#heeluvv

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

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

why’d you leave without saying anything?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

jakeoncam: gonna pick you up 8, okay?

there’s a second message right beneath it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

jakeoncam: i’m outside :)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and there it is.

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

you watch it hit him in real time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you pause again. “kissing?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

makes it feel like the scene has already begun.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you do.

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

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

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

and then—without a word—he reaches higher.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and you do. god, you do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

and god—you want him to.

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

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

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

you break on the next stroke.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

but still, he doesn’t push in yet.

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

and just when you think you’ll break—

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

“tell me you want all of it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and you do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

hard.

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

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

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

he feels it. he knows.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

his voice cracks a little, and his rhythm falters.

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

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

and then—you feel him move.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he kisses your temple. “so were you.”

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

he just holds you.

—-

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

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

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

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

“what’s going on?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the air shifted. slightly. just enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

sunghoon didn’t look surprised. just tired.

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

and then it slipped.

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

heeseung blinked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

jay swallowed. “y/n.”

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

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

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

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

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

jay stops moving.

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

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

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

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

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

so he speaks.

“what’s her username?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“why not?”

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

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

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

taglistᝰ.ᐟ @starry-eyed-bimbo @vixialuvs @justaquarium @dark-moon-light02 @deobitifull @minjeong28 @wonzzziezzzz @wonsohl @psychicyouthfox @honeyfever @strayy-kidz @bloomiize @tunafishyfishylike @jaehaki @ihearteatingxo @songbyeonkim @sol3chu @mo0neng3ne @strxwbloody @hii01mii @merwdusa @dorrissakurada @lycxee @frequentlykit @heeenha6484 @sjakewrld @stwrlightt @parkjjongswifey @haneulhee @fr34k4c1dr41n @cozyre @vwricky @nyxtwixx @nuggets4lifers @yunkiconico @mynameis-rosie1 @leeknowslefteyebrow @babygguk98 @noiiny @horijiro

──

you don’t even realize you’ve stopped breathing until the number on the page blurs in front of your eyes. the red ink bleeds through the letter like it’s been branded there on purpose, like it’s taunting you. bold, underlined, and cruel: payment past due. the amount is higher than you thought. higher than last month. higher than what’s sitting in your checking account—and your savings? nonexistent. your fingers twitch around the edges of the paper, and you stare at it for a few seconds longer, as if maybe if you look hard enough, the numbers will shrink, change, disappear entirely.

but they don’t.

your hands move slowly, almost disconnected, as you place the letter down on the edge of the kitchen counter. the paper crinkles beneath your fingertips, the sound sharp in the quiet of the apartment. you rake your fingers through your hair, dragging your nails gently across your scalp, trying to ground yourself—trying not to panic. it’s not working.

you don’t have time for this. not now. not with finals looming, two shifts left this weekend, and rent due in five days.

the sound of approaching footsteps makes you flinch.

“everything okay?” nari’s voice is soft, cautious, like she already knows the answer. she probably does. she always does.

you don’t look at her. not yet. you feel her presence behind you, hovering by the counter, hesitating. she picks up the letter carefully, and you hear her breath catch as her eyes scan the contents. there’s a beat of silence before she speaks.

“it’s more than last month,” she says, barely above a whisper.

you nod, still not meeting her eyes. your throat feels dry, your heart pounding behind your ribs like it’s trying to escape. the shame tastes bitter in your mouth.

“i can’t pay it,” you finally say, voice flat. “i barely made it through last month’s bill. and now they’ve added more fees.”

it’s not new. this has been happening every few months. random charges. late penalties. service increases you never agreed to. and no matter how many hours you work or how much sleep you lose, it never seems to be enough. you thought you were managing. thought maybe you were finally getting ahead, even just a little. but here it is—proof that you’re still drowning.

nari places the letter back down and moves to stand beside you. she doesn’t speak right away. her eyes flick toward you, soft with concern. she’s been your roommate for over a year now—someone you met through a shared thread on social media venting about overpriced meal plans and the bullshit cost of dorm laundry. back then, you were both strangers trying to navigate the mess of college life with nothing but broken bank accounts and coffee-stained syllabi.

now, she feels like family.

you’ve always admired how gentle she is, how thoughtful. she worries without smothering, helps without asking, gives even when she barely has enough for herself. you hate how easily she sees through you.

“i’m so sorry, y/n,” she says gently. “let me help. i mean it. just this once.”

you squeeze your eyes shut. you’ve had this conversation before. more than once. every time the bills show up with too many zeroes or your bank app sends another low balance alert, she offers. she always offers. and you always refuse.

because this is your responsibility. your education. your choice.

you never wanted to drag her into the mess you made just trying to survive.

“nari, no. it’s fine,” you say, brushing it off the same way you always do, even though nothing about this feels fine. “i’ll figure it out. i’ll… find another job or something.”

another job. the words sound ridiculous even as they leave your mouth. you’re already balancing two. your body aches at the thought of adding a third, your schedule stretched so thin it feels like one missed alarm could unravel everything.

nari doesn’t argue. she just stands there, looking at you with wide, worried eyes that say more than her words ever could.

you turn away.

you don’t want to see that look. don’t want to see the guilt in her expression or the way her lips part like she’s about to say something she knows you won’t let her finish. instead, you press your palms flat to the cool countertop and try to slow your breathing.

you can’t keep doing this. living check to check. sacrificing sleep, time, your sanity—only to still come up short.

“let me help find you one, y/n. at least let me do that…” her voice was quiet but firm, laced with the kind of gentle urgency that made it hard to ignore. she pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and sat down beside you, her knees bumping yours softly as she reached for your hands.

her fingers curled around yours without hesitation—warm, grounding, comforting in a way that made your chest ache.

“you’ll get out of this before you know it,” she said, her thumbs brushing over your knuckles. “just hang on a little longer.”

the words should’ve felt like encouragement. to someone else, maybe they would have. but to you, they barely registered. her voice echoed distantly in your ears, dulled by the weight pressing down on your shoulders. you wanted to believe her. you really did. but there was only so much hope could do when your brain felt like it was unraveling thread by thread.

you were tired.

not just physically—though that part never seemed to go away—but mentally, emotionally, in a way that left you hollow at the edges. your thoughts were messy. loud. overwhelmed with numbers and due dates and rejection emails you didn’t have the energy to open.

you’d always wanted more for yourself. a degree. a real future. stability. success. the version of adulthood that didn’t involve counting coins at the bottom of your purse to buy groceries. being able to chase something you loved without sacrificing everything just to survive.

and yet… here you were. still stuck. still drowning.

“i’ll talk to my friends,” nari added, her voice picking up as she stood again. “i’ll ask around, see if any of their jobs are hiring. you don’t have to do this alone, okay?”

you blinked up at her, too tired to protest, too drained to offer anything back. you barely nodded.

she didn’t wait for an answer. instead, she gently tugged you to your feet and led you toward your room, her hands guiding you like muscle memory.

“just hurry,” she said over her shoulder, already halfway down the hall. “get ready before you’re late.”

you let the door close behind you, the soft click echoing in the quiet space, and leaned back against it for a second too long—breathing in slow, like maybe it would help ease the burning behind your eyes.

but it didn’t.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

you can’t hear yourself think anymore. the noise presses in from every direction—muffled conversation, the beep of the register, shoes skidding across tile, the mechanical whirring of the blender as it screams through another drink. the scent of syrup, espresso, and sweat mixes into something you’re far too familiar with by now. it clings to your clothes, seeps into your hair, follows you home every night and lingers even after you’ve scrubbed your skin raw.

your apron feels too tight around your waist. the name tag keeps flipping over, catching on your shirt. your hands ache from repetition. your back stings from bending, twisting, reaching for things without stopping. your legs burn, but you keep standing. because if you stop—just for a second—you don’t know if you’ll start again.

you’ve lost count of how many customers you’ve helped. they blur together—faces that don’t really look at you, names that repeat too often, voices that never say please. someone spilled a drink ten minutes ago and just stared at you like it was your fault. someone else snapped when you misunderstood their order and then smiled like it never happened. you’re used to it. too used to it.

the blender screams again, and you find yourself zoning out, eyes on the flashing light of the machine, ears ringing. you place a sweaty cup down on the counter just as your coworker brushes past you, muttering something, her voice barely registers.

“we’re out of cold brew, can you let the manager know?” she says, breathless.

you nod without thinking and duck into the back, weaving past crates of milk and mop buckets that haven’t been moved since your last shift. you find her—your manager—hovering near the inventory shelf, tablet in hand, expression unreadable. she looks up when she hears you but doesn’t say anything. just waits.

“we’re out of cold brew again,” you say softly.

her sigh is immediate. clipped. already annoyed. “i told the morning crew to prep more.”

“they didn’t,” you reply, just as soft.

she exhales again and gives you a glance that feels like a warning. “make a new batch. and try to keep the line moving—we’re backed up out there.”

you hesitate, shifting your weight from foot to foot, unsure if now’s a good time. but you don’t have a choice. not really.

“hey,” you begin, voice lighter than you feel, “i was wondering… if you had any extra shifts next week? i could take one. or two. anything that opens up, i’ll take it.”

you see it the moment her expression changes. not enough to be obvious, but enough that you feel it in your gut. she blinks at you once, slow. “you already have four shifts on the schedule.”

“i know,” you say quickly. “i just… if anyone drops or calls out—”

“i’ll let you know if something comes up,” she interrupts, sharper now. “but we’re fully staffed right now. you’re already lucky to have the hours you do.”

lucky.

that one stings.

you nod like it doesn’t bother you. “okay. thanks anyway.”

you turn back toward the front before she can see the heat crawl up your neck. the shame, the frustration, the quiet burn of helplessness that never seems to leave you alone. it coils tight in your chest as you slide back behind the counter, the overwhelming noise greeting you like a wave to the face.

you move through the orders on autopilot—pour, cap, swipe, pass. your body knows the motions. it always does. even when your brain doesn’t catch up. your arms are heavy. your thoughts are too loud.

your phone buzzes in your apron pocket.

technically, you’re not supposed to check it during a shift. but you do anyway, slipping your hand inside just enough to pull it out, eyes flicking to the screen beneath the counter.

nari: i have something to tell you.

you pause.

your breath catches in your throat.

the message is short. way too short. there are no emojis, no dramatics, no little additions she usually throws in to make you laugh. it’s clean. intentional. unsettling.

you type back fast.

you okay? what’s up?

your fingers hover over the screen, waiting. no immediate reply. no typing bubbles. just silence.

you slip your phone back into your apron, heart racing now—not from caffeine or exhaustion but from something else. dread, maybe. anxiety. it curls low in your stomach and spreads like smoke, slow and sickly.

the hours bleed together until they don’t feel real anymore. it’s like you blinked and suddenly the sky was dark, the register was silent, and your shift was over. you don’t even remember clocking out. your body moves on instinct as you grab your things, slinging your bag over one shoulder, feet dragging slightly with every step. you’re too tired to even complain out loud. exhaustion sits heavy on your shoulders, weighing down every bone like bricks. every joint aches. your eyes sting from the fluorescent lights. your muscles are tight, sore, stretched too far. and the worst part is knowing you’ll have to do it all again tomorrow.

the walk home is a blur. you barely register the passing cars or the hum of traffic. your legs are on autopilot, your thoughts too noisy to settle into anything coherent. by the time you reach your building, your fingers fumble with the key from how badly they’re shaking—whether from fatigue or stress, you’re not sure.

the moment the front door swings open, you’re greeted by a sudden, high-pitched sound that makes you flinch.

“oh my god, y/n!”

nari’s voice rings out before you even step fully inside. she appears from around the corner, practically bouncing on her feet as she rushes toward you with wide eyes and a wild grin.

“i think i’ve secured something for you!” she announces proudly, reaching to help you with your things without waiting for permission. your bag slides off your shoulder with her help, and she carefully sets it down on the couch before turning to face you again.

you blink at her, too tired to match her energy, voice low and worn. “how so?”

the contrast between your tone and hers is stark—hers bright and excited, yours soft, raspy, touched with exhaustion that even you can hear.

“okay, so,” she starts, already walking toward the kitchen like she’s been waiting all day to spill this. “i was talking to one of my classmates earlier—casual stuff, whatever—and she would not shut up about this app she’s using and this guy she’s obsessed with on it.”

you follow her slowly, the smell of something warm and savory pulling you forward. dinner is already set out, steam curling up from the bowls on the counter. she’s cooked again. you don’t even have the energy to thank her properly, but it sits in your chest like a quiet comfort.

“she said it’s this platform where you can post content—videos, mostly—and people follow you, tip you, subscribe to see more. apparently, it’s easy money if you know how to catch attention,” nari continues, grabbing utensils and placing them gently next to your bowl.

you lean against the counter, brows slightly furrowed as you try to keep up.

“what kind of videos?” you ask slowly.

and that’s when she pauses.

her hands still for a second, and you notice the subtle way her eyes flick to the side—toward the fridge, the floor, anywhere but you. she busies herself wiping down a clean countertop, her mouth tight, like she’s carefully choosing what not to say.

the silence stretches just a little too long.

you narrow your eyes. “nari?”

she still doesn’t look at you, her fingers now fiddling with the corner of a napkin that doesn’t need adjusting.

and that’s when you know—whatever she’s about to suggest, it’s not exactly a regular part-time job.

you don’t say anything. not at first.

you just watch her fidget—her hands smoothing the same wrinkle over and over again, her mouth parting like she wants to say something but can’t figure out where to start. her excitement from earlier has dimmed slightly, not completely gone, just… more careful now. the shift is subtle but it’s there, and you feel it tighten something in your chest.

your voice is quieter this time. gentler. “what kind of videos, nari?”

she glances up at you for a split second, then looks away again, reaching to stir a pot that isn’t even on the stove. she’s stalling.

finally, she exhales, turning back to you with both palms pressed to the counter.

“okay, so… don’t freak out.”

you stare at her.

“it’s… kind of a subscription thing,” she says, slow and cautious. “like, you post content—just whatever you’re comfortable with—and people tip you for it. sometimes a lot.”

you don’t speak. not yet. you just let her keep going.

“my classmate told me she made almost five hundred dollars in one weekend. literally just from one post. and this guy she follows? apparently he makes thousands. like, thousands. maybe even millions.”

your mouth is dry.

“what kind of content?” you repeat, even though you already know the answer.

nari bites her lip. her eyes finally meet yours. “sexy stuff,” she admits. “but it doesn’t have to be all out. it can be suggestive. artistic. faceless, even.”

you blink at her. once. twice.

the silence between you stretches until it’s not silence anymore—it’s tension. thick and heavy, sitting right in the center of the kitchen with both of you tiptoeing around it.

“it’s not as intense as it sounds,” she adds quickly. “she said she started small. built her page up over time. and no one from school found out. not even her roommates.”you sink into one of the kitchen chairs, your arms resting limply in your lap. you don’t say anything yet. you’re not even sure what you feel.

nari’s eyes soften as she watches you. “i know it sounds… out there. but i just thought—i don’t know, maybe it’s something you could look into. just to hold you over until things get better.”

you nod, but it’s slow. not agreement—just acknowledgment.

you’re too tired to argue. too drained to pretend the idea isn’t already crawling under your skin, planting itself somewhere dangerous.

because the truth is, you’ve heard of it. everyone has. whispered about in late-night dorm conversations, on private stories, in anonymous confessions posted on spam accounts. girls making rent money in a weekend. boys going viral for being faceless and filthy and addictive.

you never imagined doing it yourself.

but then again… you never imagined being this broke, either.

you stare at your untouched bowl of food, heart thudding softly in your chest.

you’re not disgusted. not even shocked.

you’re just… thinking.

and that scares you more than anything else.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

you tell yourself you’re just looking.

that’s it.

just a little more scrolling. just a few more profiles. you’re not doing anything. you haven’t made an account. you haven’t posted. you haven’t committed to anything except curiosity, and that—well, that’s harmless, right?

you open your laptop again. it’s sometime past midnight. your room is dim, the only light coming from your screen and the soft amber glow of the lamp tucked in the corner of your desk. it casts everything in that moody, late-night hue that makes the whole world feel quieter. heavier.

you pull your knees up to your chest, the blanket draped loosely over your shoulders as the homepage loads. it’s different now. you’re not looking aimlessly anymore. you know what to search for. you type top creators, and a list appears almost instantly.

you click one.

@heefreakshow. verified. 5.2 million subscribers.

his profile loads, and it’s exactly what you expect. polished, but not too polished. his display photo is somewhat dark and grainy, a half-lit frame of his bare chest, chin tilted up just enough to be teasing without giving anything away. the banner across the top reads: “i don’t just talk dirty. i make you feel it.”

his content is locked, but the previews aren’t.

you hover for a moment, your thumb pausing above one of the thumbnails before tapping it without thinking. the video opens in a small window, looped, muted at first, but it doesn’t matter—what pulls you in is the way he fills the frame. it starts with a soft hum of music, low and bassy, vibrating faintly through your speakers as the camera tilts upward from a dark-lit bed.

his chest appears first—broad, smooth, glowing faintly under the moody blue light. he’s shirtless, his skin flushed, breathing slow but deep. the camera dips, revealing his thighs spread wide and relaxed, and the hard, unmistakable bulge straining through his pants. your breath catches. the fabric looks tight—too tight—like it’s fighting to contain him. you can almost feel the pressure through the screen.

his hands trail over his torso, slow and lazy, fingers dragging along the curves of his stomach, tracing the line of muscle before resting on the waistband of his pants. his face isn’t fully visible—just the faintest shadow of his jaw, a teasing sliver of his bottom lip. the only thing clearly captured is his hair: pink, messy, soft-looking and slightly damp, like he’s just run his hands through it too many times.

and then he moves.

his fingers slip down, unbuttoning his pants with quick, practiced ease. the zipper lowers with a soft click, and he pushes the fabric down just enough for his cock to spring free, already hard, tip flushed and leaking as it rests against his abdomen. his breath stutters slightly, chest rising as he wraps his hand around himself, stroking slow—deliberate, like he’s savoring it. he tilts his hips toward the camera, giving you a better view, and you swear he’s looking straight at you even though you can’t see his eyes.

his voice comes in a beat later—low, raspy, thick with arousal.

“i couldn’t help myself, baby…”

you feel something warm twist in your stomach. the words feel too direct, too personal. his pace quickens as precum beads at the tip, slicking over his fingers as he groans, deep and breathy, like it’s pulled straight from his chest.

his other hand rises, trailing over his stomach until it reaches his chest, fingers pinching at one nipple as his hips twitch upward. the reaction is instant—a quiet moan spilling from his mouth as his head tilts back slightly, lips parted in pleasure.

“fuck…” he breathes out, barely audible between sharp inhales. “i want you here with me, baby…”

you freeze, the weight of the moment crawling down your spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

you scroll down to the next name on the list.

@jayafterhours. verified. 5.3 million subscribers.

his banner is simple—black background, sharp white font. his bio reads: “don’t waste my time unless you can take it.”

you don’t hesitate. you click.

the video loads instantly, and the difference between him and the last profile is immediate. there’s nothing soft about it. no slow lighting, no teasing buildup. it opens straight into a scene already mid-motion—loud moans echoing through your speakers, fast and desperate, though none of them are coming from him.

the camera is perfectly framed, clearly placed on a desk, angled to capture everything without obstruction. a woman lies flat on her front, arms outstretched as her fingers curl over the edge of the wood. her legs tremble slightly, back arched, skin damp with sweat. behind her, jay moves with sharp, brutal rhythm—his hands gripping her hips like he owns them, fingers pressing deep into the flesh as he drives into her hard enough to rock the table beneath them.

“such a fucking slut, aren’t you?” he grits out, his voice low and full of gravel, each syllable landing like a slap.

his hand comes down suddenly to grip her ass, squeezing tight before delivering a sharp slap that makes her body jolt. the sound of skin meeting skin cracks through the room. she lets out a choked moan, broken and messy.

“d-don’t stop—j-jay!” she cries, voice high, shaking as her nails drag along the desk surface for something to hold on to.

but you barely register her.

your eyes stay on him.

he doesn’t look at the camera—not directly—but the angle captures enough. his head is tilted back slightly, the veins in his neck prominent, his jaw clenched. his lips are caught between his teeth, biting down like he’s holding something back. there’s a faint flush along his collarbone, sweat trailing down the side of his throat.

he isn’t shirtless.

somehow, that makes it worse.

he’s dressed in a crisp white button-down, slightly wrinkled now, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. a black tie hangs loosely around his neck, the knot crooked like it was tugged halfway through the scene. it swings gently with the movement of his hips, adding to the rhythm, the sound, the image of him fully in control without even needing to try.

there’s something terrifyingly composed about him. like he’s done this a thousand times. like nothing surprises him anymore. like the entire scene is unfolding exactly how he planned it.

and yet, despite the chaos, the noise, the cries echoing off the walls—you can’t stop looking at him.

you don’t hesitate when your eyes land on the next name.

@jakeoncam. verified. 5.5 million subscribers.

simple bio: “i like being watched.”

your heart skips slightly as you click on the preview, already familiar with the routine by now. and yet, nothing about this feels repetitive—each creator you've looked at so far has had their own way of pulling you in, but jake’s feels… different.

the screen fades in slowly, no music, no buildup. just the soft creak of bedsheets and the low, wet sound of friction. he’s fully on display, his body stretched across a dark comforter, shirtless, skin glowing with a light sheen of sweat. the camera is placed at a low angle, perfectly capturing the curve of his back as he grinds down onto a pillow with messy, desperate rhythm.

his blonde hair sticks to his forehead in damp strands, a few pieces plastered to his cheek. his eyes are shut tight, brows drawn in deep concentration, lips parted as he pants softly into the mattress. his hips roll in tight, fluid motions, the muscles in his thighs flexing as he presses himself down harder into the cushion.

“fuck… i’m gonna cum… fuck, baby…”

his voice is breathless—higher, whinier than the others—and it hits you unexpectedly. it’s not performance. it sounds real. wrecked. like he’s been holding back for too long and is just now letting go.

he gasps softly, his pace stuttering, body tensing as the pressure builds—but the clip cuts off just before the release, leaving you blinking at your screen with your chest tight and your legs shifting.

you don’t realize how long you’ve been holding your breath until it escapes you all at once.

and you don’t stop there.

you move onto the next one almost instinctively, driven more by something primal now. not even out of curiosity anymore—need. something about each of them feels increasingly personal, like they’re not just performers, but something else. something closer.

@hoononrepeat. verified. 5.3 million subscribers. “if it’s not messy, i don’t want it.”

you click, the motion smooth and practiced now. part of you knows you’re getting too deep, that this is becoming more than just research, but you don’t stop.

his video starts mid-motion.

the frame is tight, focused completely on him—sunghoon’s hand gripping his cock, already soaked and shining with cum, sliding along the length with slow, deliberate strokes. his chest is heaving, his abs flexing with each movement. the lighting is dark, moody, barely enough to cast definition over his frame, and yet it still highlights every shift of muscle.

a silhouette appears at the bottom of the screen—a woman, faceless, mouth parted and positioned perfectly beneath him. her head bobs forward as he pushes his cock into her mouth without hesitation.

he groans, long and drawn out, his voice rough like it’s scraped from the bottom of his throat.

“fucking hell…”

his hand buries in her hair, fingers curling tight as he guides her down, hips jerking forward sharply. the wet sound of it echoes faintly, almost drowned out by his ragged breathing. she gags softly, hands pressing at his thighs, but he doesn’t let up.

he’s focused. lost. unrelenting.

“take it,” he mutters, jaw clenched. “take all of it, princess…”

the words hit hard. not because of what he says, but how he says it—low, commanding, almost personal. like he knows you’re watching. like the words aren’t meant for her at all.

you feel your pulse thud somewhere low in your stomach. your fingers curl tighter around the edge of your laptop.

you should stop.

but you don’t.

@watchmesunoo. verified. 5.4 million subscribers.

his page is simple—light pastel banner, soft text, almost misleading at first glance. but when the preview loads, there’s nothing soft about it. it starts mid-action, no intro, no setup—just raw, unfiltered need. his body fills the screen, the lighting harsh enough to highlight the tension in his muscles, the sweat slicking down his chest in messy trails.

his hand holds a small vibrator—slim, silver, and humming at a steady pace as he presses it along the length of his cock. it’s already hard, flushed dark and leaking, twitching visibly each time the buzzing toy runs over his slit. he slides it slowly, teasingly, from the base to the tip, circling it around the head before dragging it back down again. his hips jerk, his thighs tightening under the pressure.

his face is in view. fully.

his cheeks are red, tear-streaked, lips trembling with every breath. wet hair clings to his forehead in dark strands, and his eyes are glassy—shiny with desperation, the kind that makes your chest tighten just watching. he looks completely wrecked. beautiful in a way that shouldn’t feel this intimate, like you’ve caught him in something far too private.

“fuck… noona…” he whines, voice high and broken as his fingers curl tight around the bed sheets. “let me cum… please—noona…”

his hand trembles slightly as he lowers the vibrator, pressing it to the base of his cock as his other hand slides upward, two fingers dragging through the mess that’s already smeared across the head. he rubs the tip quickly, desperately, almost like he’s punishing himself for how close he is. his back arches sharply, the line of his throat exposed, jaw slack as more tears spill freely down his cheeks.

“f-fuckkk—i’m cumming!” he cries out, voice cracking as his body jerks violently, hips lifting off the mattress.

you can’t look away.

his cock twitches hard in his hand, and a thick wave of cum spills over his fingers, dripping down in messy strands that coat his palm and smear over his abdomen. his chest heaves. his thighs shake. he doesn’t stop moving until his hand is completely soaked and his voice has faded into soft, hiccuping breaths.

you’re still staring, eyes wide, mouth parted slightly. the screen is glowing in the dark of your room, and all you can do is sit there, frozen, pulse pounding behind your ribs as the clip loops quietly again.

@wonsodirty. verified. 5.2 million subscribers.

his profile surprises you even more.

the name alone already catches your eye—bold, a little cheeky, a little misleading. you expect something bratty, maybe cocky, something playful or reckless. but when the preview loads, it’s none of that.

it’s quiet. intimate.

the camera is placed at a low angle, steady, fixed on soft bedsheets that shift with every subtle movement. the lighting is warm and dim, the kind that wraps everything in a golden hue and makes skin look like silk. there’s a soft rustling in the background, the sound of him breathing, uneven and slightly hitched.

he comes into frame slowly—first his legs, then his thighs, spread slightly apart as he settles against the headboard. he’s not doing much at first. just breathing. just existing. but even that feels heavy with tension, like something just below the surface is about to break.

he’s shirtless. not in a performative way. just bare. his chest rises and falls in shallow motions, skin flushed with heat, the faintest sheen of sweat glinting under the soft light. his hand moves slowly at first, fingers wrapped tight around the base of his cock, stroking with careful precision. it’s already hard, already leaking at the tip, the kind of arousal that’s been building for far too long.

you watch as he closes his eyes, biting down on his bottom lip, his brows knitting together like he’s trying not to fall apart too quickly.

then, he whispers something—so soft you almost miss it.

“feels so good…”

his voice is high, sweet, breathy in the most fragile way. and it’s real. not loud. not dirty. just pure and cracked with something raw.

his strokes stay slow, almost too slow, like he’s punishing himself for how sensitive he is. his hips twitch every time he passes over the tip, precum smearing down the shaft and making his hand glisten as he continues.

you can’t help but watch his face—how red his ears are, how hard he’s trying to keep his composure. you notice how his legs tense, thighs flexing every time he lets out one of those quiet, needy sounds.

his strokes get faster, hips starting to lift slightly off the bed, his thighs trembling beneath him. he looks like he’s trying to hold back. like he’s afraid of what’ll happen if he lets go too soon.

“i can’t… i c-can’t hold it, please…”

he cries out as his hand jerks up once, twice, and then his entire body stutters. his back arches just slightly, his mouth dropping open in a silent gasp as ropes of cum spill over his fist, painting across his stomach in messy spurts.

his breathing turns shaky. his head tilts back against the pillow, eyes fluttering, lips parted as a tiny, breathless whimper escapes him.

the clip ends with his fingers still curled tightly around himself, his chest rising fast, his body twitching as he comes down—wrecked and glowing and silent.

you move onto the last profile.

@nikiuncensored. verified. 5.6 million subscribers.

the name alone already tells you everything you need to know. it feels reckless. raw. unapologetically bold in a way that makes your pulse skip without warning. you hesitate only for a second before clicking on the preview.

the video starts without ceremony—no soft intro, no teasing buildup. just action. the camera is low, placed somewhere near the base of the woman’s stomach. you can’t see her face, not even her chest—just the lower curve of her abdomen rising and falling with every sharp breath she takes. her thighs tremble faintly at the edges of the frame, knees slightly parted, twitching every time his mouth presses in.

but she’s the background.

your eyes go straight to him.

ni-ki comes into view slowly—his shoulders first, broad and tense, then his head, tipped slightly as his mouth lowers between her legs. his tongue flicks upward in tight, rhythmic strokes, wet and steady, circling over the clit with agonizing precision. the movement is deliberate. practiced. his lips part to suck softly, then flatten again as he switches pace, building her up in waves.

his fingers move with the same energy—two of them disappearing inside her only to pull out again, slick and glistening before they’re thrust back in with a soft squelch that echoes in the low hum of the room. the air is heavy. the lighting is dim, warm enough to cast shadows over the sharp line of his jaw, the flushed curve of his cheeks.

“fuck…” he breathes, voice strained with something between amusement and awe, “you’re so fucking wet…”

he groans as he presses in harder, his mouth practically consuming her now, lips wrapped fully around her clit as he sucks with loud, messy slurps. the sound is obscene, echoing in the quiet room—wet and desperate and hungry.

his eyes flutter shut, like he’s savoring the taste. like he could stay there all night and never come up for air. his free hand curls around the outside of her thigh, gripping tight, keeping her in place as his tongue works mercilessly. her moans are loud, cracked and high-pitched, but you barely register them. all you can hear is him—groaning, gasping, devouring.

he moves his head side to side slightly, mouth still latched to her clit, and the slurping sound becomes louder, wetter. his fingers curl up inside her and she screams, hips jerking toward his face, but he doesn’t back off. if anything, he doubles down.

he growls, low in his throat, sending vibrations straight into her core as his grip tightens.

and you’re stuck there—watching the way his mouth works, the way his muscles flex with every movement, the way he loses himself in it like it’s the only thing that matters.

the preview cuts off just as his lips part again, tongue dragging in a long, slow lick up her slit like he’s far from done.

and god—you believe it.

you’re completely breathless.

your chest rises and falls in slow, uneven waves, lungs struggling to catch up with the flood of emotions coursing through your system. your skin is warm, flushed, your fingers twitching faintly from where they rest on your thighs. everything inside you feels electric. overstimulated. wired with something you can’t quite name—but it’s there.

now, finally, you understand.

you understand why this app—the one you opened on a whim—could stir something so heavy inside you. why it’s been sitting in the back of your mind like a spark waiting for oxygen. it’s not just sex. it’s not just content. it’s control. attention. power.

you shift slightly where you sit, the damp heat between your thighs impossible to ignore. your panties are soaked, your breath shallow, and despite the way your body aches, you force yourself to sit up straighter. you push the thoughts down, shake your head, blink yourself back into focus.

you’ve battled with yourself long enough.

without giving yourself the space to overthink it, your finger moves. you press the button—create account—and watch the screen change, your heart racing with each small confirmation box that pops up in front of you.

you type quickly. no hesitation now. @babydollx0.

the name feels soft. flirty. safe.

but the next part isn’t so easy.

you hesitate when it asks for a profile photo. you scroll through your gallery—old pictures, half-deleted mirror selfies, nothing that feels right. nothing that says what you want it to say. nothing that matches the version of yourself you’re about to become.

you toss your phone onto the bed and push off the covers, the sheets falling away from your legs in soft folds as you rise to your feet. your room is still quiet, dimly lit by the lamp in the corner, casting soft golden shadows across your walls.

you move quickly.

your drawer slides open with a soft clatter as you dig through the scattered mess inside—tangled bras, folded shorts, tucked-away lace. your fingers pause when they find it: a tiny, black thong. the skimpiest one you own. barely fabric at all.

you strip out of your shirt first, letting it fall to the floor without a second thought. the cool air hits your bare chest, making your nipples pebble instantly. there’s no hesitation now. no shame. just movement.

you tug the thong on slowly, adjusting it at your hips, letting the waistband hug your curves as you step in front of the mirror.

you pose without overthinking it—back facing the mirror, head turned slightly over your shoulder, your front angled just enough to tease without revealing everything. the lighting does the rest. it casts your silhouette in soft shadows, highlighting the curve of your waist, the dip of your spine, the swell of your hips. everything else remains hidden—blurred in the low glow of the lamp.

it’s just enough to make someone want more.

you lift your phone, frame the shot, and for the first time in a long time…you feel powerful.

you set your phone carefully on the edge of your desk, adjusting the angle until it captures only what you want it to—the lower half of your body, your thighs parted slightly, your stomach rising with shallow breaths. your face is out of view. there’s no light beyond the soft glow of your desk lamp, and the shadows cast across your skin make everything look muted, quiet, secretive.

your thumb hovers over the record button, trembling slightly. you're not nervous because you don’t know what you’re doing. you’re nervous because you do.

your mind is cluttered with noise. doubt swims through you in thick waves, crashing hard against the edges of your resolve. your chest feels tight. you can feel the fear circling in your gut, whispering things like what if you regret it? what if someone finds out? what if you can't take it back?

but the fear isn't loud enough to drown out the truth.

you think of the letter on the counter, the rent due in less than a week, the account notifications warning you that your balance is low—too low. you think of the long shifts, the missed hours, the denial from your manager. you think about how you’re out of options.

and then you press the button.

the recording begins. the red icon glows faintly in the corner of your screen. it’s happening now. you’ve officially started.

your breath catches as your hands move instinctively, dragging down the curve of your stomach with a slow, deliberate rhythm. you let your fingers tease the hem of your thong, playing with the waistband, pulling it slightly before letting it snap back into place. you don’t say a word. there’s no script for this. you let the action speak for itself.

you shift in your seat, angling your body just enough for the camera to catch the soft curve of your ass, arching your back to deepen the shadow and leave the details to the imagination. it’s subtle. sensual. controlled.

then, after a pause that makes your heart pound harder, you bring your fingers to the front of your thong. with one smooth motion, you pull the fabric aside.

just enough to reveal yourself.

your folds glisten, slick already gathered between them from the buildup of watching, waiting, and wanting all night. you’d been trying to ignore it. trying to focus on the mechanics of the process. but your body never really forgot. not after what you’d seen. not after the way they sounded.

your fingers move without hesitation now, sliding between your folds and gathering the wetness. you exhale slowly, letting the feeling settle, letting the camera keep rolling. your touch is gentle at first—small, slow circles around your clit, nothing too fast. you don’t want to rush. you want it to look natural. sensual. you want it to feel good.

and it does.

your body shifts. your back arches slightly. your thighs tense. your fingers grow bolder, faster. not by much—just enough to feel it start to build. your breathing grows uneven. soft, audible. you hold back the sound in your throat, biting your lip hard enough to feel the pressure.

and then you think of them.

the teasing smirk from the one who never broke eye contact. the groans that scraped low and rough from behind clenched teeth. the soft, desperate whimpers that bled through clenched fists and sweat-slick sheets. the sharp snap of a hand against skin. the steady rhythm of fingers soaked to the knuckle.

you remember the flushed cheeks. the breathless pleas. the soaked mouth of someone who looked ruined just from giving. the thighs that trembled under the weight of restraint. the tongue that moved with unshakable precision, curling into someone’s heat like it was instinct—like it was art.

your fingers speed up.

your hips jerk slightly, your body reacting without permission. you tilt your head back, eyes fluttering shut as your clit pulses beneath your touch.

“fuck…”

the word leaves you in a low, broken whisper. it’s almost inaudible. almost too quiet to catch. but it’s there.

your chest rises with effort as you force yourself to stay quiet—to stay in control. nari is just a few feet away, asleep or scrolling in the room next door. you can’t let her hear. you can’t risk that. so you press your lips together tightly and breathe through your nose, letting your hand do the talking.

your fingers move in tighter circles. your stomach contracts. your legs pull in slightly as the pleasure curls deeper inside you, hot and electric. you don’t stop. you can’t stop. not now.

you don’t need to speak. the way your body moves is enough.

the video keeps recording, and for a second, everything else disappears—your exhaustion, your guilt, your fear. all of it fades into the rhythm of your own breathing, the slick sound of your fingers working between your thighs, and the realization that this isn’t just a performance.

it’s power.

and for the first time in a long time… it’s yours.

your fingers work faster now, soaked and steady, slipping in and out of your cunt with a rhythm that’s grown almost frantic. the sound of it—slick, wet, obscene—echoes low in the quiet room, barely masked by the rapid stutter of your breath. your body moves with instinct, hips rising to meet your hand, legs spread wide as you chase the heat that’s been coiling deep in your core since the moment the video started.

you start with two fingers, curling them up just right to press against the spot that makes your stomach tighten. your lips press into a thin, trembling line as you try to keep quiet, forcing yourself to muffle the moans that threaten to spill out with every thrust. your walls clench tightly around your fingers, greedy, hot, desperate for more.

and you give it to yourself.

you let out a ragged breath as you push in a third finger, the stretch making your thighs tremble. the pressure is overwhelming now—blinding, almost painful in the best possible way. you shift in your chair, back arching as you press your heels into the floor, legs falling open wider to give yourself more space. your body is flushed and burning, skin damp with sweat, nipples tight from the brush of cool air and lingering adrenaline.

your chest heaves as you move faster, harder, fingers curling deep into yourself as the pleasure builds fast and sharp like a scream stuck in your throat. your head tilts back, eyes fluttering shut, and for a split second, you forget about the camera. you forget about the fear. you forget about everything but the feeling—

“fuck… oh my god…”

the words tear from your throat, broken and low, muffled by the force of your own clenched jaw. your legs start to shake, your body twitching with the effort to stay upright as your orgasm rushes up and crashes through you.

“fuckkk—i’m gonna cum… shit…”

your voice is higher now, cracked at the edges, as your hips jerk forward and your muscles seize. the pressure bursts all at once, your cunt clenching around your fingers as you gush hard, soaking your hand and the inside of your thighs. the release is hot, messy, completely overwhelming—wave after wave rolling through your body until you’re panting, twitching, slumped over the desk with your mouth open in a silent gasp.

your other hand scrambles toward your phone, shaking as you fumble to tap the screen. the camera is still recording—still capturing every shudder, every twitch, the flushed glow of your skin and the shine slicked over your thighs.

you end the video with one shaky movement, chest rising and falling as you try to catch your breath.

your hand is drenched. your skin is burning. your thoughts are scrambled.

and you don’t hesitate.

you upload it raw, unfiltered, untouched.

you don’t trim the edges. you don’t add a caption. you don’t even blink before pressing the button.

you want it to speak for itself.

you want them to wonder.

you watch the screen as the upload bar slowly completes, your profile still blank, still new, still waiting to be discovered.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

the soft chirp of birds cuts through the stillness of morning, gentle and rhythmic, floating in through the cracks of your half-open window. golden sunlight pours across your sheets, casting long shadows along your floor, warm and soft against your bare legs. your body is sprawled out lazily across the mattress, limbs tangled in the fabric as your eyes flutter open slowly, blinking away the blur of sleep.

your room is quiet except for the persistent buzz of your phone vibrating on the nightstand beside you. it hums every few seconds, faint but constant, like it's trying to get your attention. you glance at it, brows furrowing slightly, but you don’t reach for it. not yet. your body still feels heavy with sleep and something else—something deeper.

you push the covers off your legs, the cotton sheets rustling as you sit up and stretch, your spine arching with a soft crack. you move slowly, stepping onto the cool floorboards and making your way toward the bathroom, your legs stiff, your joints still waking up with you.

just as you reach the door, nari’s voice floats out from the hallway, warm and familiar.

“good morning, girl,” she calls casually, emerging from her room with a yawn, her hair tied up messily and hoodie falling off one shoulder. she looks at you for barely a second before launching into what’s clearly been sitting on her mind.

“so,” she says, tone direct, “are you planning on making an account?”

you pause.

the words land heavier than you expect, and for a second, the hallway feels too quiet—like her question has taken up all the space. the thought hadn’t left your mind, not really. it was still there, tucked into the corner of your chest like something that needed to be dealt with eventually. she had brought it up before. multiple times. her voice always hopeful. her offers always kind. and you always deflected.

your throat tightens. not painfully—but just enough to make you hesitate.

you turn to look at her, your expression unreadable. the memory of last night creeps back in, vivid and electric. the video. your fingers. the way your breath had caught in your throat when you hit upload. the warmth that still lingered between your thighs. the weight of what it meant.

“i’ll look into it,” you say, voice hoarse. “but i don’t know, nari… does it really even work?”

she crosses her arms gently, leaning her shoulder against the wall. her gaze softens as she watches you.

“i can’t really speak from experience,” she says slowly, “but from what i’ve heard… it’s definitely something you should consider. especially with how much you’ve been struggling. i know it’s not what you’re used to. i know it’s different. but y/n… it’s real money. quick money. and you wouldn’t have to break your back for it.”

her voice stays gentle, but her words hit hard. your shoulders drop slightly, and her eyes flick down to your expression, reading you the way only she can.

“just think about it, okay?” she continues, her tone still light. “i’m heading out in a bit, but whatever you decide, just let me know. i can look around for other stuff too, if you don’t want to go that route.”

your chest tightens again—this time from emotion.

you don’t say anything. you just step forward and wrap your arms around her, pulling her in tight. the words rise up in your throat before you can stop them.

“thank you so much, nari,” you whisper. “what the fuck would i have done without you…”

your voice cracks on the last word. you bury your face in her shoulder and hold her a little tighter, your body warm against hers.

you don’t thank her enough.

not for the rent reminders. not for the quiet way she pretends not to notice when you come home late and fall asleep in your work clothes. not for the soft leftovers she always leaves out with a sticky note. not for the way she never once judged you when you admitted you were coming up short again.

she just showed up. over and over.

and you couldn’t be more grateful.

“i’ll always be here for you, y/n,” she murmurs, her arms wrapping tighter around your waist.

when you finally pull back, there’s a single tear running down your cheek. you wipe it away quickly, hoping she doesn’t notice—but she does. she always does. she doesn’t say anything this time, just gives you a gentle look before stepping away.

you clear your throat, trying to shake the emotion from your voice.

“you can go ahead,” you tell her softly. “i… i just have something to check really quick.”

she nods, disappearing into her room.

you stand there for a moment, your feet unmoving, the silence returning like a blanket wrapped around your shoulders. you exhale through your nose and turn around slowly, walking back into your room and closing the door behind you.

your phone is still buzzing on the nightstand.

and you’re finally ready to see what it has to say.

you close the door behind you and pause for a moment, letting your fingers linger against the wood. your room is quiet again, but it’s not the same kind of quiet as before. it’s weighted now—thicker, charged with something unspoken. your steps back to the bed feel heavier than they should. your body isn’t sore in the traditional sense, but there’s something beneath your skin that hasn’t left you since last night. like your muscles remember what you did. like your skin is still humming from the heat of it.

you sit on the edge of your bed, your blanket half-pulled down, the air cool against your bare legs. your phone is where you left it—face down on your nightstand, completely still. the buzzing that had filled the room earlier has stopped, like it’s holding its breath. waiting for you to be ready.

you reach for it slowly, with both hands, like you’re afraid you’ll drop it if you don’t steady yourself. the moment your fingertips brush across the screen, it lights up.

and everything changes.

1,462 new notifications. tips: +$1,951.76. new subscribers: +863.

you sit there, frozen, as the likes roll in by the second, stacking in waves across the screen. every few seconds, another tip comes in. ten dollars. twenty. fifty. a hundred. your balance is growing so fast it doesn’t feel real.

you open the comments, and the words hit you all at once.

“this is art. actual art.” “i’m obsessed.” “i came without even touching myself. that’s how real this felt.”

you read them with wide eyes, your thumb scrolling slowly, like dragging through honey. it’s too much to take in all at once. too many voices. too many people who’ve seen you now—really seen you—and want more.

you click over to your inbox. there are dozens of messages, all timestamped from the early hours of the morning. most of them are praises, offers, begging. a few are bold. graphic. unfiltered. and buried among them—at the very top, a verified profile—is the one that makes your entire body still.

@heefreakshow.

you’re completely taken off guard.

nothing could have prepared you for this—none of it. not the flood of attention. not the numbers still rising. and especially not him. not the quiet, effortless way one of the creators you watched last night—half in awe, half with your hand buried between your thighs—has now turned his gaze on you. messaged you. noticed you.

you stare at the notification like it might disappear. like maybe your phone glitched and it’s not really him. your thumb hovers just inches above the message, heartbeat loud in your ears, the weight of everything that’s happened pressing down on your chest.

and then—before you can overthink it—you press.

the message expands across your screen in one clean, perfect line.

god, you were so fucking hot. why don’t you let me see what more you’re capable of doing?

you go still.

your throat tightens. your lips part, but no sound comes out. your entire body feels like it’s pulsing—heat rising from your neck, crawling down your spine, settling low in your stomach. your eyes read the words once. then again. then again.

you’re speechless.

not because it’s crude—though it is. not because it’s confident—because of course it is. but because it’s him.

you sit there, phone trembling slightly in your grip, and all you can think about is how none of this would’ve happened if nari hadn’t pushed you. if she hadn’t looked you in the eyes and told you she believed in you. if she hadn’t said the words you were too afraid to say out loud.

you owe her everything.

because now? now you’re more than okay. you’re not just surviving—you’re starting. you’re in it.

and you have absolutely no plans of stopping.

──

it has been a week since you got the message.

seven days since your phone lit up with his user for the first time. seven days since those words slid across your screen and rewired the chemistry in your chest—since that simple, perfect sentence cracked something open inside of you and refused to let it close again.

god, you were so fucking hot. why don’t you let me see what more you’re capable of doing?

you didn’t answer at first. not out of disinterest or shock, but because your breath caught in your throat and refused to let go. because your body lit up in a way it hadn’t in years. because the sudden heat that flooded your skin felt so raw, so consuming, you didn’t know if it came from fear or desire or both. you stared at the message in the dark of your room, the sound of your breath uneven, your fingers hovering over the screen like it might burn you.

and then you said yes.

you haven’t looked away from him since.

you haven’t stopped thinking about the way his voice curls into your ears, low and patient and warm with something just shy of menace—how he never tries to impress you, never tries to talk himself up, just says what he means and means what he says. you still haven’t seen his face. not fully. he’s careful with his camera, careful with his angles, his hair always falling into the frame and covering the details that might make him feel too real. but that doesn’t matter. because it’s not his face that made you agree.

he told you his name on the third night. not dramatically. not as a reveal. just tucked into the middle of a message like a comma.

heeseung. thought you should know.

and that was it. no last name. no photos. no follow-up. and for some reason, that made you trust it more.

the days since then have been slow and fast in turns. mornings feel stretched out, your body heavy with anticipation you don’t know how to burn off. nights feel electric—your phone screen the only light in the room, your fingers trembling as you read and reread everything he sends. he’s not always sweet. he’s not always careful. but he always makes you feel seen. he always reminds you that you said yes. and you keep saying yes, over and over, in every message you return.

until this morning, when the yes had to become real.

because today’s the day. tonight’s the night. and he’s waiting.

your bag is half-packed. your body is half-numb. you’ve been staring into your closet for twenty minutes now, unsure of what it means to dress for someone who’s already seen you at your most bare—someone who watched you fall apart in silence, whose voice sat in your head while your fingers pushed deeper into yourself than they ever had before.

he told you to bring whatever makes you feel good.

and you wish you knew what that was.

you tug down a black lace lingerie, something you bought months ago and never wore—something that felt too bold, too obvious, too much skin. you smooth it out over your bed with slow, reverent hands, then lay a silk robe beside it. then another option. then another. the pile grows until it looks more like you’re preparing to become someone else than getting dressed. because maybe that’s what this is. not a costume. not a mask. but a version of yourself that hasn’t been touched yet. one that only lives in the shadow of a camera light.

you fold everything slowly. precise. intentional. like the way you pack will dictate the way he undresses you.

be ready by 7.

────୨ৎ────

you don’t remember the drive—not in any clear way, not in the kind of way that leaves images you can describe. you remember the sound of your bag shifting across the seat beside you, the constant press of your thighs against each other beneath your hoodie, the way your fingers curled into the hem like they were holding on for stability. you remember the driver didn’t speak, and you were grateful. you didn’t think you could have formed a sentence anyway. the city moved around you in streaks and shadows, lights bleeding into the windows like soft threats, buildings you couldn’t name passing in patterns you didn’t register. your stomach stays tight the whole way, curled in on itself with the kind of heat that makes you feel nauseous, but not sick. it wasn’t fear in the way most people feel fear. it was quieter. heavier. like your body was preparing itself for something it had never done before, but had already decided it would endure.

the car slows, and you know before the driver says anything that you’ve arrived. something in your chest drops, cold and sudden, and it stays there as you look out the window. the building is sleek. modern. smooth walls and quiet lighting. tall glass that reflects just enough to keep the inside hidden. it looks expensive. clinical. the kind of place people rent for short terms, the kind of place that doesn’t hold stories—just moments. 

your phone buzzes in your pocket, and you flinch even though you were expecting it.

unit 603.

you stare at the words, fingers gripping your phone tighter than you mean to. your eyes trace the message once, then again. it’s not dramatic. not aggressive. just information. a direction. a point of no return.

your lips part. not to speak—just to breathe. just to test if you still can. you turn your head toward the driver, your mouth opens like you might ask him to keep going, to turn the car around, to pretend none of this happened. maybe you’ll say you made a mistake. maybe you’ll lie and say you have the wrong building. maybe you won’t say anything at all—you’ll just go home, crawl into bed, and forget that this ever felt real enough to chase. but you don’t. the air stays trapped in your throat, and the words never come.

because you remember why you’re here.

you remember the numbers at the bottom of your bank statement. you remember the rent due in four days. you remember the red stamp on that envelope and the way you stood in the corner of your kitchen with your heart thudding so loud it felt like it might shake your teeth loose. you remember your first video—the shaky way your hands touched your skin, the breathy little moans you tried to bite back, the way your legs trembled when you came—and how that one night covered groceries for the week. the one that paid for a quarter of your tuition bill. you remember the messages. the tips. the strange little thrill that came with being seen.

so you open the door and step out into the cold.

the night wraps around you immediately. the air has a bite to it—nothing violent, just enough to raise goosebumps along the backs of your thighs. you adjust your hoodie and sling your bag higher onto your shoulder as you approach the building, heart thumping with a rhythm that doesn’t match your pace. the inside is even quieter than it looked from the outside—soft lighting, clean tile, no front desk, no noise. you walk toward the elevator like your body’s been programmed to do it, and when the doors open with a sound that feels too loud in your ears, you step inside and keep your eyes down.

the mirrored walls don’t help. they catch you from every angle, all soft curves and stiff limbs and the subtle trembling of your fingers where they press against your thigh. you don’t look at your face. you know what you’ll see. too much. too vulnerable. too obvious.

the ride is short but unbearable.

each number lights up like a warning.

and then the doors part again, and you’re stepping into a hallway that looks like all the others—long, narrow, lit with warm bulbs that hum faintly overhead. the carpet swallows the sound of your steps. you feel like a ghost. like someone halfway between becoming and undoing.

unit 603 is near the end.

you don’t rush toward it. you walk slowly. deliberately. like your body is stalling, trying to delay what’s inevitable. like maybe if you just slow down enough, the tension will go away. the heat in your stomach will ease. 

it doesn’t.

you stop in front of the door and just stand there. you don’t reach for the handle. you don’t knock. you don’t breathe. you just… exist, trembling slightly, caught in the kind of silence that feels like it should be protected.

your eyes drop to your feet. you shift your weight. the strap of your bag digs into your shoulder, and your hand reaches for it without thinking, like it might steady you. your other hand hovers near the door, fingers flexing once, twice, like they want to touch something they don’t believe they deserve.

you don’t knock.

you don’t have to.

you could leave.

you could turn around right now. no one’s seen you yet. you could head back to the elevator, back down to the street, call a new ride, go home, crawl into your bed and cry about it later. tell yourself you’ll find a different way to get the money. a different life.

your heel shifts.

your body starts to turn.

and then, quietly—smoothly—the door opens.

you freeze.

the hallway holds its breath with you.

you don’t know what you expected to see. you don’t know what you hoped he’d look like. you don’t know if you even dared to imagine. maybe you thought he wouldn’t answer. maybe you thought you’d stand out here until the hallway lights went out and the quiet pressed into your lungs so tightly you couldn’t take it anymore. maybe you thought you’d be strong enough to leave.

but now the door is open.

and he’s real.

and everything in your body goes still.

your eyes widen instantly, and for a full second—maybe two—you forget how to move. your fingers curl tighter around the strap of your bag, breath caught at the base of your throat, chest tightening like it’s reacting to something it never thought it would see in real life. because there he is. standing just inches from you. real. solid. and so painfully beautiful it almost feels cruel.

he’s tall, taller than you imagined, his frame filling the doorway with a presence that makes everything behind him blur. his body is broad and built in a way that feels effortless, like he was never trying to be impressive—he just is. his arms are bare, exposed by the loose black tank that clings to the outline of his torso and drapes perfectly over the swell of his chest. his skin is smooth and golden, glowing faintly under the warm hall light, veins barely visible where they run down his thick forearms. he looks strong in the way that matters—not for show, not posed—but like he knows how to use every inch of himself. like he could hold you up and tear you open in the same breath.

his hair is the same cotton candy pink from his previews, but messier now—soft strands falling over his forehead in loose waves, the ends curling just slightly where they brush against his temple. it looks like he’s been running his hands through it all day, and the idea of those hands—big, rough, ringed—tangled in your hair, gripping your hips, wrapped around your throat—makes your stomach twist so tightly you have to shift your weight. a few strands cling to the side of his cheek, the light catching on the moisture like maybe he just showered, or maybe he’s been waiting. pacing. preparing.

his ears are a constellation of silver, pierced through with hoops and cuffs and studs that glitter faintly each time he shifts. one of them dangles slightly—a thin, delicate chain brushing the edge of his jaw. and then your eyes land on his mouth.

and you stop thinking altogether.

his lips are almost too pink. full, soft-looking, the kind that look like they’d leave a stain on your skin no matter where they touched. he has the faintest indent of a bite mark on the lower one, like he’d been chewing at it without realizing, and it glistens slightly with the sheen of spit or gloss or both. you don’t know if you want to kiss him or watch him speak. maybe both. maybe forever.

and then his eyes meet yours.

brown. impossibly dark, but warm. deep in a way that makes you feel like you’ve already said too much, like he’s pulling the truth out of you just by looking. they glimmer faintly in the low light, lined with thick lashes that make him look devastatingly pretty and disarmingly unreadable all at once. there’s a slight drop to his gaze, heavy-lidded like he’s already seeing you undressed. like he’s been seeing you that way from the moment you said yes.

they remind you of boba pearls—glossy and rich and bottomless. and just as dangerous. you feel like you could fall into them without realizing you were drowning until it was already too late.

you’re frozen.

completely and utterly off guard.

this is not what you expected. not what you prepared for. not the image you tried to sketch in your head based on his previews. you thought he might be attractive, sure—maybe even cocky. you assumed he’d be confident, comfortable in his skin, maybe a little smug about how much he’s watched you. but this?

this is something else entirely.

he’s not just beautiful. he’s unreal. he looks like something that stepped out of the fantasy you didn’t even know how to finish. and he’s looking at you like you’re the one that took too long to arrive.

he smirks, soft and knowing. 

“i knew you’d still be here.”

his voice doesn’t just sound good. it sounds dangerous. smooth and rich and low enough to sink through the fabric of your hoodie and press directly into your skin. it’s slower than you expected, a little raspier, like it’s made for private conversations and whispered commands. it doesn’t rise above a murmur, but it fills the space between you completely. it curls under your ears and down your neck and makes your stomach dip so hard it steals your balance for half a second.

you swallow, but your throat is dry.

your heart flutters violently against your ribs, pounding loud enough you wonder if he can hear it. your lips part slightly, maybe to say something, maybe just to breathe, but no sound comes out. your tongue feels too heavy. your mouth is too unsure. and the last thing you want to do is stutter over yourself while he’s standing there, relaxed and perfect and waiting.

your eyebrows pinch together without meaning to—just a small, confused furrow, like your body is trying to process what your brain can’t catch up to. you hadn’t thought this far ahead. hadn’t planned for what it would feel like to be seen like this. not through a screen. not through a message. but here. in person. under his eyes.

you thought you were prepared.

you were wrong.

he doesn’t say anything at first. he just stands there in the doorway, holding it open like it weighs nothing, while your whole body feels impossibly heavy. his gaze is steady, quiet, unwavering—not intense, not invasive, just there. patient. like he’s not surprised you showed up, like he always knew you would. like this moment was never a question.

when he finally shifts to the side, it’s a small, effortless movement—barely more than a step—but it sends something sharp through your chest. he doesn’t gesture. he doesn’t usher you in or flash a grin or try to ease the nerves that are curling tighter in your stomach. he just opens the space. clears the path. leaves it entirely up to you.

you hesitate for a beat longer than you mean to. the hallway feels colder now, the air thinner somehow. your fingers twitch where they’re clenched around the strap of your bag, your heartbeat pressing against the inside of your ribs like it wants out. but your legs move. maybe from instinct, maybe from need, maybe because part of you knows that if you don’t do it now, you never will.

you cross the threshold.

the air inside is warm—soft and still, carrying the faintest trace of something unfamiliar and expensive, something dark and clean and musky like amber or smoke. it hits you in a slow wave, curling up your nose and settling in the back of your throat. you take a shallow breath, then another, but it doesn’t help. everything feels too quiet now. too private. the silence inside the apartment is thicker than the silence outside, not empty, but full—of tension, of weight, of waiting. like the walls know what’s about to happen. like they’ve already seen it a hundred times.

you take a few careful steps forward and stop just inside, unsure what to do with yourself. unsure where to stand, unsure what to look at. your body is taut with nerves and anticipation, your hands suddenly too aware of themselves. your mouth is dry. the sound of the door clicking closed behind you is sharp in your ears, the lock sliding into place like a thread being pulled tight.

you don’t turn to look at him. you can’t. not yet.

his apartment is clean, but not in a soulless way. everything is curated. intentional. the lights are low and warm, tucked beneath shelves and mounted in corners, glowing like dusk instead of buzzing like daylight. the walls are matte, smooth concrete or something close to it, and the furniture is dark—black, deep gray, the kind of colors that drink light instead of reflecting it. a massive bed dominates the space, not tucked into a corner, not hidden behind doors, but bold and unashamed in the middle of the room. the sheets are dark. rumpled. there's a throw blanket tangled at the end, half falling over the side. and scattered around the perimeter of the space, you spot his gear—tripods, light stands, cameras. they’re sleek and familiar, but somehow more intimidating now that they’re not behind a screen.

he gestures toward the kitchen with a small tilt of his head, his hand brushing lightly against your lower back as he leads the way, not forceful—just present. his touch is gentle, careful, a whisper against fabric that leaves warmth in its place as you follow the slow rhythm of his stride. the kitchen glows in soft amber light, casting long shadows across the clean counters and illuminating the faint sheen of condensation on the glass he’s set out for you. it’s quiet here, the kind of quiet that doesn’t press but cradles, wrapping around your shoulders like a weighted blanket. he moves like the silence belongs to him, like he’s always known how to make space feel soft instead of suffocating. the air smells like faint vanilla and spice, like clean linen and a memory you can’t name. you slide onto the stool he pulled out for you, your palms damp against your thighs, the hem of your hoodie gathered loosely in your grip. heeseung remains standing across from you, arms braced on the counter, eyes soft but intent as they meet yours.

“before anything else,” he begins, voice low and smooth, every word laid down like silk on stone, “i want to talk about boundaries.” he doesn’t blink too much when he speaks, doesn’t fidget, just holds your gaze with something steady, like it’s not a challenge but a promise. his hands spread slightly against the marble surface, fingers relaxed, the veins on his forearms faint but visible beneath warm skin. he’s not performing. he’s not playing a part. it’s in the way he waits—silent after each phrase, giving you room to process, not expecting your answer before you’re ready to offer it. “if there’s anything you don’t want to do, say it. if you change your mind mid-way, say it. we stop whenever you say stop, and i won’t ask why.” there’s nothing rehearsed in his tone, no false sweetness, only care shaped by confidence and restraint.

you nod slowly, your eyes dipping toward the glass he set in front of you, its surface dewy against the soft light. your throat is dry, but your voice finds its way through the haze, low and hesitant but certain. “i’m okay with most things,” you say, the words trembling slightly as they leave your lips. he nods as you speak, never interrupting, never shifting his weight too abruptly, like he wants you to feel the space between each word instead of rushing past it. “but it’s been a while,” you admit, your shoulders curling inward slightly, your hands clasping together in your lap. he doesn’t react with surprise or even curiosity—just attentiveness, the kind that feels like a door being held open instead of a window being peered into. “and… i don’t want to show my face,” you finish, the truth dropping into the space between you with more weight than anything else you’ve said. “i want to stay anonymous.”

his expression doesn’t flicker, doesn’t shift into confusion or disappointment—it deepens, softens even, like your request settles into place with ease. “we’ll work around that,” he says, the certainty in his voice firm enough to anchor you, even as your nerves start to pool low in your stomach again. “no face, no identifiers. close shots, over-the-shoulder angles, shallow focus. i’ve done it before, and it works.” he moves slightly, adjusting the way he leans against the counter, one hand tapping once against the glass as if to ground the moment. “this is about what makes you feel good, not what the camera sees,” he adds, voice dipping even lower, like it’s meant to reach beneath your skin. “if you don’t want the world to know it’s you, then they won’t.” your chest eases at that, something unspoken unraveling in your lungs. he doesn’t ask why. he just honors the request like it’s law.

you look up at him then, really look, and his gaze hasn’t drifted once—it’s still locked to yours, patient, open, unreadable but safe. he hasn’t made a single move to close the distance between you again, even though it would be easy. his restraint isn’t cold—it’s reverent, like he’s watching you bloom slowly and doesn’t want to bruise the petals. “thank you,” you say, quieter this time, the words heavy with relief you didn’t realize you were holding. he nods, a small motion that carries more weight than it should, then steps back just enough to gesture toward the hallway. “bathroom’s on the left if you want to change,” he says. “take your time.” you slide off the stool with a breath you didn’t know you were holding, your legs moving on instinct, the pulse between your ribs still uneven but quieter now. you clutch your bag loosely, fingers curled around the strap like a lifeline, and head towards the quiet hall.

the bathroom is clean and warm, wrapped in that same subtle scent of something smooth and expensive and low—soap and eucalyptus and a hint of whatever lived beneath his skin. you lock the door behind you gently, setting your bag on the closed toilet lid, your reflection already waiting for you in the wide mirror. the light here is softer than expected, casting a muted glow over the white tile and catching faintly on the metal fixtures, making everything feel a little too clear. you unzip your bag slowly, each sound exaggerated in the quiet, each movement deliberate but hesitant. the fabric of your hoodie feels heavier now, like it doesn’t want to be peeled away, but you force your hands to keep moving. you fold your jeans with care and lift the set from your bag, the lace cool against your fingers. you pull it on carefully, the straps snug where they wrap around your shoulders, the softness of the fabric suddenly feeling like too much.

you face the mirror again, eyes sweeping slowly over the new version of yourself standing there—exposed, yes, but not ruined. the lingerie hugs you in all the places you thought you wanted to hide, lifting and shaping you into something elegant, something quiet but striking. but even as you look, your stomach knots. you think of the camera. of your body in motion. of being watched, of being remembered. of existing somewhere outside yourself. the doubts creep in slowly, delicate as poison—what if you look awkward? what if you can’t do it? what if he’s disappointed the second he sees you? your fingers brace against the sink, palms flat, knuckles pale, your breathing shallow and uneven. for a moment, you wonder if you should leave before it starts.

but then you think of his voice again—measured, thoughtful, unrushed. you’re in control here. you remember how he looked at you—not like something to consume, but something to hold, to coax open with time. your chest rises and falls once more, slower this time, deeper, steadier. you adjust one last strap, swipe your thumb beneath your bottom lip, and blink once at your reflection. she doesn’t look scared anymore. she looks like someone beginning. you reach for the doorknob and step out into the hallway, the cool air brushing against your skin, your pulse quickening with every step back toward him. and you know, as your bare feet sink silently into the dark flooring—that you’re about to let someone see you, truly, maybe for the first time.

when you return to the room, the silence greets you like a held breath, still and warm and heavier now, coiled around the soft glow of ambient light and the faint hum of something electric in the walls. heeseung is standing near the kitchen still, his posture easy but not casual, one hand resting lightly against the counter, the other falling slowly to his side as he looks at you. his eyes catch on the shape of you like he wasn’t prepared, like he thought he was but somehow still feels like the floor just dropped out beneath him. his gaze sweeps down, slow and deliberate, not in hunger but in reverence, like he’s taking in something rare he’s never seen in full daylight. he doesn’t speak right away, but the silence between you blooms like a confession, every second weighted with something unspoken but deeply understood. your bare feet shift against the hardwood, the coolness of it whispering up your calves, grounding you even as your breath begins to shallow. his lips part slightly, like he wants to say something—maybe a compliment, maybe a request—but nothing comes. and then finally, slowly, he steps forward.

his approach is quiet, not calculated but intentional, his body moving like it already knows how not to startle you, how not to rush, how not to steal. he stops a foot away from you, eyes still holding yours, one corner of his mouth lifted in something soft, something just shy of a smile. you can feel the heat radiating off of him now, feel the quiet pressure of his presence like it’s brushing against your collarbone, your ribs, your thighs. his hand lifts slowly, fingers hovering just beside your arm, and he doesn’t touch you—just lets the air between your skin and his feel thicker than it should. his voice, when it comes, is low and quiet and perfectly clear. “can i show you where we’ll start?” he asks. your lips part, and your nod is small, breathless, but sure. he waits a second longer, then gently tilts his head toward the center of the room.

the bed looks larger now than it did earlier, all shadow and suggestion, the dark linens catching the warm light and folding it into softness. you follow him slowly, each step silent, deliberate, your nerves curling into your spine and blooming down your arms like smoke. the mattress dips faintly under your weight as you sit, the fabric cool beneath your thighs, your back straight but uncertain. heeseung lowers himself beside you, not quite touching, his knees bent and body angled toward yours like he’s shielding you from the rest of the room. his hand rests on the bed between you, close enough that your pinky grazes his knuckle, but he still doesn’t reach. his eyes find yours again, deeper now, full of something steadier than want. he breathes in, slow and even, his tongue wetting his bottom lip before he speaks. “can i kiss you?” he asks, and it’s not a whisper—it’s a vow.

your heart stutters in your chest, not from fear, not from surprise, but from the weight of being asked—of being given the choice. the air around you hums with heat, not the kind that scorches but the kind that builds, lingers, waits for ignition. you meet his eyes fully now, let yourself hold there, let him see what it means for you to say yes. your voice is quiet when it comes, but steady, a single word laced with permission. “yes.” he doesn’t move all at once—he moves like something precious, something unfolding, his hand lifting first to cup your jaw, fingers warm where they press against your cheek. your breath catches when he leans in, not because you’re afraid, but because you’ve never been kissed like this—not yet, not even now. his nose brushes yours, a breath shared in the space between, and then, gently, he closes the gap.

his lips are soft but sure, pressing against yours with a slow ache that makes your knees curl into the mattress and your fingers tighten in your lap. he kisses you like he’s reading you, like every tilt of his head is a question and every pull of his lips is an answer you didn’t know you could give. his hand stays on your jaw, his thumb tracing lightly against your cheekbone, grounding you even as your pulse picks up. there’s no rush, no hunger, no desperation—just heat, slow and sinking, pouring into your spine and rising up behind your ribs. you kiss him back with equal weight, not matching his rhythm but meeting it, finding your own within it. the room feels quieter now, the lights dimmer, the air denser with the sound of your shared breathing and the subtle hitch of your chest when he shifts closer. his other hand moves to your thigh, not gripping, just resting there, heavy and warm.

when he pulls back, it’s not abrupt—it’s a soft retreat, like he’s giving you time to breathe, to think, to want more. he stays close, his forehead resting lightly against yours, the bridge of his nose brushing your own, his thumb still stroking your cheek. his eyes are closed for a moment, and when they open again, there’s something darker in them—still soft, but heavier now, like want coiled behind patience. you don’t speak. you don’t need to. your body is already leaning forward again, your lips parting just slightly as your breath mingles with his. he waits, just a second, just to be sure, and then you feel the kiss again—deeper this time, fuller, still slow but firmer, like he’s letting go of a layer he’d been holding back. your hand lifts to his chest, pressing lightly against the cotton of his shirt, feeling the heat of him through the fabric, the steady beat of his heart.

you’re not sure when it happens—when your thighs brush, when his hand slides slightly higher on your leg, when your breath comes faster—but it’s there now, pulsing between your bodies. you’re not overwhelmed. you’re alive. every nerve alert, every part of you tuned to the press of his mouth and the pressure of his palm and the low sound he makes when your lips part just enough for him to taste you. it’s not just a kiss—it’s something more deliberate. a grounding. a beginning. and it feels exactly like it should. when he pulls away again, his eyes meet yours, searching—not for doubt, but for reassurance, for confirmation that you’re still here, still with him, still choosing this. and you are.

he doesn’t rush the question—he asks it like he’s offering you the last word in a language only the two of you speak. “are you ready?” heeseung says, and it sounds less like a formality and more like a thread of silk brushing across your skin, soft and waiting. you pause for half a breath, letting the moment linger there between your chest and his voice, letting it settle just behind your ribs. you meet his eyes, steady now, your heart loud but your voice quiet and sure. “yes,” you answer, and it lands softly, but it rings through the room like a bell. heeseung gives you a single nod—silent, smooth, composed—and then turns slightly toward the camera. the lens is positioned precisely, angled just enough to capture the space you share while keeping your identity untouched. he reaches for the remote resting on the bedside table, presses one button, and the soft red light comes on.

the room doesn’t change when it starts recording—it just feels heavier. the silence stretches a little longer, the air thickens a little deeper, and your skin starts to feel like it’s holding more than just heat. he doesn’t turn to the camera. he doesn’t acknowledge the lens. his eyes are on you, and only you. heeseung takes a slow breath and shifts his position on the bed, moving a little closer, the dip of the mattress drawing your knees toward his. his hand reaches up, fingertips brushing lightly against your jaw, and his touch is warm, sure, almost grounding. he watches your reaction like it’s the only thing he needs to see to move forward—like your body gives permission long before your mouth does. “can i kiss you?” he asks again, even now, when you’ve already said yes to everything else. and when you nod—small, breathless, trembling a little—he moves in with a reverence that feels like worship.

his lips meet yours with the kind of care that makes your chest ache, a kiss not rushed or shallow but deliberate, slow and full of intention. he doesn’t press for more than you give—he lets the rhythm unfold with time, lets your lips part when they’re ready, lets the tension curl warm and slow between your knees. his hand stays cradling your cheek, thumb stroking the soft skin just beneath your eye, as if he’s memorizing the exact way you feel beneath his fingers. your breath stutters slightly when the kiss deepens, when his mouth opens just enough to taste you, when your tongue brushes his in something quiet but certain. his other hand finds your thigh again, not moving higher, not demanding, just resting there—heavy and warm and present. you kiss him back with something softer than desperation, something more vulnerable than lust. your fingers twitch, aching to hold onto something, and when they finally curl into the edge of his shirt, he lets out a breath that sounds a little too much like relief.

he doesn’t speak when he pulls back—he just watches you, eyes dark and steady, breathing a little heavier than before. your forehead brushes his, your mouths still so close they could reunite with a single breath, and the quiet feels louder now than anything else in the room. you feel his fingers flex against your thigh once, like he’s holding something back, like he’s still giving you room to shift or stop or say anything else. but you don’t. you just nod again, slower this time, your eyes half-lidded, mouth still tingling with the press of his. “good,” he whispers, and the word moves through you like heat. then his hand slides—just slightly, just above your knee—tracing the edge of your thigh with the same patience he kissed you with.

his lips find yours again before the silence can thicken too much, and this time the kiss is heavier, more certain, laced with the tension that’s been building since you stepped inside his apartment. his hand doesn’t rush higher, doesn’t slide beneath your lace just yet—it just lingers, exploring the softness of your skin in slow strokes that burn like silk dragged over bare flame. you part your lips more eagerly now, letting him taste the corners of your breath, letting his tongue find yours in something messier, something that leaves your lungs stuttering and your thighs tightening together. your fingers drag up his chest, slow and careful, the fabric of his shirt warm beneath your touch, the steady drum of his heart loud enough to match your own. heeseung groans softly against your mouth when your grip tightens—low and hushed, like the sound slipped out without permission.

when he pulls back again, it’s only to look at you—really look, his gaze trailing from your eyes down to your lips, then back again, lingering like he doesn’t know where he wants to settle most. your breathing is ragged now, lips kiss-bruised and chest rising in slow, uneven swells, your hands still resting against his collarbones like you’re afraid he might float away if you let go. his thumb brushes across your bottom lip once, dragging lightly over the spot where his teeth had pressed seconds before. “you okay?” he murmurs, not because he thinks you’re not—but because he wants to hear it from you. you nod again, slower this time, your voice catching in your throat as you answer. “yes,” you whisper, and your legs shift slightly where they’re tucked under you on the bed.

heeseung leans in again—not to kiss you this time, but to trail his nose down the curve of your cheek, to inhale the scent of your skin where it glows faintly warm. his lips press against the corner of your mouth, then the edge of your jaw, slow and reverent, like he’s tasting gratitude. his hand moves again, slightly higher this time, fingertips tracing the underside of your thigh, still careful, still asking. his lips find your collarbone, pressing once, then again, just beneath the strap of your lingerie. his teeth graze the edge of your skin there, not biting, just lingering, a question written in touch instead of speech. and when you tilt your head to give him more room, heeseung breathes out a soft, broken sound against your neck that makes your core clench and your pulse spike.

“you like that, baby?” he asks, his voice husky against your skin, his teeth grazing your shoulder—but never biting, never hard enough to leave a trace. you nod, breathless, and tilt your head back further, offering your throat like instinct, letting him kiss and suck and worship without ever crossing the boundary. his hand tightens gently around your thigh, holding you still as your hips roll against his palm, wetness soaking through the lace with each drag. the moan you let out is quiet but needy, slipping out against his ear as he nuzzles beneath it and hums in return.

his fingers pause just at the hem of the lace, the pads of them slipping under with a kind of patience that makes your lungs seize and your hips twitch. the fabric drags slightly against your folds as he shifts it to the side, the air hitting your bare heat and making you tremble despite the warmth of the room. he groans under his breath when he finally feels you, his fingertips gliding slowly through your slick, parting you so delicately it makes you clench around nothing. your thighs try to close out of reflex, but his palm presses gently against the inside of one, guiding them apart without force—just the weight of intent. his mouth is still at your neck, lips soft, kissing lazily beneath your jaw as if he isn’t already making you fall apart with nothing but his hand. “you’re soaked for me,” he breathes, lips brushing the edge of your earlobe now, and the sound of it nearly makes you whimper. his fingers drag through your folds again, this time stopping at your clit, circling it slowly in wet, aching spirals. you’re already shaking, your head dropping back slightly as the pleasure coils tighter in your core.

heeseung doesn’t rush the motion, doesn’t press harder than necessary, just works your clit with the kind of care that makes your vision blur and your body hum with electricity. his fingers are long and warm, slick with you, moving in soft, controlled circles that never lose rhythm, never falter. every time your hips shift to chase the pressure, he meets you halfway, adjusting the angle, letting you grind subtly against the heel of his palm. his other hand stays at your waist now, anchoring you in place, thumb rubbing gentle strokes into your hip like he’s reminding you to stay with him. his mouth hasn’t left your neck, only moved lower, teeth grazing your skin without ever biting, lips pressing over every place your pulse flutters wild beneath your flesh. “that’s it,” he whispers, low and soothing, “just like that, baby…” your breath is broken now, little gasps slipping out between parted lips, and you can barely keep your eyes open, your lashes fluttering as the pleasure builds deeper in your belly. your fingers reach for his arm, gripping at his wrist like it’s the only thing tethering you to the bed beneath you.

he kisses down your neck with the same rhythm he’s touching you, soft and unhurried, lips brushing along the delicate edge of your collarbone like he wants to memorize it with his mouth. your skin is warm beneath his tongue, flushed and trembling, and his breath leaves it damp as he continues to move lower. his fingers never stop working your clit, thumb pressed gently but firmly, circling in slow, wet loops that make your thighs twitch and your hips rock forward on instinct. you can feel the weight of him between your legs without him even being there yet, just his hand and his mouth and the thick tension swirling in your core like a storm waiting to snap. he lifts his head for a moment to look at you—eyes dark, wide, mouth flushed from kissing your skin—and the way he looks at you makes something ache deep in your chest. “you tell me if it’s too much, okay?” and when you nod, breathless and already shaking, he finally slides his middle finger down and pushes it slowly inside.

you gasp—high and sharp, your mouth falling open as the stretch hits, not painful but deep, too real, too much after so long without. his finger sinks in carefully, inch by inch, and he watches your face the whole time, like every twitch in your brow and shift in your hips is more important than anything else in the world. your walls pulse around him, already clenching tight, wet and warm and so reactive his jaw tightens with the effort of keeping his own hips still. he exhales against your collarbone and presses his lips there again, kissing gently as he begins to move the finger in and out, slow and shallow. his thumb keeps working your clit, synced perfectly with the curl of his finger as he searches for that spot inside you that will make you crumble. you can’t speak—your breath is too staggered, your moans too broken to shape into words—but the way your body arches toward him says enough. “fuck, you feel so good,” he murmurs, kissing just beneath the swell of your chest, his voice vibrating through your skin. “you’re perfect like this.”

your breath hitches when he curls the single finger inside you again, the slow glide of it dragging perfectly against your walls, thick and precise like he knows exactly where to touch without needing to be told. your body is already arching into him, your hips grinding down against his hand as the slick sounds between your thighs grow louder, needier, messier. he doesn’t tease—not once—he keeps the rhythm steady, intentional, with every motion designed to draw the tension higher, to coax your body open instead of ripping it wide. when your walls begin to flutter, tightening around him with the kind of resistance that begs for more, he presses a kiss to your sternum, right between your breasts, and lifts his head just slightly. “gonna give you two, baby,” he whispers, lips brushing over your skin as he speaks, his voice dark and low and reverent. “i want you to take it slow for me, yeah?” you nod, breathless, your nails digging into his forearm as his finger slowly pulls out. the moment his second finger presses in beside the first, your mouth falls open on a soft, broken moan. the stretch burns for a second, sharp and thick, but his thumb keeps circling your clit, and the pleasure blooms fast enough to swallow the sting.

his lips part as he watches the way your body reacts—your thighs trembling, your hips jerking up, your slick coating his fingers as he begins to move them in a slow, twisting rhythm that makes your stomach flutter. heeseung groans softly, his forehead brushing your chest as he sinks lower, dragging the flat of his tongue along the curve of your breast with aching care. “so fucking tight,” he breathes against your skin, his voice thick with restraint, his jaw clenched as your pussy clenches down on his fingers. “you feel unbelievable, baby.” his mouth moves to your breast, kissing softly over the top of it, then trailing down until his lips brush over your nipple through the thin lace. he sucks gently, just enough to make you whimper, and the combination of his mouth and his hand makes your eyes roll back into your head. his fingers curl inside you again, deeper this time, pressing right against that spot that makes your whole body jerk, and he doesn’t stop—he does it again, and again, and again. your back arches off the bed, your fingers clutching the sheets now, your breath coming in broken little pants that you can’t control.

he pulls the lace down with his teeth—slow and controlled, his mouth never leaving your skin—and when your nipple is bare, he takes it into his mouth like it’s something sacred. the suction is warm, wet, steady, and his tongue flicks just enough to make your core tighten dangerously around his fingers. every motion feels choreographed, like his entire body is synced to yours—your breath, your pulse, your need, all dictating the way he moves. his fingers fuck into you slow but deep, knuckles brushing your soaked entrance with every stroke, the squelch of your arousal thick in the air between your bodies. his thumb never leaves your clit, drawing small, precise circles that keep you trembling, unable to come down from the tension he keeps pulling tighter and tighter. “you’re doing so good,” he murmurs, voice muffled against your chest, “taking me so well, baby, just like that.” your hands move instinctively, threading into his hair, tugging gently at the soft strands as your head tips back into the pillow. he groans at the touch—low and needy—and his pace shifts slightly, fingers thrusting just a little faster, a little rougher, still watching your every breath.

your thighs begin to tremble uncontrollably, the pleasure peaking in your lower belly, every muscle tensing like you’re caught on the edge of something massive. you can barely speak, barely form a thought, the only thing in your mind is him—his hand, his mouth, the deep pull of his voice every time he praises you. he lets go of your nipple only to kiss a path across your chest to the other, his lips never leaving your skin, his breath fanning out over every inch he touches. “you gonna cum for me?” he whispers, his voice shaking now, wrecked with how wet you are, how tight you are, how you’ve soaked his hand with nothing but slow kisses and a little praise. “let me feel you cum, sweetheart.” your body jerks when his thumb presses harder against your clit, circling faster, and your moan breaks—loud, breathy, raw. your hips buck, your walls clamp down around his fingers, and everything inside you snaps.

you cum with a force that steals your breath, your body seizing beneath him, your voice reduced to high, desperate whimpers as the orgasm crashes through you. he doesn’t stop—his fingers slow but stay buried inside you, his thumb softening into soothing strokes, guiding you through the aftershocks as your legs tremble and your stomach flutters. his lips kiss over your chest again, murmuring sweet, quiet things into your skin—“so good for me,” “so beautiful,” “you’re perfect like this”—until the tension in your limbs begins to fade. he finally pulls his fingers out, slowly, carefully, and your pussy twitches with the absence, fluttering around nothing, still dripping with your release. he lifts his hand, coated in your slick, and glances at you once with heat in his eyes before licking his fingers clean, slow and shameless. your chest rises and falls in uneven waves, your eyes glassy, your thighs sticky and trembling where they rest open. and all he does is smile—soft, sinful, and absolutely wrecked—with the taste of you still on his tongue.

he climbs over you slowly, the mattress shifting with his weight as he settles between your legs, his thighs bracketing yours while your slick coats the sheets beneath you. his hands press gently into your hips, guiding you back into the center of the bed, keeping you open for him as his mouth finds your throat again. you feel the heavy drag of his cock through his sweatpants, thick and hard, pressing flush against your soaked slit with nothing but damp fabric between you. the sensation makes your head fall back into the pillow, a sharp gasp catching in your throat as your hips roll up, grinding against him without even meaning to. he groans, a low, guttural sound that vibrates in his chest and melts into the curve of your neck as his lips drag down to your shoulder. “fuck… you feel that?” he rasps, his hips rocking down just once, slow and deliberate, forcing a desperate moan from the back of your throat. he grinds again, firmer this time, the head of his cock catching perfectly against your clit through the soaked material, and it makes your eyes flutter closed. “so messy for me already, baby.”

your moan slips out before you can stop it, soft and high and cracked open with heat. 

“heeseung…” his name trembling on your tongue like a secret that finally escaped. his whole body jerks at the sound, like he wasn’t expecting to hear it, like it did something to him that he wasn’t ready for. he lifts his head, eyes dark and wide and hungry, his breath hot against your cheek as his hand slides up to cup your jaw. “say that again,” he breathes, thumb brushing your bottom lip, voice low and tight like he’s barely holding it together. “please, baby—say my name again.” you do—whispered at first, then louder, your moan broken around it as your hips buck up into his again, grinding shamelessly into the thick line of his cock. “heeseung…” you whimper, and he lets out a sound that’s half a growl, half a praise, pressing his forehead to yours as his hips grind down harder. “fuck, just like that,” he groans. “keep saying it. don’t stop.”

you can barely think anymore, the friction dragging over your sensitive clit, your core still pulsing from your orgasm, your skin too hot and your breath too fast. heeseung keeps rocking against you, not thrusting, just grinding, slow and deep, letting the drag of his cock over your soaked folds speak for itself. every roll of his hips pushes a new moan from your mouth, and every time his name leaves your lips, his rhythm falters like he’s losing control one syllable at a time. he’s not speaking now—just breathing, hard and fast, his mouth open against your shoulder as he chases the pressure, the heat, the tension pulling tight in his spine. his hands are on your hips again, holding you down as you writhe beneath him, his name falling from your lips in messy, broken cries that make his cock twitch harder against you. “god, you’re driving me fucking insane,” he chokes out, grinding harder now, faster, like he needs the friction or he’s going to snap. “i could cum like this—just like this, fuck—just from you saying my name like that.”

you’re soaked again already, the wet drag of your pussy against his cock leaving a dark, sticky stain on his sweats, and the sound of it makes your face burn. he kisses your jaw again, his lips soft and reverent, like he’s grounding himself before he loses what little control he has left. “you make me so fucking hard, baby,” he groans, voice rough against your ear, “you don’t even know what you do to me.” his hips stutter as you arch up, grinding harder, needier, chasing the pressure and the weight of him and the sound of your name in his mouth. your fingers claw at his back now, slipping under his shirt, dragging your nails down the smooth muscle there as he grinds again and again. his name falls from your lips like a chant now, breathless and ruined and wrecked, and each time he reacts—his hips jerking, his teeth biting down on a moan, his hands gripping you tighter. “again,” he begs, lips at your throat. “say it again—please.”

heeseung pulls back just slightly, just enough to sit up on his knees between your thighs, the cool air brushing over your sticky skin in the wake of his body. his eyes never leave you as he lifts his shirt with one hand and tosses it aside, exposing lean lines and smooth muscle, his chest flushed with heat, his collarbones glistening faintly in the low light. your breath catches, and before you can even say anything, he’s dragging his fingers down the waistband of his sweats, sliding them low on his hips until his cock finally springs free—thick, hard, flushed deep red at the tip and already slicked with precum. your thighs twitch at the sight of him, your mouth parting on instinct as your eyes drop and your stomach coils at the sheer size of him. he watches you watch him, and the look on his face shifts into something darker—needier—like he knows exactly how you’re feeling. “you want it?” he asks, his voice a low rasp as he wraps a hand around the base and strokes once, slow and tight. “you wanna feel it, baby?” you nod quickly, breathless, the answer already written across your body in the way your legs part further, your back arches, your fingers curl into the sheets.

he lowers himself again, one hand steadying his cock, the other gripping your thigh as he settles between you, his body flush against yours once more. the first drag of him through your folds punches a moan straight out of you, loud and broken, your hips jolting upward as the thick head of his cock slides perfectly over your clit. heeseung groans low in his chest, teeth clenched as he guides himself back and forth, letting your slick coat his shaft, every motion slow and heavy and deliberate. “fuck—so wet,” he mutters, his voice wrecked, breath catching as the head of his cock catches at your entrance before he pulls back again. he doesn’t press in yet—he just teases you, again and again, the tip dragging down your slit, catching, slipping, soaking. “say it again,” he whispers, leaning down to kiss the corner of your mouth as he rocks his hips forward just enough to make you feel every inch of him. “say my name like you did before.” you moan it again—soft, breathless, full of want, and it makes him hiss through his teeth, his forehead dropping to yours.

he keeps moving his hips, sliding his cock over your pussy in slow, deep grinds that make the head catch at your entrance just enough to make your walls flutter and your thighs shake. heeseung’s breathing hard now, the muscles in his arms flexing beside your head, sweat starting to gather at the nape of his neck as he holds himself above you. “you feel that?” he groans, cock slick and heavy between your folds, grinding against your clit with every roll of his hips. “you feel how fucking hard i am for you?” you nod, gasping, your back arching off the bed as your body chases more pressure, more friction, more him. “i could do this all night,” he rasps, voice cracking against your throat. “just like this—grinding my cock on you while you moan my name like that.” 

“heeseung…fuck..” you whimper it again and he nearly loses it, his hips stuttering, cock twitching, precum smearing hot across your swollen clit. “fuck, baby. don’t stop.”

you don’t—you can’t. the way he feels against you is too much and still not enough, the thick head of his cock dragging through your folds, slicking you up more with every stroke. your pussy is dripping now, soaked and swollen and clenching on nothing, desperate for him, but he just keeps teasing—keeps grinding—like he’s determined to make you come again before he even gets inside. he leans down to kiss you again, tongue messy and breath ragged, and his hips roll deeper, grinding the head of his cock harder against your clit until you cry out into his mouth. “say it again,” he whispers between kisses, his voice hoarse, eyes burning into yours. “say it while i make you come just like this.” you moan it again and again—his name spilling off your lips like prayer, like surrender—and the sound of it makes him twitch, makes him curse, makes his cock slide lower and nudge right at your entrance again. you gasp, trembling, and he pulls back just barely, smirking against your lips. “yeah… just like that.”

heeseung doesn’t speak at first—he just looks at you, eyes locked to yours, breath coming heavy as he reaches down to line himself up with your entrance. the swollen head of his cock rests right against your soaked slit, and you feel it twitch, leaking more precum that drips down over your folds as you clench around nothing. his hand tightens on your thigh, holding you open for him, and when he pushes just the tip in, you both moan—his, low and broken in his chest, yours sharp and high as the stretch hits hard and fast. “fuck…” he breathes, voice cracking as his forehead drops against yours, “you’re so fucking tight.” your walls flutter around him already, pulling him in instinctively, and it takes everything in him not to sink in all at once. “relax for me,” he whispers, kissing the corner of your mouth as he strokes your side with his free hand, “breathe, baby… let me in.” you nod, your legs trembling, your nails digging into his biceps, and with one slow, steady push, he eases in another inch. the burn is intense, but it’s exactly what you need—he’s so big, so thick, and your body is clenching so hard it makes your vision blur.

he stills halfway in, giving you a second to adjust, his mouth pressed to your jaw as he breathes through his nose and murmurs softly into your skin. “you feel unreal,” he says, voice wrecked, like he’s speaking through gritted teeth just to keep control, “so warm… so wet… you’re fucking perfect.” your body trembles beneath him, thighs twitching, toes curling, your hips arching off the mattress in a slow, involuntary motion that makes him groan deep and filthy. his hands move to cradle your hips, holding you steady as he rolls his in return, easing another inch into your soaked heat. the stretch makes your eyes flutter shut, makes your mouth fall open in a breathless moan that turns into a plea, your fingers gripping the sheets now. “heeseung…” you cry, broken and sweet, and it makes his cock twitch deep inside you, his hips rocking forward until he’s fully seated, the base of him pressed snug to your aching folds. “fuck, that’s it,” he growls, his jaw clenched, sweat starting to bead along his temple, “you’re taking me so well, baby… so fucking good for me.”

he doesn’t move yet—he just stays there, deep inside you, letting your walls pulse and flutter around his cock while he kisses your temple and whispers through shaky breaths. your pussy clenches again, so tight and hot that he has to squeeze his eyes shut to keep from coming too fast, and his hand lifts to brush your hair back from your face, his thumb sweeping over your cheekbone. “i can feel you squeezing me,” he whispers, so low it almost sounds reverent, “like your body doesn’t wanna let me go.” you nod, whimpering, your whole body buzzing from how full you are—how stretched, how completely consumed by him you feel. his cock fits inside you like it was made for it, like every vein and curve was molded to your walls, every inch pushing against spots you didn’t know were there. “you’re so deep,” you whisper, voice shaky, breath caught, and he presses a kiss to your lips again—soft, open-mouthed, messy. “i know, baby,” he says, and the way he says it—like it’s a promise—makes your whole body tremble again. “you want more?”

his hips pull back slowly, just enough to make you feel the stretch of his cock leaving your body, the drag so thick and heavy it makes your breath hitch. your walls flutter at the loss, already aching to be full again, but before the whine can slip out, heeseung thrusts forward—slow and smooth, burying himself back inside you until your bodies are flush again. the moan that escapes you is soft and breathless, your fingers clutching at his shoulders as your back arches, your chest pressing into his. “that’s it,” he breathes against your ear, his voice low and shaking with restraint, “just like that, baby—take it.” he sets a rhythm that’s deliberate, not fast, just deep—so deep—like every stroke is meant to make you remember the exact shape of him. the bed rocks beneath you in soft, steady pulses, the slick sound of your bodies filling the space between each breath. your pussy clenches around him with every thrust, soaking his cock with more wetness, and he groans, long and low, his mouth brushing the side of your neck. “you’re so fucking tight,” he says, the words barely a whisper, “you’re milking my cock, baby…”

you cry out his name again, broken and high, your voice shaking as your hips start to move in sync with his, meeting each stroke with the kind of desperation that makes your thighs burn. heeseung’s hand slides up your body, past your waist, your ribs, and finally settles around your throat—not squeezing, just holding, his thumb brushing softly against your jaw. “keep saying it,” he tells you, fucking you deeper now, his strokes heavier, thicker, the drag of his cock so intense it makes your eyes roll back. “say my name while i’m inside you.” and you do—his name tumbling out between gasps, your lips parted, your moans turning to pleading whispers that make his pace stutter. heeseung’s head drops to your shoulder, his breath hot and ragged, his teeth grazing your skin as he tries to keep control. “fuck, you feel so good,” he groans, his voice raw now, wrecked, as he drives back in deeper. “you were made for this—you were made for me.” your nails dig into his back, dragging down his spine, your walls clenching again, tighter, hungrier.

his thrusts grow a little rougher now, not fast but more forceful, each one punching moans from your chest and making the bed creak beneath you. the rhythm is everything—steady and perfect, his hips rolling with precision, never breaking contact, always dragging back just to push deeper again. his hand on your throat moves to cradle your jaw now, tilting your head so he can kiss you, sloppy and breathless and open, your tongues tangling as you moan into each other’s mouths. his other hand grips your hip harder, holding you still as he grinds deep into your core, your clit brushing against his pelvis with every thrust. your pussy is soaking him now, slick dripping down his cock, your inner thighs sticky, your skin flushed and trembling. “you’re so fucking beautiful like this,” he says, kissing down your neck again, “i could stay buried in you forever.” and he means it—you can hear it in the way he moans when your walls tighten, in the way he slows down just to feel it, in the way his voice cracks when he says your name again. “don’t stop, baby. don’t stop saying it.”

heeseung’s lips don’t leave your skin as he slowly starts to move again, his cock still deep inside you, twitching slightly from the last wave of pleasure. your body is warm and pliant beneath him, flushed and wrecked and trembling, but still hungry—your walls fluttering around him like they’re begging for more. he lifts his head slowly, brushing his thumb across your cheek, and you see it in his eyes—there’s no hesitation left, just need, raw and open and laced with something darker now. “turn over for me,” he murmurs, voice thick and low, like the words are dragging out of his throat from somewhere heavy. he leans back just enough to let his cock slide out, and even the loss of him makes your body ache, your pussy clenching at the emptiness. you move without thinking, already shifting beneath him, rolling to your stomach as your thighs tremble against the mattress. his hands are on your hips instantly, lifting you up just enough so your ass tilts higher, your chest pressed to the sheets, your back arched beautifully for him. “just like that, baby,” he groans, one hand sliding down your spine, the other gripping your ass as he positions himself behind you, “fucking perfect.”

you feel him again—his cock dragging slow between your soaked folds, thick and hot and still dripping with both of you as he lines himself back up with your entrance. your breath hitches when the head presses against your hole again, pushing in with that same slow, stretching pressure that makes your jaw drop open. he slides in deeper this time, the angle sharper, the thrust more intense as he sinks into you inch by inch, both of you moaning as he fills you back up completely. “fuck—you’re tighter like this,” he groans, hands gripping your hips hard now, thumbs digging into the softness of your skin as he pulls you back onto him. you’re gasping into the sheets, your hands fisting the covers, your knees spread wide as your pussy takes him all the way to the base. the new angle hits deeper, rougher—his cock dragging against spots that make you cry out, your body jolting with every thrust. “look at you,” he breathes, hips snapping forward, his cock slamming into you now with full control, “taking me so good, baby… so fucking deep.” your moans get louder, more desperate, your voice breaking on his name as you start to fall apart all over again.

he builds a rhythm that feels brutal and perfect, his hips slamming against your ass, the clap of skin on skin echoing through the room with every thrust. your walls are soaked now, slick running down your thighs, the mess of your first orgasm coating both of you and making every stroke louder, wetter, filthier. heeseung growls under his breath as he leans forward, one hand sliding up your back to tangle in your hair, gently pulling your head up so your cheek turns toward him. “say it again,” he demands, breath hot against your ear as he pounds into you from behind, “say my name while i fuck you like this.” your voice shakes as you sob it out—“heeseung, heeseung, heeseung”—and the sound of it makes his hips stutter, his grip tighten, his cock jerk inside you. “that’s it, baby—keep moaning for me,” he groans, his hand sliding down your front now, finding your clit again and rubbing tight circles while he keeps thrusting into you hard and deep. your legs tremble, your elbows give out, your chest sinking into the sheets as your second orgasm starts building fast, burning low and hot and uncontrollable.

his thrusts grow slower, deeper, deliberate again—not to ease you, but to let you feel it all, to make your body stretch around every inch of him like it’s learning him. he doesn’t say anything for a second, just breathes through clenched teeth, his hands gripping your hips like handles as he watches the way his cock disappears into your soaked pussy with every roll of his hips. your moans are soft and broken, spilling into the pillow as you push back to meet his rhythm, the pressure building inside you sharp and sweet. “you’re dripping, baby,” he pants, voice dark and strained, “can you hear that?” and you can—the filthy, wet squelch every time he fucks into you, your slick coating his cock, the mess of both your bodies echoing in the quiet room. his fingers tighten around your hips, dragging you into him harder now, the new angle hitting deeper, the tip of his cock nudging your cervix in a way that makes your back arch and your breath catch. “i’m not gonna stop,” he groans, and he means it—you can feel it in the way his body moves, like he’s addicted to the way you take him. “not until i feel you cum on me again.” his voice breaks on the last word, and you choke on a moan, your thighs already starting to tremble from how close you are.

his free hand slides down again, slipping between your legs to circle your clit with his fingers—still soaked from earlier, still trembling with how sensitive you are. “i know you’re close,” he says, breath hot against your back as he leans over you, his cock still grinding deep into your pussy with slow, firm thrusts, “i can feel it—you’re squeezing me so tight.” your body jerks under him, your hands clawing at the sheets, your moans broken and high as the pleasure builds higher, tighter, hotter. he doesn’t let up—not with his cock, not with his hand—he keeps fucking you slow and hard, his fingers pressing tight circles against your clit until your legs shake uncontrollably. “come on, baby,” he whispers, voice right in your ear now, “cum for me again—cum on my cock, let me feel it.” and the way he says it—so low, so desperate—breaks something open inside you. your pussy clamps down, walls fluttering in tight, wet pulses as your second orgasm takes hold, crashing over you harder than the first. “fuck—heeseung!” you cry, your voice breaking, your whole body convulsing under him as you cum, hips jerking wildly, back arching, mouth open and gasping.

heeseung groans loud—filthy—his hands grabbing your hips tight as your pussy squeezes around him, your slick spilling down his cock and dripping onto the sheets. “holy fuck,” he growls, hips stuttering, his pace falling apart as he ruts into you hard, deep, chasing his own release now. “you feel—so good—so fucking good,” he moans, each word punched out between heavy, desperate thrusts. your body is limp beneath him, ruined and twitching, but he holds you up, keeps you open, keeps driving into you like he can’t stop. “i’m gonna cum,” he gasps, “gonna cum inside you again, baby—fuck—i’m not pulling out.” your moan is soft, breathless, nothing but wrecked permission. heeseung groans, loud and broken, as he thrusts deep one last time and spills into you, hot and thick, his cum flooding your pussy in long, heavy pulses. he doesn’t stop moving, not right away—he keeps grinding into you, burying it deeper, fucking it up into your sore, overstimulated cunt like he wants it to stay. your walls twitch around him, fluttering from the aftershocks, your breath shallow as he collapses forward, his chest pressed to your back, sweat-slick and panting.

he stays inside you as long as your body lets him, his cock twitching with every breath, his cum warm and sticky between your thighs, leaking down onto the sheets. his arms wrap around your middle, pulling you close, holding you still as your body shivers beneath his, overstimulated and buzzing. he kisses your shoulder slowly, reverently, murmuring soft things you barely register—“you were perfect,” “i didn’t want to stop,” “you’re so fucking good.” his voice is hoarse, wrecked from moaning your name, from holding back, from fucking you like he meant it. your eyes flutter closed, your body loose and heavy, your chest rising and falling with each shaky breath. heeseung doesn’t move, doesn’t let you go—his arms stay locked around your waist, his cock still half-hard inside you, like he can’t stand the idea of being anywhere else. “stay like this for a minute,” he whispers, kissing the back of your neck. “just like this, baby… let me feel you a little longer.”

heeseung’s chest rises and falls against your back, each breath brushing over your shoulder as his arms slowly loosen around your waist, just enough to let you shift. you let out a soft sound—half-whimper, half-sigh—and he presses a kiss to your spine, so featherlight it almost doesn’t register. “hold on,” he whispers, low and hoarse, and he pulls out carefully, the slow drag of his cock making your body twitch as his cum begins to slip out of you. he steadies your hips with one hand, still gentle, still warm, and reaches for the small remote near the bedside table with the other. you hear the soft beep as he presses the button, the red light fading instantly, the lens no longer watching, no longer recording. he exhales deeply, like some part of him only now lets go, and he sets the remote aside before turning back to you. “it’s off,” he says softly, brushing your hair back from your face, his fingers trembling just slightly. “it’s just us now.”you hum faintly in response, eyes half-closed, body limp and heavy against the mattress, and heeseung smiles—small, crooked, fond—before leaning down to kiss your temple. “you did so fucking good,” he murmurs, his voice all warmth now, rough around the edges but soft with pride, with affection. he moves slowly, lifting himself from the bed and disappearing for just a moment, the faint sound of running water coming from down the hall. when he returns, his hands are full—warm washcloth, small towel, a bottle of water already uncapped. he kneels beside you again, coaxing you onto your back with a careful hand on your hip, and when your body winces from the soreness, he just nods. “i’ve got you,” he says gently, his eyes full of something deep and quiet. he cleans you up slowly, thoroughly, without rushing—starting at your thighs, then between your legs, wiping away the mess with care, never looking away from your face.

the rag is warm, soft, comforting against your skin, and his touch never loses its patience, even when you shiver or twitch from the overstimulation. “tell me if it’s too much,” he says, barely louder than a breath, his hand resting lightly on your knee as he presses the cloth between your legs once more. your voice is weak when you say “you’re okay,” but it’s enough—his shoulders relax, and he finishes the last gentle sweep before setting the rag aside and covering you with the clean towel. he presses another kiss to your thigh this time, lingering, almost reverent, before he climbs back into bed beside you, body warm, arms open. “come here,” he whispers, and you move slowly, shakily, letting him pull you into his chest. the moment you settle against him, everything melts—his hand in your hair, your cheek against his collarbone, the steady thump of his heart beneath your ear grounding you completely. “you’re everything,” he says again, and this time it isn’t just praise—it’s a truth.

he stays like that with you, holding you close, stroking your back, letting the silence settle like a blanket. the heat from your bodies still lingers, but it’s not heavy anymore—it’s soft, intimate, something woven into the quiet between your breaths. heeseung doesn’t try to fill the silence with anything unnecessary—he just exists with you, his touch constant, his presence wrapping around you like something you never realized you needed. his hand moves to your waist, tracing lazy circles against your skin, grounding you gently, reminding you that you’re safe, that it’s over, that you’re okay. “do you want anything?” he asks quietly, lips brushing your hairline, and when you shake your head, he nods, content to just be here with you. his fingers curl around yours beneath the towel, and you feel his thumb stroke the back of your knuckles once, twice, again. “we’ll stay like this as long as you want,” he says. “there’s no rush.”

you feel your chest swell at that—your lungs tightening with the weight of something you don’t want to name, something warm and stupid and dangerous. the words hit you somewhere low and vulnerable, curling beneath your ribs like they belong there, and for a second, you almost let it. you almost believe this could be more, that the way he touches you means something deeper, that this warmth he gives isn’t just for the camera. but then you remember the red light, the lens, the view count still sitting at zero. you remember why you’re here in the first place—money, rent, survival. and just like that, you shift again, sitting up slowly, the sheet slipping down your chest as you turn your back to him. “i should go,” you say quietly, forcing the words out like they don’t scrape your throat raw. heeseung moves beside you, confusion creasing his features as he reaches out gently, his hand brushing your back. “wait—what’s wrong?”

you stand before he can touch you again, grabbing your clothes from the floor and pulling them on with unsteady hands, refusing to look at him. “nothing’s wrong,” you say quickly, too quickly, because everything feels wrong now—the closeness, the softness, the way your body still buzzes with the ghost of his touch. “this was great. it was good.” you pause, slipping on your hoodie, heart pounding too loud in your chest. “but this is business, remember?” heeseung’s face shifts at that—something subtle breaking in the way he exhales, in the way his eyes fall to the sheets, then back to you. “i know,” he says quietly, sitting up, raking a hand through his hair. “i just didn’t think you’d want to leave so fast.” you ignore the way that stings and reach for your phone, already stepping toward the door. “can you call me a ride?”

he doesn’t argue, doesn’t beg, doesn’t guilt you—he just nods, slides out of bed, and grabs his own phone from the nightstand. the air feels heavier now, the silence between you no longer soft but sharp, cutting against your ribs with every breath you try to take. you watch him through your lashes as he types, jaw tense, his brows furrowed like he wants to say something he knows he shouldn’t. “ride’s five minutes away,” he says, voice flat, and you nod, hugging your arms around yourself even though you’re fully dressed. neither of you speak again—not until the buzz of your phone signals the driver’s arrival, and even then, you just give him a short, “thank you,” before heading for the door. he doesn’t stop you, but you feel his eyes on your back the entire time, like he’s memorizing the way you walk away. the door clicks shut behind you, final and quiet, and it takes everything in you not to look back.

────୨ৎ────

you don’t cry in the ride home—you’re too tired, too overwhelmed, too busy replaying the feeling of his hand on your jaw, the warmth of his voice in your ear. your phone buzzes in your pocket, and you pull it out without thinking, eyes widening at the notification that lights up your screen. 

@heefreakshow posted a new video: “moan for the camera, baby.” 

your stomach flips, breath catching as you tap it open, watching the views tick up in real time—hundreds, then thousands, climbing faster than you can process. the comments pour in, the gifts, the subscribers, and your inbox is already starting to fill with names you don’t recognize. 

your eyes stay fixed to the numbers, the sound of the car engine barely registering over the pounding of your heart, the dull throb between your legs still pulsing with the ghost of his cock. comments begin pouring in, flooding the screen in a blur of praise and fire emojis, messages of “who is she?” and “this is fucking art,” and “the way he touches her???” flashing by too fast for you to breathe. the heat in your chest blooms again, twisting tight, painful in a way you can’t name—because this was supposed to be just business. but it doesn’t feel like business when you’re watching yourself fall apart under him, when your moans play back through the speakers like something sacred, when he touches you like you matter. your hand tightens around your phone, jaw clenched, eyes wide as the numbers keep rising—ten thousand, twelve, fifteen—until you can’t look anymore. you close the video, thumb hovering over the home screen, heart still pounding.

and then it hits—a soft buzz. one new message.

@jayafterhours has sent you a message.

natty's notesᝰ.ᐟ it's not proofread so sorry >-< but i hoped y'all enjoyed it anyways !!

the air hangs heavy.

not just hot—but thick, suffocating, like breathing through syrup. it clings to your skin, coats your lungs, turns each exhale into something shallow and slow. outside, the city glows white with heat. the windows are shut, but the sun still bleeds through the curtains, stretching long and golden across the floor of the dorm like it’s trying to burn its way in.

inside, it’s unbearable.

the a/c had sputtered out three nights ago with a pitiful mechanical cough and never came back to life. the repair guys were booked out for a week, maybe more, and the seven boys you live with have tried everything—ice packs, wet towels, rigging fans to face every direction, but nothing works for long. the heat always creeps back in, curling into the corners of every room, wrapping itself around your shoulders like a weight you can’t shake off.

you're sprawled across the living room floor now, limbs heavy, skin sticky with sweat, wearing the thinnest clothes you own. a tank top—paper-thin, already damp—and a pair of boyshorts that cling between your thighs. your body feels too much—every inch oversensitive, too warm, flushed from the inside out. breathing is difficult. moving is worse. so you lie there, staring at the ceiling fan that spins uselessly above you, blades barely shifting the air.

around you, the boys are in various states of sweaty disarray.

jake’s shirtless, lying on his back with a pillow shoved under his neck and one arm slung over his eyes. heeseung’s face-down on the couch, tank top rucked up to expose the toned strip of skin above his waistband, a bottle of lukewarm water dangling from his fingertips. ni-ki is sprawled near your feet, wearing nothing but gray sweats that sit low on his hips, his hair damp and curling at the nape of his neck.

“i think i’m dying,” sunoo groans, somewhere behind you.

“no,” jay replies flatly from the kitchen, “you’re just dramatic.”

“i’m melting,” sunoo insists.

“we all are,” sunghoon mutters, tossing a crumpled t-shirt across the room. it hits the floor with a quiet thump, joining the growing pile of abandoned clothes no one has the energy to clean.

jungwon walks in shirtless, a towel around his neck, chest shining with sweat. he carries a bowl of ice cubes, already halfway melted. the sight of his skin—golden and flushed, muscles defined in the summer glow—shouldn’t affect you. it shouldn’t, but it does.

he pauses beside you, crouching low.

“ice?” he asks.

you nod, lips parted, already leaning into the cool promise of relief.

jungwon picks up a cube, wet and slick between his fingers. you brace yourself for the contact, and when it comes—trailing slow down the back of your neck, across the dip between your shoulder blades—you actually moan. softly, involuntarily. just a little noise. but it feels that good.

you don’t realize your eyes had fallen shut until you open them again—and catch them staring.

jake, now peeking out from under his arm. sunghoon, lips slightly parted. ni-ki, gaze stuck to where the cube trails down your spine. jungwon doesn’t say anything, doesn’t look away. he just lets the ice melt against your skin, eyes trained on the shiver that rolls through you in response.

“feels good, huh?” he says softly, voice low, almost amused.

you swallow hard.

“mhm,” you manage.

heeseung sits up slowly, squinting at you through the haze of heat. “you should sit in front of the fan. you look like you’re about to pass out.”

but when you try to move, your body protests. your skin sticks to the floor, to your clothes, to the heat in the air. you groan and collapse again, pressing your cheek to the cool hardwood.

“don’t wanna,” you murmur. “too hot.”

“then stay there,” ni-ki says from beside you, propping himself up on his elbow. “you look good like that.”

your eyes flick toward him. his tone is teasing, casual, but his gaze lingers—on your thighs, your tank top, the way the fabric sticks to your chest. you’re not imagining it. you’re sure you’re not.

you shift slightly, pressing your thighs together. not from discomfort—from something else. something that’s been creeping in alongside the heat.

because it’s not just the weather that’s making your skin feel too tight.

it’s them.

it’s the way they’ve been looking at you these past few days. the way they move around you—closer than before, slower. the way their fingers brush against your arms when they pass by. the way jake murmured “you’re so warm” last night when you accidentally leaned on him during a movie. the way jungwon didn’t move away when you pressed your bare thigh against his under the blanket.

it’s building.

you can feel it.

the heat. the want. the silence that's not really silence at all.

and no one’s saying it—not yet—but it’s there. in every drop of sweat. in every sideways glance. in every breathless pause when your shirt clings a little too tight, when your moan is just a little too soft, when you catch one of them watching you with something more behind their eyes.

you’re all stuck in the same heat. the same space. the same slow-burn pressure that’s starting to boil.

and it’s only a matter of time before something gives.

jay walks into the living room, collapsing beside you with a dramatic huff, his skin glistening under the low golden hue of the lamps. sweat trickles down his temple, catching at the edge of his jaw before dripping to his collarbone. he groans, tossing an arm over his eyes.

“i feel like i’m being cooked alive...” he mutters, his voice slightly breathless, laced with exhaustion and heat.

the room echoes with soft laughter, a ripple of amusement that quickly fades into something heavier—quieter. you rise from the couch without a word, skin sticking slightly to the cushions as you stand. your fingers weave through your damp hair, lifting it away from your neck, twisting it up into a loose, messy bun. your thin tank top clings to your curves, nearly transparent with how soaked it is, nipples pressing unapologetically through the fabric. your shorts have ridden high up your thighs, exposing even more of your flushed skin, but you don’t bother adjusting them.

you can feel the weight of their stares before you even glance up—curious, lingering, hungry. the laughter dies out completely now, swallowed by thick silence and shared tension.

you move toward the kitchen, grabbing a napkin with trembling fingers, and dab at the sweat lining your forehead. when you return, you sink down beside niki, who’s sprawled out across the floor, back pressed against the base of the couch, legs stretched wide and bare.

he looks at you, his lips parting slightly as his eyes scan your face. then, without asking, he reaches out.

“let me help you...” he murmurs, taking the napkin from your hand.

his touch is gentle, slow, almost too intimate. he dabs at your forehead first, then drags the cloth down the curve of your cheek, along your jawline. you hold your breath when he moves lower, wiping away the beads of sweat gathered at your neck, his knuckles grazing your collarbones. his fingers dip lower still, lingering at the top of your chest—just above the valley between your breasts.

you feel everyone watching, feel the air thicken with every soft swipe. and still, you don’t stop him.

niki’s hand stills at the top of your chest, the napkin long forgotten against your thigh. his fingers rest there like he’s holding back, like the tiniest nudge from you would send him spiraling—and truthfully, it would. he’s not even looking at what he’s doing anymore. he’s looking at you, eyes searching your expression for a flicker of permission, a whisper of need. and he finds it—of course he does. you can feel it all over your skin, the way your breath catches in your throat, the way your eyes don’t move away from his, not even for a second. your entire body feels like it’s buzzing, trembling under his touch that still manages to be so gentle, so teasingly patient. it’s maddening. like he’s trying to learn you inch by inch, like every bead of sweat he wipes away is a part of some secret map only he’s allowed to read.

the room behind you feels quieter now, heavier. no one speaks, no one laughs—not like before. the shift is palpable, undeniable, like someone flipped the switch from playful to dangerous without warning. the air is thick, sticky with heat and something heavier than humidity. you don’t even have to look to know the others are watching—watching everything. you can feel it in the way your skin prickles, in the way your body suddenly feels exposed despite your clothes still technically being on. 

you feel his fingers trace along the delicate line of your collarbone, slow and featherlight, like he’s memorizing the shape of you. his touch lingers at the strap of your tank top, toying with it absentmindedly, though there’s nothing casual about the way his eyes stay locked on yours. they’re intense—burning, almost—and they don’t waver, not even for a second. the air between you crackles with something electric, something unspoken yet painfully understood. your breath comes out shallow, your lips slightly parted, and you know he sees it. he feels it, too.

the tension in the room grows thicker with every passing second, every shared breath. it coils in your stomach, tight and low, pushing against the walls of your sanity until it blurs the line between fantasy and reality. somewhere, in the fog of your mind, you acknowledge what’s happening—that this pull you’ve been feeling, this dark, magnetic need clawing at your chest… it’s not one-sided. the constant battle you’ve fought with yourself, trying to separate friendship from desire, comfort from craving—it’s unraveling right in front of you. and the truth hits you hard: you were never the only one who felt it.

niki doesn’t speak. he doesn’t have to. the way your body reacts to him—how your breath catches when his fingers graze your skin, how your thighs subconsciously squeeze together, how your eyes grow heavier with lust every time he leans in—tells him everything he needs to know. and when he does move closer, when his breath warms your cheek and his lips press teasing, featherlight kisses there, you don’t pull away. you tilt your head slightly, allowing him more access, and it’s all the confirmation he needs.

his lips trail down the curve of your jaw, lower and lower, until he reaches the damp skin of your neck. he doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t hold back—his mouth finds purchase just above your collarbone, where he nips gently at first, then sucks harder, tongue flicking over the skin he’s claiming. the sensation sends shivers down your spine, and you can’t help the breathy whine that escapes your lips, high and helpless.

then—another presence.

you feel it before you see it. a new warmth pressing against your back, a body close and commanding. strong hands reach around you, fingers urgent as they tug your damp tank top down in one smooth, deliberate motion. the fabric sticks to your skin, clinging with heat and sweat, but it finally gives—and suddenly, you’re bare. your breasts spill out, nipples hard and flushed, fully exposed to the open air… and to their eyes.

the response is immediate.

groans sound out around you—low, guttural, strained. a few soft curses, a sharp inhale. it’s too much and still not enough. you feel like you’re on display, and somehow, that makes the ache between your legs even worse.

“looks like you’ve been wanting this…” jay’s voice comes from right beside your ear, deep and low, sending a fresh wave of heat flooding through your body. his breath is hot on your skin, his words curling around your spine like smoke. but you can’t form a reply, not when niki’s mouth is back on your neck, sucking harder now, his teeth grazing your sensitive skin. he’s not teasing anymore. he’s marking. claiming.

you whimper—soft, breathless—your head falling back slightly against jay’s shoulder. and then his hands are on you, curving around your waist and up to your chest, palms broad and warm as they cup your breasts fully, fingers splaying out like he wants to memorize their weight. he groans under his breath, fingertips rolling your nipples between them, slow and careful, like he’s trying to feel how sensitive they’ve gotten just for him.

your hips buck involuntarily, body trembling under their touch, under their eyes, under the growing tension that’s so thick it feels like it could swallow you whole.

and still, you want more.

your pleading eyes scan over each of them, one by one, heart hammering against your ribcage as the room feels heavier with anticipation. they’ve all moved now—no longer scattered or distant, but gathered directly in front of you. another couch sits across the room, and all of them are seated there, watching you with eyes clouded by lust and hunger.

jake sits at the center, and his gaze is the most desperate of all—dark, intense, lips slightly parted as if he wants to say something but can’t form the words. your eyes trail lower, catching the way his shorts are tented obscenely, his bulge straining hard and obvious, pulsing with every breath you take.

beside him, heeseung’s jaw is tight, his eyes narrowed slightly, focused completely on you. his hand is already between his legs, gripping his cock through his sweats, and you notice the way he slowly strokes himself, almost unconsciously, as if he's hypnotized by the small whimper that escaped your lips just moments ago. he doesn’t even seem aware of what he’s doing—like the sound alone was enough to send a rush straight through him.

sunoo is next, and he looks like he’s barely hanging on. his lips are parted, chest rising and falling in rapid waves, each of your soft sounds pulling a helpless whine or breathy moan from him. his thighs are pressed together, tense, like he’s trying so hard not to touch himself, but you can tell it’s getting harder with every second.

sunghoon sits beside him, posture stiff and serious, but the thick bulge in his jeans betrays him completely. he hasn’t said a word, hasn’t made a sound, but the way his eyes devour you says everything. it’s like he’s trying to keep control—to be the composed one—but your bare body is testing the very limits of his restraint.

you notice one of them is missing, a small flicker of confusion settling in for just a moment—until you feel it.

a pair of lips suddenly press against your inner thigh, soft and warm, and your breath catches in your throat. jungwon. of course it’s him. you gasp as his hands slide up your thighs, strong and steady, gently but firmly spreading them apart to make space for himself. his presence is calm but commanding, and it sends a shiver down your spine.

niki shifts beside you, only slightly, adjusting to give jungwon more room. his head turns, eyes locked on you as his lips press right back against your neck, sucking and biting at the sensitive skin there, teeth grazing just enough to make you whimper again. you feel him smirk against your skin.

"you look so beautiful..." jungwon breathes, the words almost to himself, like he’s not even aware he said them aloud. his eyes stay locked on yours for a beat longer before his hands slide up, cupping your cheeks so gently it almost makes you dizzy. and then he kisses you.

his lips are soft, slow at first, like he’s savoring the taste of you. but the heat flaring across your skin only intensifies—the room already hot, stifling, the broken a/c leaving a heavy, sticky warmth clinging to every surface. your skin is damp, flushed, and burning—not from embarrassment, but from the oppressive summer heat mixing with the feverish touch of each boy around you.

jay’s hands move with purpose now, rougher, needier. he’s behind you, arms wrapped around your body as his palms knead at your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they’re stiff and aching. his breath fans against the back of your neck, his chest pressed to your spine, and each squeeze sends another pulse of heat straight through your core.

you’re surrounded, consumed by them, the heat of the room and their hands melting together into something unbearable—something addictive. every touch is fire, every kiss gasoline, and you're burning for them all.

before you can even think, even breathe, everything shifts in a flash of movement and heat. one second, you're standing on trembling legs, and the next—your world is flipping upside down.

strong arms wrap around your waist, and you're effortlessly lifted off the floor. the room spins for a dizzy second before your back hits the couch with a soft thud, the cushions dipping beneath your weight, catching you like a trap. the warmth of the fabric kisses your bare skin, but you don’t even get a moment to settle before your clothes are being stripped away—ripped, torn, tugged down in one swift, desperate motion.

your boyshorts give first, threads snapping as fingers yank at the waistband with no care for gentleness. your panties follow, the delicate lace shredded away like paper, the soft sound of tearing fabric drowned out by the pounding of your heart in your ears. a gasp escapes your lips—sharp and unfiltered—as the cool air of the room rushes against your now exposed skin.

you’re bare. completely, utterly bare. open in front of all of them. your thighs are spread, your pussy glistening under the low light, wetness clinging to the insides of your legs—dripping, aching, ready.

your eyes lift instinctively, already searching for someone—anyone—to ground you in the chaos. and that’s when you see him.

heeseung.

he’s not on the couch anymore. not lazily jerking himself off like he was moments ago. he’s right there now—kneeling between your legs, already settled into place like he was meant to be there, like this is the only thing he’s ever wanted. his eyes meet yours, and the intensity in his gaze nearly knocks the breath out of you. it’s dark. wild. hungry.

"already so wet, baby?" he says, voice low and dripping with amusement, but there’s something reverent behind it. like he’s in awe of the state you're in—of the way your slick shines in the heat-heavy room, glistening like something sacred. like he can’t believe this is real.

his fingers come next. they trail down slowly, teasing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh before finally pressing against your folds. the contact is light, almost maddeningly so, but it still sends a jolt through your entire body. he spreads you open with his fingers, gently at first, slick coating his fingertips as he traces your pussy, spreading the arousal that’s already leaking out of you.

you whimper when he presses closer, his touch deliberate now, spreading your lips apart to expose your soaked entrance. the air hits you harder here, your core pulsing with heat and need, and you watch as heeseung stares—stares—like he’s looking at the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

and then, without warning, he dives in.

his mouth crashes onto your pussy with no hesitation, tongue dragging through your folds like he’s starving for it. a choked moan rips out of your throat as your back arches, every muscle in your body clenching from the sudden, overwhelming sensation. his tongue is hot, wet, relentless—moving with long, deep strokes that make your legs shake around his head.

he grips your thighs tighter, spreading them wider, anchoring you to the couch as he buries his face between your legs. the heat of his mouth is unbearable, and with the room already sweltering, already boiling, you feel like you’re melting beneath him—sweat slicking your skin, your chest rising and falling with every shallow breath.

heeseung moans into your pussy like he means it. like the taste of you is something divine. his tongue curls just right, licking into your entrance before dragging up to your clit, sucking it into his mouth with obscene slurping sounds that echo in your ears and bounce off the walls. you can barely hold still—your hips twitching, instinctively grinding up into his face—but he holds you in place, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs to keep you right where he wants you.

he feasts on you like a man possessed, groaning lowly against your pussy with each flick of his tongue, each swallow of your slick. the vibrations of his voice send jolts through your core, and it only makes you wetter, the pressure building with every second that passes. he’s so into it—so deep, so focused, so completely drunk off your taste that it’s like nothing else exists.

his lips move to your clit again, tongue flattening against it and dragging back and forth in slow, torturous strokes. his nose presses into your mound, breath hot and ragged, and you can hear the way he’s panting against you—moaning against you—like just being here, just tasting you, is enough to make him cum untouched.

you glance down, and the sight alone nearly makes you fall apart—his face buried in your pussy, eyes fluttered shut in bliss, hips grinding subtly against the couch as if he’s desperately trying to relieve the pressure in his pants. he’s getting off on it. every moan you let out, every twitch of your body, every droplet of slick he licks up—he’s devouring it like a man in heat.

you throw your head back, a loud, broken sob tearing out of your chest as his tongue circles your clit again, faster this time. the pleasure is unbearable. too much. not enough. your thighs tremble violently, muscles tensing and relaxing all at once, your hands flying down to grip his hair—fingers tangling in the strands, pulling without meaning to, holding him there.

heeseung groans in response, like your reaction only fuels him, like it drives him even deeper into his obsession. he shakes his head slightly, the motion sending his tongue in unpredictable directions, and you cry out again, thighs squeezing around him.

“fuck, heeseung—” you gasp, voice cracked, strained, barely even there.

but he doesn’t stop.

he just keeps licking.

before you can let out another moan—another broken, needy sound—your mouth is suddenly full. your lips stretch wide, a heavy weight pressing onto your tongue before sliding deeper, and your eyes flutter open in shock, the gasp you meant to release now muffled completely.

a low, breathy moan fills the room—but it’s not yours. it’s his.

“fuck…”

you know that voice. the soft, desperate whimper that slips out again, paired with a shaky exhale that makes your throat tighten instinctively. it’s jake. you don’t even need to look to be sure—it’s in the way he sounds completely undone already, his voice dipped in honey and lust, trembling as he slowly begins to thrust into your mouth.

his cock drags across your tongue, thick and hard, the weight of it heavy as it sinks deeper with each roll of his hips. he moves slowly at first, testing, savoring, his pace unsteady like he’s holding back from completely losing control. your lips wrap around him automatically, cheeks hollowing just enough to make his knees buckle slightly, and the noise that slips from him is pure heaven.

“oh fuck, y/n…”

his voice cracks as he tilts his head back, mouth falling open in a silent gasp. you glance up at him through heavy lashes, just in time to see the way his brows draw together, his expression one of blissful torment as he watches himself disappear past your lips.

his hands are on you in the next second—reaching down, greedy and firm, squeezing your breasts in both palms. his thumbs brush over your nipples, circling them roughly before pressing in harder, and the contrast between his soft moans and rough touch makes your body jolt with need. he groans again as his hips rock forward, pushing deeper, your throat tightening around the head of his cock.

you gag slightly, tears instantly welling in your eyes, but you don’t stop. your mouth stretches, your jaw aches, and your tongue presses flat beneath him as he begins to fuck into your throat with shallow thrusts. spit pools at the corners of your mouth, dripping down your chin as he fucks into you more desperately, the wet sound of it obscene and addictive.

“shit, you feel so fucking good—so warm, so tight…” he rasps, voice nearly broken as he watches his cock vanish between your lips again and again. “fuck, you were made for this.”

you can’t respond, not with your mouth stuffed full of him, but your body gives every answer it needs to. your throat constricts, your tongue curves, and your lips press snug around the base every time he sinks in deep. you moan around him, and the way his body shudders in response makes your core clench hard.

as if he can feel that too, heeseung doubles down between your thighs.

his tongue plunges inside you again, thick and slick and sinful, dragging against your walls in deep, swirling strokes. he groans into your pussy, the vibrations shooting straight up your spine as your hips jerk in response. your walls flutter around him, sucking him in with every movement, squeezing around his tongue so tightly it makes him whine into your cunt.

“fuck, you taste so fucking good…” heeseung pants, his voice muffled against your dripping pussy, and the way he says it—raw, reverent, like he’s never tasted anything sweeter—makes you feel like you’re going to explode.

your body is trembling now, caught between two different kinds of pleasure—your mouth stretched and used by jake’s throbbing cock, your cunt dripping and devoured by heeseung’s skilled tongue. their moans mix with yours, lost in the thick, humid air, the heat of the room making everything feel stickier, hotter, needier. 

sunoo is the first to lose control.

his breaths come out shallow, chest visibly rising and falling as he stands frozen for a moment, eyes locked on you like he’s in a trance. there’s a look on his face—wide-eyed, mouth parted, almost like he’s staring at something holy. he can’t look away. he doesn’t even try. the sounds, the sight, the heat of the room all pull at him like a magnet, dragging him under until his self-restraint shatters completely.

his hands move to his waistband, quick and impatient. fingers fumbling with the button and zipper of his jeans, so rushed that he nearly stumbles as he kicks them down his legs. his underwear follows in a frantic tug, fabric caught around one knee for a second before he shakes it off entirely. and then he’s bare—exposed and trembling, his cock already flushed and leaking, twitching against his stomach.

precum glistens at the tip, thick and shiny, dribbling down the shaft until it pools faintly at the base. he doesn’t hesitate. one hand wraps around himself immediately, fingers curling tight as he gives his cock a slow, needy stroke. the slickness makes it easy—his hand gliding with little resistance, wrist twisting just slightly at the top in a rhythm that’s far too practiced.

but his eyes. his eyes never leave you.

you’re sprawled out, thighs shaking from the way heeseung is eating you out like a man starved. your fingers tangle in his hair, your hips rolling helplessly against his face, and the filthy sounds he makes—wet and relentless—only echo louder in the hot, stifling air. every time his tongue dips into you, your legs twitch, and sunoo swears he can feel the aftershocks through his own body.

his hand moves faster, slick noises joining the chorus of moans and groans already filling the room. he strokes himself steadily, breath hitching with every wet slurp he hears, every moan that falls from your stuffed mouth. he watches your throat flex as you try to take more of jake’s cock, eyes glassy as you struggle to breathe around the thickness of him.

and jake—he's a mess above you.

his hands are buried in your hair, knuckles white from how tightly he grips. his hips jerk forward in short, shallow thrusts, barely able to hold back as your lips wrap around him. your mouth stretches wide, tongue flattened underneath his shaft, your eyes fluttering as tears gather at the corners. and when you gag softly around him, the tight clench of your throat makes him snap.

his whole body trembles. a loud, broken moan tears from his chest as his hips stutter forward, cock throbbing against your tongue. you feel the first hot spurt of cum hit the back of your throat, then another, and another—each pulse of his cock sending more of him spilling down your throat. he’s panting through it, voice high and breathless, like he can’t believe how good it feels to cum inside you.

“fuck, fuck, fuck—oh my god, y/n…” jake chokes out, head thrown back as his entire body locks up, abs tightening, thighs shaking where they frame your face. his cock stays in your mouth as he rides it out, groaning shamelessly as more cum pours from his slit. thick, salty, warm. you swallow what you can, the rest slipping past your lips and dribbling down your chin in slow, messy rivulets.

and that’s all it takes for sunoo.

his mouth falls open, a soft, broken sound leaving him as his body jerks forward. his hand keeps moving, faster now, desperate, chasing the edge he’s been teetering on for the last several minutes. his eyes stay fixed on the way your spit-slick lips still suck around jake’s softening cock, the way your pussy clenches around heeseung’s tongue, dripping and pulsing like it’s begging for more.

then he cums—hard.

his back arches as a strained, almost whiny moan spills from his lips. “fuck—fuck, i’m cumming—” he gasps, eyes squeezing shut as thick ropes of white shoot from the tip of his cock. it hits his stomach first, warm and wet, then drips down his hand as he strokes himself through it, chasing every last wave of pleasure until his thighs are trembling. his breath stutters in his chest, sweat beading at his temples, and he keeps going even after he’s spent—milking himself for every drop as his head lolls back, completely wrecked.

cum paints his hand, his skin, his chest. sticky and hot, pooling just below his navel as he stands there, cock twitching in his grasp, body slowly coming down from the high.

but even then, even while he pants and shakes and tries to steady himself—he doesn’t stop watching you.

the coil in your stomach tightens fast—too fast. it winds itself tighter with every flick of heeseung’s tongue, every filthy moan that vibrates against your soaked pussy. your thighs are trembling now, uncontrollably, muscles twitching with each wave of pressure that builds low in your core. your breathing is uneven, mouth hanging open, panting like you’ve just run miles, but all that fills your lungs is the thick, heavy heat of the room and the scent of sweat and sex.

your hands shoot down instinctively, fingers weaving into heeseung’s hair. your grip is desperate, nails digging into his scalp as you hold him in place, as if pulling him closer could somehow save you from falling apart. but it only encourages him—drives him deeper.

jake’s cock slips from your lips with a wet, sticky sound, strands of saliva stretching between your swollen mouth and his flushed tip. your jaw aches, your throat sore from how deeply he fucked into it, but the only sound that escapes you now is a hoarse, broken moan. it cracks in the back of your throat, raw and breathless, but it makes heeseung groan into your cunt like it’s the most perfect sound he’s ever heard.

he doesn’t stop. doesn’t pause. he takes your reaction as fuel, tongue moving faster, more frantic now as he chases your orgasm like he needs it to breathe. his mouth finds your clit again, tongue flicking up against it with practiced precision—over and over, sending jolts of white-hot pleasure straight through your body.

and then he seals his lips around it.

he sucks.

hard.

“shit—!” your cry rips through the air like lightning, loud and unrestrained, and your entire body jolts forward, hips bucking off the couch as the orgasm slams into you. it’s not gentle. it’s not slow. it hits—a tidal wave crashing down all at once, flooding your veins with molten heat.

your body shakes, spasms, back arching off the cushions as your climax tears through you. your legs clamp around heeseung’s head, not even consciously, but he doesn’t pull away. he groans into your pussy like he wants it—wants your thighs trembling against his ears, wants to be trapped between them while you fall apart on his tongue.

the coil inside you fully snaps, unravels, breaks into a thousand shattered pieces that ripple through your blood, through your chest, your spine, your fingertips. your vision blurs, your body going rigid before collapsing into trembling pieces as wave after wave of pleasure courses through you.

your moans dissolve into quiet whimpers, breath stolen, skin flushed and damp, and yet heeseung still doesn’t let up. his tongue slows, gentler now, soothing your oversensitive clit with soft, languid strokes as your body twitches beneath him, still caught in the aftershocks.

you can’t think. can’t breathe. can’t do anything except fall back into the cushions, legs sprawled and chest heaving, heart pounding like a war drum inside your ribs.

heeseung finally lifts his head, his face shining with your slick—lips swollen, chin glistening, eyes blown wide with satisfaction. he smirks at you, cocky and proud, his expression dripping with confidence as he slowly leans back on his heels. he takes his time dragging his tongue across his bottom lip, savoring the last taste of you like it’s something divine.

his hands slide off your thighs with a final, reverent squeeze, leaving behind heat and a tingling ache that lingers as he shifts away.

but you barely have a moment to recover—barely even draw in a full breath—before another shadow takes his place.

sunghoon.

he steps forward, quiet and composed, but there’s a different kind of hunger in his eyes. something deeper. darker. his hand is wrapped firmly around his cock, long fingers stroking slowly as he positions himself in front of you. his tip is flushed, leaking, and when it touches your soaked pussy, your body jolts at the sudden contact.

he doesn’t push in yet.

he teases—rubbing the head in slow, deliberate circles over your swollen folds, smearing your slick around with an agonizing lack of urgency. the contrast between his calm exterior and what he’s doing to you is maddening. you twitch, hips jerking just slightly, needing more, but he just smirks down at you, amused by how wrecked you already look.

then, without a word, his hands come down to your waist. strong. commanding.

and in one smooth motion—he flips you over.

your gasp is sharp as your body is turned and positioned like it’s nothing. your knees dig into the plush cushions of the couch, your palms bracing in front of you, back instinctively arching to balance yourself. your ass is in the air now, completely exposed, dripping and still twitching from your last orgasm.

but the shift isn’t just for sunghoon.

beneath you, there's movement—another presence.

jay.

he slips between the couch cushions, positioning himself directly underneath you. his hands slide up your sides, slow and sensual, until they’re gripping your back and pulling you down. his face is beneath yours now, his mouth just inches away, and without a second thought—he kisses you.

it’s not soft.

his lips crash against yours in a messy, consuming kiss, tongues meeting immediately, teeth clashing. there’s heat behind it—hunger, desperation. you moan into his mouth, and he swallows it greedily, one of his hands coming up to cradle the back of your head while the other stays firm on your lower back, grounding you in place.

sunghoon’s hands grip your waist like he owns it—like it’s his to mold and shape and use however he pleases. his touch is firm, possessive, thumbs pressing into your hips as he guides your body back toward him. behind you, his cock presses into your entrance, thick and pulsing, already slick from teasing you moments ago. you can feel every ridge, every vein, twitching with anticipation as he begins to push forward again, slower now, savoring every inch.

underneath you, jay keeps you anchored. his hands glide over your back, up your spine, as he stares up at your flushed face. his gaze is heavy, intense—like he’s trying to memorize you. memorize every expression, every sound. and then, his cock nudges at your entrance too, slick with precum and already hard, ready. he doesn’t hesitate. he lines himself up alongside sunghoon, and together, they push in.

the stretch is unbearable.

your body seizes, walls fluttering violently as they try to take both of them at once. it feels impossible at first—like your pussy wasn’t meant to hold this much. like your body should be breaking. but then your breath catches, and the heat from the room and the overwhelming fullness melt into each other, creating a sensation that borders on euphoric.

your nails dig into the couch cushions. your eyes screw shut, jaw slack as a strangled cry tears from your throat. jay shushes you softly, his lips brushing over your collarbone, placing light kisses across your skin to soothe you even as he presses deeper inside. sunghoon grits his teeth above you, low groans spilling from his lips as your walls stretch tightly around them both.

“fuck—” sunghoon hisses, his voice thick with arousal. “you’re so fucking tight… can feel him inside you too.”

jay can barely breathe beneath you. “she’s squeezing us both so hard… shit, baby…”

you feel everything.

the press of their cocks rubbing together inside you, the stretch of your walls trying to accommodate the impossible girth of both of them, the way your pussy grips every inch like it’s the only thing it knows how to do. they move slowly, rocking their hips in shallow thrusts, trying to ease you into it, but the stimulation is too much. your head falls forward, resting against jay’s chest, and your entire body trembles.

each thrust feels deeper than the last, their rhythm syncing perfectly—sunghoon pushing in as jay pulls back, only to slide back in together. your pussy is so wet, the obscene sounds of it echo with every movement, the slick, slapping rhythm blending with their groans and your breathless cries.

sunghoon’s grip tightens as he starts to move faster, his thrusts harder now, greedier, making your ass jiggle from the force. every time his hips slam into yours, it sends a ripple of pleasure through your entire body. jay meets the force from below, hips rolling upward, cock dragging against your inner walls as he fills the deepest parts of you.

your vision starts to blur. the pleasure is sharp, molten, setting your nerves on fire. you can feel the way their cocks rub together inside you, the pressure almost painful, but it feels so good—so complete, so consuming.

jay’s arms wrap around your waist, hugging you tight as he fucks up into you, his lips brushing your ear. “you’re taking us so well… so perfect, baby…”

you sob out a broken moan in response, your walls spasming around them as another wave of heat rushes through your bloodstream. the couch creaks beneath you from the force of it all, the room thick with sex, with sweat, with bodies moving in sync under the weight of your shared need.

sunghoon leans over you, chest pressing against your back, his breath hot against your neck as he starts pounding into you. no longer holding back. his hands grip your ass, spreading you wider to push deeper, to fit more. jay groans beneath you, fucking up into the space that sunghoon leaves behind with perfect timing, the stretch never easing, the fullness never fading.

their rhythm is brutal. your body bounces between them, trapped in the middle of their overwhelming hunger, your pussy stuffed full, stretched wide, used completely. and you love it. you feel owned, claimed, completely at their mercy—and there’s nothing else you’d rather be.

your moans dissolve into whimpers. your pussy clenches hard around them, sucking them in deeper, so much so that they both groan at the same time, voices rough and strained.

“fuck—gonna cum,” jay gasps, his voice low and shaking. “she’s gonna make me fucking cum—”

“fuck,” sunghoon growls, fucking harder, sweat dripping from his temple. “shit—feels so fucking good—”

your body quakes between them, your second orgasm already creeping up on you, fast and hard. your toes curl into the cushions, arms trembling as you grip onto whatever you can, heart thundering in your chest as you drown in the feeling of being completely, utterly full.

your body convulses where you sit, trembling as jay and sunghoon finally slide out of you. the emptiness is instant and jarring, like you’ve just lost something you weren’t ready to let go of. you twitch where you’re sprawled, thighs sticky with slick and cum, the evidence of everything they gave you now dripping slowly from your swollen pussy. the room is thick with heat and sex, a haze of sweat and heavy breathing filling the space. your body is twitching, too used and too sensitive to move, but the ache between your legs doesn’t ease—it burns. it pulses. it begs for more. your limbs are jelly, your thoughts barely stringing together into anything coherent, and yet the hunger inside you refuses to die down. it builds in your chest, in your core, that desperate desire still flaring to life again like they haven’t already ruined you—like you’re still starving for everything they want to give you.

sunghoon watches the mess between your legs with dark, hooded eyes, sweat dripping from his temple as he drags his fingers down your slit, gathering the thick mix of his and jay’s cum. you whimper, back arching instinctively as the mess is pushed back inside you, two fingers pressing into your raw, stretched pussy without warning. the sensation sends another jolt through your body—sharp and overwhelming, yet somehow, you welcome it. it’s filthy. it’s too much. and you still want more. your breath shudders out of you, your head lolling to the side, too weak to lift it. your mouth is parted, chest rising and falling rapidly, and the second your legs start to tremble again from overstimulation, he finally pulls away.

and then… there’s him.

you barely register jungwon stepping in until you feel the warmth of him in front of you. he kneels slowly, patiently, his expression soft but unreadable as his hands come to rest on your thighs. he’s calm in contrast to the wreckage around him, composed even as his eyes drink in your ruined state. he leans in, placing the softest kiss to the inside of your thigh, then another to your hip, your stomach, your ribs—each one purposeful, almost reverent. he doesn’t rush. every kiss feels like a quiet apology for the ache still rolling through your body. and maybe it is. or maybe it’s just his way of showing that he’s going to ruin you next—but on his terms. his lips brush against your skin like they’re worshiping it, like you’re something precious, fragile, and holy. you look down at him, eyes glossy and half-lidded, and when he speaks, his voice is a low whisper that melts into your ears like warm honey.

“gonna make you feel so good, princess. do you want that?”

you nod before you can even form words, your mouth too dry and your throat too wrecked from moaning. your body leans into him like it recognizes him—like you need him now. your eyes catch his, and it’s like everything else blurs away. the chaos, the overstimulation, the ache—they all fall into the background the second jungwon cups your face and helps you settle into his lap. his movements are slow, tender, like he’s handling you with care, and it makes your chest ache. he slides onto the couch and brings you with him, letting your legs straddle his thighs as he holds you steady. his cock rests against your ass, heavy and leaking, already painfully hard. he wraps one hand around the base, guiding it beneath you, while the other stays planted at the small of your back, anchoring you against him.

he teases you with the tip first, sliding it through your folds, collecting the slick and cum still dripping from earlier. your cunt is flushed, red and glistening, still twitching with every little brush of contact. you can barely handle the teasing, your fingers curling against his shoulders as your hips jerk forward in response to the pressure. he doesn’t push in—not yet. just rubs the head of his cock against your entrance again and again until you’re practically shaking, whining for more with broken breaths.

“just do it, wonnie,” you whisper, voice raw and needy, every nerve screaming for him.

he huffs a breath, a crooked smirk pulling at his lips, though there’s still a softness behind it—an admiration in the way he looks at you like you’re the only thing he wants in the world. “so fucking desperate, aren’t you?” he murmurs, the words dragging along your skin like velvet.

and then finally, finally, he lets you sink down.

the head of his cock pushes inside first, thick and slow and unforgiving. your pussy stretches around him, still puffy and sore, but eager to take him in. the stretch is deep and immediate. you gasp, clutching his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as your body trembles from the sheer fullness of it. jungwon groans beneath you, fingers digging into your waist as your heat envelops him, inch by inch, your walls clenching down like you never want to let go. the slide is slow, both of you shaking with the intensity of it, and it feels like your body is molding to fit just him.

“fuck,” he breathes, voice cracking, his head falling back as he bottoms out. “you’re still so fucking tight…”

his hips stay still for a moment, buried deep, letting you adjust. the tip of his cock is pressing against the deepest part of you, and you can feel every throb, every pulse as he twitches inside of you. your walls flutter, wrapping around him like a vice, squeezing him in, and your body is burning again—so overstimulated you’re not sure where the pain ends and the pleasure begins. but you don’t care. you want it. you want him. you want everything, all of it, every drop they have left to give you.

and from the way jungwon’s holding you so tightly, from the way his breath stutters against your shoulder as he presses soft kisses to your skin—you know he’s going to give you everything.

“you’re so fucking good for us, princess…”

his voice drips against your ear like honey laced with poison—warm, slow, addicting. jungwon’s breath is hot against your skin as he holds you flush against him, his cock still buried to the hilt inside your soaked, overstimulated pussy. his words curl in your chest, crawl down your spine, and settle deep in your core like a flame catching on gasoline.

his hips jerk up into yours again, sharp and deliberate, and you gasp—your head falling back, your throat dry from moaning, yet still begging to make more sound for him. the slide of his cock inside you is enough to make your toes curl, your walls pulsing tightly around him as your body struggles to keep up with the relentless pleasure. your muscles twitch, still sore, still shaking from the last orgasm that tore through you, but none of it matters—not when jungwon holds you like this, fucks into you like it’s the only thing that will keep him breathing.you can feel the slick mess between your thighs—his cock gliding easily from how soaked you are, from the cum already inside you, from your body’s desperate need to take everything he's giving and more. it’s filthy. it’s too much. and it’s perfect.

jungwon’s eyes are locked on yours, dark and intense and impossibly focused. there’s no smirk now, no teasing glint—just raw hunger. reverence. like you’re the only thing in existence.

his brows twitch when he feels your cunt clench again, and a choked sound escapes his throat. “fuck…” he breathes, almost like he’s in pain. “you feel so good—so tight, baby. you’re not gonna let me go, are you?”

you shake your head weakly, the motion barely there, too overwhelmed to form words. your hands are clutching his shoulders, nails dragging across the damp heat of his skin, desperate for something to ground yourself with. but there’s nothing. the couch beneath you is shaking with every thrust. the air is too hot, too thick. you’re floating somewhere between ecstasy and exhaustion, and still—your hips roll into his, still—you beg for more.

his cock drags along your inner walls so deeply you swear you can feel it in your stomach. every movement hits something devastating, something that leaves you gasping and arching into his chest. your nipples brush against his skin, the friction sending tiny sparks up your spine, your whole body lit up like a live wire.

he grunts again, his pace beginning to pick up, each thrust more urgent now, more needy. he’s chasing something—so are you.

“fuck, look what you do to us…” he growls into your neck, voice cracked, his rhythm faltering slightly as your pussy flutters around him again. his hands travel down, grabbing your ass hard, squeezing handfuls of flesh as his hips snap upward, forcing you to take him deeper. “you know what you’ve been doing to us, walking around like that… acting so fucking innocent…”

you whimper as he pulls back just enough to slam back in, the impact making your tits bounce with the force. his hands don’t stay still—one lands sharply against your ass with a smack that echoes across the room. you cry out, your body jolting from the sting, and he moans at the way your cunt clenches immediately afterward.

“dressed like a fucking tease,” he growls, voice right in your ear now, low and dangerous. “those tiny shorts… that shirt with your tits practically falling out… you knew what you were doing.”

his other hand slides up to your throat—not choking, just holding. his thumb presses gently beneath your jaw, guiding your gaze back to his. and when your teary eyes meet his again, everything else blurs.

“you’ve been begging for this, haven’t you?” he whispers. “all this time… just waiting for one of us to snap.”

you can’t even speak. you just nod, broken and desperate, your whole body quivering in his hands.

“say it,” he demands softly, voice so calm it makes you shiver. “tell me you wanted this.”

“i—i wanted it,” you manage to gasp out, your voice wrecked. “fuck, i wanted all of you—so bad, i—”

you can’t even finish the sentence before he thrusts up into you again, harder this time, sharp enough to knock the breath right out of your lungs. his eyes flutter closed for a second, like he’s overwhelmed by the way your pussy clenches around him, like he’s feeling everything you just confessed.

and then he breaks.

his hips lose rhythm, turning erratic, frantic, his hands gripping you tighter as he fucks into you like he can’t hold back anymore. your bodies are slamming together now, the wet sounds of your cunt swallowing him over and over filling the space between your moans. your thighs shake where they straddle his, completely worn out but still clinging to him like you need to be filled, need to be owned, need to be his.

and he gives it to you.

all of it.

with each deep, brutal thrust, jungwon tears you further apart—stretching you, overwhelming you, dragging another orgasm from your body before you even know it’s coming. it slams into you with no warning, your vision going white as your pussy clamps down around him, tight and pulsing and wet. you scream his name, sobbing against his shoulder, and he holds you through it—fucking you through it—never stopping, never slowing down.

“fuck, you’re cumming again?” he groans, eyes wide with disbelief, like the way you tighten around him is going to split him in half. “shit—your pussy’s milking me—”

you can’t respond. your mouth is open, but all that comes out is a shattered moan, your body arching into him as he continues to fuck into the mess between your legs. your cum, his precum, the leftover slick from the others—it’s all mixed together, coating his cock as he thrusts in and out of you like he owns you.

and he does.

in this moment, he absolutely does.

you don’t even know how you’re still conscious.

every nerve in your body is fried, every muscle trembling with the weight of your own pleasure, and yet jungwon doesn’t stop. he holds you against him like you’re his only salvation, like the feeling of your pussy wrapped around his cock is the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. his thrusts are punishing now, deep and ragged, his moans growing louder with every roll of his hips.

your hands are fists on his shoulders, nails raking down his damp skin as you bury your face in the crook of his neck, muffling the endless string of cries that tumble from your lips. your entire body bounces in his lap, tits shaking from the rhythm, your breath catching in your throat each time the thick head of his cock hits that one spot deep inside that makes you see stars.

he’s whispering to you again, voice shaking, incoherent between his panting and groans. “you take it so well… fuck—so fucking well. this pussy was made for me, wasn’t it?” his fingers dig deeper into your ass, pulling your cheeks apart to fuck into you harder, rougher, deeper. “say it, baby. say it’s mine.”

“it’s yours,” you sob, so hoarse you barely recognize your own voice. “fuck, wonnie—it’s all yours, just don’t stop…”

he lets out a shaky breath, something unsteady and desperate, and his forehead presses against yours as his thrusts grow erratic. “gonna cum,” he whispers. “you’re gonna make me fucking cum inside you—”

you clench around him at the words, body reacting before your mind can even process it. the idea of him cumming inside you, filling you up after everything they’ve already given—it sets your blood on fire. you want it. you need it.

“please,” you gasp, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes, “cum in me… fill me up…”

and that’s all it takes.

his moan is guttural, deep and raw as his cock throbs inside you. the first pulse hits hard, warmth blooming deep in your belly as he spills into you, thick and hot. he doesn’t stop thrusting, even as he cums—his hips jerking upward as if trying to bury himself even deeper. you feel every wave of it, every twitch, every drop, and your head spins with the intensity of it all.

jungwon holds you tight through it, forehead resting against your temple, his breath ragged and his body shivering beneath yours. you’re both shaking, sweat-slicked and ruined, chests heaving as you come down from the high together. the room is still spinning, your body still pulsing with overstimulation, but neither of you move.

he stays inside you.

he doesn’t pull out, doesn’t let you go. he just holds you, one hand stroking your spine, the other cradling the back of your neck. his lips press soft, lingering kisses against your shoulder, your cheek, your temple—as if grounding you. as if grounding himself.

“you did so good, baby,” he whispers against your skin, voice barely audible, like it’s meant for you alone. “so fucking good…”

you let out a weak whimper, body limp against his, your head foggy and eyes heavy. but before you can melt into him completely, you hear a sound from across the room.

a soft inhale. a shaky breath.

a quiet, needy moan.

you barely manage to lift your head, and that’s when you see them.

sunoo and niki.

both of them standing near the couch, still untouched, their eyes dark and glazed over with pure, unfiltered want. they’ve been watching—waiting—and now, with your body trembling in jungwon’s lap, flushed and soaked and filled to the brim, they know it’s their turn.

niki is the first to move.

his strides are slow, deliberate, his eyes locked onto yours like you’re prey and he’s already tasted the blood. his shirt is gone, sweat glistening on his chest, his pants slung low on his hips with his cock already painfully hard, jutting forward as he walks. he reaches down lazily to stroke himself, precum smearing across his thumb as he approaches. there’s a quiet, unspoken hunger in his expression, one that sends a fresh pulse of arousal straight through your overstimulated core.

beside him, sunoo moves more delicately—graceful, almost shy in the way he carries himself, but the flush on his cheeks and the way he bites his lip betray just how badly he wants this. his hands tremble slightly as he pulls his shirt over his head, dropping it to the floor. his eyes flick between your cum-filled pussy and your dazed, tear-streaked face, and he swallows hard like he’s trying not to lose control too soon.

jungwon shifts beneath you slowly, carefully easing you off his lap, and you gasp when his cock slips from your swollen cunt, a messy mix of cum immediately dripping out. your legs shake as he helps you lie back across the couch, hands gentle even as his eyes still burn with residual lust.

niki kneels between your thighs without a word, his large hands pressing your knees apart as he leans in, watching your pussy with a greedy kind of fascination. his breath hitches when he sees the way you’re leaking, still twitching from your last orgasm, and he groans low in his throat.

“fuck…” he murmurs, dragging his fingers through the mess. “you’re still dripping…”

you try to respond, try to say something, but the only thing that escapes is a weak whimper—high and airy and broken. niki leans over you, one hand braced beside your head, the other stroking his cock lazily as he brushes his lips against your cheek.

“don’t worry,” he whispers, his voice dark and full of promise. “i’ll take it slow at first…”

sunoo moves closer now, climbing onto the couch beside you, his fingers brushing lightly over your ribs, your stomach, your thighs—as if he can’t believe he’s finally allowed to touch. his lips are soft against your neck, placing tiny kisses there while niki lines himself up between your legs.

“just relax, angel…” sunoo whispers, voice shaking. “we’ll take care of you…”

niki’s cock fills you like it was made to—thick, long, so hot it burns, yet all you can do is moan as he stretches your already swollen cunt with every slow, devastating thrust. his hips roll into you with practiced control, but the look on his face betrays the restraint he’s fighting to keep. his jaw is tight, eyes hazy with need, and sweat shines on his collarbones where the low light catches.

you’re dripping around him. soaked. your walls still clench hard with every inch he gives you, and he feels it—fuck, he feels all of it. the mess, the tightness, the aftershocks of your last orgasm still rippling through you like echoes, and it drives him insane. his hands stay on your thighs, spreading you wide so he can watch everything—your hole stretched wide around his cock, fluttering and wet and glistening, your stomach tensing every time he drags across that one perfect spot inside you.

“fuck, baby,” he grunts, voice rough, hips stuttering for just a second before he steadies himself again. “you’re so messy down here… so wet, fuck…”

your head tilts back, throat exposed, your lips parted in a breathless moan as his cock rocks into you again, deeper, and you swear you feel it in your spine. your body shakes, your hands clawing at the cushions, your mind completely gone—floating in the overwhelming warmth of being touched, used, adored.

sunoo’s hands glide over your ribs, and you barely register the way his fingers move until he’s softly tugging one of your nipples between his fingers, his lips still pressed to your cheek. then your jaw. then your mouth. his breath is light and shaky when he kisses you this time—not soft like before, but needy, filled with the kind of urgency that makes your thighs press together even with niki still inside you.

you whimper into sunoo’s mouth as niki thrusts again, the angle hitting something sharp and sweet, your whole body tensing up. sunoo swallows the sound, kissing you harder, his tongue slow and curious as it slides against yours. and when he pulls back, his cheeks are flushed and his eyes are blown wide, his breathing unsteady.

“baby…” he whispers, brushing his nose against yours, “can i…?”

you know what he wants. the way his cock twitches against your hip says more than words. he’s hard—so hard—painfully so. he’s been holding back for so long, being patient, gentle, soft, but now you see it in the way he bites his lip and avoids your gaze. he needs you.

you blink up at him, dazed and fucked-out, and still, your voice breaks through in a breathy whisper. “come here, baby… let me take care of you.”

sunoo’s mouth falls open slightly, like he hadn’t expected that, and he nods quickly, cheeks flushed deeper. he shuffles around, adjusting his position until he’s kneeling above your chest, his cock resting just above your lips. and fuck, he looks so good like this—his thighs trembling slightly, the tip of his cock red and dripping with precum, the way his fingers twitch at his sides like he doesn’t know where to touch.

niki groans low in your ear as your mouth opens to take sunoo in. he watches it happen—sees your tongue flick out to taste the bead of precum at the tip before your lips wrap around him. sunoo’s whole body shudders at the contact, his hands flying to your hair, though he doesn’t pull. he just holds. anchors. watches you with wide, dazed eyes as you slowly suck him down, inch by inch.

his cock is warm, flushed, and he tastes sweet on your tongue—faint salt and need, the kind of flavor you want to drown in. you moan around him, your throat relaxing as you take him deeper, and the sound makes him whimper above you, hips twitching forward slightly. “oh—fuck…” he gasps, voice breathless, eyes fluttering closed. “so good—your mouth feels so good…”

you swirl your tongue around the head, suck a little harder, and the shaky little sound that slips from him nearly makes your core clench again. you feel his thighs shaking beside your head, his fingers tightening in your hair as he tries not to thrust. he’s holding himself back for you, just like they all do—just like he always has.

niki’s pace falters for a moment when you moan again, the vibration traveling down sunoo’s cock, and then he growls, deep and guttural, burying himself deep inside you before pulling out in one smooth drag. “fuck, watching you take him like that…” he mutters, voice strained, “you’re gonna make me fucking cum.”

he starts moving again, harder now, hips snapping against yours, and the sound of wet skin slapping fills the air, your cunt making the filthiest squelching noises as it struggles to take the full length of him over and over. your body bounces beneath sunoo’s weight, your throat stuffed full of his cock while your pussy gets ruined by niki’s thick, pounding thrusts.

sunoo’s breath is coming in broken gasps now, his eyes locked on your mouth. you take him deep, deeper than before, until your nose is pressed to his stomach, your lips stretched wide around him, and your throat tightens just enough to make his knees buckle.

“shit—gonna cum—i’m gonna—y/n, fuck—” he cries out, voice cracking.

you moan again, the vibration enough to push him over the edge.

sunoo cums hard, hips jerking forward as he spills down your throat. you feel the heat of it coat your tongue, thick and hot, his breath stuttering in your ears as he gasps your name over and over. you swallow every drop, your throat working around him, and he nearly sobs from the sensation, one hand cradling the back of your head like you’re something fragile, even as your mouth is still stretched around him.

niki’s thrusts don’t stop.

you’re still moaning around sunoo’s cock, even as he softens between your lips, even as he trembles above you, breathless and flushed and completely wrecked. he pulls back slowly, carefully, pressing a kiss to your forehead before collapsing beside you, arms wrapping around your waist from the side like he can’t bear to be far.

niki’s breathing is wild now. his pace has turned frantic, thrusts slamming into you with desperate urgency as your pussy clenches hard, soaked and stretched and dripping with a mess of everything they’ve given you. your legs shake violently, every nerve ending firing all at once as he pounds into you one final time.

“fuck—gonna cum—fuck, fuck, fuck—” he gasps, voice raw, eyes wild.

he pulls out just in time, thick streams of cum painting your inner thighs, your stomach, the top of your mound. he moans as he jerks himself through the last spurts, chest heaving, hands twitching from the effort of holding back.

and then—it’s over.

your body collapses into the couch, completely limp, chest rising and falling rapidly, your mind a haze of pleasure and nothing else. you’re soaked, wrecked, flushed from head to toe, and so full—inside, out, all over. the air is humid and sticky, the scent of sex clinging to everything, but all you can feel is the warm weight of their bodies settling around you.

niki slumps beside you, chest to chest, his hand immediately sliding into yours. sunoo nuzzles into your other side, his lips still brushing soft, gentle kisses across your shoulder, your jaw, your collarbone.

you don’t move.

you can’t.

and they don’t make you.

they just hold you—quiet, steady, safe.

your body feels like it’s floating.

not in the way that’s light or airy, but in the way that nothing seems fully connected anymore. every inch of your skin is humming with aftershocks, tingling with the ghost of their touch, their lips, their words. you can’t tell where the ache ends and the warmth begins—all you know is that your limbs are heavy, your muscles limp, and your chest rises and falls in uneven, exhausted breaths.

but you’re not alone.

you’re so far from alone.

sunoo is the first to move, brushing the hair from your face with the gentlest sweep of his fingers. he’s lying beside you, curled into your side like he’s guarding you from the air itself, and when you manage to blink your eyes open, his soft smile is the first thing you see. his eyes shimmer with warmth—pure and golden and so full of love that it steals the breath right out of your lungs.

“hi, angel…” he whispers, so softly it makes your throat ache. “you still with us?”

you nod weakly, unable to speak, but that’s enough for him. he leans in to press a kiss to your cheek, then another to your temple, his thumb stroking slow circles against your hip. you shiver from the tenderness of it, your body far too raw and sensitive to handle even the softest affection, and he notices immediately.

“you’re shaking,” he says gently, concern flickering behind his voice.

“too much,” you whisper, barely audible.

niki’s already sitting up, propped on one elbow beside your legs, his hand running down your calf with a touch so soft it’s almost nothing. “hey,” he murmurs, voice low and soothing. “you did so good for us, baby. so good. you okay?”

you nod again, but the tremble in your chin betrays you, and suddenly jungwon is there too. you don’t even notice when he moves in—he’s just there, on his knees in front of you, already reaching for a warm towel, already soaking another with a bottle of water from the side table. he looks so calm. so focused. his brows are drawn slightly, lips pressed together, but the way his hands move across your skin is steady. certain. safe.

“let’s get you cleaned up,” he murmurs, barely louder than a breath.

you feel the warm cloth as it presses between your legs, and you flinch instinctively. the tenderness there is still too much—your pussy swollen, soaked, and sore from being stretched and filled and used again and again. jungwon immediately pauses, eyes flicking to yours.

“too much?” he asks quietly.

you breathe out a little sigh. “just… slow, please.”

“always,” he whispers, leaning in to kiss your knee. “always slow with you.”

he works carefully, wiping the mess from your inner thighs with gentle, steady strokes. the warmth of the cloth is soothing, the heat easing some of the soreness even as your body continues to twitch beneath his touch. you feel his hands shake just a little as he presses a clean towel against your entrance, holding it there for a few moments to absorb the rest of the cum still leaking out of you. he doesn't say anything while he works—he just keeps going, eyes flicking up to check on you every few seconds, like he’s making sure you're still here.

sunoo continues stroking your hair, humming softly under his breath as you lie still, your body slowly starting to feel like yours again. niki shifts behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist, resting his chin on your shoulder. his chest is warm against your back, his breath slow and steady.

“you’re not allowed to move,” he murmurs playfully, though his tone is all affection. “we’re doing everything now.”

“you already did everything,” you mumble, eyes fluttering shut again.

niki laughs softly against your skin. “and we’re not done.”

jungwon finishes cleaning you, using a new cloth to wipe gently over your stomach, the backs of your thighs, your chest where streaks of cum and sweat still stick to your skin. his touch never lingers too long in one spot. he treats your body like something precious, something holy.

once you’re clean, he pulls a soft blanket over your legs, tucking it around your hips before adjusting the cushions behind your back. sunoo helps you sit up, holding your arms steady, brushing a kiss to your shoulder as he wraps another smaller blanket around your upper body like a shawl.

and then, jay appears from the kitchen.

you didn’t even realize he had left. his shirt is still off, a few droplets of water clinging to his collarbones, but in his hands are two water bottles and a small bowl of fruit. he doesn’t say anything as he kneels beside you—he just opens a bottle and brings the rim to your lips.

you drink slowly, shakily, the cool water tasting like salvation as it glides down your raw throat. jay wipes the corner of your mouth with a thumb, then kisses your forehead without a word. his gaze lingers on your face, the tiniest furrow between his brows as he studies your expression.

“hurting anywhere?” he finally asks.

you shake your head, leaning into sunoo’s arms. “just… sore.”

he smiles, the lines in his face softening. “you’ll rest. we’ve got you.”

jake joins moments later, crouching down to set extra water bottles on the table, then leans in and brushes a kiss to your cheek before whispering, “you were unreal. we’re so proud of you.”

you smile sleepily, warmth blooming in your chest at the weight of their words. your limbs are still heavy, and your mind is still floating, but there’s something grounding about being wrapped in their voices, their praise, their hands.

jungwon finally settles beside you again, towel gone, his body warm as he pulls your legs across his lap. his fingers massage your calves, working slowly through the tension, and you moan quietly from the relief it brings.

sunghoon is last to return—his hair wet now, a clean hoodie draped over his shoulders. he kneels in front of the couch, between your legs, and takes your foot in his hand, pressing a kiss to your ankle before resting his forehead there for a long moment.

no one speaks.

the silence is soft. sacred. every breath is slow. every hand is gentle.

they take turns feeding you fruit—one piece at a time, between kisses and strokes of your hair. mango slices, sweet and sticky. cold grapes. strawberries dipped in sugar. you chew slowly, letting them take care of everything, your body curling further into their arms with every bite.

sunoo wraps his arms around you from behind again, his cheek resting against your shoulder as he whispers praise against your skin.

“you did so well.”

“you were so perfect.”

“we love you so much.”

niki’s hands never stop moving—petting your thighs, massaging your hips, his lips pressing occasional kisses to your temple, your shoulder, your knuckles. jungwon hums as he plays with your toes, brushing his thumb in small circles around your ankle, his gaze still protective and focused.

and eventually… you close your eyes.

not because you’re tired—though you are—but because you feel safe.

warm.

held.

completely adored.

their hands stay on you the whole time. rubbing, holding, kissing. keeping you here. keeping you theirs.

and in that soft, slow silence, you realize something—

you’ve never felt more loved.

──

the sky outside jay’s apartment is dull and overcast, the kind of cloudy that makes the air feel thick and unsaid things feel heavier. heeseung doesn’t knock twice—just once, knuckles dragging off the wood like he’s already exhausted by the weight of walking through the door. jay looks up from the couch when it opens, expecting the usual lazy smirk and offhand banter, but heeseung’s face doesn’t match the energy. he looks… off—not angry, not annoyed, just quiet in a way that stretches under his skin, like something inside him didn’t settle right. “you look like hell,” jay mutters, pausing his music with a flick of the remote. “didn’t think she was the type to drain you like that.” heeseung doesn’t answer. just kicks off his shoes with one foot and sinks into the couch like gravity has doubled in strength, elbows resting on his knees, head down. silence hangs in the space between them, long and stiff.

jay waits a few beats, like maybe heeseung just needs a minute. maybe he’s tired. maybe it’s nothing. but heeseung exhales—long and hollow—and when he finally speaks, it’s without looking up. “she left.” the two words come out flat, but something behind them wavers, the kind of break you can only hear if you’re really paying attention. jay’s brow twitches, arms crossing loosely over his chest. “left?” he repeats, and heeseung nods, still not lifting his head. “as soon as it ended. pulled on her hoodie and walked out like it didn’t mean anything.” jay blinks slowly. “and… did it?”

heeseung’s jaw tightens, muscles shifting beneath his skin as he finally lifts his head and leans back into the couch cushions, eyes staring at a point above jay’s shoulder like he can’t look him straight in the face. “i didn’t even talk to her before we filmed,” he says, voice quiet but full. “not really. just… hello, a few lines about consent and angles, and then—” he stops, swallowing hard. “and then we started, and everything changed.” jay studies him now, frown deepening, the smug tease he’d usually fire off noticeably absent. “what changed?” heeseung licks his lips, slow and nervous. “i didn’t wanna stop. not even when the camera shut off. i didn’t wanna let her go.” the words hang there, heavier than anything he’s said.

jay leans forward slowly, resting his elbows on his knees as he studies heeseung with a calmness that feels a little too practiced. his voice is lighter than before, careful almost, as if he knows whatever thread he’s tugging on has the potential to unravel more than either of them wants to admit. “so,” he starts, tone smooth but softened now, “who is she?” he doesn’t say it like he’s prying. not yet. it’s quieter, more curious than anything—like he’s tiptoeing into something fragile, not wanting to break it before he understands what it is. heeseung doesn’t respond immediately. his eyes stay fixed on the floor, unfocused, and his fingers twitch once against the hem of his jeans, then again, like maybe the answer is buried there in the fabric if he presses hard enough.

jay watches him, head tilting slightly. “you said she posted recently, right?” he prompts, still gentle, still casual on the surface. “just drop the name. i won’t stalk.” it’s a light joke, but it lands with a dull thud in the silence that follows. heeseung doesn’t laugh. doesn’t smile. he doesn’t even look up. he just shakes his head—small, deliberate, a tiny movement that’s almost easy to miss if you’re not looking closely. jay is looking, though. he sees it. sees how stiff heeseung’s shoulders are, how still his hands go after that single shake of the head. the shift in the air is subtle, but unmistakable.

jay leans back a little, eyebrows pulling in. “what—you don’t wanna share?” he asks, the edge of something creeping into his voice now. it’s not judgment. not annoyance. just… confusion. curiosity. maybe even a hint of something else. but again, there’s no reply. heeseung’s jaw is tense now, his gaze still fixed somewhere across the room, anywhere but on jay. his silence feels thick. weighted. like there’s something he’s protecting and doesn’t want to admit to—not to jay, not to himself.

they sit like that for a moment, the quiet stretching long between them.

and jay doesn’t need him to say it.

because they’ve all had their moments. they’ve all talked about their collabs, laughed about awkward edits, swapped notes on lighting and pacing and what works. but they’ve never dropped usernames. it’s always been an unspoken rule—don’t ask, don’t check, don’t pry. the anonymity protects everyone, keeps it from getting personal. and if it’s not personal, it can stay simple. professional. clean.

but this? this silence?

this is not simple.

and jay knows—whatever happened between heeseung and that girl?

it’s not just content.

the realization creeps in slow. jay’s brows lift, lips parting as he exhales through his nose and lets the tension stretch between them. “wait…” he says, the edge of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “no fucking way.” heeseung doesn’t budge. “dude.” silence. “you’re not giving me the name because you’re into her?” still nothing. jay leans back in disbelief, blinking at him like he’s seeing him for the first time. “bro.” heeseung’s jaw flexes. “you caught feelings?”

and that’s it. no witty comeback. no scoff. no smirk. just stillness.

heeseung goes completely still.

jay lets out a low whistle, leaning back into the cushions with his arms spread across the top of the couch like he’s trying to fill the space with anything but the silence. “that’s crazy,” he laughs, shaking his head like he’s heard something ridiculous, even though the grin on his face doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “mr. freakshow himself, down bad for a girl he doesn’t even know much of?” he tries to keep it light, playful, the kind of jab he usually throws without thought, but this one lands weird. heeseung doesn’t flinch. doesn’t argue. doesn’t roll his eyes or laugh with him. he just sits there, unmoving, like the weight of the truth is too heavy to shift around anymore. jay glances at him again, this time longer, the humor starting to fade from his mouth. “you serious right now?” he asks, quieter now, the air settling. “like… actually serious?”

heeseung doesn’t answer. doesn’t need to. his silence says everything, thick and loud and final, and jay leans forward again, elbows on his knees, the playfulness draining from his posture. “you’re really not gonna tell me who she is?” he presses, and this time there’s something different in his voice—something caught between curiosity and disbelief. heeseung shifts slightly, finally dragging a hand over his face, and mutters, “no.” jay tilts his head, trying to get a read, but it’s hard to see through it—the silence, the distance, the weird swell of something he can’t name growing in the pit of his stomach. “you think she’s the only one who made you feel something?” he jokes half-heartedly, but there’s a bitter edge beneath it now. “there’s, like, dozens of new creators every week.” heeseung glances up at him then, and the look in his eyes is so bare, so unguarded, that jay has to look away.

he shrugs like it’s nothing, standing to stretch and move toward the kitchen, even though there’s nothing waiting for him there. “you’ll move on,” he calls over his shoulder, like it’s fact. “you always do.” the words echo a little, float into the stillness like he needed to hear them aloud to believe them. heeseung doesn’t reply, and jay opens the fridge, stares inside like he’s suddenly deeply interested in the half-empty energy drink shelf. the longer the silence lasts, the heavier it feels—off, unfamiliar, like the ground has shifted just a few inches under both of them. jay grabs a can, pops the tab, and leans against the counter without turning around. “she must’ve been really good,” he says after a moment, voice quieter again, like the thought is sticking more than he expected it to. “or maybe you were just overdue.”

jay’s apartment feels too still once the door clicks shut behind heeseung, the weight of his silence lingering long after he’s gone. the couch feels cold, the echo of that final look he gave still playing in jay’s head, and for some reason, jay can’t stop pacing. he walks into the kitchen. opens the fridge. closes it again. stands by the window like the answers might be written in the clouds outside. but they’re not—so he does what he always does when something gets under his skin. he sits down, boots up his account, and scrolls through the new creators tab with idle swipes of his thumb, trying to let the algorithm distract him. names flash by, previews blur together, but one stops him cold. @babydollxo.

the profile is nothing flashy—no thirst traps, no bio full of emojis or promises—just a clean layout, a single post, and a display name that’s more suggestion than scream. it’s the thumbnail that makes him click—low lighting, soft curves, a still shot of thighs parted just enough to tease but not enough to show. he doesn’t recognize her. not even close. but something about it feels… personal. the video opens quietly, and what hits him first isn’t the visuals—it’s the sound. her breathing. her pace. the soft, near-whispered moan like she’s trying not to be heard. “fuck,” jay mutters, leaning closer, one hand braced on his jaw as the video loops back to the beginning. “who are you?”

he taps through her page, skimming the stats—no verification, barely a few thousand followers, but the engagement is insane. comments already pouring in, tips stacking, new subscribers flashing in real time. jay scrolls again, watching the preview once more before his fingers move on instinct—hitting follow, and typing out a message without even hesitating. 

you’ve got good rhythm. ever thought about collabing? 

it’s casual, confident, and quick—sent before he even second-guesses it. he settles back in his chair, lets the video loop again, and lingers longer this time, eyes trailing down the curves of her body. he doesn’t know her. doesn’t need to. he just knows she moves like she’s got something worth chasing.

he lets the video loop again, slower this time, volume just a bit louder, thumb hovering over the play bar like he wants to rewind and memorize every second of the way her hand moves. there’s something about her pacing—unrushed, unbothered, like she’s not performing for anyone but herself—that makes it worse. hotter. more real. she doesn’t show her face, but the shape of her mouth is visible in the soft outline of the mirror behind her, parted, pink, whispering something too faint to hear. jay’s hand slips beneath his waistband before he even realizes it, fingertips brushing over his cock already half-hard from nothing but her rhythm and the sound of her moans. “shit,” he mutters under his breath, teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he starts to stroke himself slow, eyes locked on the way her fingers dip between her thighs. he watches the tension in her body, the way her hips roll, the way her knees twitch just before the clip cuts. it’s barely 40 seconds long, and it has him already grinding into his palm like it’s been hours.

he strokes himself slow, thumb dragging over the head, using nothing but the weight of her movements to guide his pace, lazy and deliberate. he imagines her beneath him, same lighting, same breathless moans, but this time his hands are the ones between her thighs—his name the one falling off her tongue. his hips lift slightly off the chair, chasing friction, fucking into his fist in slow, tight rolls that match the rhythm she set on screen. his breath starts to fog the screen, but he doesn’t care. he leans in anyway, watching the arch of her back, the twitch of her thighs, every small tremble that gives her away. “who the fuck are you,” he whispers again, voice strained now, knuckles tightening with each stroke, precum leaking warm across his hand. he’s close, but not rushing—just breathing, just fucking into his hand like she’s watching him right back. and then it happens—just as his eyes start to flutter shut, just as his cock twitches against his grip—

buzz.

his phone lights up in the corner of the screen, and he blinks, chest still rising fast, fingers stilled mid-stroke as the name flashes clear.

────୨ৎ────

the car ride home is quiet, the soft hum of the engine the only thing keeping your mind from spinning completely out of control. you stare out the window the whole time, watching buildings blur into neighborhoods, storefronts into trees, your reflection ghosting back at you every time the light hits the glass just right. your body feels heavy in a way that isn’t just physical—like you left part of yourself back in that bed, wrapped in sheets and tangled in someone else’s breath. your thighs are still sticky, your hair still smells like his detergent, and your phone hasn’t stopped buzzing since he posted the video. you don’t check it. not yet. you know what’s waiting for you there. attention. validation. noise. and none of it feels like enough to quiet the ache still blooming beneath your ribs. you just want to be home. you just want your bed. you just want this night to stop echoing.

you thank the driver and climb out quietly, your fingers trembling as they grip the strap of your bag. the air hits different now—colder, clearer, like it’s trying to sober you up from whatever high your body’s still crashing down from. the building looms in front of you, too familiar, too grounding, and your feet feel too loud on the stairs as you climb. you don’t expect nari to still be awake. you don’t expect her to be sitting on the couch in her hoodie and shorts, blanket over her lap, hair tied up and a mug of tea forgotten on the table. her head lifts when she sees you, eyes widening, expression soft and sleepy but instantly alert. “hey,” she says gently, not like she’s prying—just like she knows. you blink once. twice. and then the tears start rising up too fast to swallow.

“i did it,” you say, voice cracking before you can catch it, dropping your bag to the floor like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. “i filmed with someone. like… all of it. everything.” your eyes sting as you move to sit beside her, pulling your legs up on the couch, hugging your knees to your chest like you’re trying to hold yourself together with your own arms. “it wasn’t supposed to feel like this,” you whisper, breath hitching as her hand comes down gently to rub your back, slow and reassuring. “it was supposed to just be money. content. like… a transaction. but then—he was…” you trail off, shaking your head. “he made me feel things i didn’t expect. he made me forget it was even being recorded.” nari doesn’t say anything yet. just keeps rubbing your back, waiting.

“he was sweet,” you continue, voice barely above a whisper now, “and careful. and so good—like, not just at the physical part, but… the way he looked at me. like he actually cared.” you laugh then, bitter and soft and full of disbelief. “and then i got dressed. and i left.” you press your palms to your face, shoulders trembling with the weight of everything crashing back down. “i told myself it was business. that’s what i kept saying in the car. it’s just business. but it didn’t feel like that. not for one second.” nari doesn’t rush you, doesn’t try to talk over your spiraling. she just pulls you in, arms wrapping around your shoulders as she rests her chin against the top of your head. “i didn’t want to admit it,” you breathe out, “but i think… i liked it too much.”

nari pulls back just enough to look at you, her brows drawn, voice soft and steady. “do you regret it?” she asks, and the question doesn’t come with judgment—just care. you pause, really thinking about it, your heart still aching, your body still buzzing from everything he touched, everything he said. you shake your head slowly, fingers tightening into the sleeves of your sweatshirt. “no,” you say. “i don’t regret it. i just don’t know what to do now.” the truth settles between you like steam—warm, fragile, lingering in the quiet space nari always creates for you. she nods once, like she understands. like she already knew. “then we figure it out,” she says. “together.”

you stay tucked into nari’s side for a while after that, the quiet between you comforting in a way that nothing else has been all night. her arm stays around your shoulders, warm and steady, thumb tracing small shapes against your arm like she’s grounding you with each pass. your breathing evens out eventually, and the ache in your chest settles—not gone, not even dulled, but wrapped in something that makes it easier to hold. the light from your phone catches your attention when it buzzes against the cushion beside you, and you glance down without thinking. the notification flashes once—

@jayafterhours replied to your message. 

your stomach flips. not from nerves, not from guilt, but something sharp and new and electric. you hesitate for half a second, then pick it up and unlock the screen.

the app opens instantly, and the message lights up clean beneath your own.

@jayafterhours: depends. how good are you at following directions?

it sits there like a dare. no emojis. no filler. just those words, sharp and smooth, wrapped in heat. you read it once. then again. and then a third time, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip as something unfamiliar sparks low in your stomach. jay’s message isn’t careful or warm or soft. it’s cocky. bold. full of the kind of energy that doesn’t ask—it challenges. and it should be easy to ignore, should be nothing more than another opportunity—but after the way tonight left you exposed, this message feels like armor. like escape. like exactly what you need right now.

you’re still staring at jay’s message when your phone buzzes again—this time softer, quieter, like it knows it’s interrupting something private. nari’s still next to you, her hand resting gently on your arm, both of you folded into the silence after your confession. you don’t realize how tense your body has gotten until her thumb strokes over your sleeve, grounding you like she always does. “everything okay?” she asks softly, and you nod—too fast, too automatic. you glance down, thumb dragging over the edge of your screen, and your breath stalls when you see the name.

@heefreakshow: i’m outside

no punctuation. no lead-in. no warning. your stomach tightens. your chest tightens, breath catching hard as you blink at the message once, then twice, like it might go away if you look long enough. but it doesn’t. it just sits there—steady, waiting, pressing heavy against your ribs. “nari,” you say suddenly, voice softer now, “can you grab me that tea from earlier? i think it’s still on the counter.”

she nods easily, no questions, just kindness, slipping up from the couch and padding toward the kitchen in her socks. the second she’s out of sight, you grab your phone, the grip of it cold against your palm as you move toward the door on autopilot. your heart thuds unevenly as you reach for the handle, and for a moment, you hesitate—what are you even doing?—but your hand moves anyway. you open the door slowly, half-expecting to see no one there—to tell yourself you imagined it, that maybe the message wasn’t meant for you. but he’s there. standing just a few feet away in the hallway, hands in his jacket pockets, hood drawn halfway up like he’s trying to shrink into the shadows. his eyes meet yours instantly, and the world seems to stop moving. it’s the same face. the same mouth that kissed your shoulder, the same voice that whispered your name until you came undone. but it’s different now, too. softer. sadder. there’s something unreadable in his expression, something that pulls at you, something that says i’m not here just to see you—i’m here because i can’t stay away.

you step back without a word, letting him in with a tilt of your chin, your fingers tightening around the doorknob before you close it softly behind him. he’s still watching you—same mouth, same eyes, but something about him feels different now. more exposed. less in control. like the walls he held up on camera don’t follow him into your apartment. “i wasn’t gonna come,” he says after a second, voice quiet, husky at the edges, “but i couldn’t stop thinking about it. about you.” you freeze. not because of what he said—but how he said it. no teasing. no performative confidence. just the raw, stripped-down truth of a man standing in front of someone he wasn’t ready to lose.

“i don’t want to make this complicated,” he adds, eyes dipping away from yours for a heartbeat, “i know you’ve got your reasons. i know what this was supposed to be.” he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the envelope—thick, sealed, heavy with every cent the video made. “this is yours,” he says. “all of it.” your fingers curl instinctively, but you don’t reach for it. “i just…” he trails off, shaking his head like he hates himself for even being here. “i haven’t been able to stop thinking about how you sounded. how you felt. how you looked at me when the camera turned off.” his voice drops even lower, and when his eyes meet yours again, they’re raw. “you keep showing up in my head—and i don’t know how to turn it off.”

heeseung exhales like something inside him’s cracking open—like the silence you’re holding is slowly tearing through his chest. his fingers twitch at his side, still gripping the envelope he hasn’t let you take, like it’s the only anchor he has left. “i used to think people who said love at first sight were full of shit,” he says suddenly, voice low, almost ashamed of the words as they fall out. “like it was just something people told themselves when they were lonely. or desperate. or drunk.” his throat works around the lump sitting in it as his eyes flick back to yours, soft and vulnerable and scared. “but then i looked at you. and everything i thought i knew stopped making sense.” the envelope lowers. his hand opens. and now it’s not money between you—it’s him.

he steps forward slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid if he moves too fast you’ll vanish. you don’t breathe. don’t speak. your entire body’s frozen under the weight of what’s unfolding in front of you. his hand lifts, fingers brushing gently beneath your chin before tracing upward, knuckles grazing the line of your jaw. “you’re the most beautiful woman i’ve ever seen,” he murmurs, thumb pressing against your cheek like he’s trying to memorize the softness of your skin. “not just because of how you look. but the way you breathe. the way you speak. the way you left me speechless without even trying.” his forehead nearly touches yours now, his breath warm and unsteady between you. “i don’t want this to be about the fucking camera anymore.”

“let me in,” he whispers, and it’s so quiet, so desperate, that it barely holds itself together. “let me know you. i’m not asking for everything. i just want… something. something real.” your lips part, but no sound comes out—your chest rising hard, your pulse loud in your ears, your mind too full to form words. his eyes flick down to your mouth, then back up, searching you, waiting for permission you don’t know how to give. you could push him away. you could lie. you could tell him this is too much, too fast. but before you can speak—he leans in.

his mouth presses to yours with a softness that stuns you—nothing rushed, nothing demanding. just him. trembling, open, real. his hand cups the side of your face like he’s afraid you’ll break beneath him, his lips moving slowly against yours like he’s trying to tell you everything he doesn’t have the words for. your breath hitches. your lashes flutter. and for one suspended moment, there is no camera. no contract. no inbox. just him. and the way his mouth is kissing you like you’re the first thing that’s ever made sense

his lips move against yours with an aching kind of care, like he doesn’t want to rush it—like he wants to memorize every part of your mouth before the moment slips away. his hand tilts your chin just slightly, thumb brushing along the edge of your jaw as his other hand hovers at your waist, not pulling, not forcing—just holding, like you’re something he’s scared to lose. you lean into him before you can stop yourself, your fingers brushing lightly against his chest, catching in the fabric of his hoodie like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded. the kiss deepens naturally, your mouths molding together with more weight, more heat, until his breath is tangled with yours. he exhales shakily into the kiss, lips parting just enough to let his tongue flick against yours, soft and slow and searching. you gasp quietly, your body pressing just a little closer, like the gravity between you both is impossible to resist. his thumb traces beneath your cheekbone, slow and reverent, like he still can’t believe you’re letting him do this. everything inside you is warm and light and crumbling.

the taste of him lingers sweet on your lips, heat blooming through your body in waves as the kiss stretches out longer than you mean it to—longer than it should. his tongue slides against yours again, a little deeper this time, a little more sure, like he’s just starting to believe this is real. your fingers clutch at the edge of his hoodie, pulling him closer without thinking, your chest pressing flush to his, your breath stuttering against his lips. you hear the softest, tiniest sound from him—almost a whimper, half-swallowed, too quiet to be on purpose. and it makes your stomach twist. makes your knees feel weak. his mouth moves lower, dragging to the corner of your lips, then kissing softly along the edge of your jaw like he can’t help himself. and it’s all too much. too good. too full of feeling you’ve been trying to deny since the second you walked out of his bed.

your hand lifts to his chest to ground yourself, fingers splayed over the beat of his heart that’s racing just as hard as yours. heeseung’s breath hitches, and he pulls back just enough to look at you—his mouth swollen, eyes dark, lips still parted. “i mean it,” he says again, voice rough and wrecked and so soft. “i want to know you.” your heart stutters. your mouth opens—but before either of you can speak again—

“y/n?”

the voice comes like a slap. bright. clear. and cutting straight through the warmth like a blade.

you freeze.

your body jerks back like a switch flipped under your skin, like your name being said aloud burned straight through the fantasy. you stumble out of his grip, lips still parted, breathing hard, your fingers releasing his hoodie so fast it feels like you just realized what you were holding. your eyes go wide as your mind scrambles to catch up, to remember where you are, who you are, who is in your apartment right now. “shit,” you whisper under your breath, heart hammering like it’s trying to punch through your ribs, like your pulse forgot how to settle. heeseung straightens a little, blinking, his expression shifting fast—from warmth to confusion to that same guarded tension you saw at the door. you turn quickly toward the hallway, barely able to process what you’re supposed to do next. “just a second!” you call back to nari, your voice thin and breathless, like you’re trying not to sound like you were just kissed like someone’s favorite memory.

she doesn’t answer right away, but her footsteps pad closer from the kitchen—slow, unaware, still far enough that you can breathe but not for long. you whip around to face him, panic laced in every inch of your movement. “you have to go,” you say, too fast, too tight, the words leaving your mouth before you can soften them. heeseung’s brows pull together, the smallest flicker of hurt in his eyes before he catches himself. “y/n,” he says gently, his hand half-lifted like he wants to reach for you again, but he doesn’t. “please. don’t shut me out again.” your throat tightens, your fingers clenching at your sides. you can’t do this right now. not with your roommate three steps away. not when your lips still taste like his name.

“this was a mistake,” you say, though your voice wavers at the end of it, and you hate how easily it betrays you. heeseung flinches—not dramatically, not with words, just the subtle shift of someone trying not to react to a wound they didn’t expect. “it didn’t feel like one,” he says, barely above a whisper, but there’s weight in it, something heavy that sticks in your chest. you open your mouth, but no words come out—just air, just panic, just silence. the warmth from his touch is still clinging to your skin, but it doesn’t feel soft anymore. it feels like a question you don’t have an answer to. you step back once, then again. and he takes the hint.

“i’ll go,” he says, voice dull now, and you hate it—you hate the way he sounds when he says it, like you’re undoing something that hadn’t even started yet. he moves toward the door without another word, his shoulders square, steps quiet like he doesn’t want to make it harder than it already is. your breath catches as he opens it, just wide enough to slip out, and for a second you almost call his name. almost. but then he’s gone.

and when the door clicks shut, it’s like your whole body deflates.

you don’t move at first—not even after the door clicks shut, not even after your heartbeat starts to slow. you’re frozen there, staring at the space he left behind, like the warmth of his presence is still lingering in the air, clinging to your skin. your lips are still parted. your hands are still shaking. and your thoughts feel like they’re spinning too fast to hold onto anything solid. you press your fingers to your mouth, just once, like you’re trying to erase the kiss from your skin—but all it does is make you remember how it felt. how soft he was. how much he meant it. and how badly you wanted to believe it.

“hey,” nari’s voice calls gently from behind, her steps slow and light like she’s trying not to startle you. “who was that?” her question isn’t sharp, not suspicious—just curious, just concerned. you inhale too fast, turning toward her with a smile you have to force into place, swallowing down the lump in your throat. “no one,” you say, and the words sound brittle even to your own ears. nari tilts her head slightly, stopping just a few feet away, her gaze soft but a little puzzled. “it sounded like someone was here. you okay?” she asks, her eyes searching your face like she already knows the answer isn’t yes.

you nod too quickly. lie too easily. “yeah,” you say, waving it off like it’s nothing, like your hands aren’t trembling from the ghost of a kiss that’s still burning through you. “just… someone dropping something off.” nari hums, unconvinced but not pushing, and moves past you toward the living room again. your shoulders fall the second she turns her back, the pressure of pretending scraping down your spine like sandpaper. you follow her slowly, your feet heavy, your mind louder than it’s ever been. part of you wants to tell her everything—to let it spill out in messy pieces like you did before—but the rest of you can’t. not yet. not when it’s still sitting in your chest like it means something more than it should.

you sink back onto the couch, your hands folding in your lap, trying not to feel the way your heart’s still pulling in opposite directions. “you want me to warm your tea again?” nari asks from the kitchen, casual, kind, unaware of how badly you need something—anything—to anchor you right now. “yeah,” you manage, your voice hoarse. “please.” she hums again, and the clinking of the mug hitting the counter fills the silence while you reach for your phone like a reflex, screen lighting up again with the last message you received.

@jayafterhours: depends. how good are you at following directions?

your thumb hovers over it for a second. just long enough to wonder what would happen if you said yes.

────୨ৎ────

jay could hear your footsteps before the knock even came—soft, steady, unhurried as you walked up the steps to his door. he didn’t move right away. just stood there, watching the blur of your shadow shift beneath the crack, listening to the quiet rhythm of your shoes against the concrete. when your knuckles finally tapped against the wood—quick, confident, not too firm—it echoed straight through his chest. and for some reason, his breath caught. he hadn’t even seen you yet, but something in the way you approached already had him standing a little straighter.

he opened the door slowly, not expecting much—just a girl, a creator, someone behind a screen turned in front of a lens. but then you were there. standing in front of him like you’d always belonged in his doorway. and for a second, jay couldn’t fucking breathe. it wasn’t just the way you looked, though that was enough to throw him off—lips bare, lashes soft, skin kissed with the kind of natural glow that didn't need lighting. it was the way you carried it. cool, calm, but not cocky. like you knew he’d be staring—and you didn’t mind one bit.

he had no idea what to say at first, and that wasn’t like him. so instead, he stepped back. made room. let you walk into his space while he held the door and tried not to think about the way your hoodie rode up just enough when you passed. “glad you came,” he said finally, voice lower than intended, the heat behind it already showing. and still, you didn’t say much—just nodded, eyes flicking over his apartment like you were already deciding if you liked being here.

and jay? yeah, he was already fucked.

he invites you to sit, his tone smooth and unbothered, like this is all routine. your eyes drift over the table—neat dishes laid out already, plates warm, silverware set clean and deliberate, like he’d done this more than once in his head before you actually showed up. the chairs are tucked in, a folded napkin on each side, and it’s not fancy, not showy—just thoughtful. the kind of quiet preparation that says he was expecting you. he gestures toward the one closest to the corner, letting you choose your seat, and only after you lower yourself does he finally move to the opposite side. the room smells like something savory—spiced, warm, familiar—but you’re too focused on the way he looks across the table. like he’s already unwrapping you with his eyes and hasn’t even touched you yet.

“i wasn’t sure what you’d like,” he says, sliding one of the plates toward you, “so i made something safe.” he says it with a shrug, casual, but the corners of his mouth twitch like he knows it still matters. you glance down at the dish—pasta, something seasoned and steaming lightly, nothing too heavy but just enough to show he gave a shit. the table feels too quiet for a second, but jay fills it easily, leaning forward with one forearm against the wood like he’s settling into something easy. “before we get into the rest,” he says, tone steady, “i just wanna know a few things about you.” you blink, not expecting that—not after the texts, not after the message that brought you here.

“what should i call you?” he asks, voice low but not demanding, like he wants to give you space to answer how you want. “real name, nickname, something else?” he waits. doesn’t press. just watches you with those sharp, dark eyes like he’s already cataloging every answer for later. you tell him your name—and he nods once, storing it somewhere behind the calm set of his mouth. then he asks another. “what’s your favorite ice cream?” and when you raise a brow, he shrugs again. “everybody’s got one. mine’s pistachio. but i don’t expect you to take me seriously after saying that out loud.”

the edge of a smile touches your mouth before you can stop it, and you hate the way it catches his attention immediately—like he notices everything, even the small shifts. he asks more. not deep things. just enough to make you talk. favorite time of day. worst habit. music you only listen to when you’re alone. it’s disarming. gentle. like he’s peeling you open slowly without ever putting his hands on you. and it throws you off balance, because none of it feels like an act. he’s not trying to seduce you. he’s just trying to see you. and somehow, that’s worse.

he doesn’t look at your chest. doesn’t stare at your legs. his eyes stay on your face like he wants to memorize it before the lighting and the angles and the camera strip it down. “i like knowing things,” he says after your third answer, voice quieter now, like it’s a secret he’s only saying once. “makes what happens later feel less like performance. more like chemistry.” your breath catches slightly, the implication not subtle but not crude. and he knows it. his mouth curves slowly around his next word. “boundaries,” he says, leaning back finally, like he’s shifting gears. “let’s talk about them.”

you sit a little straighter at the word—boundaries—as if the reminder helps you find your footing again. it feels like the only thing you can control in a space where everything else is already moving faster than you expected. jay watches you with that same measured gaze, not pushing, not crowding, just waiting. and somehow, that’s what makes it harder to speak. you inhale slowly, letting the words settle in your mouth before you release them. “i’m okay with most things,” you say carefully, voice quiet but steady. “just… not my face. i don’t want it shown.” your fingers curl slightly around the edge of your seat as the words leave you, like saying them out loud solidifies them in a way that’s permanent.

jay doesn’t blink. doesn’t shift. doesn’t even flinch. he just nods once, slow and certain. “easy,” he says simply. “i’ve worked around that before.” you blink, a little surprised at how quickly he agreed. “you can stay cropped, blurred, or angled out. whatever you’re comfortable with.” his tone doesn’t falter—there’s no question in it, no teasing, no hint of disbelief. just clean acceptance. and that, somehow, makes your chest tighten. “i don’t do spit,” you add suddenly, a little sharper now, like you need to draw one more line just to see if he’ll cross it. “noted,” he replies, just as calm.

“what about contact?” he asks after a beat, fingers tapping lightly against the table, not impatient—just thoughtful. “hands? mouths? toys? giving, receiving?” it’s the first time the words sound even remotely intimate, and it sends a ripple down your spine, but you don’t let it show. you answer carefully, listing what you’re okay with, what you’d rather avoid, and he takes it all in without interrupting. not once does he smirk. not once does he turn it into something dirtier than it needs to be. he just listens. and somehow that makes your pulse pick up more than anything he could’ve said.

“do you have a safeword?” he asks next, voice low but clear, no edge to it—just importance. you hesitate for a second, your teeth pressing gently into your bottom lip as your mind flips through words that feel right. something simple. something soft. something you’ll remember even when your thoughts are a mess. “peach,” you say finally, your voice barely above a breath. “if i say peach, we stop.” you don’t expect the way his eyes soften at that, like he wasn’t just listening—he heard you. he nods once, firm and sure. “peach it is,” he replies, voice quiet but absolute. “say it once, and everything ends. no questions asked.”

he leans back, letting the quiet settle. “anything else?” he asks, tone a little lighter now, like he’s giving you space to say no. your fingers twitch against the edge of your thigh. your heart’s still racing, your head still loud. but you shake your head slowly. “not right now,” you murmur. jay gives you a long look. not unreadable—but quiet. measured. like he’s still trying to piece you together without rushing it. and when he speaks again, his voice is lower, gentler. “i don’t want you to just feel safe,” he says. “i want you to feel seen.”

jay stands from the table slowly, pushing his chair in with one hand and tilting his head toward the hallway. “come with me,” he says simply, his tone softer now—less like a command, more like an invitation. you follow without speaking, your footsteps quieter this time as you trail behind him, your body still warm from the way he looked at you. the deeper you move into his apartment, the more the quiet hum of something personal settles in. the space is open but not cold—walls painted a cool gray, dark wood floors that soften each step, and framed black-and-white prints spaced carefully along the hall. everything feels… intentional. not staged, not overly curated—just clean, calm, and lived-in, like he only keeps what matters.

there’s a faint scent lingering in the air, something earthy and expensive—maybe sandalwood, maybe cedar, something low and smooth that fits him perfectly. the hallway passes a spare room, its door cracked open just enough for you to see a neat workspace with a monitor, ring light, and perfectly wound cords—no mess, no clutter. he’s the kind of guy who wipes surfaces even if they’re already clean. who arranges things by size without realizing it. and now that you’re walking through it, it makes sense. he feels like someone who controls the chaos before it ever starts. someone who doesn’t just direct scenes, but knows how to curate them down to the last breath.

when he opens the door to his room, he doesn’t say anything—just steps inside and waits for you to follow. and you do. slow, careful, your eyes scanning the space as you enter. the room is warm in tone, dimly lit by a lamp in the corner with amber-tinted light that makes the shadows look softer. the bedding is dark navy, sheets smooth and taut, a throw blanket folded at the edge with precision. there’s a small table near the wall with a speaker, a single coaster, and a lighter next to an unused candle. everything is exactly where it should be—but not in a clinical way. more like someone who lives in silence and pays attention to what it tells him.

the tripod is already set up across the room, angled down slightly toward the bed, lens cap off but nothing recording yet. it doesn’t feel threatening. just… real. you were expecting something more dramatic. lights. backdrops. fake velvet. but this is something else. this feels personal. honest. quiet. and maybe that’s what makes your pulse start to rise in your throat again. jay walks past you slowly, crossing the room to the dresser, and opens the top drawer without saying a word. you watch him carefully, still trying to piece together what kind of man sets a camera like that and still remembers to cook you lunch.

when he turns around, he’s holding something small and black, the shimmer of silk catching the light as he walks back toward you. the bag in his hand is delicate—drawstring ribbon, gold threading, and you already know what it is before he offers it out. “for you,” he says, holding it between you like it’s something important. “to wear.” you blink up at him, but his gaze doesn’t waver, doesn’t falter. “i saw it in a shop the day after i found your profile,” he adds quietly. “wasn’t looking for anything. just… saw it. and thought it would suit you.”

you give him a slight smile before you speak, “give me a minute?” you say, voice quiet but sure. jay’s eyes meet yours again, and this time he smiles without speaking. just a small tilt of his head, an unspoken take your time. you close the bathroom door quietly behind you, the soft click echoing louder than it should in your ears. the small silk bag is still clutched in your hand, your palm warm and damp against the fabric like you’re holding something much more dangerous. the light in here is brighter—clean, warm-toned, flattering—but it only makes your nerves feel sharper. the mirror reflects back a version of yourself that looks steady, calm, composed… but your chest is tight. your skin buzzes beneath your clothes. and as you lay the bag down on the counter, you realize this moment feels familiar. too familiar.

your breath slows as your fingers reach for the hem of your hoodie, pulling it up and over your head with a slow drag, your tank top following right after. you fold them both neatly beside the sink, more out of nervous habit than care. and for a second, you’re standing there in just your underwear, heart thrumming low in your stomach, staring at your reflection like it’s someone else’s body. you’ve been here before. not in this room, not with these lights—but in the feeling. the anticipation. the tight pull in your gut. the sting of wanting to impress someone who shouldn’t mean anything.

you think of heeseung. how it felt when you changed for him. how you stood in your room, under dim lighting, slipping on something you picked while he waited for you just down the hall. how it wasn’t supposed to feel like it did. how you thought it would just be performance. and it wasn’t. it was heat. it was vulnerability. it was dangerous. and now here you are again—different place, different man, but the same twisting ache curling around your spine. why does it feel the same? why does your body keep falling into this rhythm like it wants to be seen?

you open the silk bag slowly, the lingerie soft and light in your hands as you lift it out. black lace, just like he said. a deep plunge neckline, sheer mesh sides, satin ribbon at the center. the fabric is cool against your fingertips, delicate enough to feel like it might tear if you don’t handle it carefully. it’s beautiful. subtle. nothing flashy—but undeniably seductive. you step into it slowly, one leg at a time, pulling the straps over your shoulders, adjusting the fit around your waist. and as it settles against your skin, molding to your body like it was meant for you, you feel something crack open behind your ribs.

you shouldn’t like this. not the way you do. not the way your thighs press together, not the way your breath comes shallower, not the way you want to step out there and watch jay’s face when he sees you in this. you shouldn’t want to impress him—not after how confused you still feel about the last time. about heeseung. about what it meant, and what it didn’t. but your skin burns all the same. your hands tremble slightly as you fix your hair, as you smooth the hem, as you give yourself one last look in the mirror. “just business,” you whisper to your reflection. and even you don’t believe it.

you open the door slowly, just enough to slip through, your hands brushing down your sides one last time as you step back into the low light of his bedroom. the air feels thicker out here—warmer, heavier, like it’s been waiting for you. the door clicks gently behind you, and your bare feet make the softest sound against the floor as you move forward, your breath caught somewhere between your throat and your chest. you don’t look at him right away. not yet. you don’t want to see his face until you’re standing still, until your heart isn’t racing so fast it might show on your skin. but you feel it the moment his eyes land on you.

jay goes completely still—like the sight of you knocks the air out of him. he was sitting at the edge of the bed, adjusting the tripod when the door opened, but now he’s frozen, hands resting loosely on his thighs, lips parted just slightly as his gaze drags up your body. he doesn’t speak. doesn’t smile. he just looks—like you’re something he’s only seen in his head before this. something better in person. his eyes move slowly, taking in every line of lace, every sheer inch of skin, every soft curve the lingerie hugs like it was tailored just for you. and when your gaze finally lifts to meet his, he looks like he’s trying not to say something reckless.

“fuck,” he murmurs under his breath, the word falling out like it escaped before he could hold it back. he shifts forward just slightly, elbows resting on his knees now, fingers loosely laced like he needs to stay grounded. “you really wore it.” there’s something in his voice—something tight, restrained, too controlled to be casual. his eyes keep flicking between your mouth and your hips like he can’t pick which part of you he wants to touch first. “looks better than i imagined,” he adds, and it doesn’t sound like a compliment—it sounds like a confession. low, almost reverent.

you try to stay still under the weight of his stare, but your skin feels too hot, too bare, too sensitive. his gaze alone feels like it’s dragging fingers down your sides, smoothing over the lace, sinking into places he hasn’t even touched yet. he straightens a little, breath deeper now, like he’s forcing himself to remember why you’re both here. “can i fix the straps?” he asks suddenly, voice softer now, eyes flicking toward your shoulder where the delicate black lace has slipped just slightly out of place. “just the straps.” his tone is calm, careful—asking not assuming.

you nod once, and he rises without another word, his steps slow and deliberate as he closes the space between you. he moves behind you, close enough that you can feel the heat of his body at your back but not close enough to touch—not yet. his fingers reach up gently, grazing your skin as he slides the strap higher, smoothing it back into place with practiced ease. then the other. slow. patient. like he’s putting something sacred back where it belongs. “perfect,” he murmurs once, voice brushing warm against your neck, and then he steps back, keeping his hands to himself.

you can still feel him, even after he’s gone.

“lie down for me,” he says again, a little softer this time, like he’s coaxing the words past your skin. you move slowly, climbing up onto the bed with steady breaths, the lace hugging your body shifting with every motion. the sheets are smooth and cool beneath your palms, your body sinking slightly into the mattress as you stretch out along the center. jay watches from the edge of the room, his movements calm, practiced, but not rushed. nothing about this is rushed. he moves like he has all the time in the world to break you open piece by piece.

he disappears for a second, and you hear the soft click of a switch. the lighting shifts immediately—warmer, dimmer, all shadows and low gold. intimate. like candlelight caught in motion. and then, music. something slow, rich, vibrating low through the walls. it starts with a soft hum, something sensual and aching underneath, followed by a voice thick with emotion, sliding across the beat like a secret. the melody winds around your body before he even touches you. it’s moody, seductive, dangerous. like desire in the form of a song. like something you shouldn’t be listening to unless you’re ready to fall apart.

you don’t realize you’re holding your breath until the mattress dips beside you. jay’s back now, his body lowering beside yours, his hand brushing along your forearm with quiet intention. in his hand—black leather cuffs, soft-lined and already adjusted to your size. he doesn’t speak, doesn’t explain. he just takes your wrist, gently, lifting it with the kind of care that makes your breath catch, and buckles the first strap around you. the second follows. secure. firm. not uncomfortable—just enough to remind you that your hands aren’t yours anymore.

“you good?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper. you nod again. “say it,” he murmurs, pausing just before the fabric meets your eyes. “i’m good,” you breathe. then the blindfold. satin, black, impossibly soft. he holds it above your eyes for a moment, his voice barely above the hum of the song when he speaks. “say it again,” he murmurs. “i’m good,” you whisper, lips parted, chest rising. and with that, the world goes dark. the music swells. your body buzzes.

you feel everything more sharply now—the way the sheet slides against your thighs, the soft brush of air across your stomach, the subtle shift of the mattress as he stands and steps away. the music pulses like a heartbeat, slow and full of heat, the vocals dragging out in a way that makes your lungs feel tight. and then, the faint sound of glass. a bottle being unstoppered. something being warmed. your body tenses, even as your breath grows slower, heavier. you're not afraid. but you are open. waiting.

the first drop lands just below your collarbone. warm. sharp. a sting that spreads and melts as fast as it came. your mouth parts in a silent gasp, your back arching as the sensation ripples across your chest. it’s followed by another—slower this time, deeper. your body jerks slightly against the cuffs, your breath catching as heat coils low in your stomach. and then, his voice—quiet, close, wrecked in the best way. “too much?” he asks, his breath ghosting over your shoulder. you shake your head, pulse thudding wildly beneath your skin. “good girl,” he murmurs, and the next drop comes before you’re ready.

his fingers hover just above your ribs, tracing the fresh trail of wax he’s left behind, not touching—not quite—just following the shape of the cooling heat like he’s painting with his breath. your back arches slightly, hips pressing deeper into the mattress as your bound wrists tug gently against the cuffs. the blindfold robs you of sight, but it sharpens everything else—the sound of the song still melting through the speakers, the rhythm low and slow, the singer’s voice drawn out in pure seduction. the room smells like warmth, like candle wax and skin, like want. your skin tingles in every direction, but he hasn’t even touched you where it aches the most. not once.

“you’re so sensitive,” jay says quietly, voice curved with something dark, something proud. he lets one fingertip finally graze over a spot where the wax has cooled—a slow, deliberate line that drags across your sternum, up the swell of your chest. your stomach clenches, a whimper caught in your throat as he drags it downward again, pausing just above your navel. “you feel everything, don’t you?” he murmurs, like he’s marveling, like he’s falling in love with the way your body moves beneath his. “but i haven’t even touched you.” his voice is warm honey over ice, and it makes your thighs twitch.

another pour. hotter this time. it hits just beside your hip, then crawls inward, a path of liquid fire that fades into a cruel, pulsing throb. your toes curl, breath catching hard in your throat as your back arches again, body fully open and helpless to the rhythm he’s set. “please—” you breathe, voice thin and unsure, but you don’t know what you’re asking for yet. “please what?” jay’s mouth is near your ear now, close enough that you can feel his smile. “you don’t even know what you want, baby.” he laughs, soft and low, and you swear the sound is almost worse than the heat.

his hands return—not between your legs, not to your breasts—just to your waist, where he spreads his fingers slowly along your sides like he’s claiming you inch by inch. the pads of his thumbs rub light circles into the bone beneath your skin, grounding you, teasing you, keeping you right where he wants you. “you take pain so well,” he murmurs, and then another line of wax pours across the top of your thigh—too close. too close, but not close enough. your whole body trembles, wrists straining against the cuffs as you gasp out his name. not loud. not sharp. just needy.

you feel it before you realize what it is—his breath on your inner thigh, his hands pressing your legs gently open farther, farther, like he’s worshipping the space between them. but still, he doesn’t touch. “i could make you come with just my voice,” he says, not cocky—confident. capable. and you believe him. because your body is already falling apart, already pulsing around nothing, already begging him without the words. “but i want you to ask me.” his lips brush the inside of your leg, not a kiss—just air. “i want you to beg me.”

your pride tries to hold on. it claws at your throat, tries to press your mouth shut. but your body betrays you. your hips lift without permission, your moan slipping free like it’s been waiting for this moment. “jay—please,” you gasp, voice raw now. “please, fuck, please touch me.” it’s broken. breathless. real. and it’s everything he was waiting for.

he doesn’t give you a warning. doesn’t make a show of it. he just moves—fluid and silent, settling between your thighs like he’s done it before in a dream he’s finally gotten to touch. your skin is slick with heat, glowing with wax and want, and he breathes you in like your scent alone is enough to wreck him. his hands slide beneath your thighs, palms warm, strong, tilting your hips upward just slightly so you’re perfectly open, perfectly framed, perfectly his. the first brush of his mouth is featherlight, almost nothing—just lips grazing over your inner thigh, barely touching your cunt, just enough to make you sob through gritted teeth. “so fucking pretty,” he murmurs against your skin.

his hands return to your waist without a sound, no command or question leaving his lips—just touch, warm and steady as his fingers slide over the edge of the lace that still clings to your body. you twitch slightly beneath him, the blindfold making every brush of his fingertips feel sharper, more exposed, and when his thumbs dip beneath the fabric, you realize what he’s doing—but you don’t stop him. he moves slowly, deliberately, not yanking or rushing, but peeling the lingerie off your skin like it’s something delicate, something earned. the lace folds away from your hips, dragged down inch by inch, baring more of your skin to the air, and your chest rises involuntarily when he shifts the straps off your shoulders. he eases the piece down your body, taking the time to trace every inch that’s revealed—his knuckles grazing your ribs, the curve of your waist, the crease of your thighs. when it finally slips free from your ankles, you feel more naked than you’ve ever been.

his hands return just as slowly, palms spreading up the backs of your thighs before gliding to your hips, like he’s reacquainting himself with skin he’d already claimed. he doesn’t speak. he doesn’t rush. he just takes in the sight of you—bare, breathless, bound beneath him, blind to everything but the beat of your own heart and the sound of his breathing. the song continues behind him, velvet-rich and dangerous, the lyrics curling through the shadows of the room like temptation: “bring your body, baby…” your lips part, your legs twitch, but he doesn’t move to fill the space between them—not yet. he just touches. lets the pads of his fingers skim the edges of your thighs, your stomach, the sides of your breasts, without truly settling anywhere. just to feel you.

the air is thick now, heavy with unspoken tension, and your body is buzzing, aching, completely at his mercy. you don’t know what’s coming next—his mouth, his fingers, another pour of wax—but you know that whatever it is, he’ll give it to you slowly. your skin still remembers the sting of the heat from earlier, the way your body pulsed with every drop, and now—now—without anything between you, it feels like every inch of your body is begging to be touched. your wrists flex against the cuffs, more reflex than restraint, and your breath comes out in a shaky exhale you hadn’t meant to release. his hands settle on your thighs again, fingers curling gently as he pushes them wider.

he licks a long, slow stripe through your folds that has your back arching off the bed. it’s not just the contact—it’s the way he does it, the reverence in his pace, the softness in his grip, like he’s worshipping something he thought he’d never be allowed to touch.

he doesn’t rush. he doesn’t groan. he doesn’t perform for the camera. he just devours. his tongue works in long, controlled strokes, collecting slick like it’s the only thing he needs to breathe, licking deep and purposeful like he’s trying to memorize how you taste. your head spins beneath the blindfold, your hands tugging uselessly against the cuffs as your body trembles beneath the weight of everything. you can’t see him, but you can feel the way he watches every twitch, every gasp, every time your thighs clench in his hands. he hums against you, not loud, not obnoxious—just pleased, like he’s satisfied with how quickly you’re unraveling under him. and when his lips wrap around your clit, sucking slow and tight, you cry out so loud it barely sounds like your voice.

you’re so close so fast, too fast, and he knows it. knows because he slows down again—easing the pressure, dragging his tongue in lazy circles that make your hips jerk in frustration. “not yet,” he breathes into your skin, and it doesn’t even sound like a tease. it sounds like a rule. like a command you’re meant to obey without argument. the music is still playing behind him—“just let me motherfucking love you…”—but it’s all a blur now, a background heartbeat to the way he laps you back up like he missed you between each breath. his fingers trail up your thigh slowly, slick with the wax he laid earlier, and it’s not until one dips between your folds that your breath stutters in your chest.

he slides in with ease, your body more than ready, and his tongue doesn’t stop. his mouth stays on your clit, soft and sucking, drawing it between his lips while he curls his finger just right, just enough to make your vision flash white behind the blindfold. “fuck—jay—” you gasp, thighs shaking now, unable to stay still under the rhythm of his mouth and hand. “please, I’m gonna—I need to—” your words dissolve into moans, into nonsense, because he doesn’t let up. he keeps going, steady and cruel, another finger joining the first with a wet slide that makes you whimper like a fucking prayer. he groans low when he feels you clench, not for show, but from hunger—he likes how tightly your body reacts to him. he lives for it.

you’re falling apart now. your hips are bucking, your legs twitching, your fingers digging into empty air as you gasp through another moan that cracks at the edges. “please let me—please let me cum,” you beg, your voice wrecked and wet and half-sobbing. and only then—only then—does jay lift his head. his fingers stay inside you, slow and curling, keeping you trembling just at the edge while his mouth ghosts over your thigh. “you want to cum?” he asks, voice low, ragged, almost teasing—but not cruel. “then beg louder, babydoll. i want the camera to hear how fucking desperate you are.”

his mouth returns without a word, settling between your thighs like he belongs there, like there’s nowhere else in the world he wants to be. you feel the soft exhale of his breath fan across your soaked folds, the warmth of it a cruel tease before the first drag of his tongue lands—slow, deliberate, curling through you like he’s savoring the very first taste. your entire body jolts against the cuffs, your mouth falling open in a choked moan as he licks again—longer this time, deeper. he just devours, each stroke of his tongue more intentional than the last, like he’s studying you. like he wants to memorize what makes your thighs twitch, what makes your breath skip, what makes you gasp his name with that tiny shake in your voice.

your legs are trembling already, wide open and held there by his firm grip, and when his lips wrap around your clit—sucking slow, tight, deep—you feel your whole body lurch off the bed. the blindfold only makes it worse—makes it better—because you can’t see it coming, can’t predict how fast or how gentle he’ll be, can’t do anything but feel everything all at once. “fuck—jay—” you cry, and he only hums in response, the vibration shooting straight through your core. his tongue works circles around your clit, soft and teasing, then firmer, faster, until your hips are grinding helplessly into his mouth, searching for more friction, more pressure, more anything. he pulls back just enough to slide a finger into you—then two—slow and curling, the stretch perfect, unbearable, perfect.

you’re right there. right fucking there. your walls pulsing around his fingers, your moans growing louder, messier, no longer soft or shy but wrecked, raw, real. your hips rock into him without grace, your body flushed and burning, but just as your orgasm starts to crest—he pulls away. completely. his mouth, his fingers, his heat—all gone. and you sob. a real, desperate sob that breaks out of your throat without warning, your back arching as your hands pull helplessly against the cuffs. “no—please—please,” you gasp, voice shaking. “i was so close—don’t stop—please don’t stop—”

he gives you no mercy. not yet. he returns to you slowly, his mouth brushing your clit with a soft kiss before his tongue drags over it again—firm this time, relentless. his fingers reenter you with no hesitation, curling with perfect rhythm, and now he doesn’t let up. he fucks you with his mouth like it’s what he was made to do, devouring every sound you make, every clench, every broken cry that escapes you. “you gonna cum for me now, babydoll?” he breathes against your skin. “gonna give it to me this time?” your only answer is a gasp—then a moan—then your whole body snaps, orgasm crashing over you so hard you cry out his name, thighs shaking violently, breath punching out of your lungs like it’s been ripped from your core.

he doesn’t stop. not when you cum. not when you beg. not when your voice breaks. he slows only slightly, mouth and fingers still working you through it—drawing it out, dragging wave after wave from your twitching body until it becomes too much, too sharp, too deep. tears are slipping from beneath the blindfold now, your voice hoarse as you sob through your second orgasm, overstimulated, unable to breathe without moaning. your cunt clenches around his fingers again, your cries turning into pleas as your thighs try to close, but he doesn’t let you. he holds you open. makes you take it. makes you fall apart again and again and again.

when he finally lets up, his fingers slip from you with a wet drag, and you collapse into the sheets—limp, slick, ruined. your chest rises in shaky pulls of air, your skin still twitching in places you didn’t know could feel, your wrists tugging instinctively against the cuffs even though you’re not trying to move. he doesn’t speak, not right away. you feel the bed shift beneath you as he moves, crawling up your body with a slowness that makes you ache in a different way. he’s not touching you—not yet—but his presence hovers, warm and close and overwhelming. then, you feel it. his breath against your mouth. the faintest graze of lips against yours. not a kiss. not quite.

your breath catches like a sob. you lean up the smallest amount, chasing the touch you can’t see, but his mouth barely brushes yours again and then pulls away. it’s cruel. gentle, but cruel. “please,” you whisper, voice so hoarse it barely comes out. your lips part again, desperate, trembling. “kiss me… please…” and finally, finally, he gives you what you ask for.

his lips press into yours, slow and full, his hand cradling the side of your face like you’re something breakable, like he wants to hold you still while he kisses the breath right out of you. there’s nothing rushed in it—no heat, no show. just intimacy. just need. he kisses you like he’s been thinking about it since the moment he opened the door. your legs fall open again, welcoming the weight of him, your body leaning into every inch of contact like you’ve been starving for it. his kiss deepens, tongue slipping slow and warm into your mouth, and you whimper under the blindfold, too fucked-out to hide how much you want it.

when he pulls away, you feel cold for only a second before you hear it—the low rustle of clothing, the quiet unbuckle of a belt, the unmistakable slide of denim down long, toned legs. your body tenses with anticipation, still aching in the best way, still sensitive and exposed and so ready for whatever comes next. you don’t need to see to know he’s watching you—all of you—the flush of your skin, the tremble in your thighs, the slick between your legs that’s already waiting for him. you hear the shift of fabric, then silence. and then, the weight of him between your legs again.

thick, warm, heavy against your thigh.

the mattress dips beneath his knees as he moves in closer, and your breath catches when you feel it—him, thick and heavy, dragging slowly along your inner thigh. he doesn’t push forward, doesn’t press in. just lets the head of his cock rest there, warm and slick against your oversensitive skin. the moment it brushes your folds—barely catching—you cry out, hips jolting up in instinct. but he doesn’t move. just stays right there, not giving you anything more.

he watches the way you strain beneath him, every inch of you open and ready, your wrists twitching against the cuffs like you’d reach for him if you could. your blindfold is soaked now, a tear trail drying on your cheek, your mouth parted in silent desperation. he slides the tip down slowly, catching just slightly at your entrance, then pulls back—barely there, not enough, and yet you whimper like it’s breaking you. he repeats the motion again, slower this time, teasing over your clit and down, dragging himself through your slick folds with lazy precision. and all the while? he says nothing. doesn’t praise you. doesn’t mock you. just lets you feel every aching inch without giving in.

your body bucks, hips rolling, trying to take more than he’s giving, but his hands move to your waist—firm, steady, holding you still. “please,” you gasp, voice cracked and wrecked. “please, jay, just—” but he hushes you with a kiss to your collarbone, soft and featherlight, and keeps grinding the thick head of his cock right where you want it most. never pushing in. just letting you suffer with the knowledge that he could—he just won’t.

he brings the tip back to your entrance again and pauses. and you feel it so clearly now—the pressure, the fullness that isn’t there yet but could be, the stretch you’re aching for. you try to speak, but your words come out as a sob, a moan, a broken little sound that barely qualifies as language. and then he does it again—rolls his hips just right so the head of his cock nudges your hole, teasing a shallow push that makes your breath stop entirely. your back arches, your thighs clamp instinctively around his waist, and your voice breaks. “fuck— please let me feel you. please… i want it, i want you inside—i need it so bad, jay—please.”

he hums, low and deep in his throat, like that’s the sound he’s been waiting for.

he doesn’t say anything—not when you beg, not when your hips buck up again in desperation—but his hands shift on your waist, grip tightening slightly like he’s finally giving in. you feel it in your gut first—the silence, the way the moment holds its breath, and then… the pressure. a slow, steady push, the thick head of his cock stretching your entrance open, and your breath leaves you in a single, shattered moan. he eases in with unbearable control, the kind that feels like his entire body is tense with restraint, letting you feel every inch as he sinks deeper, deeper, until your walls pulse and flutter helplessly around him. your mouth falls open. your thighs shake. your fingers flex in the cuffs above your head like you need something to hold onto—but all you have is him.

he moves slowly—so slowly it feels like time is breaking apart—his cock dragging along your inner walls in a stretch that’s equal parts bliss and pain, every inch carved into your body like it belongs there. “fuck,” he finally breathes, voice wrecked now, low and strained as he bottoms out completely, hips pressing flush against yours. “you feel—fuck—you feel unreal.” but you can’t respond. can’t speak. all you can do is feel, the thick weight of him buried inside you making it impossible to think, impossible to breathe. your body clenches tight, and he groans again, low and broken, like he’s losing himself just trying to stay still.

you’re soaked—beyond soaked, your slick coating his cock, dripping down your thighs, the sounds between you filthy and wet every time he moves. and still, he doesn’t fuck you. not yet. he holds there, deep and unmoving, letting you adjust, letting you fall apart around the stretch, like he knows this moment means something more than just release. and you feel it—god, you feel it everywhere. your chest is heaving, your toes curled, your head tossed back against the pillow even though you can’t see anything. you’re pinned, cuffed, blindfolded, full—and for the first time tonight, you feel the beginning of surrender settle into your bones.

“you still with me?” he murmurs, lips brushing your jaw, his voice a tether to reality. you nod quickly, but that’s not enough. “words,” he whispers again, kissing the corner of your mouth. “i’m with you,” you breathe, voice hoarse. “i’m so with you. please don’t stop.”

he kisses you one more time—slow, tender, like a thank-you—and then he starts to move.

he moves inside you like he’s savoring it—like you’re the first person he’s ever touched, and he doesn’t want to miss a single second of what your body feels like wrapped around him. his hips roll slow, deliberate, dragging his cock out until only the head remains before sliding back in with a pressure that makes your eyes roll beneath the blindfold. it’s not hard. it’s not fast. but it’s devastating. every thrust lands deep, slow and punishing in the best way, the kind of rhythm that makes your chest ache and your breath shake in your lungs. your wrists strain above your head, but there’s no fight in it—only the overwhelming need to hold onto something as he pushes in again, and again, and again. he doesn’t say a word. doesn’t rush. just groans softly under his breath, like you’re pulling the sounds out of him without trying. like he’s been quiet for so long he forgot what it’s like to feel this way.

his hands hold your hips like he’s afraid to let go, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh above your thighs as he thrusts into you with the kind of care that feels dangerous. his cock fills you perfectly, stretching you out slow and deep, the drag of him along your inner walls making you feel every inch, every pulse, every tremble that ripples through your core. your body sings with it—raw and sensitive, already pushed past its limit, but craving more now that he’s giving it to you like this. like you matter. like you’re not just a girl cuffed to his bed, but something more—something precious. the air between you is thick with heat and the soft sound of your moans, your slick, the soft catch of breath each time he presses deeper. the music hums in the background, nearly forgotten—but the weight of the moment sits heavy in the rhythm of his body against yours.

he leans over you as he moves, chest brushing yours, his breath warm on your cheek, and it makes you feel consumed. like he’s not just inside you, but around you. wrapped into the cuffs. buried in the heat. woven between the gasps you can’t hold in. he presses a kiss to your jaw, then your temple, his pace never faltering as he sinks in deeper, grinding at the bottom like he wants to stay inside you forever. and the worst part—the best part—is how your body welcomes it. how you open more. cling more. beg silently for all of him. you whisper his name like it’s the only word left in your mouth, like you need him to know that you’re here—ruined, wrecked, and still desperate for more.

“you’re doing so good,” he finally says, voice so low it barely registers past the haze of pleasure blooming behind your ribs. “so good for me.” and that alone almost breaks you. it’s not praise for the camera. not some performative moan. it’s real, soft and meant only for you, and it hits something raw and deep beneath your skin. you whimper, body trembling beneath him, and his hand slides up your ribs, smoothing over the side of your breast before cupping your jaw with a tenderness that feels like it could kill you. he kisses your cheek and pushes in deep—slow, grinding, perfect—and you cry out again, your orgasm building back like you never even came the first time.

you don’t know how much more you can take—but his body never stops. his hips roll in that same rhythm, slow and deliberate, dragging his cock deep with every thrust like he’s trying to press into the parts of you untouched by anything before him. you’re trembling everywhere, your thighs slick and sticky, your wrists limp in the cuffs above you. and somehow, with his chest against yours, his mouth pressed to your temple, and his cock pulsing deep inside you—you feel safe. he kisses you again. not your lips this time, but your jaw. your cheek. your neck. each one softer than the last, like he’s pouring warmth into your skin. “you’re doing so good,” he whispers again, and you feel your chest tighten with it.

he adjusts his angle slightly, and the next thrust hits something sharp, something soft—something that makes your back arch and a moan claw its way from your throat. he feels it too. you feel his groan against your neck as he holds you tighter, keeps his pace just the same, grinding deeper instead of faster. and it ruins you. your whole body clenches around him, walls fluttering with every drag of his cock, and you whimper his name again, voice barely there. “you can let go,” he murmurs, breath heavy against your ear. “come for me, baby. just like that. let me feel it.” and you do. your body gives up everything.

your orgasm rolls through you like it’s weeping—a slow, full-bodied release that shakes your legs, curls your toes, makes your chest rise in stuttering waves as heat floods your veins. you cry out, not loud, but broken—soft and wet and trembling as your cunt clenches tight around him, milking every inch with desperate pulses you can’t stop. you feel like you’re floating, your body no longer your own, every nerve lit and raw and alive. tears slip from under the blindfold again, but it’s not pain. it’s everything—the stretch, the tenderness, the way his hand slides up to cradle the back of your head as he kisses your forehead through it.

“that’s it,” he whispers, still deep inside you, his thrusts slowing but not stopping. “just like that. you’re so good for me.” and god, it shatters you. your hips twitch helplessly, aftershocks trembling through your core, and you can’t even speak anymore—you just whimper, letting him keep you full, letting him rock into you with every ounce of patience he has left. his hand strokes over your jaw, your cheek, his lips brushing over the sweat-slicked skin above your blindfold like he wants to kiss every single place he can’t see.

he pulls out slow, one last deep roll of his hips before his cock slips from your body with a slick sound that makes your whole body twitch. you whine at the sudden emptiness, at the cool air brushing over your soaked thighs, at the way your cunt clenches around nothing now. but he’s already shifting, already rising onto his knees beside you. you can’t see him—but you can feel the heat rolling off his skin, hear the way his breath shudders in his chest, how his hand wraps tight around the base of his cock with a slick grip that makes your mouth fall open on instinct. he strokes himself slow at first, his breath thick with restraint, and you can tell—he’s been holding back for so long. for you.

he leans over you slightly, one hand braced beside your shoulder while the other works himself in long, steady strokes, each movement dragging a low groan from deep in his chest. “fuck,” he hisses, voice rough now, shaking, “you’re so fucking perfect.” your cheeks are flushed, blindfold still in place, mouth parted and waiting like it’s instinct—and when he sees you like that, spread and ruined and still needing, something cracks in him. “open your mouth, baby,” he breathes. “wanna see it. wanna come all over that pretty face.” and your lips part wider, a soft whimper slipping out as you tilt your chin up in obedience, wrists still tied above you, body too wrecked to move but so ready to take more.

his rhythm speeds up—rougher now, needier, the slick sound of him pumping into his own hand echoing through the room as he kneels beside your face. his breath breaks. his hips stutter. and then—he spills. hot, thick ropes across your cheek, your jaw, your lips, groaning your name like a confession as he fucks into his fist with one last desperate pull. “fuckfuckfuck—look at you,” he gasps, watching the way your skin glows under it, the way your mouth stays open, waiting. he leans closer as the last of it drips from his tip onto your bottom lip, and his thumb catches your chin, tilts it gently. “don’t close it yet,” he murmurs, breathing heavy. “just stay like that. fuck—just like that.”

he strokes the last bit out slowly, watching his cum drip down your face, catching in the curve of your mouth, the heat of your skin, and he breathes like he’s never seen anything more beautiful. his free hand brushes down your jaw, catching some of the mess with his thumb before swiping it gently over your bottom lip. “so fucking good for me,” he whispers again, and then he leans in, presses a kiss to your forehead without hesitation, soft and reverent.

he stays above you for a moment, chest still rising fast, eyes lingering on your face with something that doesn’t quite feel like control anymore. his hand brushes your cheek, knuckles grazing your jaw, and for the first time since it started, he looks like he doesn’t know what to say. not because he’s unsure—but because he’s overwhelmed. he reaches out slowly, hitting the button on the camera without looking, the soft click of it powering down echoing through the quiet like the world’s finally breathing again. then he moves for your blindfold, untying it with careful fingers, his breath brushing your skin as he leans in close. the light hits your eyes again, warm and low, and when you blink up at him—he’s already watching. not with lust. not with pride. just something softer. something that feels like wonder.

he doesn’t speak as he undoes the cuffs, just slides your arms down gently and brings your wrists to his lips one at a time, pressing soft kisses to the reddened skin there like he’s saying thank you without the words. your hands are too weak to hold him, but you lean into the contact anyway, body limp, breath shallow, held together by the warmth of his hands alone. and when he finally speaks, his voice is quiet—almost hoarse. “you okay?” he asks, barely more than a breath. and you nod, a soft sound leaving your lips. it’s not enough. he leans in and kisses your forehead like a reflex. then your temple. then the space just beneath your eye, where your skin is still damp from tears. “i got you,” he says softly. “you did perfect.”

he doesn’t make you move. he doesn’t ask. he just gathers you—an arm beneath your knees, the other cradling your back—and lifts you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. the walk to the bathroom is silent, but not cold. just full. the steam from the shower has already started to cloud the mirrors, warm air kissing your skin as he sets you gently on the edge of the tub and turns the water on, testing it with his wrist before letting it run. he moves slow—every step deliberate, every glance careful, like he’s still in that headspace where everything is about you. when the water’s warm, he comes back to you and crouches down. he doesn’t ask. he just touches your thigh, kisses your knee, and lifts you into the shower with him.

he stands behind you, arms wrapping around your waist, your body resting against his chest as the water rushes down your skin. his breath is steady now, slower, his lips brushing your shoulder as his hands begin to move. not sexually. not even intimately. just gently. like he’s piecing you back together with soap and fingers and quiet worship. he lets the water rinse between your legs, across your stomach, down your spine, holding you still like you might float away. when you shiver, he holds you tighter. when you sigh, he presses his mouth to the side of your neck and breathes you in like he needs the scent of you to stay grounded. “thank you,” he whispers once, and it’s so soft, you almost think you imagined it.

he helps you wash. helps you rinse. helps you breathe again. and when it’s over, he wraps a towel around your body, dries your hair with gentle pats, and leads you back to the bedroom with nothing but quiet touches. the room is darker now. still warm. still full of the echoes from earlier. he brings you to the bed, lifts the sheets, and tucks you in slowly—like it means something. and then he slides in beside you, shirtless, still a little damp, his arm wrapping around your waist like he was made to fit against you. no pressure. no words. just the soft, steady rhythm of him being there, his hand rubbing slow circles into your back while your head presses into his chest.

your body melts into his without resistance, legs tangled beneath the sheets, your face pressed into the dip of his chest like that’s where it was always meant to be. he smells like clean skin and leftover warmth—something earthy and faintly sweet, something him. his arm curls tighter around your waist, his fingers dragging soft, lazy circles across your back, and it makes your whole body settle. like gravity’s gentler now. like the world outside doesn’t exist. his breaths are deep and even beneath your ear, steady like a heartbeat you didn’t realize you’d been syncing to all along. and every now and then, his lips graze your hairline, quiet and constant, like he can’t stop kissing you without saying anything out loud.

you don’t try to speak. you don’t need to. your limbs are too heavy, your throat too sore, and the silence between you feels so much better than any sound. he shifts just a little, resting his chin on top of your head, and you feel his fingers still. not because he’s stopped. but because he’s watching. you can’t see it, but you know—he’s looking at you like you’re still glowing. like the room didn’t get dark. like his eyes are only made to find you.

and then—soft. breathless. almost too quiet to catch.

“you didn’t just do something to my body.”

he says it like a secret. like a confession. like something he wasn’t supposed to let slip.

“you did something to me.”

but you’re already falling. your lashes flutter. your body goes limp. and the last thing you feel is the warmth of his chest, the press of his palm on your spine, and the faint, dizzy ache of your lips curling into a smile you don’t even remember making.

────୨ৎ──── 

you lie there for a second too long. eyes wide open, pulse ticking in your throat like a warning, the weight of his arm draped over your waist like a secret you’re not supposed to keep. the sun’s fully risen now, the light clearer, sharper. the room doesn’t feel like it did last night. it’s too quiet. too still. and your heart? too loud. the memory of his hands, his mouth, the way he whispered against your skin—it all presses into you at once, suffocating in its gentleness. this wasn’t supposed to happen. it was supposed to be work. a collab. content. but everything about the way he held you said otherwise.

you shift gently, slow enough not to wake him, slipping his arm off your waist and sitting up with a breath you don’t remember holding. your legs feel shaky. your body still aches in places he touched like you were something worth worshipping. and that’s the problem. you weren’t ready for that. not the way he looked at you. not the way he made it feel like more than just a shoot. your phone buzzes again on the nightstand and it’s like ice through your spine—because this is what you wanted, right? the money. the exposure. the success. not the way he kissed your forehead in the shower. not the way he whispered thank you like you gave him something he didn’t deserve.

you climb out of the bed, quiet and careful, your feet cold on the floor. his shirt is still draped over the chair. your lingerie—wrinkled and damp—folded on the dresser like he couldn’t bear to toss it aside. you ignore the lump rising in your throat as you pull your clothes on, smoothing them over your skin like armor. everything feels wrong. tight. too small. your hands are shaking when you reach for your bag. you don’t look back at him—not even once—because if you do, you’ll change your mind. and this? this was just business.

you slip out of the room like a shadow, easing the door shut behind you as if you were never there. the hallway is silent. the apartment too still. and every step you take toward the door feels heavier than the last. your phone buzzes again, and you swipe it up with trembling fingers, ignoring the unread message glowing at the top of your inbox. you don’t even let yourself breathe until you’re outside, the morning air hitting your face like clarity. like guilt. you blink up at the sky, trying to will the sting in your eyes away, whispering to yourself the only line that feels safe right now—“it’s just content. nothing more.”

and you hope that if you say it enough… you’ll believe it.

the ride home is silent. too silent. your driver doesn’t say a word, and neither do you—just sit back with your bag clutched tight to your chest, your body aching in a way that doesn’t feel physical. your thighs are still sore. your lips still tingling. your wrists marked faintly from the cuffs. but it’s not the pain that lingers—it’s the warmth. the look in jay’s eyes when he washed your face. the way he held you after. the way his heartbeat steadied yours. your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag. you don’t want to remember that. you don’t want to feel this way. so you focus on the window, on the blur of early morning light cutting through city streets. and you keep your breathing even. one scene doesn’t mean anything. not if you don’t let it.

you don’t even say thank you when the car stops. you just slip out onto the curb, into your apartment building, through your front door, and straight into your room like muscle memory. your roommate isn’t home. thank god. the silence hits you harder now. you toss your phone on the bed and fall right after it, face down in the sheets, letting the last twelve hours replay in flickers behind your eyes. his voice. his hands. his weight pressed so carefully against yours. your mouth trembles, but no sound comes out. your chest rises, then falls. and you stay like that for what feels like forever—until your phone dings again. and again. and again.

you flip it over, eyes bleary. new notifications flood your screen—tips, subscribers, messages—and they keep coming. you stare at them blankly, your thumb flicking through without reading until one catches your eye: 

@jakeoncam liked your video. @jakeoncam has followed you.

your heart stutters. your gaze sharpens. and then the messages from followers come into focus.

@yourbabygirl: you should collab with @jakeoncam 👀

 @whoreforjake: pls do something with @jakeoncam!

@ruinmeeee: @jakeoncam x @babydollxo WHEN??

you don’t even think. your thumb taps over to his profile automatically.

and there he is.

verified. 5.5M subscribers.

that same preview still pinned at the top.

you remember him now. you remember the way he moaned, the way his hips rolled in tight, fluid motions. how he whined, “i'm gonna cum....fuck, baby...” and you remember what it did to you.

your thumb hovers over the message button. your reflection stares back at you in the dark screen. and you type without thinking:

@babydollxo: hey. wanna collab?

natty's notesᝰ.ᐟ hoped you all enjoyed!!

the morning stretches out lazily around you, golden light slipping through the curtains in gentle slivers, casting soft shadows across the room. outside, the world is quiet—only the faint chirping of birds and the occasional rustle of wind threading through the trees. it’s peaceful, calm, the kind of morning that wraps itself around your limbs like warm silk. but inside, beneath the covers, the mood is anything but tranquil.

riki lies beside you, body tense, breath uneven. he’s been tossing and turning for what feels like hours, his sleep fractured by the ache pulsing between his legs and the impossible heat of your body so close to his. every time he shifts, every brush of the sheets, every accidental graze of his skin against yours—it only makes it worse. his cock is hard, throbbing beneath the thin fabric of his boxers, the pressure almost unbearable now as it presses against the curve of your back.

you’re still sleeping, soft and unaware, your breath slow and even. your body’s curved in toward him just slightly, warm and inviting beneath the blanket, and it’s driving him insane. his mind won’t stop racing—images of you from the night before, the way your lips had looked when you pouted, the way your shorts had ridden up your thighs, the sound of your laughter echoing in his ears. now, with nothing but a few inches of space between you and the weight of morning silence, those thoughts spiral deeper, darker, more desperate.

his hand moves without fully thinking—slow, cautious, trembling. it finds your waist first, fingers brushing lightly against your bare skin. he freezes for a moment, just listening to your breathing, waiting to see if you stir. but you don’t. so he lets his hand drift lower, tracing the soft curve of your belly, the warmth there making his throat go dry. his thumb strokes back and forth gently, almost soothing, but his mind is anything but calm.

his hips shift closer, and you feel it then—the hard press of him against your lower back, thick and unrelenting, even through the barrier of clothes. he sucks in a quiet breath, biting down on his lip as he fights the urge to rut against you, to let the friction offer him even the smallest bit of relief. he doesn’t mean to wake you, doesn’t mean to take advantage of the moment. he just wants to feel you, wants to pretend for just a second longer that you’re his—that he can have this, have you, without consequence.

he knows he shouldn’t. not without you awake. not without you looking at him with those sleepy, soft eyes and whispering his name the way that drives him fucking crazy. but the temptation is unbearable, gnawing at him from the inside out. he wants to test it—to see just how much he can get away with before you stir, before the dreamlike quiet of the morning shatters into something heavier. something messier.

he’s desperate to feel you. to feel the way your walls flutter and clench around him, warm and wet and so fucking perfect. the thought alone makes his hips twitch forward instinctively, grinding the length of his cock against the curve of your lower back in a slow, pathetic thrust that drags a needy whine from his lips. he bites down hard on his tongue, trying to keep quiet, but the friction barely helps—it only makes him crave more. need more.

his hands tremble slightly as they slide down your sides, slow and careful, brushing over your skin like he’s trying not to wake you. when his fingers hook into the waistband of your shorts, he hesitates for just a second, eyes flicking to your face. still soft. still sleeping. so he tugs—gently at first, then more confidently—until the thin fabric slips down your thighs, pooling at the edge of the bed, forgotten. he adjusts one of your legs, just enough to part them slightly, enough for him to fit between.

he works his own sweats down with practiced ease, dragging them past his hips and kicking them off without a sound. his cock springs free, flushed red and dripping, the cool air of the room making him hiss quietly. one hand wraps around the base, fingers squeezing just enough to make his stomach flutter. the other reaches for you, settling on the curve of your ass, kneading the soft flesh there like he’s starving for it. you’re so warm, so pliant, your body molded perfectly into his as he scoots closer, chest pressing firmly to your back, pelvis nudging into you.

your ass is pushed up now, a beautiful arch formed in your sleep, and he takes it as an invitation he can’t resist. his hips shift forward, his cock nestled right between your folds, the thick head gliding along your slit, smearing his precum into the slick already gathered there. he groans, quiet and strained, the sound muffled as he buries his face in your shoulder. it’s too much. it’s not enough.

then—he pushes in.

slowly. painfully slowly. the tip of his cock parts you, stretching your entrance as your walls begin to welcome him in, warm and wet and perfect. his breath catches, and his eyes clamp shut, brows furrowed as he sinks in deeper, inch by inch. your walls hug him so tightly it almost hurts, and his mouth falls open in a silent moan, his teeth catching his bottom lip as he fights to stay quiet. it’s like your body knows him—even in sleep. like it wants him.

he chokes back a louder sound when he bottoms out, hips pressed flush against your ass, cock fully buried in your warmth. he stays still for a moment, trembling with restraint, the pleasure so sharp it nearly brings tears to his eyes.

“fuck,” he breathes, barely a whisper. “you feel… s-so good…”

his hips move forward in a slow, deliberate thrust, every inch of him dragging against your slick, warm walls as he sinks back in with a quiet gasp. he’s trying—trying so hard to take it slow, to feel every tight pulse of your cunt wrapped around him like it was made to keep him there. the pace is lazy, drawn-out, but it’s laced with desperation, with the kind of need that makes his muscles tremble as he grinds deeper into your body. your skin is soft under him, your warmth pulling him in further with each slow, aching roll of his hips.

you stir beneath him, the smallest shift of your body, a soft sigh that escapes your lips—but he doesn’t stop. he doesn’t even flinch. he’s too far gone, too wrapped up in the way your pussy clenches around him so perfectly, like it knows exactly who he is and what he wants. his head falls forward, breath shaky against the back of your neck as he presses his hips in again, groaning low as your warmth swallows him whole.

his hands slide up beneath your shirt, palms gliding across your stomach, trailing higher until they find your bare breasts. his breath stutters the second he realizes you’re not wearing a bra—just bare skin, warm and soft in his hands, like you knew this would happen. like you wanted it. he groans against your ear, the sound deep and raw, vibrating against your skin.

“fuckkk…” he breathes, fingers curling around the swell of your chest, thumbs brushing over your nipples as his cock drags deep inside you again. your walls flutter around him at the same time, and it pulls another moan from his lips, louder this time, more unrestrained. your body feels too good, too tight, too perfect for him to stop now.

“ri…ki…” your voice is soft, barely above a whisper, cracked and sleepy as you shift slightly beneath him. your body arches into his touch, back curving as your eyes slowly blink open, adjusting to the morning light. a tiny whine leaves your throat, breathy and high, and your thighs twitch slightly as the sensation finally registers—he’s inside you. already moving. already moaning for you.

he lifts his head, hair sticking to his forehead with sweat, pupils blown wide as he looks down at you with a mix of guilt and lust so thick it nearly chokes him.

“oh fuck, princess…” he groans, louder now, voice breaking at the edges as your gaze meets his, still hazy and dazed but not fighting him. not stopping him. the way your lips part with another breathy whimper—your hips shifting ever so slightly against his—makes something in him snap.

you feel it—every lazy, deliberate push of his cock inside you. the stretch is slow, deep, almost unbearable in the way it drags against your walls, thick and long and so much that it steals the breath straight from your lungs. he moves with a kind of unhurried hunger, like he’s savoring every second he’s buried in you, like he’s memorizing the way your body reacts with each twitch of his length. and you do—feel every twitch, every pulse, every tremble. it makes your mouth fall open in a soft, broken moan, your body arching instinctively, overwhelmed by how full you are first thing in the morning.

your hands slide up beside your head, fingers curling tight into the pillow as your thighs tremble beneath him. there’s no time to fully process the shock of waking up like this—not when his cock is already thrusting inside you so slowly, so sweetly, and his breath is hot against your ear, murmuring your name in that low, needy voice that makes you clench around him without meaning to. the intrusion of him, the way he fits too perfectly, like your pussy was made to take every inch of him—it’s too much. and yet not enough.

he groans sharply, voice thick with restraint, his rhythm faltering for half a second as your walls squeeze down around him again. “fuck… i’m gonna cum if you keep doing that, baby…” he pants, his voice cracked and breathless, like he’s seconds away from losing all control. his head drops to your shoulder, lips brushing against your skin as his body trembles above yours. his eyes roll back, lashes fluttering as the tight heat of your pussy milks him, and he can barely keep himself grounded.

you don’t stop.

you can’t.

the way he feels inside you—the way his cock presses so deep, twitching uncontrollably with every thrust—it has you dizzy, whimpering into the pillow as your body pushes back into his without thinking. and he feels it. the way you’re not holding back. the way you want it just as badly. his hands grope blindly until they find your breasts again, palms warm and shaking as he squeezes them tight, fingers rolling over your sensitive nipples like he needs something to hold onto before he falls apart.

his moans grow louder, raw and wrecked and deliciously desperate. “shit—oh my god…” he chokes out, hips stuttering as his balls tighten, heavy and aching with the pressure building inside him. he’s so close, you can feel it—the way his body tenses, the way his breath catches with every roll of his hips. and it only makes you clench around him harder, wanting him to lose it. needing him to.

“fuck—yes, riki…” your voice comes out breathy and cracked, your head thrown back against the pillow as your thighs tremble beneath him. you can feel yourself unraveling, pulled taut around him, every nerve alight with how deep he is. he’s pressed up against you completely, his chest slick with sweat against your back, his cock buried to the hilt, so far inside that every thrust has him dragging right over your sweet spot—over and over again, so precise, so perfect it has you gasping.

his pace doesn’t falter. if anything, it gets rougher, more determined, like he needs to hit that spot until you break. his hips snap forward, driving into you again, and again, and again—and every time he does, your body jerks with it, helpless and eager. your fingers tighten around the sheets, back arching when the head of his cock grinds against that sensitive bundle inside you, making your vision blur.

you hear him groan, close to your ear, low and trembling, and it sends another wave of heat crashing through you. “oh fuck… i’m close… fuck, ‘m close, baby…” he whines, his voice strained, wrecked, soaked in desperation. his arm stays locked around your waist, holding you tight against him, while his other hand snakes down your body, urgent and shaky, fingertips sliding right between your legs.

and then he finds it—your clit.

you cry out when his fingers brush over it, soft at first, then firmer as he starts to circle it with slow, deliberate pressure. your walls flutter violently around his cock, your body reacting instantly to the extra stimulation. he moans with you, voice cracked and high, lost in the feel of you squeezing him tighter than ever before.

“fuck, fuck… fuck! ‘m cumming, baby—oh my god, fuck—” his voice breaks into a groan, then a whine, one hand clutching your breast, the other still working your clit as he falls apart.

you feel it before you hear it—his cock twitching hard inside you, pulsing with thick, hot spurts of cum that spill deep into your pussy, coating your walls as his hips stutter helplessly. he doesn’t stop thrusting, not right away. not even as he cums. his body moves on instinct, chasing the aftershocks, wanting to stay buried in your warmth as long as he can. you hear the slick sound of him still moving inside you, still throbbing, still moaning through it.

his breath is ragged against your neck, panting harshly as he comes down from it, his fingers softening but never leaving your clit. his cock twitches one last time, a broken groan falling from his lips, and then he collapses against you, body shuddering, flushed and drenched and completely spent.

but riki doesn’t stop. not even as his chest heaves and sweat drips down his spine, not even as his cock twitches one last time from the intensity of his orgasm. the need for you is still thrumming through his veins like a drug—hot, addictive, insatiable. he pulls out slowly, groaning low in his throat as your walls cling to him, fluttering around nothing, the slick sound of your bodies parting making his breath hitch. he hisses through his teeth at the sight—your pussy clenching from the emptiness, still pulsing, still hungry for more.

you barely register the loss before he’s moving again, quick and desperate, hands firm as he grabs your legs and spreads them apart, settling between them like he belongs there. and he does. his mouth is on you instantly, no hesitation, no teasing—just tongue and lips and hot breath as he dives in, devouring your soaked cunt with unrelenting hunger. he groans the moment he tastes you, loud and guttural, the sound vibrating right against your clit. his tongue flicks over it again and again, then presses flat and slow, dragging upward to collect the mess dripping out of you. a mix of your arousal and his cum coats your folds, and he drinks it down like it’s the sweetest thing he’s ever had.

his hands grip your thighs tighter as he sucks hard, his mouth working your clit in slow circles before his tongue darts down again, fucking into you just to taste more. the wet sounds echo between your legs, obscene and slick and so good it has your head thrown back, your fingers clawing at the sheets. you’re trembling, legs already shaking, overstimulated and still climbing higher.

he pulls away with a soft pop, breathless and flushed, his lips and chin glistening with your slick. his eyes are wild, blown wide and glossy, but they don’t leave the mess between your legs. his cum is still dripping out of you, thick and warm and pooling at your entrance, and the sight alone makes him moan again.

“fuck, look at you, baby…” he breathes, voice wrecked, as he reaches down and slips two fingers into you without warning.

you gasp, your back arching off the bed as his fingers slide in easily, the intrusion messy and loud. his cum spills out around his knuckles, dripping over his hand as he thrusts deep, curling his fingers immediately to find that sweet spot again. and when he does—fuck, it’s over. your thighs jerk, your stomach tightens, and a moan tears from your throat, high and broken.

“riki—fuck, riki, i’m gonna cum—” your voice breaks into a loud, desperate cry as your body coils tighter and tighter, your walls clenching around his fingers like you’re trying to pull them deeper.

he growls, low and full of heat, his fingers moving faster now—relentless, pounding into that spot over and over again until you’re seeing stars behind your eyelids, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. the wet sounds only grow louder, slick dripping down to the sheets as your body starts to tremble violently.

“that’s it, baby,” he pants, watching your face twist in pleasure. “cum for me. fuck, let me feel you—come on, just give it to me.”

your body’s burning—everywhere—with the kind of pleasure that comes in waves, crashing over you again and again without giving you a chance to breathe. riki’s fingers are merciless, fucking into you with speed and precision that has your legs trembling uncontrollably on either side of his head. the pressure is building fast, dangerously fast, coiling low in your stomach, a tight, unbearable ache that has you gasping for air, your moans spilling out freely now, loud and high and wrecked.

he never lets up. not for a second. his fingers curl again, and this time, he stays pressed there, dragging over your sweet spot with every thrust. his mouth latches back onto your clit, sucking hard—filthy, wet sounds echoing in the room, your slick dripping down his wrist and coating his chin. he moans into you again and again, desperate and unashamed, like the taste of you is making him drunk.

“riki—fuck, oh my god—don’t stop, i—i’m gonna—” you can’t finish the sentence. your whole body locks up, your legs snap shut around his head, and your hips jerk forward without warning as the orgasm hits you like a train.

your vision whites out.

you scream his name, voice breaking into a sob as your walls clench down hard around his fingers. your back arches off the bed as the pressure explodes, and a gush of slick shoots out of you, soaking riki’s hand, his mouth, the sheets beneath you. the pleasure is so sharp it’s almost painful, your thighs twitching violently as you squirt all over him, completely helpless to stop it.

and riki fucking moans.

loud.

needy.

his tongue doesn’t stop—if anything, he’s messier now, chasing every drop with frantic licks, letting it spill down his chin and moaning against your clit like he’s been starving for this moment. his eyes are fluttered shut, face buried between your thighs as he grinds into the mattress, rutting into the sheets like he can’t take it anymore.

“fuck, baby—holy shit—you’re so wet, fuck, you taste so good,” he whimpers, his voice completely fucked out, high and breathless. his fingers keep moving, just a little slower now, easing you through the high while his lips press wet, open-mouthed kisses along your trembling inner thighs.

your body is limp, twitching, legs spread wide and shaking as he finally slows down. you're still dripping, thighs slick with cum and spit and everything in between, your cunt fluttering from the aftershocks, clenching down around nothing now that he’s pulled his fingers out with a slick pop.

he doesn’t move far. just rests his cheek against your thigh, breathing hard, lips still parted like he’s dazed.

“you squirted so much for me,” he murmurs, almost in awe, fingers idly rubbing the slick between your folds. “fuck, you’re unreal…”

his eyes flick up to yours, and the look on his face—flushed, wrecked, completely pussy drunk—is enough to steal your breath all over again.

and when he leans in again, tongue flicking out to lap up the mess between your thighs, you know he’s nowhere near done.

you’re still gasping, your lungs aching for air as they try to keep up with the rapid, uneven rise and fall of your chest. your limbs are trembling, boneless, completely limp beneath the weight of your own release. your fingers twitch uselessly against the damp sheets, the fabric twisted and soaked beneath you. your whole body feels like it’s buzzing, like your nerves are short-circuiting—caught somewhere between exhaustion and the lingering high of your orgasm.

your thighs are still spread, sticky and weak, barely able to hold themselves up as they tremble with the aftershocks. you feel them ripple through you—those deep, involuntary pulses of your pussy still fluttering around nothing. your clit throbs violently, so sensitive that even the ghost of cool air brushing over it makes your whole body flinch. every inch of you is soaked—your inner thighs, the base of your spine, the space beneath your ass—slick with your cum, his spit, the remnants of everything he’s already pulled out of you. and yet, somehow, you know it’s not over.

because riki doesn’t move far.

he stays between your legs for a moment, face just inches from your overstimulated pussy, lips parted, breath ragged. his chin is glistening, his mouth shiny, and the look on his face is something between awe and obsession. he looks dazed. fucked out. starved. the sounds leaving his throat are low, nearly silent—tiny, shaky whines that sound like he’s barely holding himself together. and then he moves.

he crawls up your body slowly, like he’s climbing out of a dream, kissing every inch of skin he can reach along the way. his lips find your inner thigh first, then your hipbone, then the soft swell of your stomach, leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses on the places you’re still twitching. he mouths at your skin like he’s trying to stay grounded, like if he stops touching you, he’ll forget how to breathe. his hands roam again, slower now, sliding up your waist and beneath your shirt, fingers splayed as they glide over your ribs before cupping your breasts again like he needs them. he groans when he feels how sensitive they still are, thumbs brushing over your swollen nipples until you arch into him with a shaky gasp.

his face finally reaches yours, and he pauses—hovering over you, flushed and panting, his bangs sticking to his damp forehead. his cheeks are dusted a deep, lust-drunk pink, his lips puffy and wet. he looks at you like you’re unreal, like he can’t believe he gets to have this, have you. his eyes flick down to your lips, then back up, and the kiss he gives you is slow and deep and messy—tongue sliding against yours with the same desperation he just had between your legs.

you moan into his mouth, still dazed, still trembling, the taste of yourself on his tongue only making your stomach flip. your body jerks when his cock brushes your folds again—hot and heavy, pressed between your slick thighs. even through the haze of overstimulation, you can feel how hard he still is, how needy he’s become.

“you’re so fucking perfect,” he whispers against your lips, his voice hoarse, broken. “you drive me fucking insane…”

he doesn’t even have to line himself up. your pussy is soaked—wet and loose from how hard you came, slick and swollen and so ready that the thick head of his cock just slides right back into you with barely a push. you both gasp at the feeling—your body arching off the bed, his hips faltering as he sinks all the way in.

“fuck—still so tight,” he groans, voice cracking, his forehead pressing to yours as his cock stretches you open again. you sob out a cry, your walls fluttering violently around him as your body tries to adjust.

the overstimulation is immediate and brutal.

your cunt is already twitching from the last orgasm, so sensitive it’s almost painful—and now it’s full again. his cock drags against every part of you, the friction sharp and overwhelming. you whimper into his shoulder, fingers curling around his arms, nails digging into his sweat-slicked skin.

“riki—ah, f-fuck—it’s too much,” you breathe, voice high and shaking, your head falling back against the pillow. “i can’t—i can’t—”

but he doesn’t stop.

he thrusts slow but deep, grinding into you with a slow roll of his hips that makes you feel every single inch. his cock presses against your sweet spot on every thrust, dragging across that soft, swollen bundle deep inside you like he knows exactly what it’s doing to you.

“i know, baby,” he pants, kissing your jaw, your neck, your collarbone. “i know it’s a lot—but just give me one more, yeah? just one more. i need it.”

his hips snap harder now, a wet slap echoing with every thrust. your bodies are so slick, so sticky, that the sounds are obscene, soaking the sheets beneath you as your cunt tightens around him with every movement. you’re so full. so overstimulated. so close to falling apart again.

his hand slides between your bodies, fingers finding your clit without hesitation, rubbing tight little circles, fast and precise. you cry out, your voice loud and broken as your hips buck up against him.

“c’mon, baby,” he groans, his breath stuttering. “make a mess for me again. i know you can. squirt all over me. fuck—i want it.”

your moans are pure sobs now, high-pitched and uncontrollable, the pressure building faster than you can handle. your thighs spasm. your nails dig deeper. your body starts to curl inward, desperate to find something to hold onto as the wave builds harder, deeper, dangerously high.

“riki—fuck, i—i can’t—i’m gonna—!”

“do it,” he growls, mouth hot at your ear, his voice falling apart. “cum for me. fuck—soak me, baby. show me how good i make you feel—please—”

your body breaks in waves, shuddering beneath him as that unbearable pressure finally snaps—ripping through your core with the kind of intensity that robs you of your breath and leaves your vision flashing white. it hits you so fast, so hard, it almost doesn’t feel real—like your body’s floating and falling at the same time. your mouth opens in a cry that doesn’t fully form, your voice caught in your throat, too overwhelmed to even scream.

your hips jerk uncontrollably. your back arches off the soaked sheets, spine curving in pure reflex as the orgasm explodes from deep inside you. and then it happens—your whole body convulses as a violent gush of slick sprays out of you, splashing over his hips, your thighs, the bed, everywhere.

riki moans like you’ve just touched heaven itself.

his head snaps up from where he’s been kissing your shoulder, eyes wide, lips parted, absolutely drenched in the sight of you falling apart for him. “fuuuck—oh my god, baby,” he gasps, breath hitching on every syllable like it physically hurts him to see you like this and not lose it. “you’re—fuck, you’re squirting, you’re actually—holy shit.”

he sounds delirious. undone. pussy drunk in the truest sense of the word.

you feel him twitch inside you, feel his hands grabbing at your waist like he needs to anchor himself, like if he doesn’t hold you he might just fucking break apart. and the overstimulation only gets worse from there—his cock still buried inside, still grinding into your fluttering walls, dragging through the sensitive, soaked mess you’ve made with every tiny movement of his hips.

your thighs are trembling violently, muscles spasming with aftershocks you can’t control. your hands grip at his shoulders, his hair, the sheets—whatever you can find, whatever keeps you tethered while your body spirals through the afterglow of your release. more slick gushes out of you, another uncontrollable burst that sprays between your legs, soaking his abdomen and the bed beneath you. it just keeps coming—wet and warm and messy—and riki is losing his fucking mind.

he moans again, louder this time, voice trembling as his eyes roll back for just a second, completely overwhelmed. “that’s it, baby, fuck—keep going, don’t stop—soak me,” he groans, and then he’s kissing you, his mouth crashing against yours in a desperate, open-mouthed kiss full of tongue and need. his hips are stuttering now, thrusts sloppy and shallow, fucking you through the mess, like he doesn’t know how to stop. like your pussy is too good. like your body owns him.

and in that moment—it does.

his hand slips between your bodies again, fingers finding your clit even though it’s throbbing, swollen, unbearably sensitive. he rubs soft circles, drawing out every drop, every twitch, and your legs jerk hard, another sob ripping from your throat as your vision blurs with tears. the overstimulation has you screaming, crying his name, your body convulsing beneath him with each new burst of pleasure that has no place being this strong.

“shhh, baby, you’re okay, i’ve got you,” he whispers, but his voice is broken, thick, like he’s crying too. “just let it out—god, you’re so fucking perfect—look at how much you’re cumming for me…”

another wave hits, and this one has you sobbing.

you feel it gush from you again, slick pouring out of your overstimulated pussy in rhythm with the clenching of your walls. you can’t stop it, and you don’t want to. you want him to see, to feel everything, and riki is right there, taking it all in like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

he’s whispering against your skin, his lips moving from your cheek to your ear to your collarbone, repeating soft, broken things like “you’re so good,” and “mine,” and “gonna remember this forever.”

he thrusts one last time—slow, deep, dragging his cock through your still-spasming cunt before finally collapsing on top of you, his arms wrapping around your shaking body, his breath completely wrecked. he doesn’t pull out. doesn’t move. he just holds you there, his chest pressed to yours, his cock still twitching inside your soaked, ruined heat.

the room is silent except for the sound of your breathing—shaky, uneven, like you're still learning how to inhale again. riki’s heart is pounding in his chest against yours, fast and wild. his hands are everywhere—stroking your hair, rubbing your back, cupping your face as he peppers soft kisses over your cheeks.

he lifts his head to look at you, his eyes glassy and so full of emotion it makes your breath catch. “you… you’re unreal,” he whispers, voice hoarse, lips brushing yours. “you came so hard for me, baby. you soaked me—fuck, you wrecked me.”

and still, he stays inside you.

still full.

still hard.

still kissing you like he’s never going to stop.

the days had stretched long and heavy, each hour feeling like its own reckoning as you drifted through your apartment in a haze of unspoken thoughts and unanswered questions. your phone had remained flipped face down on your nightstand, untouched, except for the few times you’d picked it up only to stare at the screen before putting it right back down. the flowers from heeseung were wilted in their vase now, a quiet reminder of everything you thought you understood and everything that had unraveled right in front of you. you hadn’t cried—not yet—but your chest ached in that particular way where it felt like you were about to at any given moment, like your emotions sat just behind your ribs, waiting to spill. the silence of your room made it worse, every creak of the wood floor or passing car outside pulling you deeper into the loop of memories you didn’t ask to relive. each of their faces haunted you in fragments—sunoo’s soft voice, jake’s trembling hands, jungwon’s gentle kiss, niki’s teasing smirk—like echoes of something you’d convinced yourself was just content. except now it didn’t feel like content. now it felt like your heart had been split seven ways and you had no idea how to hold it together.

“i couldn’t have been so naive to this,” you breathe, voice trembling with quiet disbelief as your hands knot together in your lap, the fabric of your blanket crinkling beneath your fingers. your gaze stays locked on a spot near the edge of your comforter, eyes unfocused, as though the right words might appear there if you just stared long enough. “i should’ve known—should’ve picked up on something.” your voice breaks slightly as you shake your head. “there had to be signs. i just… i didn’t expect it at all.” the memory of their faces—shocked, unreadable, too familiar in one room—plays in a loop behind your eyes, muddling together into something far more overwhelming than anything you’d prepared for. the air still feels heavy with that moment, even now, days later, like it’s lingering in your lungs. it’s not just the realization that they all knew each other. it’s the fact that no one said anything—that they let you walk blindly into it, moment after moment, lie after silence, until it was too late to turn back.

nari sits beside you on the bed, her presence steady, warm, grounding in the way she always manages to be. her hand is wrapped around yours, thumb stroking the back of your palm in slow, thoughtful circles, and you can feel her watching you carefully. “it’s okay,” she says quietly, her tone free of judgment, but full of understanding. “you’re not wrong for feeling this way, y/n. none of this is your fault.” the way she says it—so certain, so kind—makes your throat tighten, and you swallow hard against the emotion rising in your chest. your shoulders feel tense, your heart bruised with confusion and embarrassment and something more painful that you still haven’t dared to name. you glance at her with tired eyes, trying to muster some kind of composure, but she sees through it immediately. she always does. “you just got caught in something way bigger than you thought it was,” she adds. “and that’s not on you.”

you let out a shaky sigh and pull your hand away, dragging it through your hair in one long, slow motion, fingertips catching on a few tangled strands. “i don’t even know how to feel about it all,” you whisper, your voice low. “they all acted like it was just us, like each moment was… i don’t know, ours—but they were hiding something. and i guess i was too, in a way.” your words start to unravel, slipping out of your mouth faster than you can catch them, and you pause to breathe before continuing. “and the worst part is, i can’t even say i regret it. i meant every moment. i wanted all of it.” you close your eyes, overwhelmed by the weight of that truth. “and now i don’t know if that makes me stupid, or just… human.”

“what are you planning to do now?” nari asks gently after a pause, her voice tentative but curious, knowing better than to push too hard. “do you feel the same way about all of them… or is there one who stands out?” the question lands softly, but it echoes like a drumbeat in your chest, and you stare at her, your lips parting—but no sound comes out. you shift uncomfortably on the bed, your thoughts a tangled mess of memories and sensations and words left unsaid. each boy left something behind in you—heeseung with his gentle reverence, jay with his quiet intensity, jake with the warmth that lingered after every touch, sunghoon with the sharp tension that never quite released. and then there was sunoo, vibrant and teasing and soft in a way that made you feel seen. jungwon with his eager devotion, like you were something sacred in his eyes. niki with that careful confidence, that push-and-pull that sparked something in you you hadn’t even realized was there.

you can’t choose. you don’t want to choose. but you also don’t know if walking away is any easier.

“i don’t know,” you finally whisper, your voice hoarse with emotion. “i loved filming with each of them. the connection felt real every single time. and i know that’s why this hurts so much.” you bring your knees up to your chest, wrapping your arms around them as you rest your chin on top. “but right now, i can’t make sense of how i feel. i’m not ready to face any of them. not yet.” the silence that follows is full of tension, not awkward, but full—pregnant with unspoken fear, longing, and the ache of being pulled in too many directions at once.

nari doesn’t speak right away. she just reaches over and rests her hand on your back, her touch warm through the thin fabric of your shirt. “then don’t,” she says simply. “not until you’re ready. but when that moment comes… talk to one of them. start somewhere.” she gives you a small smile, one laced with gentle encouragement. “you don’t have to figure it all out at once, y/n. just… don’t run from it forever.”

and for the first time in days, you don’t argue.

the rain had started sometime in the late afternoon, a quiet drizzle tapping against your windowpane as you curled deeper into your blankets, your conversation with nari still echoing in the quiet corners of your mind. she’d left a few hours ago, giving your hand one last squeeze and promising you time, space, and a judgment-free shoulder if you needed it. you hadn’t moved much since. everything still felt knotted inside of you—your thoughts, your guilt, your confusion—tightening around your ribs like a drawstring pulled too tight. you hadn’t heard the doorbell at first, not over the low hum of your fan or the scattered rainfall outside, but the second knock made your heart leap into your throat. you pulled yourself upright, hesitating at the mirror to smooth your hair, though your hands shook a little with the movement. the hallway light felt too bright as you stepped toward the door, your breath caught in your chest as your fingers curled around the knob and twisted. when the door creaked open, your body stilled, stunned—because there, standing outside of the door with damp curls sticking to his forehead and his hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, was jungwon, eyes wide like he didn’t believe he was really here either.

the sight of you—wrapped in a loose hoodie with sleep-tousled hair and eyes slightly puffy from crying—makes his breath catch in his throat as if he’s forgotten how to speak. the two of you just stare at each other for a moment, silence stretching and folding between you, the sound of soft rain falling and the warmth of your apartment curling behind you like two separate worlds. “hi,” he says finally, his voice gentle but tight at the edges, and when you don’t respond right away, just blink at him like he’s not real, he shifts awkwardly on his feet. “i… didn’t know if i should come,” he admits, glancing down as if afraid to meet your eyes again, “but i couldn’t stop thinking about you—about what happened.” your hand lingers on the doorknob, knuckles white, chest rising in slow, shallow breaths as you try to make sense of the mess of emotions clawing up your throat—shock, anger, guilt, and something softer beneath it all. “jungwon…” you breathe, finally finding the word, but nothing else comes with it, because he’s here and it’s overwhelming and all-consuming, and the ache you thought you’d buried is suddenly back in full force. his lashes flutter when you say his name, like it touches something delicate in him, and he nods once, then looks past you like he’s unsure if he’s allowed to cross the threshold. “can i come in?” he asks quietly, and there’s something in the way he says it—tentative, respectful, but laced with longing—that makes you step back without thinking, letting the door swing wider as he steps inside, into the space that’s felt too quiet without him.

you close the door behind him gently, the quiet click echoing louder than expected in the small space, and for a moment neither of you move. jungwon stands in the middle of your living room like he’s unsure whether he belongs there, hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie as his eyes slowly scan the room before settling back on you. “i thought maybe seeing you would help me understand how i feel,” he admits softly, his voice barely above a whisper, like he’s afraid saying it too loud might scare you off. “but now that i’m here, i think i’ve always known.” the words make your heart stutter, and you find yourself slowly crossing the room, arms folding loosely over your chest like a shield you’re not sure you want to keep up. “why did you come, jungwon?” you ask, and the question doesn’t carry anger, only a tired sort of sadness, the kind that lingers after too many nights spent thinking in circles. he looks up at you then, really looks at you, and something about the way his eyes soften breaks something open inside you.

“because i miss you,” he says simply, but there’s so much weight packed into those three words that you feel your breath catch in your chest. “not just what we did. i miss how you made me feel—like i was important, like you saw something in me that no one else does.” the words hit you like a wave, crashing against the wall you’ve been trying so hard to keep standing, and you press your fingers into your arm to ground yourself, to remind yourself this is real. jungwon takes a small step closer, testing the distance like he’s not sure how far he’s allowed to go, and his voice grows softer, more vulnerable. “it was my first time… all of it. not just physically, but feeling this way about someone—this… deep, gnawing thing that hasn’t left me since i met you.” your throat tightens, fingers twitching at your side, unsure whether to reach for him or protect yourself. “you don’t have to say anything,” he adds quickly, misreading the silence as rejection, “i just needed you to know.”

“you don’t understand how complicated this is,” you murmur, the emotion thick in your throat as your gaze drops to the floor, unable to meet his for too long. “i didn’t expect any of this—i didn’t know it would get so messy.” jungwon nods slowly, and you watch the way his brows pull together, how he chews the inside of his cheek like he’s trying to find the right words. “i know,” he says, voice barely audible, “and i wish i could fix it for you. i’d take it all away if it meant you’d stop hurting.” the gentleness in his voice makes your stomach twist painfully, and for a moment you want nothing more than to step forward, to bury yourself in his warmth and let him hold all the pieces you’ve been too afraid to share. “it’s just… hard,” you whisper, more to yourself than to him, and his eyes flicker with something fierce, something aching and patient all at once.

he steps closer again, now just an arm’s length away, and you can see every detail of his face—the tiny scar above his brow, the redness in his eyes, the quiet desperation in the way his lips part but hesitate. “i don’t want to lose you,” he says finally, voice cracking at the edges, “even if it means waiting, even if it means watching you figure everything out.” your breath hitches, and the room suddenly feels smaller, warmer, like the air itself has thickened around you. “i’m not asking you to choose,” he adds, almost as if reading your mind, “i just want you to know that for me… it was never just a video.” your heart aches, the confession echoing through every bone in your body, and you finally look up at him again, eyes glistening with everything you’ve been holding in.

jungwon’s eyes widen slightly when he sees the way your lips part, the way your breath trembles, and it’s like he wants to reach for you but stops himself out of respect. “you don’t have to love me,” he whispers, “but please… don’t shut me out.” his voice is so raw, so open, that it slices right through you, and you don’t realize your fingers are trembling until you clench them into fists to stop the shake. “i’m scared,” you confess for the first time, your voice as soft as the rain tapping against the window, “because i felt something with you too, and that’s the part that terrifies me.” the honesty hangs there between you, bare and unfiltered, and jungwon’s expression shifts into something painfully tender.

he nods, slow and understanding, and finally takes the last step toward you, close enough that his fingers could graze yours if either of you moved. “then let me be scared with you,” he murmurs, “we don’t have to figure it all out tonight.” your chest swells, eyes stinging, and for a moment all you can do is breathe him in—his scent, his warmth, the fragile hope wrapped around his words. “i don’t know what’s going to happen,” you admit, “but i don’t want to pretend like it meant nothing either.” his lips curve into the faintest smile, eyes shining as he whispers, “then that’s enough for me.” and in the quiet that follows, as you stand inches apart, you realize that maybe—just maybe—you don’t have to carry this alone anymore.

jungwon’s gaze dips to your lips for just a second—barely a flicker—but it’s enough to set off a rush of heat through your entire body, soft and slow and consuming. you don’t move right away, your breath shallow as your eyes search his face, every inch of him brimming with something that looks dangerously close to hope. your fingers twitch at your side before reaching up on instinct, brushing lightly against the edge of his hoodie sleeve, just enough to ground yourself in the moment. “come here,” you whisper, the words barely audible but enough to have him lean forward, hesitantly, like he still doesn’t believe you’ll let him. but you do—you meet him halfway, your hand curling at the base of his neck as your lips press gently into his, warmth spilling from the point of contact like it’s been waiting to ignite all along.

he kisses you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear—slow at first, almost cautious, his hand moving to your waist with such care it makes your chest ache. you press in closer, your free hand resting over his chest where his heart is racing, its rhythm frantic beneath your touch. the kiss deepens naturally, growing hungrier without losing its tenderness, the kind of kiss that says too much without needing words. jungwon sighs softly against your lips, like he’s finally breathing for the first time in days, and you feel the way his shoulders drop as your touch pulls him in. your thumb brushes along the side of his jaw, feeling the way it tenses slightly under the emotion threatening to spill out of him. his hand curls tighter around your waist, not possessive, just needing—just wanting to be close to you without letting it slip away too soon.

when you pull back just slightly, lips parted and noses still brushing, his eyes are already glassy, a soft pink blooming high on his cheeks as he exhales through a quiet laugh. “that was…” he starts, but the words falter, and he just shakes his head gently, a crooked, lovesick smile curving at his lips. “yeah,” you breathe, matching his energy, forehead resting gently against his as you close your eyes for a moment, letting yourself feel everything at once. he doesn’t rush the silence, doesn’t push for anything more—just lets the weight of what just passed between you settle into the stillness of the room. his thumb strokes a slow line along your waist, and you swear you could fall apart just from the way he holds you, like you’re the only person who’s ever mattered. “i could stay like this forever,” he mumbles, voice thick, and your heart twists painfully in your chest because you know you can’t promise that just yet.

—

this day already felt lighter than the one before, the air in your apartment somehow less heavy, your thoughts no longer as fogged and chaotic. after everything that had happened, the silence, the tension, the messy unraveling of all the truths you didn’t ask to know—you found yourself carrying a bit more clarity today. jungwon’s visit the night before had stirred something in you, grounding you in a way you hadn’t expected. it made you realize that you were allowed to take your time, to breathe, to feel all of it at once without rushing toward a decision. so maybe it was that small pocket of peace that gave you the courage to reach out to heeseung—the first.

he was the one you’d started everything with, the one who made you feel wanted before you even understood what you were diving into. it felt right to face him now, with more steadiness in your chest and a little less fear. the memory of the bouquet he once gave you still lingered in your room—its colors now dulled, petals soft and scattered across the surface of your nightstand, a quiet reminder of something that bloomed fast and never really faded. 

the knock on your door comes soft but sure, drawing you gently out of your thoughts. you push yourself off the couch, the floor cool beneath your feet as you walk to the door with your heart pressing steadily in your chest. when you open it, there he is—tall and striking in the glow of the late afternoon sun, his pinkish hair styled just the way you remember it, though maybe a little softer now. his eyes meet yours, a glint of something hopeful flickering in them as he lets out a breath.

“hi, princess…” he says, the petname falling from his lips like it had been waiting all this time, tucked away just for this moment. you feel the weight of it settle warmly in your chest.

“hi,” you respond, voice gentle as you step aside to let him in. “come in.”

he steps in slowly, his eyes scanning the apartment like he’s cataloging the changes, like he’s trying to trace where he used to stand, where you used to sit, where it all began. he moves with quiet reverence, shoulders rising slightly with each breath, and you watch the way his hand brushes down the side of his jeans as if he needs something to do, somewhere to place the nervous energy building between you both. you close the door behind him gently, your fingers curling around the handle for a second too long before you turn to face him again. for a moment, neither of you says anything. the silence stretches, but it isn’t empty—it’s full of everything that was left unsaid.

“i didn’t think i’d get to see you again like this,” heeseung says finally, his voice softer than you remember, like it’s been sanded down by time and longing. his gaze lingers on your face, searching, careful, like he’s trying to figure out how much of you is still his to read. “you look… you look beautiful.” you smile, barely, because even though the compliment makes your chest flutter, there’s still a tension winding through your spine, coiled from everything that’s happened since the last time you were together.

“thank you,” you reply, your voice nearly a whisper as you gesture toward the couch. “do you want to sit?” he nods quickly and moves to the couch while you follow behind, your heart thudding just a little harder with every step. you sit beside him—not too close, not too far—and he leans forward with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped between them like he’s bracing himself.

“i’ve been thinking about you a lot,” he admits, eyes cast down to the floor before flicking back up to yours. “not just about what we did. but the way you made me feel. the way i still feel.” his words hang between you like steam off a hot drink, curling and invisible and so very real. you feel the lump form in your throat, emotion creeping up the edges of your chest as he continues.

“i didn’t mean for any of this to get so complicated,” he says, shaking his head slowly, brows furrowing. “at first it was only for quick video, just for fun until it wasn’t anymore.” you watch his fingers tighten around themselves, a small tremble in his voice that he doesn’t try to hide.

you sit there quietly, your own heart pulling painfully because you know his words are true—you felt that tenderness in every touch, in the way he looked at you like he was afraid he’d ruin something just by holding on too tightly. “i kept the flowers,” you say softly, your eyes flicking to the hallway. “they’re still on my nightstand.”

heeseung lifts his head, and something in his expression crumples at your words. “you did?” he asks, and when you nod, he smiles—just barely, but it’s the kind that reaches his eyes. “i thought maybe they’d be gone. like everything else.”

you shake your head, your voice quiet but steady. “you weren’t ever nothing to me, heeseung.”

a silence falls again, this one more tender, more full of the ache that builds when two people want each other but don’t know how to fix what’s broken. then, carefully, you reach out and place your hand over his, your fingers sliding gently between his. he turns his palm to meet yours, the contact soft but grounding.

“i wanted to see you today because i needed to know if what we had meant something,” you say, your gaze steady on his. “i needed to know if you still saw me the same way.”

his thumb brushes across your knuckles slowly, reverently, like he’s memorizing the feel of your skin. “i never stopped seeing you that way. i never stopped wanting you.”

heeseung’s fingers remain laced with yours, his thumb tracing small, reverent circles against the back of your hand as if grounding himself through your touch. there’s something in his expression that looks both overwhelmed and awestruck, like seeing you up close again is too much and yet not nearly enough. your knees brush lightly as you shift a little on the couch, turning to face him fully, and your chest tightens at the way his gaze lingers on every part of you—your eyes, your mouth, your expression—as if he’s searching for something familiar and finding everything he missed. the air between you feels fragile but charged, delicate yet thick with things unsaid, with feelings that had been buried under the weight of time, of silence, of complicated truths. “i’ve missed you,” heeseung breathes finally, his voice soft but raw, like the words have been sitting on the tip of his tongue since the day he let you walk away. your lips part to answer, to say something, anything, but all that slips out is a quiet, breathless hum as you squeeze his hand in return, heart fluttering at the vulnerability spilling through his voice. he leans closer, the tip of his nose brushing yours, and you can feel the way his breath trembles when he exhales—like he’s holding back everything he wants to say in favor of showing it instead. “can i kiss you?” he whispers, the question not rushed, not desperate, just reverent, and the simple sincerity in it makes your throat tighten. you nod slowly, eyes fluttering shut, and the world seems to still the moment his lips meet yours.

his kiss is gentle—almost too gentle at first—like he’s afraid you’ll vanish beneath him, afraid this might be a dream he doesn’t want to wake from. he kisses you with aching slowness, like every second counts, every brush of his mouth against yours an apology, a confession, a hope. his free hand finds your jaw, thumb sliding softly beneath your ear as he deepens the kiss with a quiet sigh, his body curling into yours like he wants to shield you from the rest of the world. you respond in kind, melting into him, your fingers slipping over his shoulder and gripping the fabric of his hoodie as you pull him closer, needing him near, needing this to feel as real as it does. his tongue brushes lightly against your bottom lip and you open for him without hesitation, your breath catching as the kiss grows more certain, more full—still tender, still careful, but laced now with something rawer, something deeper. you can feel how much he’s holding back, how much emotion is pressed into the way he kisses you, like he’s trying to speak in a language you’ll never forget. when he finally pulls away, it’s only by an inch, his forehead resting against yours and his lips still barely brushing yours as he exhales, shaky and full of meaning. “you feel like home,” he murmurs, almost to himself, like the words weren’t planned but tumbled out without permission. you feel your heart crack open just a little more at that, your eyes fluttering open to meet his as he stares at you like you’re the only thing in the universe worth looking at.

heeseung’s thumb brushes against your cheek as he studies you, the softness in his eyes darkening just slightly with something more serious. “have you made a choice yet?” he asks, voice low and careful, not demanding but deeply curious, like your answer holds the weight of everything between you. your lips part with a slow exhale, fingers tightening gently around his. “i have,” you admit, heart fluttering against your ribs like it’s been waiting for this moment too. “but i want to tell everyone at once... i owe them that.” the honesty sits between you, heavy but right, and heeseung nods slowly, the corners of his lips lifting into a small, knowing smile. “then let me help,” he murmurs, leaning in to press a kiss to your temple with quiet resolve. “come with me—i’ll take care of everything,” he adds, already pulling you gently to your feet as your stomach flips in anticipation.

you follow him to the front door, slipping on your shoes as he keeps a steady hand on your lower back, his presence steadying and grounding. the sunlight outside has softened into a golden wash, casting long shadows as the two of you step out into the cool air and head toward his car. his fingers stay laced with yours the entire walk to the passenger side, his thumb tracing calm, thoughtless circles that make your chest tighten with quiet affection. once inside, the engine hums to life, and the low volume of the radio blends into the comforting silence between you—one filled with unspoken meaning rather than awkwardness. you glance at him as he drives, taking in the quiet confidence in his profile, the way his jaw tightens slightly like he’s focused on making this go right. “where are we going?” you ask softly, eyes flicking to the road ahead as he turns onto a familiar street. “my place,” he answers, flashing you a quick glance that’s both reassuring and something deeper. “i told the rest to meet me there around six. it’s time.”

—

you thought this moment would come with more clarity, more poise, maybe even peace—but instead your nerves are coiling inside you like tightly wound string, every eye in the room weighing down on your chest. they’re all here, seated or standing in the living room, each gaze fixed squarely on you, some soft and unsure, others unreadable, but more than a few linger a second too long on your lips. the silence presses in as you shift your weight between your feet, fingers nervously twisting around each other, heart hammering like it’s being wrung out with every second you wait. “before i say anything else, i just have one thing i need to ask,” you begin, your voice quiet but unwavering as your eyes stay rooted to the floorboards. “why didn’t any of you tell me you all knew each other? was i not someone worth being honest with?” your voice wavers slightly, the first crack blooming beneath your ribs as your eyes rise slowly to meet theirs, glassy with heat you refuse to let spill. “i was naive enough to not put the pieces together, but still—there were no signs, no indication, and now i just feel... stupid.”

he confession sits heavy in your throat, your chest tightening as their silence grows denser around you, no one moving to speak just yet. “a part of me felt like i was being played,” you continue, voice just above a whisper now, “like maybe it was a joke to you all, something funny you could talk about behind closed doors.” you shake your head gently, a bitter laugh escaping under your breath as you draw in a shaky inhale. “and i hate thinking like that—i really do—because none of you made me feel that way when we were together. each of you showed me a side of yourselves that i let myself believe was real, something intimate i gave myself up to without hesitation.” your gaze flicks up again, landing on familiar faces you’ve memorized in far different settings, now unreadable and complicated. “i didn’t want to be seen as a game or some experiment, some anonymous figure who you all could just try out to see what the hype was.” the words taste like guilt and doubt and something rawer, something closer to heartbreak.

“i know i agreed to all of it,” you admit, quieter now, “and i know this was supposed to be just content—but somewhere along the way, i let my guard down, and i can’t help but feel foolish for it.” your eyes sting, but you blink quickly, refusing to let your vulnerability show any more than it already has. “my mind kept spiraling… thinking maybe it was for clout, or worse—a bet.” your voice tightens on the last word, the pressure mounting behind your sternum like a dam about to split. “i mean, why else would seven people—all so successful in their own right—end up so tangled in one girl’s content?” your arms cross instinctively over your chest as your gaze drops again, a protective reflex you didn’t know you still had left. “i just didn’t think i’d become so attached,” you finish, barely above a whisper now, “not when i promised myself i wouldn’t.”

the room remains still for a moment until finally, someone speaks—sunghoon. he leans forward slightly from his seat, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped tightly together like he’s been holding them still for hours. “i did it to understand,” he says, voice calm but honest, eyes trained directly on yours. “heeseung and jay—i’ve never seen them so... different. they wouldn’t stop talking about you, about how filming with you felt like something else entirely.” he lets out a slow breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “i got curious, nosy even, and maybe that was selfish—but it wasn’t for a laugh. i wanted to know what they meant when they said you made them feel something.” his voice softens further. “and when i met you… when we actually filmed together… it wasn’t about curiosity anymore. it was about you.”

“you made me feel something that night that i haven’t been able to shake since,” sunghoon confesses, leaning in just enough to make your breath catch. “you were gentle and confident and so goddamn sincere, and it hit me all at once that this wasn’t just content. not for me. not for any of us.” he sits back, gaze still locked to yours with something so open and raw it makes your chest ache. “i want to know more about you, y/n. not just the version i’ve seen in front of the camera, but all of you—the real parts you haven’t let anyone else see yet.” you can’t move. can’t speak. can only stare, your entire world tipped sideways again as the weight of his words settles into the silence. and somehow, deep down, you know he isn’t the only one who feels this way.

you don’t expect heeseung to speak next, not when he’s sitting so still, elbows on his knees, fingers woven together like he’s trying to physically hold himself back, but the moment sunghoon’s voice fades into silence, he lifts his head and locks eyes with you—and it’s like the air changes. “do you want to know why i never told you?” he asks quietly, and the sharp edge in his tone startles you. “because i didn’t want this to happen.” his voice is raw now, thick with something deeper than just frustration—it’s laced with regret, with something so heavy it nearly takes your breath away. “i didn’t want you to look at us like this. like we were playing you, like we were some fucking group project you didn’t sign up for. because that’s not what this ever was for me.” he shifts forward, closer than before, and you can feel the warmth of his stare—burning, sincere, full of tension he’s tried too hard to contain. “you were the first one. you were the one who made all of this real in the first place. i didn’t go into it thinking anything would happen, didn’t think i’d care beyond a good collab and moving on—but then you looked at me, touched me like i was more than a body in a video, and i’ve been fucked ever since.” he runs a hand through his hair, jaw tightening. “and then jay, then jake, then everyone else started acting different. like they were seeing the same thing i saw in you. and i hated it—hated how much it made me feel like i was losing something that was never even mine to begin with.” his gaze hardens for just a second before softening again, dropping momentarily to your lips, and then right back to your eyes. “but you were mine first. and maybe that doesn’t mean anything now, maybe i don’t have the right to claim you, but it means something to me. you were the start of all this, and if i had known where it would lead, i swear to god i would’ve stopped it. i would’ve kept you all to myself. because the way you made me feel that night—like i was the only one in the world who mattered—it hasn’t gone away. and i don’t think it ever will.”

the tension in the room thickens like a storm front, heavy and static as niki shifts forward in his seat, his jaw tight, his expression unreadable but brimming with heat. his eyes don’t leave heeseung as he speaks, low and firm, the weight of his words making the air feel colder. “you don’t get to claim her just because you were the first,” he says, each syllable slow and deliberate, cutting through the silence like a blade. “we all feel something for her, heeseung—we all gave a part of ourselves, even if it was just once. you think that just because you had her first, that gives you some kind of head start?” his voice cracks slightly with frustration, his throat tight with everything he’s been holding back. “you think the rest of us don’t lie awake at night replaying every moment we shared with her?” he exhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head as he finally looks away, trying to compose himself. “you might’ve met her before us, but don’t you dare act like our feelings are any less real.”

heeseung’s gaze flickers, the smugness gone from his face, replaced by something harder to name—guilt, maybe, or the realization that this isn’t as simple as he thought. his fingers curl into fists at his sides, and for a moment, he doesn’t speak, like the air’s been knocked out of him by the sheer honesty of niki’s words. niki, still staring ahead, continues, his tone softer now but no less intense, the vulnerability beneath his confidence slipping through. “we all watched her change us, one by one. we all wanted to be enough.” the truth hangs there, raw and exposed, something none of them dared to voice until now. the room stills again, no one daring to move as the weight of what niki said settles across them like a shadow. you sit there in the center of it all, your heart thudding against your ribs, overwhelmed by the way each of them keeps proving that this isn’t just about lust—it’s about longing. and now, with no more room to pretend, you realize you have a choice to make—but you’re not the only one trembling at the thought of what comes next.

you sit frozen for a moment, eyes flicking between them all as the tension coils tighter, like a thread pulled taut. your heart aches at the way their voices shake, the way niki's honesty echoes in the room, the way heeseung swallows down words that almost seem too heavy to say. they're all hurting, you realize—caught in a war that none of you asked for but all of you helped build. your hands clasp together tightly in your lap as you inhale slowly, grounding yourself in the weight of this decision, in the pounding of your pulse. “okay,” you breathe out, voice quiet but steady, the softness of it enough to draw their attention. “that’s enough. i didn’t bring you all here to tear each other apart or fight for some title.” your eyes lift, watery and raw, as you meet each gaze in turn. “i brought you here because i’ve already made my choice.”

they’re still now, completely still, like the whole room is holding its breath with you. the words sit heavy on your tongue, but once they start spilling, they don’t stop. “i want all of you,” you confess, voice trembling just enough to show how deeply you mean it. “i want every single one of you, because i can’t choose. i won’t.” your throat tightens as you shake your head, fingers loosening as you let your hands fall into your lap. “i fell for different parts of you—for heeseung’s quiet tenderness, for jay’s intensity, for jake’s gentleness, for sunghoon’s fire, for sunoo’s light, for jungwon’s sincerity, and for niki’s depth.” the silence after your words is thick and warm, the kind that lingers after truth is laid bare. “how could i ever ask myself to only want one, when loving each of you felt just as real?”

you watch their faces shift—eyes widening, jaws slack, mouths parting slightly as they take in your confession. “it would destroy me to choose,” you whisper, eyes flicking downward before rising again. “because no matter who i’d pick, i'd lose the rest. and i already know i can’t handle that. not when you’ve each carved out places inside me that i can’t just ignore.” you look toward the ground again as your heart pounds louder in your chest, afraid of the silence that follows, but determined not to take the words back. “i know this might not make sense. maybe it’s selfish of me,” you admit, biting the inside of your cheek. “but if any of you are willing to set your jealousy aside... if you’re open to seeing where this can really go with me... together... i want that.”

there’s a crack in your voice by the end, a thread of fear that still lives there, but it’s softened by the truth. you’re scared—of being rejected, of being seen differently, of being too much—but your heart has never been this certain. you watch them, one by one, as they absorb every word, their expressions unreadable at first, slowly melting into something more complicated than anger or longing. you feel vulnerable, standing in front of them with your soul laid bare, but there’s something freeing in it too—like finally stepping into your own truth. “i’m not asking for easy,” you add softly. “but i am asking you to try. because i know what i feel, and i know it’s real. i just need to know if you feel it too.”

there’s a pause—a soft breath in the room, almost like the air itself is waiting for someone to move first. it’s jake who does. he steps forward slowly, his eyes never leaving yours, wide and warm and glassy with emotion. your heart jumps into your throat as he comes closer, the tension in your shoulders locking into place before he lifts a hand gently to the side of your face. his palm is warm, thumb brushing along your cheek, and for a moment, he just looks at you—really looks at you—like he’s memorizing every inch. and then, before you can even react, his lips are on yours in a kiss so full of longing that your knees nearly give out.

his mouth moves slowly against yours at first, reverent, like he’s worshipping the very moment. “i’ll do it,” he breathes against your lips, the words brushing into your skin like a promise. “i’ll do anything… anything that involves you in it.” another kiss, deeper this time, as he tilts your head just enough to make it last longer. “if it means sharing this with them,” he murmurs between kisses, “i’ll do it in a heartbeat.” your fingers instinctively clutch at the fabric of his shirt, overwhelmed by the honesty spilling from his mouth and the way he kisses you like he’s been holding back for years. “because at the end of the day,” he whispers, his forehead resting against yours, “i’ll have the girl that’s been living in my head since the first time i touched her.”

he doesn’t say it in a rush or in a way that demands a response. it’s gentle, unwavering, and raw. you can feel the truth of it in the way he holds you, in the way his hands don’t wander but stay grounded—one at your jaw, one steady at your waist. there’s something grounding about jake, even in a room full of shifting feelings and emotional chaos. the others don’t interrupt, not yet, watching in a stillness that holds no bitterness. maybe because they feel it too—that this is jake’s moment, and yours. he brushes a strand of hair away from your face before dipping down again, placing a kiss on the corner of your lips like punctuation.

“i want this,” he says quietly, so only you can hear. “you… all of this. whatever it looks like, however messy it gets. if it’s with you, i’m in.” his arms come around you gently, not caging you in, but welcoming you in fully. and for a brief, shimmering moment, everything in you softens—like your heart finally knows what safety tastes like. the room is still again, but it’s different now. the tone has shifted, charged not with tension, but with choice. jake chose you—fully, freely, and with everything he has.

the moment jake finally steps back from you, the air feels heavier, charged with anticipation as your gaze slowly shifts to sunoo. he stands a little apart from the others, eyes glassy, his fingers knotted together in front of him like he’s holding himself back from something—like he’s terrified to move forward and even more terrified to be left behind. “are you really sure about this?” he asks, voice feather-soft but laced with something raw, something cracked. “you can reject me if that’s what’s in your heart,” he continues, not meeting your eyes now, lashes lowered as his throat bobs with a swallow that nearly breaks your own heart, “i just… i don’t want you to choose this out of guilt. not for me. not for any of us.” your breath catches in your throat at the trembling in his tone, at how small he suddenly looks despite the strength he’s shown in every other setting, and it’s that look—that aching vulnerability—that makes your feet move before you can think. your hands rise gently to cup his face, thumbs brushing softly against the warm streaks of tears trailing down his cheeks, and his lips part on a quiet gasp as he finally looks at you. “sunoo,” you whisper, your voice just as shaky now, but steady in its conviction, “you don’t understand. this isn’t something i’m doing to protect anyone… it’s what i want.”

your forehead leans against his as his breath hitches, his hands slowly coming up to hold your wrists, gentle like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. “i want you,” you whisper again, your eyes falling shut as the tears burn behind your lids, “i want all of you, because each of you mean something to me that i can’t ignore.” your voice grows steadier as you go on, your words pouring out like a confession you’ve waited days to finally admit. “i’ve thought about it over and over—what it would feel like to choose just one of you, to let the others go, and it doesn’t feel right. it never did. i care for each of you so deeply, in ways i never expected to, and the idea of losing any of you just…” your breath shakes as you pull back slightly, enough to look at him fully, your eyes glossy but unwavering. “i wouldn’t survive it. and if you’ll let me—if you all will—i want to try. all of us… together.”

there’s a silence that settles over the room again, but this time, it feels entirely different—charged, pulsing, expectant. your lips are still tingling from the soft pressure of sunoo’s breath, your hands trembling slightly at your sides now that you’ve said everything out loud. and then, from the left, you feel movement—slow, assured footsteps that draw closer with every second until jay stands before you, his expression unreadable but his eyes burning with something deep and golden. “you have no idea what this means to us,” he says quietly, his voice thick with emotion and want, his fingers lifting gently to brush a strand of hair away from your face. and then he’s kissing you—not rushed or ravenous, but like he’s waited far too long and doesn’t want to scare the moment away, his lips fitting over yours with practiced heat, with reverence, with something deeper than desire. your breath catches in your throat as his hand curls around your waist, holding you steady while your body begins to lean into his instinctively, already craving more. and when he pulls back, barely, just far enough for his mouth to brush against your cheekbone, he whispers, “you’re all i’ve wanted since that first night, and i would’ve followed you anywhere, even if you didn’t choose me.” you barely have time to recover before another warmth presses behind you, and a mouth finds your shoulder.

it’s sunghoon, his presence unmistakable from the soft drag of his lips over the skin between your neck and your collarbone, his arm coiling loosely around your waist from behind as if to ground you there. “we’re not going to let you go now,” he murmurs between slow, featherlight kisses, his nose nuzzling the slope of your throat like he’s already addicted to the way you smell. “you made your choice,” he continues, his voice husky now, deeper than before, “and we’re going to show you how happy we are that you did.” heeseung comes next, his hand sliding up to gently cradle your jaw, tipping your chin toward him with such tenderness that your eyes flutter open just in time to see the raw adoration written across his face. he doesn’t kiss you right away—he just stares, long enough to let the moment bloom between you, then dips down slowly, reverently, until his lips meet yours in a kiss that feels like everything you’ve both been holding back. and while your lips mold together, you feel jake’s hands at your hips, guiding your body just slightly toward his so he can lean in and press his mouth to the curve of your neck. “i don’t care what this looks like to the rest of the world,” he breathes, his fingers tightening on your waist as he speaks. “i’ll take whatever this is if it means i get to have you.”

sunoo’s back at your side now, his arms wrapping around you in a way that feels both delicate and possessive, his lips brushing over the top of your shoulder while he whispers, “you’re everything to us now… just tell us what you need.” and last comes jungwon, standing before you with a gaze that could melt stone, his mouth parting slightly as he leans in and presses the softest, slowest kiss to your temple. “we’re yours,” he says simply, his thumb brushing under your eye like he’s memorizing you, like he’s afraid this will vanish into smoke if he doesn’t touch you one more time. their hands are on you now—light, worshipful, lingering touches to your arms, your waist, your back, your hips—as if they’ve all silently agreed that this is the beginning of something sacred, something not just born from lust, but the kind of devotion that simmers underneath every word, every glance, every video that ever led to this moment. your head is swimming, not from confusion, but from the weight of being seen and wanted this wholly, this completely, this truthfully—and you’re ready now. ready for whatever comes next.

niki doesn’t wait—doesn’t ask, doesn’t hesitate—his hands grip your waist suddenly and pull you effortlessly down into his lap, your knees straddling his thighs before your mind can catch up to the motion. the air rushes from your lungs at the feel of him beneath you, hard and warm, as his lips crash into yours like he’s been starving for them, like every second of restraint from earlier has finally broken free. he kisses you hungrily, teeth grazing your lower lip as his tongue licks into your mouth with a sense of urgency that makes your head spin and your fingers clutch at his shoulders. behind you, you feel hands ghosting along your back—softer, steadier—and when you glance over your shoulder, it’s jungwon who’s there, his expression serious but his hands reverent as they slide up your blouse. “let me take this off,” he murmurs, and the words are so gentle, so respectful, that you nod before he even finishes, letting your arms lift as he pulls the fabric over your head and exposes your bare skin to the cool air. you feel eyes on you immediately—heat radiating not just from niki beneath you, but from the way the rest of the boys have now seated themselves along the couch beside him, each of them watching intently as if hypnotized. jay’s jaw is tense but his gaze is soft, while sunghoon leans forward, arms resting on his knees like he’s holding himself back from moving toward you right then. heeseung’s eyes are dark and unreadable, but his hand has flexed into a fist on his thigh, and jake’s already licking his bottom lip slowly, like he’s imagining what it’d taste like to kiss you again.

your breath shudders as niki mouths at your neck now, his teeth scraping lightly along your collarbone before his hands come around to slide up your spine, holding you closer, firmer against him. “fuck,” he mutters against your skin, almost like a prayer, “you’re so goddamn perfect like this.” jungwon’s fingertips trail down your sides, caressing every inch like he’s cataloging you by touch alone, but he stays close, not wanting to take over—just wanting to be near you, to feel your skin under his palms while niki devours your mouth again. there’s a tension building in the room now, not the kind that burns quickly, but the kind that simmers—slow, aching, anticipatory—as if each of them is waiting for their turn, watching carefully, memorizing the way your body moves and responds. and in the center of it all, you feel it—the control, the attention, the heat—your pulse hammering under your skin as you sit there on niki’s lap with your blouse gone, your breath shared between kisses and the knowledge that this is only the beginning.

niki’s hands slide under your skirt like they’ve been waiting their whole life to do it, his touch so warm and certain as his fingers trace the soft inside of your thigh. he’s teasing at first, ghosting over where you need him most, while his other hand anchors you to him with a possessive grip on your hip. behind you, jungwon presses closer, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear before lowering to your neck, kissing slow and tender as if to soothe the ache building inside of you. he starts to suck at the skin just below your jaw, soft at first, then deeper, like he wants to leave his mark there—wants everyone else to see where he’s been. sunoo moves in next, his expression unreadable but his hands delicate as they help slide the remaining straps from your bra down your shoulders, careful with every touch. you feel him press a kiss just above your heart before his mouth finds your breast, sucking gently, then with growing intensity, his tongue swirling over your nipple until it hardens under his attention. your body arches against all of them—niki’s fingers edging closer, jungwon’s lips dragging fire down your skin, sunoo’s mouth wrapped around you—and the sensation of it all has you moaning helplessly, the sound slipping out like a secret you can’t contain. the others are still seated but watching, their eyes dark, their jaws tight, and every time you glance at one of them—heeseung’s lips parting slightly, jay’s brow twitching with restraint, sunghoon’s leg bouncing, jake’s tongue dragging over his bottom lip—you feel their words melt into your ears, murmured filth that makes your thighs tremble and your body cry out for more.

you feel like you’re floating, surrounded by heat and hands and mouths, and every time your eyes flutter open, you’re met with the dark, starved gazes of the others watching from the couch, eyes low, hands twitching, jaws clenched in restraint. they whisper to you from where they sit, each voice distinct—jake’s low and velvety, heeseung’s rougher, jay’s dripping with praise, sunghoon’s smooth and taunting—and their words wrap around you like a silk ribbon, reminding you who you belong to now.

you hear jake’s voice first, quiet and close, a little cracked around the edges like he’s barely holding himself together. “look at you, baby… so good for them already,” he murmurs, and your head turns weakly toward him, lips parted in a gasp as niki presses harder against your clothed clit. “i’ll have you moaning louder than that soon. just wait.” jay chuckles lowly beside him, eyes dragging down your body like he’s committing every detail to memory. “our perfect little girl,” he hums, “so responsive. so fucking pretty when she’s falling apart like this.” sunghoon leans forward slightly, his hand gripping the edge of the cushion like he’s resisting the urge to lunge. “can’t believe we’ve all been holding back like this,” he mutters, “fuck—i need to hear her say my name.” you tilt your head back as another breathless moan slips from your lips, and heeseung’s gaze snaps to your face, his eyes dark and wide, throat working as he swallows hard. “just like that, baby,” he encourages you, voice tight. “you look so good like this, fuck, i can’t wait to taste you again.”

niki finally slides the fabric aside, two fingers slipping between your folds, and the room fades around you for a second—all you can feel is him, slowly curling up inside of you as his lips stay locked to yours. you moan so loudly into his mouth that even sunoo pauses, glancing up at your face with a blown-out look of awe. your walls clench around niki’s fingers, your legs trembling, hips jerking forward as he strokes you from the inside like he’s trying to memorize every texture.

the contrast of cool air on your skin and their warm hands makes your spine arch and your lips part again, another moan slipping past as you instinctively roll your hips into niki’s palm. sunoo’s mouth is back on your breasts, hungrier now, his tongue flicking fast while his teeth graze softly over your skin and his hands hold you in place. jungwon trails open-mouthed kisses across your collarbone, whispering things you can’t fully hear—something about how beautiful you are, how soft, how perfect this moment is. you can’t respond, too lost in sensation, too wrapped up in the way all three of them are touching you at once while the others look on, voices overlapping like a filthy chorus of praise.

jake stands from the couch finally, unable to keep still, his hands running through his hair as he makes his way toward you, biting down on his lip to suppress a groan. he kneels next to niki, close enough for your thighs to brush his arm, and you can’t help but reach for him, your fingers curling around the front of his shirt. he leans in, tilts your chin up, and kisses you like he’s been aching for it—slow, deep, greedy. he tastes like longing and devotion and a touch of desperation, like he’s afraid if he doesn’t kiss you now, he might never get the chance again. heeseung’s next, walking around behind you with a look in his eyes that’s equal parts reverence and hunger, fingers gently threading through your hair before leaning down to kiss the spot on your neck that jungwon had left behind. jay follows, his hand slipping around your side to hold your waist as he presses a kiss to your shoulder, his lips lingering a moment too long like he’s savoring your taste. sunghoon brushes his knuckles over your thigh, gaze focused and lips parted as he slowly drops to his knees, his head close to jake’s, his breath ghosting over your skin. they’re surrounding you now—touching, kissing, whispering, hungry.

you feel like the air has changed—thicker, sweeter, laced with something electric that crackles over your skin and makes you whimper as niki pumps his fingers deeper inside you. your head falls back again, your breath catching in your throat as sunoo takes your breast between his lips, tugging and sucking with more force as if he knows you’re getting close. “so fucking pretty,” he mutters, tongue flicking fast as you cry out. “you’re gonna come just from this, huh?” jungwon kisses along your jawline, whispering praise so soft it makes your eyes flutter shut. “let go, baby. you’re safe. we’ve got you.” jake’s hand slides up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing your bottom lip as he watches every flicker of pleasure across your face. “you’re everything, you know that?” he whispers. “our everything.” heeseung’s voice joins next, low and gritty near your ear, his arms around your waist as he steadies you. “we’ll take care of you. all of us. just say the word.”

the words blend into touches, kisses, filthy promises spoken against your skin as your climax builds with every stroke, every kiss, every groan breathed against your throat. your body trembles, thighs clenching around niki’s wrist, your nails digging into jake’s shoulder as your hips stutter against his hand. they’re all watching you now—holding you, whispering to you, grounding you—as your orgasm hits like a wave, crashing through you so hard you cry out with no shame. niki groans with you, fucking you through it with his fingers, his eyes locked to your face like he never wants to forget how you look when you come. sunoo bites down gently on your breast before licking over it apologetically, while jungwon kisses your temple, arms sliding around you protectively. your body slumps slightly, chest heaving, but they don’t move away. instead, they hold you tighter—pressing kisses to your skin, whispering how beautiful you looked, how good you did for them, how much more they still want to give you.

you step away from niki slowly, the heat of his presence still lingering behind you as you turn your attention to heeseung and jay. your fingers trail up their torsos, teasing along the hem of their shirts before you press both of them back toward the couch. they let you guide them with ease, their bodies already responding, hips twitching slightly as your palms drag over the firm outlines of their bulges. the soft, barely-there pressure has them exhaling in sharp, shaky breaths, and you can hear the hiss of surprise slip from heeseung’s lips when your thumbs press just a little harder against the straining fabric of his jeans.

"take these off..." you purr, voice low and syrupy as your gaze flickers up at them with heavy intent. they don’t hesitate. in a few quick motions, denim and boxers are pushed down and kicked aside, their thick cocks springing free—already hard, the tips flushed and glistening with precum under the low, amber glow of the living room light. your mouth waters at the sight, and you waste no time wrapping a hand around each shaft, your fingers curling snug around their lengths, your thumbs brushing against the slick heads as you begin to stroke them slowly, teasingly.

your face inches forward, tongue flicking out to catch the drip that escapes jay first. heeseung watches with wide, desperate eyes as your lips wrap around the tip of jay’s cock, the wet heat of your mouth sinking down just enough to have him curse through clenched teeth. "oh fuck, princess..." heeseung groans, voice rough, chest rising as his hand twitches like he doesn’t know whether to grip the couch or your hair. your left hand tightens around him in response, giving him a slow pump as you swirl your tongue over jay’s slit.

jay’s head falls back with a low groan, his mouth parted and slack as he tries to keep his composure. his fingers clench into fists at his sides, unsure of where to touch, how to ground himself, overwhelmed by the feel of your warm lips wrapped so sweetly around just his tip. his abs tense beneath his shirt, and when your gaze flicks up to catch the way he bites down on his bottom lip, the needy sound that escapes you makes both of them shudder in anticipation.

you pull back with a soft pop, a thin string of saliva connecting your lips to jay’s swollen tip before breaking as you turn your head to face heeseung. the way he looks at you—eyes dark and hooded, jaw tight with restraint—makes your core clench. he’s barely holding it together, hips twitching upward when you lean in and lick a slow, deliberate stripe up the underside of his cock. his head tilts back, an almost growl-like moan rumbling from his chest as you swirl your tongue around the head, collecting the salty beads of precum gathered there.

“fuck, baby…” heeseung rasps, his voice wrecked, a hand reaching down to cradle your cheek for just a second before retreating, afraid to disrupt the rhythm of your mouth. you smile against his tip before sinking down a little further, your lips stretching around him while your hand continues pumping jay beside you—slow, steady strokes that make his thighs tense and his chest rise and fall like he’s on the edge. the dual sensation of having both of them twitching in your hands and mouth sends a rush of power through you, addictive and heady.

jay can’t stop watching you, his eyes locked on the way your throat works around heeseung, the soft wet sounds of your mouth filling the room. “jesus christ,” he murmurs under his breath, hips shifting like he wants more, like he’s barely keeping himself from pushing into your grip. his hands finally rise, hovering awkwardly before settling on the edge of the couch, his fingers digging into the cushions for something to hold on to. you can feel how badly they both want to let go—how close they are to losing themselves in the way you look between them, lips swollen and glistening, eyes fluttering closed with every slow bob of your head.

you switch again, pulling off heeseung with a slick gasp, your hand immediately stroking him as you turn your mouth back to jay. he lets out a breathless curse the moment your tongue touches him again, your lips wrapping around his flushed head while you squeeze the base with a teasing twist of your wrist. “fuck—keep doing that,” jay breathes, his voice shaking, his eyes screwed shut as your mouth moves just a little deeper. you moan around him on purpose, the vibrations shooting through his shaft and making his hips buck slightly despite himself.

heeseung watches, completely wrecked by the sight—his cock throbbing in your grip, your fingers gliding through the mess of precum smeared across his skin. “you’re so fucking pretty like this,” he whispers, barely audible, as if the words were dragged from him without permission. his thumb brushes your jawline when you pause again, a sweet, messy breath leaving you as you look up through your lashes, spit shining your lips, your hands working both of them in tandem like it’s second nature.

“you like that?” you ask softly, voice soaked in wicked innocence, your breath fanning over their cocks as you stroke them. “you like watching me get messy just for you?”

they nod in sync—silent, breathless, entirely at your mercy. and you smile, slow and sultry, before leaning in once more. this time, you don’t choose between them. instead, you let your tongue flick from one tip to the other, teasing them both at once until their hips stutter and their mouths fall open in matching moans that echo off the walls of heeseung’s dimly lit apartment.

you giggle softly at the way they react—so sensitive, so eager, so fucking close to unraveling just from your mouth and hands alone. their hips twitch toward you, needy and instinctual, and you don’t deny them. instead, you lean in further, letting your tongue glide between their tips again before you wrap your lips around both heads at once, sucking softly, your cheeks hollowing just enough to make them both groan in unison. the sound is filthy—wet and warm and low and broken—and it vibrates straight through your core, slick pooling between your thighs as you drink in every strained breath they let out.

“fuck, fuck—just like that,” jay gasps, his voice barely a whisper, strained and breathless as his hand finally finds the back of your head. he doesn’t push, doesn’t grip—just holds, trembling fingers threaded through your hair like he needs the anchor to keep from falling apart. your left hand continues to stroke heeseung, twisting just right as your lips slide between them again, alternating slow sucks and flicks of your tongue over their tips until precum coats your mouth, sticky and warm and addictive.

heeseung’s voice cracks when he speaks, desperate and low. “you’re driving me insane,” he groans, eyes glazed as he watches you take turns between them, completely entranced by the sight of your lips wrapped around jay’s cock while your hand keeps his own throbbing, aching for more. he looks like he’s seconds from snapping—shoulders tense, abs flexing, mouth parted in stunned awe. “fuck, baby… i can’t—i’m gonna lose it if you keep doing that.”

you pull back just enough to breathe, lips swollen and glossy, spit and precum smeared across your chin as you look up at them with that innocent little smile that only makes it worse. “but i’m not even halfway done with you,” you murmur, voice teasing and sweet, almost mocking with how calm you sound compared to their unraveling. “don’t tell me you’re already gonna come?”

jay curses under his breath, chest rising with a shaky inhale as you lick a stripe from the base of his cock to the head and then do the same to heeseung. both of them watch in complete silence, lips parted, eyes wide as your mouth moves between them like you were made for this—meant to tease them side by side, meant to be on your knees with their cocks in your hands, taking your time as if you weren’t driving them both mad with every second that passed.

you press a kiss to heeseung’s tip and then another to jay’s, slow and wet, before you begin to stroke them harder—tighter, faster, your wrists moving in tandem with practiced rhythm as your mouth returns to suckle at the head of whichever one twitches first. their moans grow louder, more ragged, filling the apartment with breathless desperation and the lewd sound of your hands and mouth working them over.

“gonna come,” jay finally groans, his voice cracking as his fingers tighten in your hair, his hips twitching despite how hard he’s trying to stay still. “fuck—fuck, please don’t stop…”

you don’t. you keep going, keep stroking, keep sucking, your mouth switching between them in messy, hungry little laps of attention, until both of them are right at the edge—hips stuttering, thighs trembling, eyes rolling back as they lose themselves completely in the feeling of you using them like your personal toys. and you’re loving every second of it.

heeseung’s the first to lose it. his breath catches in his throat, sharp and ragged, as his cock twitches hard in your fist. “shit—fuck, i’m coming,” he grits out, hips jerking as the first thick spurt paints across your knuckles and wrist. you keep stroking him through it, slow and firm, watching every tremble of his abdomen, every flutter of his lashes as his head tips back against the couch, mouth parted in a silent moan. cum spills freely, dripping from your hand as you squeeze the last drops from him, the mess trailing down onto his thighs and soaking into the fabric beneath him.

you don’t pause—not for a second. the moment heeseung falls limp in your grip, you’re already sinking your mouth back onto jay’s cock, hungry and unrelenting. your hand is still pumping him, tight and fast, but now your lips wrap around his flushed head, your tongue circling the slit with desperate, greedy pressure. jay lets out a strangled sound, his thighs spreading wider as he gives in fully, no longer trying to hold back or hide how close he is. “oh my god, baby—fuck—i can’t,” he chokes out, his hand gripping your shoulder as his whole body tenses beneath your touch.

he comes hard, his hips stuttering against your mouth, cock pulsing between your lips as warm, salty spurts coat your tongue. you hum softly as he spills, swallowing around him, letting his release flood your throat with a satisfied moan that only makes his grip on you tighten. you don’t move, not until he finishes twitching, not until his chest deflates and his grip loosens and he slumps back into the couch like he’s been completely drained of breath and thought and sanity.

you finally pull back, slow and messy, a string of saliva and cum connecting your mouth to the softening tip of his cock before it snaps and drips down your chin. both of them are staring at you—fucked out, wide-eyed, wrecked. your cheeks are flushed, your lips swollen, your chest rising with shallow breaths as you wipe the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand, your fingers still sticky from heeseung’s release.

you slowly rise to your feet, the room heavy with the scent of sweat and sex, your hands moving to the hem of your skirt. it slips off easily, pooling around your ankles in a soft heap. your panties cling to your soaked cunt as you peel them down, the damp fabric sliding along your thighs before joining the skirt on the floor. your bare skin prickles in the cool air, arousal glistening between your legs, but before you can move any further, sunghoon’s hands are on you.

he pulls you down gently but firmly, laying you flat on the floor beneath him like you’re something fragile and precious, something he wants to worship. his palms glide down the curve of your back, the touch warm and slow and greedy. when they reach the swell of your ass, he squeezes once—then pulls back and delivers a soft, open-palmed smack. the recoil of your flesh has his eyes fluttering shut for a brief second, a low groan spilling from his lips like he’s trying not to fall apart too soon.

“fuck, you’re so fucking beautiful, princess…” he murmurs, voice trembling with reverence as his eyes trail over every inch of your body. he leans back just enough to fist his cock in one hand, already hard and leaking, the tip flushed and angry. he strokes it lazily, precum spilling down the shaft as he brings it to your center, dragging the head slowly through your slick folds. the sound alone—wet, sticky, obscene—has your breath hitching. his cock catches against your clit on each pass, and you can’t stop the way your hips roll forward, needy and shameless.

your eyes drift past him, taking in the rest of the room. niki’s still exactly where you left him—leaning back against the wall, one hand stroking himself in slow, tight motions as he watches the scene unfold in front of him. his lips are parted, chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, his focus unblinking. beside him, sunoo sits with a flush high on his cheeks, gaze locked between your legs. his thighs are squeezed together, his bottom lip tucked between his teeth like he’s trying not to moan aloud.

just beyond them, jungwon sits close to jake, both of them eerily still. jungwon’s eyes are impossibly dark, the kind of stare that pins you in place, makes your pulse race with how intense it is. jake leans slightly forward, his elbows resting on his knees, tongue peeking out to wet his lips as he watches sunghoon line himself up. both of their hands rest in their laps, but you know it won’t stay that way for long. their hunger is palpable—thick in the air, swirling around you, coating your skin like a second layer.

you’re spread open beneath them, slick and aching, sunghoon’s cock sliding through your folds like it belongs there. and you can feel every pair of eyes on you—watching, waiting, wanting.

sunghoon breathes out a shaky curse, his hand tightening around the base of his cock as he guides it to your entrance. he pauses just long enough to look at you—really look at you—his other hand resting on your hip like he’s steadying himself. the tip nudges against your soaked hole, parting you slowly, the stretch enough to make your thighs twitch, your back arching slightly off the floor in anticipation.

“just like that,” he whispers, almost to himself, like he’s in a trance. and then he pushes in.

inch by inch, his cock sinks into you, the burn delicious, your walls fluttering and clenching down around him as you gasp beneath the weight of it. he’s thick—long—and the slow, unhurried pace he sets feels agonizing in the best way. your pussy draws him in greedily, wet and welcoming, the sound of your bodies meeting echoing softly off the walls. he buries himself to the hilt with a deep groan, his fingers pressing hard into your hips as he holds himself there, just breathing, just feeling you wrapped around him.

you whimper softly, the stretch making your thighs tremble, your fingers curling against the floor as your walls pulse around his cock. sunghoon stays still for a beat, his head tipping forward, hair falling into his eyes as he exhales slowly like he’s trying not to fall apart too soon. “so fucking tight,” he murmurs, hips twitching as he begins to draw back, slow and steady, only to sink into you again with a little more force.

your eyes flutter open and shift toward the others—niki’s hand is moving faster now, his gaze locked on the way sunghoon’s cock disappears inside you, the way your back arches and your mouth falls open in a silent moan. sunoo’s legs are spread, fingers tracing along his own cock through his pants as he watches with wide, fascinated eyes. jake’s leaned closer, jaw clenched tight, and jungwon—jungwon’s expression is unreadable, but his eyes haven’t left your face for even a second.

sunghoon sets a slow, grinding pace, each thrust purposeful, deep, like he’s trying to reach parts of you untouched. your breath comes in soft, desperate gasps, your hands sliding up his arms, nails dragging lightly down the muscle as he fucks into you with smooth, rolling thrusts. the pleasure builds slow and thick, coiling deep in your belly as your body trembles beneath his, your walls fluttering with every deep drag of his cock.

“feel so good around me,” sunghoon groans, one hand sliding under your thigh to hitch your leg higher, angling you just right to hit that spot that makes your breath catch and your head fall back. “you were made for this. made for me.”

and the way you whimper—needy and desperate—has all the others inching forward, unable to help themselves. 

sunghoon’s thrusts grow deeper, slower but heavier, grinding into you like he wants to leave an imprint—like he wants you to feel him there long after he pulls out. your hands slide up his back, nails raking lightly over his skin as his forehead presses to yours, his breath hot and ragged against your lips. his cock fills you so perfectly, the curve of it dragging against that sensitive spot inside you with every motion.

“look at you,” he breathes, voice soft and fucked-out, like he’s marveling at you, completely lost in the way your pussy clenches around him. “taking me so fucking well, baby… like you were made to be underneath me.”

you whimper in response, hips tilting to meet his rhythm, the friction building faster now—deeper. his thumb comes to press against your clit, slow circles drawing a gasp from your throat as your back arches. the pleasure crawls up your spine like fire, and he watches every twitch, every tremble, like he’s memorizing it.

behind him, you hear the shift of movement, the sound of someone rising from the couch, and you don’t have to look to know it’s jake. his presence always lingers before he even speaks—a quiet heat that brushes over your skin. sunghoon notices too, his eyes flicking up just enough to catch jake standing over the two of you, his cock already out and in his hand, flushed and leaking, thick veins pulsing with anticipation.

“you gonna help her out?” sunghoon murmurs without stopping his pace, his voice low and teasing as he looks up at jake. “she’s being so good for me. think she deserves more.”

jake chuckles softly, stepping closer until he’s right by your head. “always knew she could take both,” he says with a little grin, eyes flicking down to meet yours as his fingers brush your cheek. “you want me too, baby?”

you don’t even hesitate—you nod, mouth falling open with a quiet, breathless “please.”

that’s all the encouragement jake needs. he drops to his knees beside you, cock in hand, and shifts just enough to guide the tip toward your lips. you open for him instinctively, tongue flicking out to taste him as sunghoon thrusts deeper into you from below. jake groans at the feeling, his head tipping back slightly as your mouth wraps around him, warm and wet and perfect.

“fuck—just like that,” he breathes, one hand settling gently at the back of your head, not pushing, just holding, guiding. “you’re so fucking pretty with your mouth full.”

your body is completely surrounded—sunghoon buried deep inside your dripping cunt, fucking you with smooth, rolling thrusts that make your thighs shake, and jake sliding into your mouth, his cock heavy on your tongue. your moans are muffled, swallowed by jake’s length, but they vibrate all the way through your body, making sunghoon groan as your pussy tightens around him.

“she’s so fucking tight,” sunghoon grits out, sweat beading at his temple as he fucks into you harder now, faster, the slap of his hips echoing through the room. “and still greedy enough to suck you off at the same time. fuck, princess... you're unreal.”

jake’s hand slides down your throat, feeling the way you swallow him with every slow bob of your head. his eyes darken as he watches the tears gather at the corners of your eyes, the stretch just enough to make your jaw ache—but you don’t stop. you don’t want to.

jake’s fingers curl at the base of your skull, holding you steady as his hips roll forward in gentle, shallow thrusts, easing his cock deeper onto your tongue with every pass. your throat tightens around him, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth, but you moan anyway—low and needy—because the pressure of his cock sliding in and out of your mouth only amplifies the way sunghoon is pounding into you from below.

“jesus, fuck,” jake groans, watching your lips stretch around him, your throat bulging just slightly with every slow thrust. “you were fucking made for this. so filthy, baby.”

sunghoon’s pace grows rougher now, his rhythm less measured and more desperate, driven by the sight of you completely split open between them. his cock slams into you harder, his pelvis grinding against your clit on every thrust, making you whimper around jake’s length. your hands are restless, fingers digging into sunghoon’s arms, your thighs trembling with the intensity of the pleasure ripping through you.

“she’s shaking,” sunghoon hisses, his voice strained, sweat dripping from his jaw as he presses his forehead to your chest. “fuck—she’s close.”

jake grins down at you, wiping away a trail of spit from your chin with his thumb before dragging it across your bottom lip. “you gonna come with your mouth full, sweetheart?” he teases, thrusting just a little deeper, your eyes fluttering as you gag around him. “gonna let hoon fuck it out of you while i use this pretty mouth?”

you try to answer, but it’s all muffled, wet, messy sounds and eager moans around his cock. your walls clamp down on sunghoon so tight it nearly knocks the breath out of him, his hips slamming forward one final time as he groans your name like a prayer. his cock hits that sweet spot again, over and over, and you break—loud and helpless, body spasming as your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave.

your moan is stifled by jake’s cock, tears slipping from your eyes as your body goes rigid, cunt fluttering wildly around sunghoon as he fucks you through it. he’s growling now, a string of curses tumbling from his lips as he chases his own release, thrusting harder, deeper, until he can’t hold it anymore.

“fuck, fuck, baby—i’m coming,” he grits, his hips jerking forward as he spills inside you, hot and deep, his cum painting your walls in thick, pulsing waves. he collapses above you, still buried to the hilt, panting into your neck as your body trembles beneath his.

jake doesn’t let up. even as sunghoon comes down, he keeps thrusting gently into your mouth, watching the way your lashes flutter, the way your lips stay parted and willing despite how spent you are.

“you’re doing so good for us,” he whispers, pulling back just enough to let you breathe before sliding back in with a slow grind. “so perfect, baby. think you can take a little more?”

and the look you give him, eyes glassy, mouth swollen, body wrecked but still hungry—tells him everything he needs to know.

jake groans low in his throat at the sight of you—your lips red and glistening, spit and precum dripping down your chin, your thighs still twitching from the aftershocks of sunghoon’s release. you look ruined. ruined and so fucking willing. and he can’t help but fuck into your mouth a little deeper, a little rougher, the warmth of your throat driving him insane.

“god, you look so pretty like this,” he mutters, his thumb tracing your cheekbone as his cock slides past your lips again. “all fucked out… still letting me use your mouth like it’s mine.”

you moan in response, tongue flattening against the underside of his shaft as your hands reach for his thighs, trying to keep yourself steady. your lips seal around him tighter, your cheeks hollowing with each pass. he’s panting now, hips stuttering slightly as the heat in his stomach coils tight, ready to snap.

sunghoon slowly pulls out from between your legs, his cock softening, coated in both your slick and his cum. he leans back on his heels beside you, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand as he watches you work your mouth on jake. “fuck,” he says breathlessly, eyes trailing the mess between your thighs. “she’s dripping all over the floor.”

“yeah?” jake chuckles darkly, his voice strained. “and she’s about to be dripping down her throat too.”

you gag slightly as he pushes deeper, your throat flexing around him, and that’s what finally tips him over the edge. his hips still, his cock buried deep in your mouth as he groans your name through gritted teeth, ropes of cum spilling down your throat in thick, hot waves. your eyes flutter shut as you swallow around him, greedily taking everything he gives you until he’s twitching and gasping above you.

“fuck, baby… just like that,” he whispers, pulling out slowly, watching a line of spit and cum stretch from your lips to his tip. “such a good fucking girl.”

you collapse back onto the floor, panting, throat sore, pussy aching, your body limp and glistening in the dim light. sunghoon’s hand finds your thigh again, stroking you gently, his fingers brushing over your soaked skin. jake’s still kneeling beside your head, fingers combing through your damp hair, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths.

you barely have time to catch your breath before niki’s fingers curl around your wrist, firm but careful as he helps pull you upright. his gaze is dark, unreadable, lips parted, chest rising with slow anticipation. you’re still trembling, sore and soaked, but when he tugs you gently toward him and settles down against the couch, spreading his legs wide and patting his thigh, you don’t hesitate.

you climb into his lap facing away, your knees bracketing his hips as your back arches and your hands brace against his thighs. his cock twitches beneath you, thick and hard, already dripping precum as he drags the head through your folds. you moan at the contact, body still oversensitive, but the burn of anticipation has your hips pushing down anyway, your cunt stretching wide to take him in.

niki groans behind you, his head falling back against the couch as your pussy swallows him inch by inch. “fuck… always knew you’d ride me like this,” he mutters, his voice low and tight. “look at that… fuckin’ perfect.”

you brace yourself as you sink fully onto his cock, the stretch making your thighs tremble, your walls clenching around him. he’s deeper like this, angled just right to hit that sweet spot with every shift of your hips. but before you can start moving, he wraps an arm around your waist and leans in to murmur against your shoulder.

“open your mouth, baby,” he says, and when you glance forward, your breath catches, sunoo and jungwon are kneeling on the floor in front of you now, their cocks hard and flushed, already in their fists.

you don’t even need to ask.

you lean forward, letting your hands find their hips for balance, and wrap your lips around sunoo’s cock first, your tongue licking up the underside as your hips start to move, bouncing slowly on niki’s cock. he moans beneath you, both hands gripping your ass as he helps you grind down on him, fucking you from below while your mouth works sunoo’s length.

sunoo whimpers the moment your lips close around him, his hands hovering uselessly at his sides before he finally gives in and threads his fingers through your hair. “shit—she’s so good,” he breathes, his cock twitching against your tongue as your head bobs in slow rhythm, matching the motion of your hips as you ride niki.

niki’s cock drags perfectly along your walls, his thrusts pushing up into you each time you sink down. your ass bounces against his thighs, the sound loud and wet, skin slapping against skin as he fucks you harder, growling behind you every time your pussy squeezes around him.

you switch to jungwon next, licking a stripe up his shaft before wrapping your lips around the head, your moans vibrating through his cock as he lets out a low, broken groan. his hand cradles your cheek, thumb brushing your jaw as he guides himself deeper into your mouth.

“she’s so fucking messy,” he mutters under his breath, his voice tight as his abs tense. “taking all of us like she was meant for this.”

niki’s pace quickens beneath you, his fingers digging into your hips as he fucks up harder, cock slamming into you over and over while your mouth drools around jungwon’s length. your body is overstimulated, raw and aching, but the sight of the boys above you—sunoo with flushed cheeks and parted lips, jungwon with that focused, dark stare—only drives you wilder.

you’re stuffed from every angle, lips stretched, cunt throbbing, your body reduced to nothing but pleasure, nothing but sensation.

sunoo’s cock slips from your lips with a soft, wet pop, strings of saliva connecting you to his tip as you gasp for breath, eyes glassy and mouth swollen. but you don’t stop—don’t even slow down. you let your head drop forward again, this time taking jungwon deeper, your lips wrapping around his shaft with eager hunger. his breath catches instantly, a strangled moan spilling from his throat as your tongue swirls around the head and you moan low, sending vibrations straight through him.

behind you, niki groans, his cock pulsing inside you as your pussy clamps down with every bounce. your ass smacks against his thighs, the rhythm loud and filthy, his hands spreading your cheeks wide to watch how wet you are, how you suck him in like you never want him to leave. “fuck—ride me just like that, baby,” he growls, thrusting up harder to meet every drop of your hips. “you feel so fucking good. so tight around me while you’ve got your mouth full of him.”

your thighs are shaking, slick dripping down the backs of them, your body overwhelmed but insatiable, every nerve ending lit up with pleasure. jungwon curses above you, voice breathless and strained as his hand fists in your hair. he doesn’t force you—just guides, just watches, eyes fluttering each time your lips slide further down his shaft.

“she’s choking on it,” he murmurs, almost in awe. “and still moving her hips like that…”

sunoo can’t take it anymore—he leans in, fingers ghosting along your jaw as he brings the head of his cock to your cheek. “open up for me again, baby,” he whispers, breath hitching. “wanna feel your tongue too.”

you tilt your head just enough to let him slide in beside jungwon, your lips stretching wide, spit pooling as you suck both of them, mouth working between their tips, switching back and forth. they both moan at the same time—low, desperate sounds—and it’s filthy, obscene, the sight of you spit-slicked and bouncing on niki’s cock while your mouth is full of two others, making their legs tremble.

niki can’t hold back anymore—he starts thrusting up harder, deeper, his grip on your hips bruising as he slams into you, cock dragging against your walls with each powerful snap. “fuck, i’m close,” he growls, watching your body ripple with every thrust, your back arched, head bobbing between sunoo and jungwon’s cocks. “you’re gonna make me fucking lose it.”

your moans are wet and muffled, drool spilling from your lips as you take them both, every part of you shaking with the force of niki’s thrusts. your walls squeeze around him like a vice, the angle hitting that perfect spot over and over, and before you can even warn him, your orgasm hits.

your body seizes, back arching, a choked cry escaping around their cocks as your pussy clenches hard around niki, milking him through your climax.

“fuck—fuck—i’m coming,” niki groans, hips jerking up one last time before he spills inside you, hot ropes of cum painting your insides, his body trembling beneath you.

your mouth doesn’t stop. you keep sucking, switching from jungwon to sunoo, moaning through the aftershocks as you chase their pleasure next. their cocks throb in your mouth, and you know they’re close—so fucking close—just waiting for your final push to unravel completely.

jungwon’s hand tightens in your hair, not to control you but because he’s barely hanging on. his breath is shaky, chest rising fast, abs flexing each time your mouth sucks him back in with that wet, eager sound that’s driven him crazy since the moment he first felt it. sunoo’s no better, his hand sliding down to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing over your spit-slicked skin like he can’t believe how good you feel.

“baby… please,” sunoo whimpers, his voice soft and desperate, like he’s begging for permission to let go. “fuck—just like that, don’t stop, don’t stop—”

you don’t. you bob your head faster, letting your tongue flick between both of their tips, your lips shiny and stretched, jaw aching as drool drips freely down your chin. their cocks bump together each time you move, the mess only turning them on more, and you feel both of them twitch—one in your mouth, the other pressed against your tongue, as they edge closer to release.

niki groans beneath you, still buried deep, his hands smoothing over your thighs now, coaxing gentle little rolls of your hips as you ride out the last of your orgasm. he’s sensitive—overstimulated—but he won’t move. won’t pull out. just watches, eyes locked on the way your body takes everything so willingly.

“they’re gonna come,” he murmurs behind you, voice low and hoarse with pride. “and you’re gonna let them. aren’t you, baby?”

you moan around jungwon’s cock in response, the sound vibrating through him, making his entire body shudder. his other hand finds your face, guiding you to take more—just a little more—until your lips reach the base and your nose brushes his skin.

“fuck—fuck i’m gonna—” jungwon chokes out, hips stuttering. he pulls back just in time, cock slipping from your mouth as thick, hot ropes of cum paint your tongue, your lips, your chin. he groans low, fucking into his fist as the last spurts drip onto your chest, his eyes half-lidded, ruined.

before you can swallow, sunoo’s already taking his place, his cock sliding back past your lips with a desperate thrust. “me too, baby—me too,” he gasps, and then he’s spilling into your mouth, cum hitting your tongue fast and heavy, his hips twitching as he moans your name through clenched teeth.

you stay there, perfectly still, your mouth full, your chest rising with shallow breaths, cum dripping from your lips and chin as you slowly swallow around sunoo’s softening cock. his hand strokes your hair gently now, thumbing away the mess from your cheeks, his face flushed and dazed.

you finally pull back, panting, lips puffy, every inch of your skin glistening with sweat and spit and cum. niki kisses your spine softly from behind, still seated deep inside you, his hands resting on your hips like he can’t bear to let you go just yet.

sunoo and jungwon stare at you like you’re divine—mouth still parted, body trembling, hair messy and eyes glazed with the kind of satisfaction that only comes after being thoroughly, completely fucked.

your body finally slumps forward, the adrenaline fading into something slow and heavy, every muscle limp, every nerve buzzing. your thighs tremble with the lingering aftershocks, chest heaving, lips swollen and still tasting them. you're so thoroughly used, so blissfully spent, but not once do you feel empty because the moment your body starts to give, they’re all there.

niki wraps both arms around your waist from behind, gently pulling you off his softening cock, kissing along your spine as he lays you down across the couch like you’re made of glass. his palms run over your sides, grounding and slow. “you did so good, baby,” he whispers, brushing your damp hair away from your face. “so fucking perfect.”

sunoo is already at your side with a warm towel, carefully wiping away the mess from your cheeks and chest, taking his time like it’s an act of worship. “you didn’t even hesitate,” he murmurs, his voice soft with awe. “you took care of us… we’re so lucky to have you.”

jungwon kneels beside the couch, reaching up to intertwine his fingers with yours. his thumb strokes across your knuckles slowly, his gaze warm and tender. “you okay?” he asks gently. “need water? something sweet?”

you nod faintly, lips parting, but before you even speak, jake is already returning with a water bottle and a hoodie. “here,” he says, helping you sit up just enough to sip. “you were amazing, baby. really.”

sunghoon’s on the other side now, tucking the hoodie over your head carefully, letting it drape over your bare skin. “you’re so good to us,” he says, pressing a kiss to your temple. “the way you handled all of us… fuck. i’ve never seen anything like it.”

heeseung settles at your feet, rubbing slow circles into your calf with his thumb, watching the way your lashes flutter as you start to come back to yourself. “you’re our angel,” he says softly. “and we’ll take care of you, always.”

you feel a kiss on your cheek. another on your shoulder. fingers brushing through your hair. your body might be aching, worn thin in the most delicious way but your heart is full. loved. cherished. safe.

they don’t rush you. they don’t pull away. they stay close, hands soft, touches gentle, every movement wrapped in care.

and as you curl into the warmth of their arms, a lazy smile on your lips, the last thing you hear before sleep begins to tug at your edges is a chorus of murmured praise—sweet, soft, and meant only for you.

natty's notesᝰ.ᐟ i don’t even know where to begin 🥲 premium content has become something so incredibly special to me—more than i ever imagined it would be. what started as a playful little idea slowly grew into a full story that i poured my whole heart (and a little too much filth 😵‍💫) into, and watching all of you connect with it the way you have?? it’s meant everything. the amount of love, support, messages, theories, and excitement around every chapter has completely overwhelmed me—in the best way possible. i genuinely don’t think words will ever fully express how thankful i am for this community, and how seen and supported you’ve made me feel as a writer. this fic has been a safe space for both fantasy and creativity, and to know that it has been cherished so much with love and support is all i could ever ask for. that being said… i’ve given it some thought. even though the main story has reached its final chapter (still sobbing), i’m not ready to say goodbye to these boys just yet. so i’ve decided that premium content will continue on in the form of drabbles and one-shots, whether they’re moments you request or little ideas that come to me along the way. i want to keep playing in this universe—keep exploring new scenarios and dynamics with them (and you) because this series deserves to live on a little longer 🤍 from the bottom of my heart—thank you for reading, for staying, and for loving premium content just as much as i have. i can’t wait to keep sharing more with you 🫶