#sohee imagines

SHOTARO: praise kink & body worship shotaro is the sweetest dom you’ll ever beg for. his number one turn-on is praise. giving it, receiving it, breathing it into your skin while your body trembles under his. he tells you you're perfect every time you moan, cups your face while you cry through your orgasm and whispers “look at you, doing so good for me.” he holds your hips like you’re breakable, like your body is sacred. the kind of sex he gives is slow, deep, and so full of love it makes you feel like crying. he doesn’t rush. doesn’t chase his own release. he’s all about watching you melt. he’s also completely obsessed with body worship. especially when you’re insecure. he kisses your stretch marks, moans into your thighs, holds your tummy while he fucks you deep and tells you how beautiful you are when you break. “this body drives me insane,” he pants, brushing his lips over every inch of skin you once hid from him. he’ll eat you out with his arms wrapped tight around your thighs, eyes locked on yours like he needs to see how it wrecks you. and when you finally cum? he just smiles and says “that’s it, baby. show me how pretty you are.”

EUNSEOK: possessiveness kink & slow dominance eunseok doesn’t play games. he’s a slow, possessive dom. the type to keep eye contact as he eases in inch by inch, lips brushing your neck as he whispers “you’re mine. no one else gets to see this side of you.” he thrives on ownership: hand around your throat, cum dripping down your thighs, hickeys blooming over your chest. his voice stays calm while he wrecks you, every word firm and possessive. “you need me to remind you again? who this belongs to?” it’s not about jealousy, it’s about claiming what’s already his. he likes it slow. painfully, deliciously slow. he’ll tease your entrance with his cock while pinning your wrists, smirking as you whine for more. he wants to drag it out. watch your expression shift as your body gives in, trembling from how deeply he stretches you. “that’s it. take it all, baby.” he keeps your legs spread wide, his hips grinding down, fucking you through orgasm after orgasm until your brain shuts off. and when you’re ruined, shaking in his lap? he kisses your temple and whispers, “you’ll never need anyone else. not when you have me.”

SUNGCHAN: size kink & cockwarming sungchan is big, cocky, and dangerous. he doesn’t even have to say much. just grips your hips, bites his lip, and lets his body do the talking. his size kink is everything to him. he gets off on how small you look under him, how deep he gets inside you, how your stomach bulges just from his tip. “too much?” he grins, pushing in slower, watching you squirm. “nah, you can take it. look how good you’re doing already.” he holds you in place when you try to run, one arm around your waist, dragging out each thrust until you’re gasping. he also loves cockwarming. slipping inside you after a long day, cuddled up behind you, whispering “just wanna stay like this for a while.” he presses kisses to your shoulder, strokes your tummy while keeping you completely full. and when you clench around him? he chuckles low, “mm, baby… don’t start something you can’t finish.” sometimes he teases you with little thrusts. barely there, just enough to make you whimper. he loves knowing you're wet, desperate, trembling… and can’t do anything unless he says so.

WONBIN: jealousy kink & marking obsession wonbin is quiet until he’s not. his jealousy kink simmers beneath the surface. never explosive, just dangerous. the second someone else makes you laugh a little too hard, he’s got a hand on your waist, lips against your ear: “you think he could make you feel half as good as i do?” and the second you’re alone? he claims you. pulls you onto his lap, fucks you slow and rough until you're a crying mess. he doesn’t even need to raise his voice. it’s the look in his eyes, the way his cock presses so deep you feel it in your stomach. “say you’re mine. louder.” his obsession with marking is unreal. hickeys under your jaw, love bites on your chest, scratches down your thighs. every inch of your body needs to look like it belongs to him. he gets high off watching bruises bloom under his mouth, watching his cum drip out of you, wiping it back in with two fingers like “not done yet.” sometimes he’ll fuck you in front of a mirror, one hand on your throat, the other between your thighs, whispering “look at that. covered in me. exactly how you should be.” and then he kisses your lips like you’re his entire world.

SOHEE: brat tamer & orgasm control sohee’s not soft. he likes control. likes when you test him just so he can shut you up with his cock buried deep, lips curling into a grin as you cry. he’s a brutal brat tamer. not just spanking or pinning you down, but really making you beg. “keep talking,” he smirks while edging you with two fingers, eyes never leaving yours. “see where it gets you.” he knows your body too well. knows exactly when to pull away, exactly when to fuck you dumb, exactly when to lean in and whisper “i warned you.” and it only makes you want him more. his orgasm control is insane. he’ll edge you over and over until your thighs are shaking, your voice cracking, and your mind going numb. “not yet,” he murmurs, pulling his mouth away right before you cum. when he finally lets you finish, it’s because you’re sobbing. shaking. clinging to him like you’ll fall apart. and the second you cum? he keeps going. overstimulation, soft praise, his cock dragging through your tight walls while you tremble underneath him. he likes you ruined. not just once, but until you’re broken for real.

ANTON: emotional dominance & overstimulation anton is sweet, soft-spoken, and so dangerously dominant. he gets off on emotional control. the way your body reacts to his voice, his hands, his low murmurs of “you’re mine, baby… all mine.” he holds you like a lifeline and fucks you like you’ll never have anyone else. he likes when you fall apart in his arms. not just from pleasure, but from how deeply he loves you. his touch is slow, heavy, possessive. and when you cry from how much you feel? he kisses your cheeks and whispers “cry for me. i want it all.” his biggest weakness? overstimulation. he’ll drag it out for hours. mouth on your clit until your voice breaks, cock deep inside while your body begs for a break. but he just cups your face and moans “one more, you can give me one more.” and somehow, you do. he’s the kind of lover who breaks you with sweetness. slow grind, wet kisses, praise melting into filth until your body doesn’t even work right anymore. and when you finally collapse? he wraps you up in his hoodie and lets you cry it out, brushing your hair back like you didn’t just cum six times on his cock.

when you heard that sohee actually dyed his hair blonde, you decided that you hated him.

you had to convince yourself of it. otherwise, you would spend the rest of your life trapped in this stupid, neverending cycle of heartbreak.

“you’d look so good blonde,” you said to sohee the last time he was in your bed.

his arm was draped around your bare shoulders, your cheek pressed against his chest while your fingers wandered through his hair. at your words, he raised an eyebrow.

your heart skipped a beat.

if you hadn’t been so exhausted from the previous round, you might have jumped his bones all over again.

“really?”

his hand moved lazily to your face. he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear before letting his fingers linger against your cheek.

you smiled and nodded against his skin.

he looked down at you with sleepy eyes and a small smile you wanted desperately to believe belonged only to you. for a moment, it almost felt like he was yours.

but he wasn’t.

sohee was only yours after a party. after a bad exam. sometimes before a party. sometimes to celebrate a good grade. otherwise, he belonged to everyone else. never you.

after he failed a job interview and you got dumped by a fling, the two of you found yourselves drunk enough to stop making good decisions.

the rest of your friends called it a night when sohee insisted on another round at his place for new year’s. you were the only one who said yes. you told yourself it was because your heart was broken and you wanted somewhere to put the hurt.

that night, sohee told you that you were beautiful. you told him that he was amazing. somehow, both confessions led to him making you feel amazing as the clock struck midnight.

since then, the two of you have always found your way back to each other. when things were really bad. when things were really good. when you were really drunk.

somewhere along the way, you realized you wanted sohee all the time.

drunk. sober. happy. miserable.

you wanted him on ordinary tuesdays and sleepless thursday nights. you wanted him when nothing remarkable had happened at all. but you knew that wasn’t how this worked. things like this were never allowed to become something else.

there were no spoken rules. still, you knew not to tell your friends about that first night—the one you had convinced yourself would be the only night.

sohee followed suit. he even took it a step further, treating you like less of a friend than everyone else whenever other people were around.

as if distance could erase what happened behind closed doors.

to make matters worse, realizing you had feelings for sohee drastically reduced the number of men you could tolerate looking at. meanwhile, sohee’s roster of girls only seemed to grow.

so the moments you got with him became precious. when you traced the moles on his skin. when he absentmindedly drew shapes against your arm. when you kissed his shoulder and played with his hair. when he whispered sweet nothings into your ear. he was good at lying, too. you had learned that.

“but don’t actually do it, hee.”

you gave his hair a small tug, hoping it would inflict even a fraction of the pain this arrangement had started causing you. imagining sohee blonde made you dizzy.

he hummed before pressing a kiss to the crown of your head.

“why’s that?”

sleep was already pulling at your eyelids, but you decided you wanted one more kiss before it stole sohee away from you.

because i’ll want you all to myself.

when a blonde sohee really stands in front of you and the rest of your friends, you realize it isn’t actually that difficult to hate him.

he’s looking only at you, the same way he looks at you when he tells you you’re pretty. the same way he looks at you when he’s touching you. like he knows. like he knows you love him.

the blonde looks amazing. he looks painfully handsome. the grin on his face is too smug. your stomach turns. you excuse yourself from the table.

one of your friends—the one convinced you and sohee had some catastrophic fight on new year’s—offers to come with you. her eyes dart between you and him. you refuse.

you need air. you need to be alone. you need sohee to stop being blonde.

outside the bar, your feet carry you two and a half blocks before you can breathe properly again. tears prick at your eyes. you press the heels of your palms against them before anything can fall.

sohee listened to you, which is the problem. if he had laughed it off, forgotten about it, ignored it completely, none of this would hurt so much.

but he listened. the realization plants something ugly inside you. something possessive. you want blonde sohee to be yours because blonde sohee exists because of you.

everyone already wants him. you’ve spent years watching people want him.

but now he somehow looks even better than before, and every time someone compliments his hair, you’ll remember that the idea came from a sleepy conversation after sex.

he’s blonde because he listened to you. and now you want him all to yourself more than ever. which means you’ll never have him.

you ask a pretty girl outside the bar for a cigarette. she hands one over without hesitation. you place it between your lips and prepare to ask for a light, but she disappears back inside before you can.

you stare down at the cigarette. you don’t even smoke. you think you just wanted something else to focus on. something that wasn’t sohee.

“need a light?” a voice appears behind you.

your shoulders tense. you don’t have to turn around to know he’s grinning.

“yeah,” you say. you keep your eyes elsewhere. “do you have one?”

from the corner of your eye, you see him shake his head.

of course he doesn’t. sohee hates cigarettes. he hates anything stupid. anything addictive. anything a person could end up depending on.

“no, but my scalp was so hot after all that bleach, i swear it could’ve started a fire.” he laughs.

nothing is funny. tears prick your eyes again. you slip the cigarette into your purse.

“i should probably get back,” you mumble, stepping around him. “they’re probably waiting.”

his hand wraps around your wrist. the touch sends a shiver down your spine.

“yn.” his voice is soft.

you don’t know what he’s about to say. maybe he’ll tell you he knows. maybe he’ll tell you this has gone too far. maybe he’ll tell you he’s sorry. still, you let him stop you. because hope is a stupid thing.

his hand slides from your wrist into your hand. he takes a few steps backward until you’re standing face-to-face.

“do you like my hair?”

of course you like his hair. you love his hair. you told him to dye it blonde, and he listened.

you love him.

suddenly, your chest feels too tight. sohee is looking at you with something bright in his eyes. hope. stars. something you don’t want to name.

this time, you can’t stop the tears.

“you’re mean,” you whisper. your voice barely exists. you drop your gaze to his shoes. he’s wearing the same pair as you. you wonder if he knows.

sohee’s expression immediately crumples. his hands cup your face. he tilts your head back toward him. “what’s wrong, baby?” he asks softly. “why are you crying?”

you think he’s punishing you. you don’t know for what. maybe for loving him. the word baby feels like a knife twisting between your ribs.

he’s never called you that while fully clothed. he’s only ever looked at you like this behind locked doors.

you wonder how many other girls he’s called baby. how many other girls told him he’d look good blonde. maybe one of them is the reason he actually did it.

“i hate you,” you lie. the words come out weak and small.

sohee freezes. his world seems to stop rotating. if you hate him, then he dyed his hair blonde for nothing.

“i’m mean,” he repeats blankly. “and you hate me.”

“yes.”

“then why are you crying?”

“why are you blonde?!” you shoot back immediately.

sohee’s eyebrows lift. to him, the answer is simple. you told him he’d look good blonde, so he went blonde. it never occurred to him that there could be another answer.

before he can say anything, your eyes catch a familiar figure walking down the sidewalk, a lifeline.

“riku! hey,” you call.

the dark-haired boy turns around, confused at first, before his face brightens. “hey, yn!”

he walks over without hesitation. his eyes flick between you and sohee. something passes across his face. understanding, maybe. riku knows who sohee is. more importantly, he knows what sohee is to you.

“it’s been a while,” he says warmly. his hand finds your wrist.

“we should catch up soon.”

you nod immediately. “yeah. definitely. i’m free right now?”

sohee understands at once. his face grows hot. suddenly, he feels stupid. he feels confused. his scalp still feels strange from the bleach, and he’s been worrying all week that he ruined his hair forever for no reason. and now you’re standing here holding another guy’s hand in front of him.

“i think i’m done for the night, yn.” his voice comes out flatter than he intends. he runs a hand through his hair, the hair you told him to dye. “see you later?” the question leaves him before he can stop it, hopeful and pathetic, maybe.

because no matter how strange things have gotten between the two of you, you’ve never gone out drinking and not ended up at his apartment afterward.

“don’t count on it.” you mean it. or at least, you think you do.

for a second, neither of you moves. then you watch his face fall. it’s subtle, but you’ve spent years memorizing sohee. you see it. you watch him turn away and watch his stupid, perfect blonde head disappear down the sidewalk.

and somehow that hurts, too.

sohee thinks you actually hate him. he can’t figure out when it happened. he replays every conversation in his head during the walk home. he wonders if he missed something, or if he said the wrong thing. maybe he should’ve never dyed his hair at all.

the image of you standing with another guy follows him the entire way. riku’s hand around your wrist, and the way you smiled at him. the way you told sohee not to count on it.

for the first time in a long time, sohee goes home alone.

it’s been two weeks since you’ve seen sohee, which means it’s been three weeks since you last touched him.

you can count the days since then, but you’ve lost track of how long he’s been on your mind. each passing day feels more unbearable than the last. you miss him. you miss the scent lingering at the back of his nape and drumming your fingers against the warm, smooth skin of his bare back. you miss the way he sings your name softly when he wakes before you in the mornings. you miss the amber in his eyes that only seems to appear beneath sunlight, glowing like something hidden just beneath the surface.

it’s become a cycle. you stare at the last message he sent, then the only picture you have together, then his instagram, and then back to the messages again. when you wake up, you remember the hurt on sohee’s face the last time you spoke. when you walk to class, you find yourself missing the feeling of his hand against your skin. when you eat, you wonder if he’s eating properly these days. when you lie awake at night, you try to remember what it felt like when you and sohee were just friends.

to you, sohee was always the life of the party. if anything ever went wrong, he could fix it with a joke, a funny face, or a laugh so contagious that everyone else had no choice but to join in. you’ve always been the quiet one, too cautious, too afraid to let go and have fun. the first day you spent with sohee, he made you laugh so hard your sides ached.

these days, sohee only makes you sad.

after two and a half glasses of wine, you confided in riku.

you told him how badly you wanted sohee. how happy he made you. how much he had come to mean to you, and how terrifying that realization felt.

riku told you to be honest with him. he said sohee deserved to know how you felt. he said that maybe sohee felt the same way. but how could you?

if you told sohee that you loved him, you risked losing one of your favorite people in the world. you wouldn’t be able to go to him anymore, not when things were good and not when they were bad. there would be no late-night calls. no comfort. no laughter. no sohee.

a life without sohee doesn’t seem worth living. even if he’s surrounded by other girls, even if he’s never really been yours, he’s still yours sometimes. thinking about losing him entirely only makes you realize how much you need him.

it’s almost two in the morning when sohee gets your text.

he’s standing by the door of his apartment, about to go for a walk in a desperate attempt to clear his head after what feels like the tenth straight night without sleep. his hand is already on the doorknob when his phone buzzes.

sohee barely glances at the notification. he assumes it’s another girl who isn’t you.

two months ago, he probably would’ve answered. he would’ve welcomed the distraction, let someone else occupy his mind for a few hours. but lately, every conversation feels hollow. every face blends together.

because none of them are you.

he pulls out his phone. all your text says is "hi," but it’s enough. it’s enough to make his heart stumble against his ribs. enough to make him abandon the walk entirely. enough to make him shove his phone back into his pocket, lace up his shoes, and start running.

if he takes the shortcut through the park, he can make it to your apartment in ten minutes.

maybe less.

it’s been five minutes, and sohee still hasn’t responded to your text.

before panicking, you remind yourself that it’s two in the morning. he’s probably asleep. you’re the one lying awake every night, tossing and turning and living in a constant state of unrest. sohee is probably sleeping peacefully.

you’re about to give up and call it a night when a knock sounds at your door.

your stomach drops.

with every step toward the door, your heart rattles harder against your ribs. by the time your hand reaches the doorknob, you’re convinced it can’t possibly be him.

when you open the door, sohee is standing there trying to catch his breath.

his cheeks are flushed pink. his blonde hair is messy from the wind, falling into his eyes as his chest rises and falls beneath a thin t-shirt. for a second, neither of you says anything.

then sohee’s face breaks into a grin the moment his eyes land on you.

you want to cry. all at once, you’re struck by the overwhelming realization that you love him.

before any tears can fall, you reach for his wrist and pull him toward you. the second his arms wrap around you, something inside your chest finally settles. you think sohee sighs against your hair.

“you ran here?” you mumble into his chest. he smells like sweat and sohee.

“yeah,” he says softly. his voice vibrates through you.

“why?”

sohee pulls back just enough to look at you. his eyes find yours immediately.

“you texted me.”

you stare at him. his arm around your waist doesn’t loosen. if anything, it tightens slightly. there’s nowhere to look except his eyes. your cheeks begin to burn beneath his gaze.

your fuck buddy dyed his hair blonde because you told him it would look good. then he ran to your apartment at two in the morning because you sent him a text that only said hi after weeks of no contact.

you aren’t sure what you’re supposed to do with that information.

“come in,” you say eventually. your face feels impossibly hot. you try to step away.

“it’s been so long. i don’t get a kiss?”

sohee pulls you back against him with the cheekiest grin you’ve ever seen.

your entire face burns, because that’s the problem with kissing sohee.

if you kiss him tonight, you won’t stop there. and if you don’t stop there, nothing will change. you’ll still love him, he’ll still be sohee. and tomorrow morning you’ll wake up wanting even more.

“let’s at least get inside first,” you say weakly.

sohee rolls his eyes, but the grin never leaves his face.

the second his grip loosens, you lean forward and press a quick kiss to his cheek before slipping out of his arms and making a beeline for the kitchen.

behind you, everything goes quiet. you glance over your shoulder.

sohee’s head has fallen back. he’s staring at the ceiling with one hand covering his eyes, a helpless grin spreading across his face. his ears are pink. his cheeks are pink. for a moment, he looks younger than usual. softer.

you have to look away before your heart does something stupid.

sohee thinks you’re way too cute.

he inches around the corner into the kitchen, where you have your head buried in the fridge.

when you spin around, he can’t quite hide his smile.

“want a water?” you ask, pressing a cold bottle against your flushed cheeks. “since you ran and all?”

sohee is standing too close and he’s grinning.

before you can take a step back, he hooks two fingers into the pocket of your hoodie and gently pulls you toward him. your breath catches. your chest rises and falls with anticipation while you clutch the water bottle between the two of you.

“i would love…” he says, his voice low enough to make your heart race. your hands start shaking.

then sohee releases you, reaches past your hands, and takes the bottle. “a water. thanks, yn.”

he twists the cap open and grins. sohee watches your reaction and remembers exactly why you became his favorite girl to play with. you wear every emotion openly—surprise, annoyance, hope. all of it passes across your face before you can stop it.

he loves that about you.

you escape to the couch while sohee drinks his water. settling into your usual spot in the center cushion, you try to focus on the television instead of him to no avail.

your eyes drift to his throat. you watch his adam’s apple bob as he drinks. watch the way his hair falls over his forehead. watch the way the blonde somehow makes his eyes look even warmer.

sohee catches you staring and his grin widens immediately.

you look away first. you wonder if he’s really this happy. you wonder what makes him smile when you’re not around. you wonder why he smiles so much when he’s with you. has it always been like this? or does three weeks simply feel long enough to make you forget? the time apart feels less like three weeks and more like a year.

the last time you sat together on this couch, you barely made it through half an episode of whatever random show he’d put on before his hand was up your shirt and your tongue was in his mouth.

today, you’re determined to talk, like you used to.

sohee drops down onto the couch beside you, close enough that his leg immediately presses against yours. his hand settles on your knee, warm and familiar, and leaves it there.

you put all your concentration into choosing a movie while trying not to think about the fact that sohee’s hand is finally back on your skin.

he leans forward and you feel his breath brush the back of your neck. his chin settles against your shoulder.

“sohee…” you whine softly, nudging him away.

you click on the first movie that looks remotely watchable before finally turning your attention toward him.

“what?” he asks.

he pulls back, but only slightly.

“what’s wrong?”

his leg remains pressed against yours. his eyes shine beneath an exaggerated pout.

you still can’t believe he’s blonde, and back in your apartment. he’s blonde and sitting on your couch and looking at you like that. but he’s not yours. sohee has occupied every corner of your life for months. he’s been inside of you, and still, he isn’t yours. the realization stings every time.

you turn toward him completely and reach up to run your fingers through his hair. the strands are softer than you expected. “your roots haven’t come in yet,” you say quietly. sohee immediately brightens. “i’ve been keeping up with it.” your fingers continue combing through the pale strands. “you have?”

“you haven’t really gotten to see much of it.” he smiles. “i figured i should at least do that much for you.”

your hand stills, and so does your heart. “for me?”

something flickers in his expression. something soft. he wants you to keep touching his hair. he thinks he could stay exactly like this forever, on your couch, with your fingers in his hair.

he nods slowly. “i want to keep this color for a long time, yn.”

his words make you feel a little insane, and you can tell that they were carefully chosen. every time you try to move on, sohee hands you another sliver of hope. like water to someone dying of thirst.

he’s maintaining a difficult, expensive hair color because you once told him it would look good. he wants to stay blonde because you suggested it. your heart takes that information and runs far beyond what he’s actually said.

it imagines permanence and commitment and a future. it imagines him choosing you the same way you’ve already chosen him.

before your thoughts can spiral any further, your hands slide from his hair to his face. your thumbs brush over the moles on his cheek, the ones you’ve always loved.

sohee closes his eyes briefly. he thinks he could stay here forever, too.

then reality returns. you wonder how many other girls have played with his hair. how many have touched his face. how many have looked at him and fallen in love despite knowing better. how many text him at two in the morning. how many he would run to.

your chest tightens.

riku’s words drift back into your head:  the only way you’ll ever know is if you tell him. but you’ve already decided you can’t. so instead, you choose uncertainty. you choose darkness.

“hey.” sohee’s voice is gentle. he brings his hands over yours. “what’s wrong? let me in.”

you pull away first. your hands fall into your lap as you shift against the back cushion. drawing your knees to your chest, you rest your chin on them and look at him. his eyelashes, the slope of his nose. his messy blonde hair. you memorize him instead of answering.

sohee doesn’t know what to do when you close yourself off. he isn’t sure where he stands anymore. not after three weeks, not after the bar. not after tonight. more than anything, he doesn’t want to make the wrong move. so he waits.

“how have you been, sohee?”

he hesitates. he isn’t sure whether to tell the truth. he wants to say the right thing. he wants to make you happy. he opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

“i bet you’ve been good, right?” you continue. your voice is light, but only barely. “you’ve probably been busy. probably even more popular with that hair.” your lower lip juts out into a small pout. “it’s okay. i already know.”

what you really wanted was for him to say he’d been miserable. that he couldn’t sleep. that he couldn’t stop thinking about you. but that’s not how this works. you know that much.

sohee shakes his head. “i haven’t been busy.” you glance at him, confused. “a lot of…people wanted to see the blonde, sure.” he shrugs. “but it didn’t matter.” your stomach twists. “why not?” he looks down at his hands. “because they weren’t you.” his voice is quiet, almost embarrassed. “you were the one who suggested it.”

the room suddenly feels too warm. you stare at him. you aren’t sure if he understands what he’s saying. you aren’t sure if he’s trying to make you feel this way. you aren’t sure whether to be touched, angry, hopeful, or completely confused. all you know is that your face is burning. all you know is that your heart has been racing since the moment he appeared outside your door.

“why didn’t you text me?” you try to keep your voice steady. you try not to cry. sohee answers immediately. “you told me not to count on it.”

sohee doesn’t know what else he can do to make you understand him.

you stare at him. at his blonde hair and his big brown eyes staring right back at you. he looks softer tonight somehow. maybe it’s because it’s really late. maybe it’s because he’s sitting on your couch after running all the way here. maybe it’s because you missed him so much that everything about him feels overwhelming.

you want to believe that he’s been thinking about what you said ever since the last time you saw him. the possibility makes your chest feel light. thinking that sohee spent the last few weeks upset at the idea of losing you makes you want to smile.

sohee drops his gaze to his hands. “what are we doing here, yn?”

you lift your head from your knees and glance around the room as though the answer might be hidden somewhere between the couch cushions.

it’s almost two thirty in the morning. you’re sitting on your couch with sohee. he ran here because you texted him. he dyed his hair blonde because you told him he’d look good that way. and now he’s asking what the two of you are doing here.

you search desperately for the right answer. what does sohee want you to say? what does he want the two of you to be? would he be upset if you were honest? you don’t even know what honesty would sound like.

“we’re friends,” you try. your voice lifts at the end like a question.

sohee lets out a slow breath. you watch his shoulders sink. his eyes stay fixed on his hands. you have a feeling that was the wrong answer.

the problem is that sohee doesn’t know what answer he wanted, either. he only knows that he didn’t like that one. because how many friends do you have? how many friends make your chest hurt like this?

“was riku a friend, too?” he finally looks up at you, but something about him has closed off, just enough for you to notice. you have absolutely no idea what you’re doing.

“riku is my friend,” you say with a slow nod.

sohee reaches over and tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear before it can fall into your face. the touch is brief and gentle. you wish it lasted longer.

“but you’re a different type of friend, sohee,” you add carefully. immediately, a little brightness returns to his eyes.

“oh yeah?” his lips curl into a grin.

you nod again. you pray he doesn’t ask you to elaborate. you wouldn’t know where to begin.

“and what kind of friend is that?”

you stare at him. sohee watches you think. watches you turn the question over and over in your head like you’re afraid of choosing the wrong answer. he hopes you don’t.

“a friend who sleeps over?” you finally offer. your voice comes out small. your eyes are impossibly wide when you look at him.

for a second, sohee just stares. he hadn’t expected that answer. it feels like you’ve thrown him a rope after weeks of drowning. he refuses to let go of it.

“you can sleep over tonight, sohee.” you nod once, as if convincing yourself. you’re not sure if you’ve made the right decision. if anything, you’re pretty sure you’ve made things worse.

“okay.” sohee smiles.

he looks soft and beautiful. his hair falls into his eyes and his cheeks are still faintly pink from the run over. you want to kiss him.

“just sleep, though,” you add quickly when he starts leaning closer. his grin widens. “just sleep.” his voice drops into a whisper. “no funny business.”

when his lips begin brushing dangerously close to yours, you force yourself to turn your head away with a nervous giggle. “y’know what i’ve been thinking about lately, sohee?”

he pulls back with a disbelieving laugh. one hand comes up to rub the back of his neck. “what’s been on your mind?”

you chew on your bottom lip. your eyes stay glued to him and his pretty pink lips, the slope of his nose, and the warmth in his eyes. his blonde hair.

“i was remembering the first time we hung out.” your hand drifts into his hair automatically. “how much fun we had.” your fingers comb through the pale strands. “you’ve always been so fun.”

sohee leans into your touch without realizing it. “we still have fun.”

you shake your head. “not like before.”

a pout immediately settles onto his face. you almost laugh. he always looks offended when you criticize him, even a little.

the truth is, sohee always has fun with you. he’s having fun right now. he’d probably have fun sitting in complete silence if it meant being next to you. but he wants to make you happy. so he plays along.

“okay,” he says. “then let’s just talk tonight.” he shifts closer, resting his arm along the back of the couch behind you. “we’ll stay up like we used to.”

you raise an eyebrow. “just talk?”

“just talk and sleep.”

the smile on his face makes it very difficult to believe him. and judging by the smile slowly spreading across yours, neither of you is convinced.

it’s technically afternoon, but you wake up exactly where you wish you could every morning.

sohee spent hours talking to you and making you laugh until the sun came up. when you dozed off in the middle of a laugh, he woke you gently and guided you through your nighttime routine. the two of you washed up for bed side by side in your bathroom like you used to, and the toothbrush of his that you’d kept for weeks was finally used again.

when it was time to sleep, sohee pulled you into his chest and tucked your head beneath his chin. sleep found both of you at the same time.

sohee wakes up first. he reaches up and pats your hair softly, taking his time looking at you. you’re so pretty. even now, with sleep still clinging to your face, you look calm. happy.

he presses a kiss to your forehead and hopes you’ll allow a friend that much. this is the best sleep he’s gotten in weeks. he isn’t sure he can sleep without you anymore.

“yn,” he sings softly, barely above a whisper. just like always.

his voice drifts into your dream so naturally that you don’t realize you’re awake. your eyes flutter open to sohee. you’ve been tired for so long that you can’t quite tell the difference between dreams and reality anymore. everything feels soft around the edges.

everything feels warm. everything feels right.

“mmmm, my sohee,” you mumble, smiling sleepily. your hands find his face immediately. his skin feels awfully warm for a dream.

sohee melts beneath your touch. he leans into your palms as your thumbs brush over his cheeks and wander into his hair. his eyes soften. a smile tugs at the corners of his lips.

you don’t give him the opportunity to say anything before your lips find his.

it’s been so long since you’ve kissed sohee that kissing him in a dream feels perfectly reasonable. except this dream feels strangely real. your fingers are tangled in his hair and his lips are warm beneath yours. when you kiss him again, he kisses you back.

you’ve missed him so much. you kiss him like you might never kiss him again. for something that’s supposed to be a dream, you can feel everything, from the warmth of his mouth to the spit around your lips. when you kiss him harder, he presses your body flush against his. if you think friends can kiss, he hopes your idea of friends can do this, too. your body fits against his like it always has.

if this is a dream, you decide you don’t want to wake up yet.

eventually you pull away just enough to catch your breath. your hands drift back to his face. you brush your thumb across one of the moles on his cheek.

“i love your moles, hee,” you murmur. you lean forward and press a lingering kiss there.

“love your cute nose.” another kiss.

sohee’s heart is beating so hard he’s convinced you can hear it. he has no idea what’s happening. he doesn’t know whether you’re awake. he doesn’t know whether you know you’re awake.

he only knows that every soft confession makes him feel a little more unsteady.

your lips wander to his jaw. your fingers drift lazily over the warmth of his body. “i love…” you begin softly.

your hand slips beneath the waistband of his sweatpants.

“i love this too, but most of all…”

“yn.” his voice comes out rougher than he intends. his heart feels seconds away from bursting out of his chest.

he’s still trying to recover from your kiss, from your hands in his hair. from the way you’re looking at him. he doesn’t think you’d ever say any of this so openly if you knew exactly what was happening. and as much as he wants to hear the rest, he’s terrified of ruining whatever this is.

“good morning,” he says instead. he pulls you gently against his chest.

when your ear settles over his heartbeat, reality crashes back all at once. you remember last night on the couch and talking until sunrise. sohee ran to your apartment.

this isn’t a dream. sohee is actually here, in your bed, holding you. all you did was talk and sleep. and it was perfect.

"good morning,” you mumble. your voice is small now. “what time is it?” you make no effort to move from where you’re tucked against him. “don’t know,” he says into your hair. “didn’t want to let go of you to check.”

his heartbeat stays calm, but yours doesn’t. you think you should tell him to check. you think you should move. instead, you stay exactly where you are. it’s been so long since you’ve been held. so long since you’ve slept this well. “sohee,” you mumble against the thin fabric of his shirt. “yeah?” “i just woke up, right?”

he pauses. there’s something fragile in your voice. he already knows the answer you’re hoping for. “yeah.” you relax immediately. “okay. good.” a beat passes. “thanks.” he brushes a hand through your hair. “why do you ask?” you burrow deeper into his chest. “had a crazy dream.” your voice comes out muffled. “it felt real.”

sohee smiles into your hair. for the first time, he thinks he finally understands what this is.

eventually, the two of you climb out of bed. you brush your teeth side by side like you used to, bumping shoulders in the tiny bathroom. neither of you says much. it feels too normal, which makes it feel dangerous.

you find yourself staring at sohee’s back while he changes his shirt. at the broad slope of his shoulders. at the familiar shape of him. you look away before he catches you.

sohee wishes he didn’t have to work. he wishes he could stay here all day, in your apartment, in this strange little bubble where nobody else seems to exist, where it’s just you and him.

when he leaves, he presses a long kiss to your forehead. you look too fragile, too delicate. he almost doesn’t go.

after the door closes behind him, the apartment feels quieter than before. you return to your bed and pull the blanket over yourself. in your imagination, sohee belongs only to you. there are no other girls, uncertainty, or wondering. for twelve hours, it felt like that imaginary world had somehow become real. returning to reality hurts more than you expected.

later that day, sohee texts you. he says one of his friends is throwing a party later this week.

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

the night air is a blade against your cheeks, yet it cannot cut through the slow, molten burn that has settled low in your belly, a burn that started hours ago and has only grown heavier, wetter, more insistent with every passing minute.

you stand outside sohee’s building, shoulders hunched inside your jacket, the wool pulled so tight across your waist it feels like the only thing keeping your body from splitting open and spilling its shameless want onto the pavement.

your thighs are already slick, the inside seams of your stockings darkened where the heat has been leaking steadily, silently, traitorously, ever since you kissed your boyfriend’s sleepy forehead and slipped out with a whispered lie about needing to go to a sleepover with your best friend. each pulse between your legs is a dull, greedy fist unclenching and clenching again, a rhythm older than thought, older than guilt.

the soft buzz of your phone in your pocket again, another heart, another “miss you baby”, another message you will answer tomorrow with a smile and a kiss and a mouth still tasting of someone else.

it wasn’t your fault you were carrying this sickness. this cruel, wordless hunger that wakes you before the sun, that slicks your folds while you are still half-dreaming, that tightens like wire around your spine in lecture halls and grocery lines until you have to dig your nails into your palms just to keep from rocking against the nearest hard surface.

your boyfriend, anton, your sweet, patient, beautiful boy, tries so hard; he kisses the tears from the corners of your eyes, murmurs love against your throat, laps at you with gentle devotion until you cum, once, maybe twice, his fingers laced tenderly with yours.

but the moment the last shiver leaves your body the hunger surges back twice as vicious, a starving animal that gnaws at your ribs while he sleeps, leaving you to grind helplessly against his mattress in the dark, muffling broken sobs into the pillow so he never wakes to the truth of what you are.

six months ago sohee discovered it by accident, or perhaps by instinct.

a house party, too much vodka, your boyfriend somewhere in the living room calling your name while you were already bent over the bathroom sink, skirt rucked to your waist, sohee’s hand clamped over your mouth and his cock driving into you with a force that rattled the mirror on its hinges.

four orgasms tore through you in under twenty minutes, each one wrenched out harder than the last until you were squirting in helpless, violent arcs that soaked his hoodie, the waistband of his sweats, the cheap tile beneath your feet. when he pressed his palm just beneath your navel and thrust himself to the hilt something inside you cracked open like a fault line and, for five impossible seconds, the hunger went perfectly, blissfully still. you blacked out with his name muffled against his fingers, limbs liquefied, vision whited out, the sickness finally lulled into silence by the brutal, perfect fit of him.

since that night you have betrayed every promise, every week, sometimes multiple times a week too, slipping away to feed the beast only he can quiet.

your boyfriend’s best friend since high school, the lazy-eyed boy with the careless mouth who laughs when you beg, who calls you filthy names and still fucks you until your body forgets its own name. only sohee can empty you out, leave you boneless and drifting in the soft, floating aftermath where nothing claws or burns or demands.

your phone vibrates again and you silence it with trembling fingers, feeling the fresh rush of warmth coat the inside of your thighs like liquid confession.

you had messaged sohee, texts piling up in a one-sided stream:

‘please, i need you, sohee, it’s bad tonight, answer me’, and called, the phone ringing into silence, his voicemail a cold, mechanical rejection that stung almost as much as his indifference.

but you’re here anyway, driven by the ache, the need, the addiction that’s consumed you since the night you met him, a night that feels like both a curse and a revelation, etched into your soul like a brand.

standing in the flickering light of the building’s entrance, your hands shaking as you fish the spare key from your bag and slip it into the lock. the one you had forged in a quiet act of desperation months ago, when sohee’s gaming marathons stretched into endless hours of unanswered knocks, unanswered texts, leaving you stranded on his doorstep, heart pounding, body thrumming with an ache that clawed at your core like a beast caged within your flesh. relentless, unyielding, a persistent, pulsing need to be filled, to be touched, to be seen, a fire that burns without end, no matter how many times you try to douse it.

the door creaks open, and the apartment yawns before you, a shadowed crypt of neglect, the air heavy with the stale scent of burnt ramen, the faint chemical tang of energy drinks, and the sour undercurrent of unwashed dishes festering somewhere in the gloom. no light spills from the hallway, no warmth greets you, only the faint hum of electronics and a sharp, muffled curse slicing through the silence.

“fucking idiot, i told you to go left,” sohee’s voice, low and laced with venom, punctuated by the rapid, staccato click of his keyboard, the rhythm of his world, one that spins without you, oblivious to the need that drives you here, night after night, like a moth to a flame that singes but never consumes.

you step inside, your heels clicking softly on the worn floorboards, the sound swallowed by the oppressive gloom. you’re dressed for him, always for him, hyper-feminine in a way that feels like both armor and surrender: a delicate pink dress, soft and clinging to your curves, lace trim grazing the tops of your thighs, lips glossy with cherry shine, lashes heavy with mascara, every detail a fragile plea for his attention, a desperate bid to be enough for a boy who’d rather grip his mouse than your body, your low self-esteem woven into every careful curl of your hair, every swipe of blush across your cheeks, a futile attempt to be seen in a world where you’re nothing but a shadow.

the bedroom door is ajar, a sliver of blue light spilling from his monitor, casting flickering shadows across the chaos—bedsheets twisted on the floor, an empty ramen bowl teetering on his desk, its broth a congealed ghost, a crumpled energy drink can glinting faintly in the glow.

sohee sits there, hunched forward, a fitted white tee stretched across his lean frame, grey sweatpants slung low on his hips, the waistband dipping to reveal a sliver of taut, pale skin, damp with the faint sheen of sweat from hours in this chair. his hair was a messy tangle of dark strands, the tips tickling his neck, somehow still maddeningly alluring, a careless beauty that makes your breath hitch, your core clench, the ache sharpening like a knife twisting in your gut.

his headset clamps over his ears, eyes glued to the screen, fingers dancing across the keyboard with a grace that sends a shiver through you. slender, quick, precise, moving with an effortless dexterity that you can’t help but imagine inside you, fucking you with the same skill he pours into his game, if only he’d care enough to try.

he’s a loser, a gamer boy lost in his virtual empire, but god, he’s beautiful, the kind of beautiful that breaks you, makes your body beg, your pussy weep, even as he ignores you.

he doesn’t notice you at first, too deep in his match, jaw tight, lips parted as he snarls another curse into the mic, “move, you fucking moron,” the words sharp, slicing through the haze of your lust like a lash.

you stand there, trembling, the ache in your core a living thing, pulsing with a need so intense it’s like your body is screaming, your panties already soaked through, clinging to your skin, your thighs pressing together in a futile attempt to quell the fire, a relentless, unadulterated lust that won’t rest until you’re filled, until you’re fucked senseless.

when his eyes finally flick to you, it’s not with warmth or want but with a cold, cutting irritation, a darkening in those sharp irises as he registers what your presence means—the never-ending hunger that clings to you like a second skin, the lust that spills over in the way your hands twist in your dress, the way your breath catches, your body vibrating with raw, primal need.

“fuck, you again?” he snaps, voice low and edged with venom, his fingers never pausing on the keyboard, the game’s frenetic soundtrack a mocking counterpoint to your desperation.

“i’m this close to winning, you can’t fucking wait?”

his words are a blade, carving through your fragile self-esteem, but they only make the ache worse, the barbed wire of his cruelty coiling tighter around your insides, your pussy throbbing with a need that drowns out the shame.

you shake your head, a small, pathetic gesture, your voice barely a whisper, “sohee, please, i can’t. i need–“ but he cuts you off with a scoff, his lips curling into a cruel, mocking smirk, the indifference in his gaze a wound that festers deeper than his words.

“pathetic,” he mutters, eyes flicking back to the screen, the click of his mouse relentless.

“fine, get over here. but i’m not pausing this for you,”his tone is a command, not a kindness, a dismissal wrapped in permission, and you hate how it sets your skin alight, the ache flaring into a fire that burns hotter at his cruelty, your hands trembling as you lift your dress, your soaked panties sticking to your skin, a testament to how deeply you’re caught in this toxic spiral.

you settle down onto his lap, the worn leather of the gaming chair cool against the backs of your thighs. your back presses flush to his chest, his body heat seeping through the thin cotton of his tee, heartbeat steady and indifferent beneath your shoulder blades while yours ricochets like a trapped bird. the monitors bathe you both in shifting violet and crimson, the game’s frantic soundtrack bleeding into the room, gunfire and explosions and the low, constant chatter of his friends through the headset that never leaves his ears.

sohee doesn’t speak.

he doesn’t need to.

one arm stays locked on the keyboard, fingers flying, wrist flicking the mouse in sharp, precise arcs, while the other slides down between your spread thighs without ceremony. the second his skin meets the mess you’ve made, he hisses through his teeth, a soft, scornful sound that vibrates against the shell of your ear.

“jesus fuck, you’re disgusting,”

he mutters, so quiet only you can hear, the words brushing the shell of your ear like a slap. no one in the call catches it; the mic stays angled away, for now. his fingertips come away glazed, strings of you stretching between them before he wipes the excess on the inside of your thigh like you’re a rag. then he’s back, parting your folds with two fingers, spreading you open just enough to make you feel how swollen you already are, how ready, how pathetic.

you bite down on your lip hard enough to sting, trying to trap the sound that wants to crawl out of your throat.

it doesn’t work.

the moment his thumb settles on your clit with just the right amount of pressure a broken sigh spills free, soft and wet and desperate. he circles once, slow and mean, dragging the slick up and around, coating you until every nerve is screaming. your hips jerk without permission, chasing the touch, thighs trembling over his.

he doesn’t look at you. doesn’t slow the game. his gaze stays locked on the center monitor, jaw tight, lips parted around silent curses at whatever idiot is feeding on the other team. the only sign he’s aware you exist is the way his fingers move; deliberate, mechanical, perfect. thumb still rubbing those cruel circles, he gathers more of your wetness and drags it downward, painting your entrance before he pushes two fingers in to the knuckle in one slick thrust.

the sudden, filthy stretch you’ve been aching for all day, the one your boyfriend could never give you because he’s too gentle, too careful, too in love with you to treat you the way your body demands. sohee doesn’t love you. he barely likes you. and that’s why it feels like heaven when his fingers bottom out, curling once, hard, against that spot that makes your vision white out.

every stroke is deliberate, unhurried, like he’s testing how little effort it actually takes to unravel you. the wet sound is soft at first, a quiet, obscene squelch each time he drags out and pushes back in, coating his knuckles, dripping onto the leather beneath you. you squirm helplessly, thighs trembling over his, hips rolling forward to chase the pressure because it’s never enough and it’s already too much.

you bite down on your lower lip until you taste gloss and blood, trying to cage the sounds clawing up your throat. a breathy moan slips free anyway, high and broken, but still too quiet for the headset to catch.

his curses keep spilling into the mic, low and vicious, “fucking die already, useless,” and every sharp syllable lands between your legs like another stroke, feeding the ache instead of killing it.

he picks up speed without warning, fingers driving deeper, curling on every inward thrust to scrape that spot that makes your vision flicker. the squelch turns louder, wetter, unmistakable now, and your hips buck hard, grinding down onto his hand like you’re trying to take more than he’s willing to give. another moan tears loose, louder this time, and you slap your own palm over your mouth to smother it.

sohee doesn’t even flinch.

he just spreads you wider with those two fingers, stretches you open for a heartbeat, then forces a third in alongside them. the burn is instant, perfect, a deep, filthy stretch that makes your back bow and your toes curl in your heels. your head lolls against his shoulder, eyes rolling back beneath fluttering lids, tears gathering hot and useless at the corners. your cunt flutters wildly around the sudden intrusion, walls rippling, trying to adjust, trying to swallow him deeper.

the orgasm hits like a wave breaking over jagged rock, sudden, violent, merciless. your entire body seizes, thighs locking rigid over his, pussy clamping down so hard on his fingers you feel the pulse in your throat. slick gushes out around his knuckles, hot and shameful, dripping down his wrist, pooling beneath you on the chair in a dark, spreading stain.

for two breathless seconds the ache goes quiet, a cruel, fleeting mercy, like the world narrows to nothing but the white-hot throb behind your eyes and the way your body shakes itself apart on his hand. your breath catches on a silent scream, tears finally spilling over, rolling down your temples into your hair.

the aftershocks still ripple through you, thighs twitching, cunt fluttering weakly around the three fingers he keeps buried deep, unmoving for a moment while the rgb lights strobe across your wet cheeks and parted lips. two seconds, maybe three, of that cruel, blessed quiet where the ache finally shuts up, where your body feels almost sated.

then it creeps back in.

a slow, treacherous heat unfurling low in your belly, the familiar pulse waking up again like it’s mocking the orgasm you just had. your hips give a tiny, involuntary roll, chasing the fingers that haven’t moved since you came. a soft, pathetic sound slips from your throat before you can stop it.

sohee feels it, of course he does.

he knows your body better than the boy who tucks you in at night and whispers i love you while you stare at the ceiling and count the minutes until you can sneak out. he knows one is never enough, knows the second the high fades you’ll be grinding down again like a desperate animal.

his fingers start moving while the next round is still loading, slow at first, dragging out with a filthy twist before slamming back in, rougher now, no pretence of gentleness. the squelch is louder, wetter, your cum and fresh slick coating his hand all the way to the wrist. your hips follow the rhythm without permission, bucking helplessly into every thrust, chasing that brutal pressure that only he gives you.

“not enough, huh?” he mutters, voice low and disgusted, meant only for you. his thumb finds your clit again, grinds hard once, twice, and your back arches off his chest.

the loading screen flashes and he uses the countdown. his hand suddenly leaves the mouse, snakes up to your throat, long fingers wrapping around it in one swift, vicious squeeze. your breath cuts off instantly, head jerked back against his shoulder, pulse hammering against his palm. his lips brush the shell of your ear, hot and cruel.

“fucking slut,” he hisses, so quiet the mic will never catch it, grip tightening until black dots bloom at the edges of your vision. “can’t even let me play without begging for more.”

he shoves a fourth finger in alongside the others without warning.

the stretch is blinding, a deep, burning ache that punches the air from your lungs and shoots straight to your lower stomach. you feel it there, a heavy, obscene pressure, like he’s rearranging your insides with one careless hand. your cunt spasms around the impossible fullness, walls fluttering wildly, slick gushing out around his knuckles and dripping down his wrist in thick, shameful rivulets. your legs kick once, heels scraping the floor, toes curling so hard they cramp.

he releases your throat the second the game drops back in, fingers flying to the keyboard again like nothing happened, but the ones inside you never stop, pumping hard, fast, merciless.

your second orgasm barrels through you before you can brace for it, sharper than the first, ripping a broken cry from your raw throat. your whole body locks up, thighs clamping around his arm, pussy clenching so hard on his fingers it hurts, another flood of cum soaking his sweatpants, the chair, your dress. your vision whites out for a heartbeat, tears spilling sideways into your hair, mouth open on a soundless scream.

the second orgasm is still pulsing through you when he keeps going, four fingers driving into you with the same ruthless rhythm, knuckles slamming deep, curling hard against the front wall of your cunt like he’s trying to punish it. the burn is vicious for the first few seconds, raw, oversensitive flesh screaming at the intrusion, but the ache underneath it is already waking up again, greedy and shameless, licking at the edges of the pain until they blur together.

your hips won’t stay still. they roll forward on every thrust, chasing the stretch, the pressure, the way he refuses to give you even a breath to recover. your own hand has found its way under the neckline of your dress without permission, fingers pinching and twisting your nipple hard enough to make you gasp into the humid air. your tongue slips out, just the tip, resting against your lower lip like a dog panting in summer heat, eyes half-lidded and glassy, tears drying on your temples.

he hits that spot again, again, again, the same brutal hook of his fingers that drags over your g-spot with every stroke. it makes your head swim, makes the room tilt, makes pleasure coil so tight in your pelvis you feel it behind your urethra, a deep, swelling fullness that presses outward like something alive trying to escape.

a shaky moan slips free before you can stop it, high and desperate. sohee’s head tilts a fraction, the only warning you get.

“be. fucking. quiet.”

each word is punctuated by a vicious thrust, fingers slamming in so hard your whole body jolts forward in the chair. you bite down on your lip until you taste blood, copper blooming sharp across your tongue. your free hand scrabbles for something to hold onto and finds the soft waistband of his joggers, bunching the fabric into a white-knuckled fist as your hips buck wildly, riding his hand like you’re trying to fuse yourself to it.

the pressure builds impossibly fast. a sudden, involuntary tightening low in your abdomen, muscles grabbing at his fingers and then letting go in frantic little pulses. your lower stomach cramps, thighs trembling harder, the opening of your cunt fluttering around his knuckles like it’s trying to push him out and pull him deeper at the same time. there’s a split-second of pure urgency, a hot, terrifying fullness right behind your pubic bone that makes you panic and crave all at once.

then it breaks.

the pressure drops like a dam bursting. a sudden, heavy push from deep inside, and warm fluid gushes out of you in a hard, forward arc, soaking his wrist, his forearm, splattering onto the floor between his spread legs. your pelvic muscles let go completely, spasming in violent waves, each contraction forcing another pulse of clear liquid out of you in rhythmic, humiliating spurts. your left leg starts shaking uncontrollably, thigh jerking against his, lower abdomen cramping in sharp, fluttering bursts that feel almost like pain.

you can’t breathe. can’t think. your vision tunnels to static and rgb light, mouth open on a silent scream, tears streaking sideways into your hair. the overstimulation is immediate and brutal, every nerve lit up and screaming, clit throbbing so hard it hurts where his thumb still rests against it.

the last spurt leaves you in a helpless pulse, warm fluid streaking down his forearm, dripping from his elbow onto the already ruined leather. the chair is destroyed, dark, spreading stains blooming across the seat, soaking through to the foam and his favourite grey sweatpants are plastered to his thigh in a cold, sticky patch that clings every time he shifts. you feel it cooling against your bare skin, the evidence of what your body just did, what it always does when he touches you.

sohee makes a low, disgusted sound against the back of your neck.

“messy slut,” he mutters, voice rough with contempt, but his fingers don’t stop.

if anything he drives them deeper, four thick digits spearing into you with wet, punishing thrusts that force another helpless gush of fluid out around his knuckles. each stroke is met with a small, shameful pulse, more slick leaking in rhythmic spurts every time your wrecked cunt tries to clamp down and fails.

the overstimulation is brutal, a hot, stinging ache that makes your thighs jerk and your breath hitch on tiny, broken sobs, but the hunger underneath it is worse. it’s already clawing back up your spine, greedy, insatiable, whispering that fingers aren’t enough, that you need to be stretched wider, filled heavier, fucked until your legs give out and the ache finally shuts up for good.

you need his cock.

you need it so badly your hips are rocking again without permission, grinding down onto his hand like an animal, chasing the promise of something thicker, longer, something that will press against your cervix and stay there until you can’t remember your own name. a pathetic whine vibrates in your throat, muffled against the heel of your palm, but he hears it anyway.

his fingers slow just enough to make you suffer, curling deliberately, dragging across that spot again so another weak spurt of fluid leaks out and drips off his wrist. your walls flutter uselessly around the intrusion, overworked and trembling, but still trying to pull him deeper.

“greedy little thing,” he says under his breath, barely audible over the constant clack of his keyboard and the low laughter of his friends in the call.

“just squirted all over my shit and you’re already begging for my cock.”

your answering moan is small, desperate, impossible to hide.

your hips roll forward again, shameless, chasing the slow drag of his knuckles, and you feel the hard line of him beneath the soaked fabric of his sweatpants, thick and half-hard and so close you could sob.

he lifts you just enough, one arm hooked under your thigh like you’re weightless, and the sudden emptiness inside you is a physical ache, a hollow, pulsing void that makes you whimper before you can stop yourself. slick drips in slow, syrupy strands from your cunt, landing on the soaked leather with soft, wet sounds that feel louder than the gunfire still blasting through his headset. the rgb lights strobe across your trembling thighs, painting them violet, crimson, violet again, every shift of colour catching on the sheen of sweat and cum coating your skin.

he doesn’t look at you.

he shoves the waistband of his sweatpants lower with one impatient jerk, cotton catching on the sharp jut of his hipbones before his cock springs free and lands heavy against his stomach.

it steals the air from your lungs.

thick in a way that feels almost violent, flushed a dark, angry red that borders on purple at the swollen head, veins thick and raised along the shaft like cables under silk, the slit already glistening with a fat bead of precum that trembles, then spills over, sliding slow and obscene down the underside.

he fists himself once, lazy, spreading the precum in a slow, deliberate stroke that makes the whole length gleam wet under the shifting colours. his eyes flick to you for half a heartbeat, just long enough to watch your lips part, to see the way your tongue touches your bottom lip without permission, then snap back to the centre monitor. the smirk that curls the corner of his mouth is small, cruel, and utterly satisfied.

“turn around,” he mutters, voice flat, already clicking again. “i’ll give you what you’ve been waiting for.”

your knees are shaking too hard to trust, but you move anyway, turning in the narrow space between his body and the desk, dress rucked up under your armpits now. you straddle him properly, knees sinking into the ruined leather on either side of his hips, and the heat radiating off his skin is a shock against your raw, oversensitive thighs.

his left hand never leaves the keyboard.

his right hand grips your hip hard enough that his fingertips dig crescents into your flesh, and he lines himself up with no ceremony, just the blunt, impossibly thick head of his cock nudging your entrance, smearing your own slick and the remnants of your last orgasm over your swollen folds.

you lower yourself onto him, feeling an actual slow, searing burn that starts where he’s stretching you open and radiates outward in white-hot rings, up into your belly, down the backs of your thighs, behind your knees. tears flood your eyes instantly, spilling over before you can blink them away, rolling in hot tracks down your cheeks and dripping off your jaw onto his shirt. your breath comes in tiny, wounded gasps, each one catching in your throat as another fraction of an inch forces its way inside, parting raw, overworked walls that flutter and spasm and still try to pull him deeper.

you’re only halfway down and you’re already full, forehead pressed to the damp cotton over his collarbone, nails carving burning crescents into his chest through the thin fabric. every vein drags like a ridge of fire, every subtle shift of his hips making the head nudge deeper, pressing against places so far inside you that your vision tunnels, black at the edges. sweat beads along your hairline, rolls down your temples, drips from your chin. your thighs tremble violently, muscles jumping, trying to spread wider and failing because there’s simply no more room, no more space for your body to give.

he still doesn’t look at you, eyes locked on the centre monitor, jaw tight, tongue touching the corner of his mouth in concentration while your entire world narrows to the impossible, exquisite split of being opened on his cock. your cunt clamps down hard, a frantic, milking spasm that drags a low, barely there, hiss from between his teeth, and his smirk widens, lazy, cruel, triumphant, because he can feel exactly how ruined you are and it still isn’t enough to make him pause the game.

you sink the final stretch, ass finally meeting his thighs, his cock buried so deep you feel the pulse of it behind your navel, a heavy, unyielding pressure that sits low in your pelvis like he’s rearranged everything inside you to make room for himself.

tears stream freely now, dripping off your chin in steady drops, your breath coming in shallow, open-mouthed pants against the hollow of his throat. you can’t move, can’t think, can only shake there impaled and stuffed so full it feels like he’s in your ribcage, your heartbeat fluttering wildly around the thick intrusion.

he gives you four full seconds of nothing.

then shifts your hips a fraction to the side so his left hand never leaves the keyboard, and starts fucking up into you with short, vicious, perfectly timed snaps that match the clack-clack-clack of his cherry mx blues like a metronome made of cruelty.

each thrust drags that fat, ruthless head across the spot your boyfriend has never reached, a spot that makes your spine bow and your toes curl and your vision white out in sheets. the wet sound of your cunt taking him is louder than his switches, louder than the explosions in his headset, louder than the broken, high-pitched noises you can’t swallow anymore.

you feel him, every inch, every pulse, the thick, unyielding girth stretching you to the brink, the tip pressing against your cervix with a pressure that’s both pain and pleasure, a raw, primal fullness that makes your thighs tremble, your acrylic nails digging into his thighs first, clawing through the soft fabric of his sweatpants, leaving crescent marks in his skin as you try to anchor yourself against the onslaught.

you’re getting hotter, sweat beading on your brow, dripping down your spine, soaking your dress, your body trembling as you try to bite your lip to suppress the sounds, to keep the moans from spilling out, but it’s no use. your voice fractures into high-pitched squeals, low, desperate groans, incoherent pleas.

“sohee, please,” the words lost in the haze of your lust, your body rocking against him, each movement sending jolts of sensation through you, the pressure building, a coiling tension in your core that winds tighter with every thrust of your hips.

you get louder, too loud, your moans fracturing into cries, and suddenly his hand leaves the keyboard, snaking around your throat with a swift, ruthless grip, fingers tightening until your breath catches in a soft, startled gasp, your head spinning as the edges of your vision blur.

“shut the fuck up, you whore,” he growls, his voice a low, vibrating snarl in your ear, the words dripping with venom, sending a fresh wave of arousal crashing through you, your pussy clenching harder around him, the degradation only fueling the fire, making you wetter, needier, your body betraying you with its eager response.

a particularly shattered cry tears itself from your throat, high and raw and utterly wrecked, the kind of sound that has no business existing outside a locked room. it spills into the headset like liquid, crystal-clear, impossible to pretend was anything else.

the discord call falls into a frozen hush for half a heartbeat, nothing but the faint electric hum of multiple headsets breathing in unison, the distant, arrhythmic clack of someone else’s keyboard echoing like a ghost in the background, then a low, drawn-out whistle slices through the tension, sharp as a knife’s edge. this is followed by a choked, incredulous laugh that builds like thunder, another voice muttering “no fucking way” in a tone thick with disbelief and amusement, and suddenly the dam shatters, unleashing a rolling wave of crude, masculine laughter that crackles through the speakers like wildfire through dry brush, each burst layered with the weight of mockery and unspoken envy, saturating the air with a sensory storm of humiliation that coils tight in your chest, hot and suffocating, even as it sends fresh sparks of forbidden arousal racing down your spine to pool between your legs.

sohee’s lips curl slowly into that lazy, cruel smirk, a subtle twist of his mouth that deepens the shadows on his face, carving lines of indifference and triumph into his features as if he’s savoring the taste of your degradation.

his hips keep snapping up into you in that same short, vicious rhythm, the fat head of his cock dragging mercilessly across the spot that makes your spine bow and your vision fracture into white-hot shards. the smirk that crawls across his mouth is slow, lazy, devastatingly satisfied, the kind of expression that belongs to someone who just won a bet he never even told you he placed.

he tilts his head just enough for the mic to catch every word, voice perfectly calm, perfectly flat, like he’s reading the scoreboard instead of buried balls-deep in the girl who’s currently sobbing his name.

“see, told you she was a slut,” he says into the mic, loud enough for his gaming friends to hear, their laughter crackling faintly through the headset, a humiliating chorus that burns hotter than your shame.

“came to see me and hopped straight on my dick.”

tears prick your eyes, humiliation creeping up your cheeks in a hot, burning flush, but you can’t stop, your hips bouncing harder, faster. the creak of his gaming chair grows louder, a relentless rhythm that matches the wet squelch of your pussy, the way his cock fills you, every vein, every ridge dragging against your sensitive walls, sending shockwaves of pleasure through your core.

“moaning while my friends can hear you, fucking whore,” he snarls, his breath hot against your neck, his hair tickling your skin as he leans closer, the words slicing through you, making your pussy clench tighter, your body trembling with the intensity.

“bet you’d want them all to stuff those holes for you. maybe then you’d stop humping me like a dog every fucking second.” his hand tightens on your throat, just enough to make you dizzy, your acrylic nails scrabbling at his desk now, clawing at the edge, leaving scratches on the wood, and he slaps your hand away with a sharp, “don’t touch my shit,” his voice a vicious snap as he protects his precious gaming throne.

“greedy little slut, i bet you’d love that, wouldn’t you?” he sneers, his voice loud enough for the mic to catch, his friends’ laughter faintly audible.

his words are still ringing in your ears, cruel, filthy, perfect, when the next orgasm starts gathering low in your pelvis like a storm you can already feel breaking.

you mewl, a small, pathetic sound of denial, shaking your head against his shoulder, but your body has already chosen its truth. your cunt spasms around him in greedy, fluttering waves, milking the thick length of him with every desperate bounce, every mindless grind, every shuddering breath. the laughter from the headset is a distant, tiny roar now, but it doesn’t matter; nothing matters except the way he fills you so completely that every shallow snap of his hips feels like it’s rearranging your insides, the fat head of his cock dragging across that spot again and again and again until pleasure becomes a living thing clawing its way up your spine.

he’s so deep.

deeper than anyone has ever been, deeper than you thought a body could take, the blunt, swollen head kissing your cervix on every perfectly timed thrust, a pressure that blooms into a dark, exquisite ache behind your pubic bone. every vein along his shaft drags against your raw walls like it’s branding you, every ridge catching on places so sensitive you see sparks behind your eyelids. your hips roll helplessly, chasing that pressure, chasing the stretch, chasing the way he refuses to give you more than the game allows and somehow it’s still too much.

the coil winds tighter, vicious and unstoppable.

your lower belly cramps with it, a hot, urgent fullness that makes your breath hitch in tiny, wounded gasps. your clit throbs against the coarse hair at the base of his cock, every grind sending white-hot jolts straight up your spine. tears spill sideways into your hair, mixing with the sweat at your temples, your mouth open on a continuous stream of broken sounds, high-pitched squeals melting into low, animal groans that don’t even sound human anymore.

you’re close.

so close your vision tunnels, the rgb lights strobing red and violet across the tears clinging to your lashes. your nails carve fresh crescents into his chest, dragging down until the cotton rucks up and your fingers find hot skin, slick with sweat. your thighs clamp tighter around his hips, trying to pull him deeper, trying to fuse yourself to the source of the only relief you’ve ever known.

and then it hits.

a sudden, violent clench low in your pelvis, your cunt locking down so hard around him that his rhythm stutters for the first time all night. your back bows off his chest, spine arching impossibly, head thrown back against his shoulder as the orgasm rips through you like a riptide.

pleasure explodes behind your eyes in white-hot sheets, every muscle seizing, thighs shaking so hard your knees skid on the soaked leather. a gushing flood of slick forces its way out around his cock, warm and unstoppable, squirting in messy, rhythmic pulses that soak his stomach, his sweatpants, the chair, the floor, until everything beneath you is drenched and shining under the shifting lights.

your whole body convulses, wave after wave, your walls fluttering and spasming in frantic, milking waves that try to drag him deeper even as the overstimulation starts to burn. tears stream freely now, dripping off your jaw, your voice cracking into a raw, continuous sob of his name, “sohee, sohee, fuck, sohee,” until the syllables lose all meaning and it’s just sound, just desperation, just the wrecked evidence of how completely he owns you.

sohee’s eyes flick to you, part shock, part cruel amusement, his lips curling as he takes in the sight of you—still going, still cumming, your pussy squirting in relentless waves, your body pushing past its limits, insatiable, unstoppable.

the last aftershock is still rippling through your ruined body, a trembling, liquid echo that leaves your thighs jerking and your cunt fluttering weakly around him, when sohee decides the game is finally, irrevocably over.

the headset lies discarded on the desk like a corpse, wires tangled, his friends’ laughter reduced to a faint, dying pulse in the background, irrelevant now, swallowed by the thick, humid roar of blood in your ears. both of his hands clamp onto your hips with a violence that steals what little breath you have left, fingers sinking into soft flesh until bone meets bone, until you know the bruises will bloom tomorrow in perfect, violet replicas of his grip.

the shift is instantaneous. no more shallow, controlled snaps timed to keystrokes.

he slams you down onto his cock in one savage, merciless stroke, bottoming out so hard your teeth clack together and a raw, guttural scream rips itself from the deepest part of your chest, echoing off the walls like a wounded animal finally set free.

the gaming chair shrieks beneath you, metal joints groaning, leather splitting at the seams, threatening to collapse under the sheer brutality of his rhythm. your breasts spill completely free of the soaked dress, bouncing with every punishing thrust, nipples dragging across the damp cotton of his shirt in sparks of oversensitive fire that shoot straight to your clit and make your spine bow like a drawn bowstring.

the outline of him is visible in your lower stomach, a thick, obscene bulge that rises and vanishes with every stroke, a living proof of how deeply he’s carved himself into you. his palm flattens over it, pressing down hard, cruel, forcing you to feel the shape of his cock moving inside your body like a second skeleton.

“look at this, whore,” he growls, voice shredded raw, all lazy gamer-boy detachment shattered into something feral and ancient. his other hand cracks across your ass with a full-force slap that detonates white-hot across your skin, the sting blooming into molten pleasure so intense your cunt clamps down hard enough to wrench a rare, startled grunt from his throat.

he fists your hair in one brutal yank, wrenching your head back until your neck is a straining, elegant arch, scalp screaming, tears streaming sideways into your ears in hot, endless rivers. pain and pleasure braid together so tightly you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

he fucks you like he hates you, like he’s trying to split you in half and watch the pieces scatter, each thrust so deep your vision fractures into constellations, your cervix battered into a dull, exquisite ache, your walls stretched raw and trembling around the impossible girth of him. the wet slap of skin on skin is deafening, a primal, rhythmic hymn that drowns out your own wrecked sobs, drowns out the creak of the chair, drowns out the blood thundering in your ears.

drool slips from the corner of your parted lips, glistening on your chin, dripping in slow, silver threads onto his shirt. your tongue lolls uselessly, eyes rolled back to whites, tears and sweat and slick painting your face into a ruined, devotional mask. you’re floating deep in subspace now, suspended in a velvet dark where nothing exists except sohee: the salt of his sweat under your nails, the sharp bite of his cologne laced with fresh exertion, the chemical ghost of red bull clinging to his breath, the relentless, punishing stretch of his cock carving you open from the inside out until you’re nothing but a vessel for him, a shrine built of trembling flesh and desperate, endless want.

you’ve cum so many times the numbers have dissolved into meaninglessness. the chair is a swamp beneath you, leather gleaming wet, puddles of your release cooling on the floor in dark, spreading lakes. every thrust forces another helpless gush out around his cock, squirting in messy, violent arcs that splatter his stomach, his thighs, the desk, the monitor, until the room reeks of sex so thick it coats your tongue like a second skin.

he grunts with every stroke now, low and animal, the first real sounds he’s made all night that belong only to you. the chair rocks dangerously, legs screeching across the floor, metal screaming, but he doesn’t care. he uses you like something bought and paid for, hips snapping up to meet every downward slam with brutal, perfect force, forcing you to take every inch, forcing your body to give and give and give until there’s nothing left but the wet, wrecked shell of you impaled and trembling.

you love the way he’s splitting you in half, love the way pain melts into pleasure so intense it feels like dying and being reborn in the same breath, love the way he’s finally, finally looking at you like you’re the only thing in the universe worth destroying.

your voice is gone, reduced to cracked, hiccupping sobs and high, desperate whimpers that spill out every time he bottoms out. your nails rake down his arms, his shoulders, anywhere you can reach, leaving red trails that make him hiss and fuck you harder, faster, deeper. your thighs are jelly, trembling uncontrollably, toes cramping inside your heels until the straps cut bloody lines.

he has you exactly where he had you the first time, that night months ago when he fucked you so stupid the beast inside you finally curled up and purred, quiet for once, sated, trembling, believing the lie that it could ever be enough.

your body is a live wire stripped bare, every nerve scorched and singing, thighs shaking so violently they can barely hold your weight, cunt stretched raw and fluttering around the impossible girth of him, so overstimulated that even the air feels like teeth against your skin. for one merciful heartbeat the insatiable hunger inside you seems tamed, lulled into a heavy, dazed silence by the sheer brutality of being stuffed so full you can taste him at the back of your throat.

but sohee doesn’t give a fuck about mercy. he never has.

he wants you broken beyond walking tomorrow, wants your legs to give out the second you try to stand, wants you curled on his floor whimpering while he queues up another twelve-hour session uninterrupted, headphones on, your ruined body nothing more than background noise he can ignore.

“take it,” he snarls through clenched teeth, hips snapping up into you with fresh, vicious force, each thrust a deliberate punishment. “fucking take it.”

your body is going limp, melting against his chest like wax under flame, nerves fried to cinders. a weak, trembling hand snakes out on instinct, fingers scrabbling at the sweat-slick plane of his lower stomach, trying to slow him, trying to beg for a breath that isn’t a sob. he swats it away like it’s nothing, the sharp crack of his palm against your wrist ringing out, and punishes you instantly by driving deeper, harder, the fat head of his cock punching against your cervix with a brutality that makes your vision white out and your spine bow.

you try again, both hands pushing feebly at his chest, nails scraping uselessly over damp cotton.

“s-sohee, i-i can’t—” your voice is a trembling whimper, cracked in half, barely audible over the wet, relentless slap of his hips against yours. “it’s t-too, fuck, much—”

he slaps your hands away again, harder this time, the sting blooming bright across your knuckles. his eyes are black under the strobing lights, pupils blown wide, mouth curled into something between a snarl and a smile.

“don’t fucking lie to me, you needy bitch,” he spits, voice raw and vicious, still contempt.

“you always come crawling back for more. you’ll be on my dick again before the sun’s up, crying for it like the desperate little whore you are.”

he fucks you through the protests, through the tears, through the way your body tries to curl in on itself. each thrust is deeper than the last, harder, faster, the stretch so overwhelming it feels like he’s trying to turn you inside out. your cunt clamps down in frantic, overstretched spasms, trying to take him, trying to survive him, squirting again in helpless, humiliating pulses that soak the ruined chair and drip in warm rivulets down your thighs.

you’re sobbing openly now, head lolling against his shoulder, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth, body jerking with every brutal stroke like a doll he’s shaking apart. your hands fall limp at your sides, fingers twitching, no strength left to fight, only to take.

a faint ping slices through the haze, the discord notification, a new avatar blinking into the lobby like a ghost rising from the digital grave.

anton.

sohee’s headset is off, tossed aside in a careless heap on the desk, but the mic is still hot, the call never ended, every sound, every gasp, every wet slap of skin hanging in the open air like an invitation to ruin, a forbidden broadcast of your betrayal echoing into the void where innocence goes to die.

sohee freezes for half a heartbeat, his cock twitching deep inside you at the delicious, forbidden realisation, a dark thrill that sends a fresh pulse of heat through your core, then a predatory grin spreads across his face, slow and vicious, like shadows lengthening at dusk across a forbidden threshold, his eyes gleaming with the kind of cruel delight that stirs something primal and broken in your soul.

he doesn’t mute. doesn’t leave the call. doesn’t even slow his rhythm. instead, he leans back in the wrecked chair, one hand splayed possessively over the obscene bulge of himself in your stomach, fingers pressing down just enough to make you feel the imprint of his dominance, and starts grinding slow, deliberate circles that force fresh tears from your eyes and a shattered whimper from your lips, the motion a torturous drag that rubs every vein, every ridge against your raw walls in a way that makes the shame twist into something darker, hotter.

the knowledge that anton, sweet, oblivious anton, might hear you unraveling for another man sending a forbidden rush of arousal crashing through you, making your cunt clench despite the exhaustion, making you want it more because it’s so wrong, so filthy, the ultimate aphrodisiac wrapped in guilt.

anton’s voice filters through the abandoned headset on the desk, soft, confused, heartbreakingly innocent, a gentle lilt that cuts through the haze of lust like a knife through silk, landing in your gut with a twist of horror and heat.

“sohee hyung? you there? i thought we were queuing up…”

sohee’s hips snap up once, hard, forcing another wrecked moan from your throat that echoes crystal-clear through the speakers, a sound so raw and filthy it could shatter glass, a betrayal broadcast in real time that makes your skin prickle with shame even as it sends a fresh wave of slick gushing around him.

“say thank you,” he murmurs against your ear, low and commanding, voice dripping with the kind of dark honey that makes your cunt clench despite the exhaustion, a command laced with the thrill of exposure.

“thank me for fucking you properly. say it loud.”

your tongue is thick, words slurred and jumbled, brain fogged by the haze of subspace and the relentless overstimulation, but you try, you always try for him, the syllables tumbling out broken and wet, each one a confession of your darkest desire.

“th-thank you… f-f-fucking me… making… feel so… so full… s-so good…”

he presses harder on your stomach, forcing you to feel every pulsing inch of him buried inside, a cruel reminder of your betrayal, the bulge shifting under his palm like a living testament to how completely he’s claimed what anton could never touch.

“good little slut,” he praises, loud and clear for the mic, his voice carrying through the open call like a blade unsheathed, slicing through the air with deliberate cruelty.

then, casual, conversational, like he’s discussing the weather while his cock drags slow and deep inside you, stirring the shame into something intoxicating

“and anton will never be able to fuck you like this, right? this pussy only cums for me.”

your body answers before your brain can, cunt spasming hard in greedy waves, another helpless gush of slick squirting out around him as shame and pleasure detonate together in a firestorm that leaves you shaking, sobbing, grinding down despite the burn, making the wrongness feel so right, so arousing that you want to drown in it, want the listener on the other end to hear how completely you’ve surrendered, even as the guilt twists like a knife in your chest.

anton’s voice cracks through the headset again, small and trembling, laced with the exact moment his world crumbles, a gentle tone filtering through the speakers abandoned on sohee’s desk, close enough that it cuts through the haze of lust and lands like a knife in your gut, piercing the veil of your darkest desire with the sharp sting of reality.

“babe?”

just that one word, soft, wounded, hanging in the air like a fragile thing about to shatter, his innocent confusion wrapping around your throat tighter than sohee’s hand ever could, a sound so heartbreaking it should stop everything, but instead it ignites the shame into an aphrodisiac so potent your cunt clenches harder, another wave of slick flooding out as the wrongness makes you wetter, needier, the thrill of being caught fueling the fire until you’re burning from the inside out.

sohee laughs, low and filthy, a sound that vibrates through his chest into yours, a dark rumble that sends shivers racing across your skin, and snaps his hips up harder, grinding deep, forcing another wrecked, slurred moan out of you that spills straight into the open call, a betrayal broadcast in high definition.

“hear that, anton?” he says, voice dripping with mock sympathy that’s laced with triumph, never slowing, never stopping, his thrusts turning even more deliberate as if to punctuate every word.

“that’s what she sounds like when she’s finally getting fucked right. by me.”

the line is silent for an eternity compressed into seconds, a silence so dense it has texture, like oil poured over water, thick and suffocating, heavy with the collective held breath of strangers and the boy who once traced constellations on your back with gentle fingertips, the boy who believed you were made of light.

every heartbeat in the room feels magnified, every wet shift of sohee’s cock inside you, every tremor of your ruined thighs, every tear sliding sideways into your hair amplified into something obscene by the knowledge that anton is listening, really listening, to the sound of his entire universe collapsing in real time.

then anton speaks again, and the voice that reaches you is not the soft, wounded thing you continued to expect, not the shattered cry of betrayal you had braced for, but something lower, steadier, laced with a darkness that curls hot and treacherous in the cradle of your belly, a tone you have never heard from him before, one that makes your overfucked cunt clench involuntarily around sohee’s cock even as fresh tears flood your eyes.

“is that true, my love?”

the question is quiet, almost conversational, yet it lands like a hand sliding between your legs in the dark, curious, possessive, hungry. a pause, thick enough to choke on, heavy with the weight of everything unsaid, everything suddenly possible.

“he fucks you that good? better than me?”

another breath, slower this time, deeper, the kind of inhale a man takes when he’s tasting something forbidden for the first time and realising he likes the flavour.

he whines when you reach his side, face buried in the pillow. “thought i took tylenol,” he admits, voice small. “but it’s… not. i-it won’t go away. please—”

he’s trembling, embarrassed tears clinging to his lashes, his cock twitching violently under the fabric.

you hush him, brushing the damp hair from his forehead. “baby… did you take something else?”

he nods weakly. “don’t know. it won’t stop. tried—” his hips jerk up at nothing, “—tried touching but it just got worse.”

he looks wrecked, and your chest aches.

“do you want me to help you?” you ask gently, making sure it’s his choice.

the answer is instant — a desperate nod, another whimper of “please.”

you climb onto the bed, straddling his hips, your fingers tugging at the band of his sweats. “i’ve got you,” you murmur, pulling them down enough for his cock to spring free — flushed, leaking, so hard it twitches against his stomach.

he gasps, trembling under you, as you line yourself up.

“shh, baby. i’ll take care of you.”

the moment you sink down onto him, his back arches violently, a sob ripping from his chest. “oh—god, oh fuck—so good—”

his hands clutch your hips, not guiding, just holding like he might fall apart without the anchor. you roll your hips slow, grounding him with steady motion, praise spilling from your lips.

“you’re doing so well. feel how good you’re making me feel, sweetheart? you don’t need to do anything else. just let me.”

he moans prettily, head tipped back, lips parted, breathy pleas slipping out with every thrust. “please—don’t stop—need it so bad—feels so good—”

it doesn’t take long. the pill has him wound so tight that within minutes he’s sobbing, spilling deep inside you, hips jerking uncontrollably.

you’re still catching your breath, stroking his damp hair, when you realize he hasn’t softened. his cock twitches inside you, still hard, still leaking.

“sohee—” you start, but before you can finish, his grip tightens, and he flips you onto your back.

“c-can’t,” he stammers, eyes wild, face burning. “still—need—please.”

you gasp as he starts thrusting, frantic and sloppy, chasing relief that won’t come. his whines fill the room, broken cries of “so good, please, please, so good,” each one more desperate than the last.

you cup his face, kissing him through the tears, grounding him with your touch even as his hips piston into you. “it’s okay, baby. i’ve got you. use me as much as you need.”

he fucks you through another orgasm, messy and frantic. your walls clench around him, overstimulation sparking through your body, and his moans grow higher-pitched.

“g-gonna—ahh, baby, i’m—”

he spills inside you again, hips jerking erratically, cock twitching as if it’ll never get enough. his whole body trembles, but he doesn’t pull out, doesn’t soften.

instead, he whines, tears brimming in his eyes. “still—still hard, hurts—please don’t make me stop.”

you kiss his damp cheek, soothing him. “you don’t have to stop, love. just keep going. i’ll hold you through it.”

he starts thrusting again almost immediately, whimpering into your neck, hips losing rhythm. his cock feels impossibly hot, every movement sending shocks of pleasure through both of you.

“too much—so good—baby, it’s too much, i can’t—”

you cradle him tighter, whispering in his ear, “yes you can, sweetheart. look at how well you’re taking it. my good boy.”

his answering cry is broken, desperate. “yours—yours, only yours—”

when he cums this time, it rips through him like lightning. he sobs into your chest, cock spilling again, but even then, it doesn’t relent.

he finally slows enough for you to see his face, red and blotchy, lips swollen, eyes wet.

“hurts,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “feels so good but it hurts. can’t—please—don’t leave me.”

you kiss his temple, stroking his damp hair. “i’m right here, baby. keep going, let it out. i’ll let you use me until it’s gone.”

he whimpers, hips moving again with shaky determination, tears slipping down his cheeks. his thrusts are erratic, needy, like he’s chasing a high he can’t reach.

you guide him with soft words, grounding his frantic pace until you feel him convulse again, body jerking as another orgasm rips through him.

by now your own body is trembling from the overstimulation, every thrust sparking both pleasure and ache. still, you hold him close, nails dragging gently down his back as he sobs into your shoulder.

“don’t wanna stop,” he babbles, cock twitching inside you. “feels too good, baby, please—”

your heart aches at how helpless he sounds, and you kiss him through the desperation. “then don’t. keep going, love. you’re doing so well.”

his rhythm grows frantic again, hips slamming messily until another broken orgasm shakes through him, cum spilling hot inside you. he whines as if it’s pain and pleasure tangled together.

by the time he finally slumps against you, every part of him trembling, you’ve lost count of how many times he came. your thighs are sticky, the sheets soaked, his body limp with exhaustion.

you hold him close, whispering praise into his hair as he clings to you.

“you did so well, baby. so good for me. i’m so proud of you.”

he whimpers faintly, lips brushing your collarbone. “thank you… love you…”

you clean him gently, tuck him under the blankets, and let him bury his face in your chest as his breathing slows. even in sleep, his fingers curl around your wrist, like he can’t let go.

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