if you walked out under the guise of a ladies’ room. Too bad you can't let them know you'll be back. Not when Seungcheol reaches around you, his hand splaying over your lower belly to press and feel the way he pokes into your insides. You mewl, clenching around his length.

"Cheol, please... I'm gonna cum," you manage breathlessly.

He helpfully moves his hand to stimulate your clit. "Then cum, baby. Want you to cream all over my cock," he grunts, beginning to rub your sensitive nub just the way he knows you like it while continuing to spear into your sopping cunt.

The sounds become wetter, sloppier. You're barely holding up when your walls begin to clench and contract around his fat dick. Your pleasure crests, spilling over, engulfing your body in warm, tingling waves as you shudder violently, struggling to keep yourself upright.

You hear Seungcheol cursing behind you, his pace picking up in force and speed, using the way your greedy cunt tries to milk him to bring himself to his own climax.

It doesn't take long. His hips stutter, and you feel his cock pulse, filling you up with his seed. His pace turns sporadic until he presses deep within you, heaving against your back while you lean on your elbows on the marble countertop, unable to hold yourself up without his hands gripping your waist.

"Fuck," he whispers, stroking your back soothingly before leaning over and pressing soft, sucking kisses to your shoulder. They won't leave bruises, but they feel nice.

Your brain is mush. You can't think straight; your consciousness is swimming somewhere, grounded only by the contrast of the cold marble counter and Seungcheol's warm body pressing against you. You hear him whispering something—sweet, meaningless comforts—before he pulls out, leaving you empty and gaping. You feel his cum drip down your thigh and whimper, disturbed.

"I'm onto it," Seungcheol says softly. You hear him grab paper towels. He returns quickly, wiping most of the mess clean and pulling the lace of your underwear back into place, sealing whatever didn't leak. You bite your lip, forcing yourself not to moan. His hands are reverent and gentle when he fixes the hem of your dress, though you could do it yourself.

You finally find the strength to stand straight, though you still feel a bit like a newborn deer.

You turn, using the counter for support, and watch Seungcheol briefly clean himself and put his pants back on properly. He notices you watching him, notices the dazed look on your face, and smiles. He comes closer and wraps his arms around your waist. You don't have to be perceptive to see how amused and full of himself he is right now for ruining you so thoroughly. "Did I overdo it?" There's not an ounce of remorse in his voice.

You brace yourself on the counter behind you and roll your shoulders and neck, giving yourself time to clear your head. You've been away from the table too long. Staying here another couple of minutes won't make much difference.

When you open your eyes, Seungcheol is watching you, his eyes warm and affectionate.

Before you can stop him, he leans in and litters the column of your throat with gentle kisses, almost apologetic for getting carried away. But you know he's not really sorry. Not when he pulls on your already low neckline and latches onto your breast, sucking a hickey right by your nipple.

"Cheol, no-" but it's too late. You feel the tingling on your skin as he detaches with a soft, smooching sound and looks at his handiwork with a sense of full accomplishment. The neckline of your dress does cover the mark, but you can't help but wonder if it will bloom too soon and possibly peek out for anyone to see.

"Much better," he says, nosing the spot right under your ear, turning extra tactile and clingy. You know Seungcheol—he thrives on providing thorough aftercare, from physical closeness to literally taking care of you. And you know he hates that he can't do it properly right now. So he takes what he can before the two of you have to inevitably part for the rest of the night.

"You should go," you whisper, your voice still a little unsteady. "'ll be okay."

He pouts, a genuine, boyish expression that contrasts wildly with the man who just had you bent over a bathroom counter. "Do I have to?"

You smile, despite everything, and kiss the pout away. "Yes. Before my father sends a search party."

It turns into the two of you continuously chasing each other's lips—soft, lingering kisses that speak of reluctance to part more than passion. He holds your face between his hands, his thumbs stroking your cheeks.

"Tomorrow," he murmurs against your mouth. "My place. I'll cook."

"No, thanks. Last time you almost burned the kitchen," you whisper back, smiling.

"Then we'll order in. Just be there." His tone leaves no room for argument, but his eyes are pleading.

You nod, and with one last, searing kiss, he releases you. You watch as he slips his jacket back on, becomes the Choi Seungcheol, heir and businessman, once more. With a final, smouldering glance, he unlocks the door and disappears.

You're left alone with the scent of him on your skin, and the quiet hum of the restaurant waiting beyond the door.

Somehow—composed and recollected—you return to the table where your parents, Henry, and his family are still seated. Unfortunately. A part of you had hoped they'd believed you'd just walked out, that the dinner had been wrapped up in your absence. No such luck.

Your parents don't look impressed with your reappearance, not outwardly at least. You play your part, offering a soft apology for your extended absence, citing a sudden wave of nausea and needing fresh air. Your father's eyes assess you with cold scepticism.

"Your hair is down," he states, the observation a quiet accusation.

You touch the loose waves self-consciously. "The pins were giving me a headache," you explain, your voice smooth. "I had to take them out."

You don't think they believe you. You also don't really care. You just want this pantomime to finally end. Though, the desperate urge for it to be over has dulled. You're too sated, too relaxed, thrumming with a deep, secret security under the phantom weight of Seungcheol's claim. Henry's presence on your right is still an irritant, but now it's laced with a perverse, smug satisfaction. You notice him frown subtly, his nostrils flaring just a bit as if catching a new scent. He glances at you from the corner of his eye, puzzled.

"Is something wrong?" you turn to ask him, innocence perfected as you bat your lashes.

He startles, clearing his throat. "No, not at all." He quickly turns back to the dry conversation about market fluctuations between your fathers, suddenly eager to re-insert himself, to look important.

You barely suppress a smirk and take a sip of water. It nearly goes down the wrong pipe when you see Seungcheol walking toward your table. Your eyes widen, sending him a silent, frantic question. What the fuck? He was supposed to leave.

The second person to notice him is your mother. Her sharp intake of breath is quiet, but it shifts the energy. Soon, the entire table's attention is on the man striding confidently toward you. You tense, bracing. Your father's posture turns rigid, his irritation now simmering visibly.

Seungcheol is utterly unbothered. He greets the table with an effortless, polished politeness, shaking hands with the men, offering a charming, respectful nod to the women.

"Mr. and Mrs. Lynn, a pleasure. I didn't mean to interrupt." Of course he did. His eyes land on you and then on Harper's son sitting on your right. This is when you know that whatever he's going to do next is fully dictated by his fierce unwillingness to share. It seems that today the last strand of his patience snapped.

He comes to your side, his hands resting on your upper arms in a squeeze that is far too intimate for casual company. He leans down, his lips brushing your cheek in a kiss that lingers a heartbeat too long. "Just a brief business thing, baby, relax," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble meant only for you, though you know your mother catches it. Her face is a mask of stunned confusion.

If you were wondering whether your parents knew of your remaining connection to Seungcheol—now you know that they certainly didn't.

He straightens, but his hands slide to your shoulders, his thumbs digging into the knots near your spine with sure familiarity. He doesn't leave your side as he addresses Henry's father. "Mr. Harper, I won't take much of your time. Regarding the shipping lanes we discussed—my father wanted me to convey his thoughts personally."

He doesn't monopolise the conversation. He's succinct, professional, powerful. It doesn't take longer than five minutes, but for you, time distorts. You observe the tableau unfold from within the circle of his possession.

Your father is quietly seething, his knuckles white around his wine glass. Your mother's gaze flicks between Seungcheol's hands on you and your own carefully neutral face, as if seeing you for the first time. Henry, to your right, radiates a humiliated annoyance. Here is a man his own age, from the same world, who commands the room—and his own father's fawning attention—without even trying.

Yes, this is Choi Seungcheol for you, you think, a sense of fierce pride swelling in your chest. The Choi heir. Their dynasty is arguably the most formidable in your circles. They have enemies like your father, allies, and then they have people like Henry's father—men who are willing to bend over backwards, to swallow their pride and serve, just to be in their graces. You see the sycophancy now, the desperate gleam in the older man's eyes. You can guess that the moment Seungcheol leaves, that same man will likely mutter curses about the "Choi brat." It's pitiful. You think it's better to be like your father, to despise openly, than pretend not to but still allow them to own your ass and be salty about it. You hope, in some twisted way, your father thinks the same. After all, you are your father's daughter.

You don't even realise you've leaned back into Seungcheol until your head comes to rest lightly against his abdomen. He doesn't pause his conversation, his hands a steady, warm anchor on your shoulders. You don't listen to the words about tariffs and logistics. Your mind wanders, circling a question that has haunted you for years: What are you still so afraid of?

You don't have an answer. Not a clear one.

But sitting here now, with the man who loves you more than life itself standing tall at your back, his presence a shield and a declaration, you suddenly feel... untouchable. Protected.

Your father's silent wrath ceases to feel like a tsunami meant to drown you. You are not the terrified girl from five years ago, flinching at threats of being hidden away, of being broken until you were compliant. You have been remade, in part by him, in part by your own stubborn will.

You're distracted when Seungcheol gives your shoulders a final, telling squeeze and removes his hands. The sudden absence of his warmth makes you shiver. You watch, your heart sinking, as he rounds the table, shaking hands with Mr.Harper, then with your father. He's leaving. He's really leaving you here with them. You watch him, feeling a surge of panic, like he's abandoning you to the sharks. Your eyes must betray you, because you want to call out, to tell him to wait.

It's unnecessary. His rich brown eyes find yours just as he's half-turned to go. He stills completely. His eyebrow arches a fraction, a silent question, but his expression softens almost instantly. Seungcheol can't stand you looking so heartbroken, so abandoned, when he would never willingly leave you in distress. He'd meant to go, to avoid causing you more trouble with your family, whom he knows—despite everything—still hold a complicated piece of your heart.

But your eyes are pleading, and there is nothing in this world that could make him turn his back on that look.

He moves.

His eyes stay locked on yours, watching the way the desolation in them shatters, replaced by a dawning, luminous hope with every step he takes back toward you. How could he have even considered leaving you now? His baby. His love.

He stops beside your chair and extends his hand down to you, palm up. It's not a request. It's an offering. An exit.

"I'm stealing her for the rest of the evening," he says to the table, his tone leaving no room for debate. It's polite, but it's a statement of fact. He's not asking your father. He's telling him.

The silence that settles over your table is ringing. Your father's face darkens. Your mother places a subtle, warning hand on his arm. And you're too distracted to process the fact that for once she seems to be standing on your side.

You look from Seungcheol's sure, waiting hand, up to his face. He gives you the barest nod, his gaze steady. It's time.

The familiar fear tries to claw up your throat. The old programming whispers in your head. Of consequences, of scenes, of retribution. But a newer, stronger voice that you've been secretly honing, reminds you of warmth, of safety, of love that doesn't barter or hide. Of tomorrow, and Seungcheol's apartment, and the life you've built in the shadows, yearning for the sun.

You place your hand in his.

His fingers close around yours, firm and encouraging. He pulls you gently to your feet. You don't look at your parents or anyone else really. You keep your eyes on Seungcheol, on the proud, tender smile touching his lips.

"Once again, my apologies for the interruption," he says to the table, his voice the very picture of courtesy, even as he commits the ultimate discourtesy. "We'll see ourselves out."

You pick up your purse and he leads you away. Not with the hurried pace of an escape, but with the confident stride of a man claiming what has always been his. You walk beside him, through the hushed restaurant, past the tables of the silently judging elite—that will no doubt spread the news across the globe by tomorrow morning—and you don't feel a single pair of eyes upon you. You only feel his hand in yours, the ghost of his touch on your skin, and the terrifying, exhilarating freedom of walking out of this restaurant with the man you love.

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

It's scorching thirty-five degrees Celsius outside and it's not even ten o'clock in the morning. The air in the bedroom is so thick you think you can taste it on your tongue. Maybe even drink, like soup? Who knows, you have to try later. Later, when your brain is functioning properly. If that time ever comes at all. Right now it feels so, so far away.

The night brought little to no reprieve, and the day promises only a deeper, more diabolical humidity. You can feel it pressing against the windows, a lethargic, suffocating blanket.

However, you do not care.

All you care about is the wet, muffled plap, plap, plap of Seungcheol driving his cock into your sopping cunt. The sound is obscene, a squelching that syncs with the frantic beat of your heart somehow. Your hair is a disaster, half splayed out on the now-damp pillowcase, half glued in darkened strands to your sweaty temples and throat. You cling to him, your fingers slipping on his skin, trying to anchor your dissolving self to the solid, moving reality of your man. He's just as slick, just as slippery. His hair sticks to his forehead in dark petals, and a bright, splotchy pink flush blooms across his cheeks, spreading down his neck and over the broad plane of his chest.

Delirium is a gentle word for it. Your brain is empty—scoured clean by tingling sensation of ecstasy that the stretch from his girth provides,—rendered beautifully, perfectly dumb. All that exists is the three-hour arc of this morning, a single, unbroken thread of pleasure. Seungcheol woke you at the crack of dawn, the first light a pale grey at the window, with kisses between your legs that were less a greeting and more a deep, reverent conversation. He'd had a whole make out session with your pussy, his tongue writing promises you're still feeling.

That was about two hours ago.

Now, he's plowing your poor, abused pussy, the stretch a familiar, devastating burn. The thin summer cover is still tangled around your bodies, a foolish addition to the furnace you've built together. It traps the heat, magnifies it, until every slide of skin on skin is accompanied by the slick whisper of sweat. Your bodies gleam in the dim room. Both of you pant open-mouthed into the minimal space between your faces, and you swear you can see small, ghostly puff clouds leaving your lips— a ridiculous thought, born of a brain fried by heat and relentless, coiling pleasure.

From time to time Seungcheol slows down and takes a gulp of hot air which brings him pretty much no relief, neither does it to you. The slowing down, the pause. It is necessary, sure, otherwise your hearts would probably give out. What a way to make a headline on the local news channel, you think to yourself briefly. Your glazed eyes slide over to Seungcheol's neck and you swallow, suddenly salivating at the sight of sweat beading on his skin, a particular droplet growing bigger and bigger until it begins to slowly run down the column of his throat. You can't take it.

Grabbing him at the back of his neck you pull yourself up just enough to plant you lips over his neck and all but slurp. His skin is salty and tastes faintly of soap or his perfume or all of it mixed—you don't know. But you know that it drives you mad. And so you lap at his skin, going from the little hollow at the base of it to the underside of his jaw in a single broad stripe, to the spot beneath his ear. You almost reach the soft flesh of his cheek, hypnotised and entranced.

"Baby—" Seungcheol's voice is breathy and strained. You're sure you can hear a soft moan that mixes in there. So pretty, he always moans so prettily it's a crime.

You're straining his neck with your hold. You sigh and drop back down onto the damp bedsheets, breathless and licking you lips, tasting the salt on them.

Seungcheol slows down and takes a deep slow breath, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against yours. You feel dizzy just being fucked like that and you can't imagine what it's like for Seungcheol. If you had to ride him you'd probably faint midway from heat and dehydration.

When he starts moving again you can feel every ridge, every vein of him. The head of his cock is brutal, spreading your gummy walls with each return, again and again. It feels like your entire consciousness has gathered there, hyper-aware, a live sparkling wire connected directly to your spine. Your hands wander over the expanse of his back, feeling the powerful, corded muscles roll and flex beneath the smooth, heated canvas of his skin. You can't help it; you dig the tips of your nails in, not to hurt but to feel that he's real and not a figment of your fatally fried imagination. He falters, a full-body shudder rippling through him, and a ragged groan tears from his throat.

"Fuck. Do that Again."

His voice is gravel, throat dry after moaning and groaning and going at it so intensely. You comply, scratching lightly, and he curses, driving into you with renewed force. The sound he makes is more animal than human.

There isn't much talking. It's all sound, guttural and primal, drawn from a place far preceding any language. Grunts, choked off whines, the wet sloppy symphony of your joining. You're sure you don't sound like people anymore. You're creatures of need, of sweat and salt and seeking even more planes of contact when there's barely any more.

Your vision swims, tears of overwhelm spilling from the corners of your eyes to trace hot paths into your hairline. You blink up at him. Seungcheol above you is a vision, a masterpiece of exertion. His big brown eyes are heated, dark pools where his pupils have swallowed the irises almost whole. Even in the dim light, you can see the carnal, unfiltered want in them, a mirror to your own. It makes you squeal, a high-pitched, desperate sound, and your cunt clenches tightly around his persistent intrusion.

Seungcheol's rhythm stutters and he lowers himself onto you, your bodies sticking together under his weight. "Jesus. You're tryin' to kill me."

He says it into the hollow of your throat, his lips moving against your damp skin. He doesn't stop. If anything, his pace becomes more focused, more relentless.

"Touch yourself for me, baby," he whispers, the command a hot breath in your ear.

You're more than happy to oblige. One hand slides down your own slick stomach, through the wet that's pooled there, finding the swollen, throbbing nub of your clit. The contact sends a shock through your system, a sharp, bright sizzle that makes your legs jerk. You draw tight, frantic circles, the pleasure building in sharp, tingling spikes, and your sounds shift into broken mewls, short, high pitched whimpers that you don't even recognize as your own.

"That's it," he grunts, his own breathing a harsh counterpoint to your squeaks. "Let me hear you. Let me see you."

He props himself more comfortably on his elbows and his hands bracket your head, his forearms caging you in. The position allows him to go deeper (as if he wasn't already rearranging your guts), and you both share a sharp intake of breath. The new angle brushes a spot inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyelids.

"There?" he rasps, watching your face crumble.

All you can do is nod, a frantic, jerky movement. Words are beyond you.

"Tell me."

"There!" you manage to gasp, the word punching out of you. "Right there, please—"

He sets a brutal, perfect pace, hitting that same electrifying spot with every single thrust. The world narrows to the point where your bodies meet, to the friction of his hips against yours, to the maddening circles your own fingers are tracing. The heat is everywhere, inside and out, a consuming fever.

"I can feel you," he mutters, his own control clearly fraying. "Getting so tight. So fucking perfect. Gonna cum for me?"

You can only whimper in response. The coil in your belly is wound impossibly tight, a spring about to snap. You're crying fat tears, teetering on the edge, and yet your eyes are locked on his, on the sweat dripping from his chin onto your chest. The room smells of sex and summer heat and your and his sweat.

"Look at me," Seungcheol demands when your eyes begin to roll back into your scull, his voice low and thick. "Look at me when you let go."

You force yourself to focus to your best ability, considering your vision is blurry and your ears begin to ring. That's when the pressure breaks.

It shatters through you like a wave of white-hot liquid, starting from that deep, touched place and radiating outwards until your very fingertips are buzzing and tingling. Your back arches off the bed, a silent scream caught in your throat before it escapes as a long, shattered moan. Your cunt convulses around him, rhythmic, pulsing clutches that milk his length. You wrap your arms and legs around him, trying to anchor yourself to the present. The sensation of his hot skin under your touch is so solid and real that you can't help but cling even tighter.

Seungcheol's face transforms, a grimace of pure, unadulterated pleasure. He fucks you through it, his movements becoming jagged, losing their rhythm.

"Oh, fuck, fuck—take it, take it," he chants, a mantra as he chases his own end.

With three more deep, grinding thrusts, he stills, buried to the hilt. A deep, ragged groan is torn from his chest as he follows you over, his own release flooding you with warmth that mingles with the heat already pooling between you. You feel the frantic throb of his cock inside you, the final, intimate surrender.

For a long moment, there is only the sound of ragged breathing, the distant hum of a struggling air conditioner somewhere else in the building. Seungcheol collapses, most of his weight coming down on you, but you welcome it—the solid, heavy, sweaty reality of him. He nuzzles into the juncture of your neck and shoulder, his lips pressed to your pounding pulse, kissing your skin lazily in attempts to soothe.

"Hell of a way to beat the heat," he mumbles, voice slurred with exhaustion and satisfaction.

A breathless, giddy laugh escapes you. You drag a trembling hand up his damp back and thread through his wet hair, scratching the scalp and tugging on short strands affectionately. He purrs and wraps his arms tighter around you.

"You're insane. We're going to melt."

"Already melted," he corrects, lifting his head just enough to kiss you, slow and deep and tasting of salt. "You melted me."

You stay like that for a long time, tangled in the damp sheets, in each other. Too lazy and fucked out to move to the shower. You'll have to move eventually, of course, drink a bottle of water at least, turn on the AC, go about your day but for now you will let the world outside get hotter, brighter, the humidity gather its strength. For now it's just you, Seungcheol and the sweaty mess that you made of your bed.

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