viv ✧⁠*⁠。

"Third door on the left," he murmurs now, close to your ear, and the warmth of it does something stupid to your stomach. He's got your hand in his, fingers laced together, pulling you down the corridor with this urgency that keeps threatening to tip over into something reckless.

"You're going to wake everyone up, Pedri and Gavi are next door," you hiss.

"I'm not doing anything." He stops at his door and turns to face you, and even now - rumpled, champagne-flushed, eyes gone soft with exhaustion and something else entirely, he looks like the man who scored the only goal in a World Cup final. Like someone who got exactly what he wanted and is already thinking about the next thing.

He fumbles with the keycard.

It doesn't work.

You bite down on a smile. "Ferran."

"I know, I know-"

He tries it again, the little light flashing red, and he exhales through his nose and presses his forehead briefly against the door like it's personally betrayed him. You're going to laugh, you can feel it building.

"Flip it the other way," you whisper.

He does. The light blinks green.

He turns back to you with an expression that can only be described as triumphant, like he's scored again. The lock clicked loudly in the silent hallway and you both froze, wide-eyed and drunk, before dissolving into hushed laughter.

"Shh, shh," he grinned, the smile boyish and wicked all at once as he pushed the door open. His hand slid lower on your body, squeezing your hip, then your ass as he guided you inside. "I'll be quiet, baby. I promise."

The door had barely clicked shut before Ferran's mouth was on yours again, hot and desperate. His hands framed your face at first, thumbs stroking your flushed cheeks, but that restraint lasted all of three seconds. One of his big palms slid down to grip the back of your neck, tilting your head exactly how he wanted as his tongue pushed past your lips.

He pressed you harder against the door, his body flush with yours. You could feel every inch of him - his chest, his abs still tight from the adrenaline of the match, and the hard outline of his cock grinding slowly, deliberately against your thigh. He rolled his hips in filthy little circles, letting you feel how badly he needed you.

"Been so hard for hours," he breathed against your mouth between kisses, voice wrecked and quiet. "Every time I looked at you tonight… fuck, I just wanted to drag you somewhere and bury myself in you."

Your hands fisted in his shirt, tugging him impossibly closer. The friction of his clothed cock rubbing against you had heat pooling low in your belly, your panties already soaked. He kissed you like he was drowning, messy and urgent, teeth tugging at your bottom lip before soothing it with his tongue.

You couldn’t take it anymore. Your hands slid down his chest, over the hard planes of his stomach, until you dropped to your knees right there against the door. Ferran's eyes widened, dark with lust, as you quickly worked his belt and zipper open.

"Baby - fuck," he hissed as you freed his cock. It sprang out, heavy and flushed, the tip already glistening with pre-cum. He was rock hard, veins prominent under your gaze.

You didn't tease, just took him into your mouth in one smooth motion, as deep as you could. Ferran's head thunked back against the door with a muffled thud, his hand flying to your hair, fingers tightening almost painfully.

"Shit - yes, just like that," he whispered, voice strained as he fought to stay quiet. His hips jerked forward involuntarily, pushing deeper into the wet heat of your throat.

You sucked him eagerly, hollowing your cheeks, tongue swirling around the head every time you pulled back. The taste of him, salty and warm, made you moan around his length.

He was breathing hard through his nose, chest heaving, trying so hard not to make noise. But you could tell he was already close as his thighs trembled, his grip in your hair grew tighter, and his cock throbbed heavily on your tongue.

After only a minute, he cursed under his breath and pulled you off with a wet pop, breathing ragged.

"Not yet," he growled, voice low as he hauled you back up, kissing you fiercely so he could taste himself on your tongue. "Want to finish inside you, I need to feel you come around me first."

Before you could respond, he scooped you up, hands gripping the back of your thighs. You wrapped your legs around his waist as he carried you across the dark hotel room toward the king-sized bed. His mouth never left your skin - kissing, licking, sucking marks along your neck and collarbone.

He dropped you onto the mattress, the bounce making you both grin drunkenly for a second. His hands were everywhere at once, ripping at your clothes with zero patience. The expensive dress you'd worn to the celebrations was yanked up and over your head, your bra was quickly unclasped and tossed aside as he peeled your soaked panties down your legs and threw them somewhere into the darkness.

You were completely bare in front of him, and Ferran stared like he'd just won another trophy.

"Fuck, look at you," he murmured reverently, running his hands up your thighs, spreading them wide.

He dropped to his knees at the edge of the bed, dragged you to the very edge, and buried his face between your legs without warning.

The first long, slow lick from your entrance to your clit made your back arch off the bed. He groaned loudly into your pussy at how wet you were, the vibration shooting pleasure through you, then he stopped holding back. Ferran ate you out like a man starved - messy, ravenous as two thick fingers plunging deep inside you and curling instantly against that spot that made you cry out.

"Oh my god - Ferran," you cried out, trying desperately to stay quiet. You bit your lip hard, one hand flying to your mouth while the other tangled in his hair.

He didn't let up. He kept devouring you, licking and sucking with obscene wet sounds that filled the room. His fingers pumped steadily, faster and faster, while his tongue worked your clit in tight circles. Every moan he made vibrated against your most sensitive parts, the knot in your stomach getting tighter and tighter.

You were failing miserably at being quiet.

Soft, broken whimpers and gasps kept slipping out despite your efforts. "Ferran - fuck, please- I can’t - ah!"

He pulled back just enough to look up at you, lips shiny with your arousal, eyes blazing with lust. "Shhh, baby," he whispered, voice husky, before diving back in even harder.

The pressure built unbearably fast as your thighs started shaking around his head, hips grinding desperately against his mouth. He was relentless - groaning, licking, sucking, fucking you with his fingers like he needed you to come more than he needed air.

You came hard, back bowing off the bed, a choked cry tearing from your throat before you could muffle it with your hand. "Oh, Ferran!"

Pleasure crashed over you in waves, your pussy clenching rhythmically around his fingers as he kept licking you through it, drawing out every last pulse of ecstasy.

Ferran didn't stop until you were trembling and oversensitive, kissing your inner thighs softly as you came down.

He rose up over you, cock rock hard and leaking, eyes dark with pure need as he climbed onto the bed, crawling over you with a hunger that still somehow looked reverent. His body hovered above yours, skin hot and flushed from the long night.

For a moment, everything slowed. He cupped your face with both hands, thumbs brushing tenderly over your cheekbones as he looked straight into your eyes.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he whispered, voice thick with emotion and lust.

Then he kissed you - soft at first, almost sweet. His lips moved gently against yours, savoring the taste of your shared desire. You melted into it, arms wrapping around his neck, fingers threading through his messy hair as the kiss deepened. Tongues slid lazily together, like he was pouring every ounce of love and triumph into you.

You could feel his cock, heavy and burning hot, resting against your soaked entrance, twitching with need. But he didn't rush, just kept kissing you, breathing you in, forehead pressed to yours between kisses, eyes half-lidded and locked on yours.

With a low, broken groan, Ferran gripped your hips hard and thrust into you in one powerful stroke, burying himself to the hilt. The sudden stretch and fullness ripped a loud cry from your throat. He didn't give you time to adjust as he pulled back and slammed in again, setting a relentless pace right away.

"Fuck - yes," he growled, eyes burning into yours. He refused to look away, staring straight at you as he fucked you senseless.

The headboard started slamming against the wall with every hard thrust. Thud. Thud. Thud. The sound echoed through the quiet hotel room, but Ferran didn't seem to care anymore. He'd completely forgotten about his teammates sleeping next door. All that mattered was you.

He was rough and fast, hips snapping forward with powerful strokes that drove the air from your lungs. Every thrust was deep, almost punishing in its intensity. Sweat dripped from his forehead onto your chest as he pounded into you, the wet slap of skin on skin mixing with your uncontrollable moans and his deep, guttural groans.

You cried out sharply with every thrust, unable to hold back. "Oh, Ferran - oh god, slow down, they'll hear-"

But he just fucked you harder, eyes still locked on yours, pupils blown wide with raw lust. "Let them," he rasped, voice wrecked. "I don't care. Need you, need this."

He was fighting so hard not to cum. You could see it in his face - the clenched jaw, the way his brows furrowed in concentration, the desperate groans that slipped out every time your walls fluttered around him. His fingers dug bruisingly into your hips as he held you in place, driving into you again and again.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he groaned loudly, never breaking eye contact. "So tight… so wet for me. Look at me, baby. Don't look away."

You couldn't have looked away even if you wanted to. His gaze pinned you intensely as he fucked you into the mattress. Tears of overwhelming pleasure pricked at the corners of your eyes, every thrust hit that perfect spot inside you, sending sparks of ecstasy shooting through your body.

Ferran suddenly grabbed your legs, pushing your ankles up onto his shoulders. The new angle folded you in half, letting him sink even deeper. He groaned loudly at the sensation, burying himself as far as physically possible.

"Oh Ferran, oh my fucking god-" you sobbed, the pleasure overstimulating since you were still sensitive from your previous orgasm.

"Gonna cum inside you," he panted, voice hoarse, thrusts growing somehow even deeper. "Fuck, look at me when you cum again."

His words, combined with the relentless drag of his cock against that sensitive spot and the overwhelming eye contact, sent you spiraling. You came hard around him, crying out his name loud enough that half the floor probably heard.

Ferran's rhythm finally broke. With a deep, guttural moan that echoed through the room, he slammed into you one last time and stayed buried deep, hips pressed flush against you. His cock pulsed hard as he came, flooding you with thick, hot spurts. He kept his eyes on yours the entire time, watching every second of your shared climax, forehead pressed to yours as he groaned your name like a prayer.

For a moment, the only sounds were your ragged breathing and the distant thump of your racing hearts. Ferran stayed inside you, gently lowering your legs as he collapsed on top of you, still pressing soft kisses to your lips, your cheeks, your neck.

"Best night of my life," he whispered against your skin, voice soft again.

The next morning, the parade bus is a disaster.

It starts before Ferran even makes it up the steps. Lamine is already there, sunglasses on despite the fact that it's overcast, grinning at him with the specific energy of someone who has been waiting all morning to say something.

"There he is," Lamine announces to no one in particular. "The hero of Spain."

"Don't," Ferran says.

"I'm just saying. Two goals last night."

Ferran stops walking. "I scored one goal."

"That's not what it sounded like from room 804."

The back of the bus erupts. Gavi nearly chokes on whatever he's drinking, Pedri has his face buried in his hands already, and Cucurella is outright cackling, leaning across the seat to slap Lamine on the arm like he's just said the funniest thing anyone has ever said in the history of professional football.

Ferran keeps walking and finds a seat, jaw tight, staring straight ahead.

It lasts about thirty seconds.

"Oh, Ferraaaaaan-"

He turns around. It's Gavi, voice pitched high, hand clutched dramatically to his chest, and now the whole section of the bus is losing it, a full chorus of his name in varying degrees of falsetto, and Ferran closes his eyes slowly like a man searching for patience he does not have.

"You're all children," he says. "We won the World Cup yesterday."

"We know," Pedri says, completely composed except for the way his mouth is twitching. "We were there. We heard."

"Shut up, Pedri."

"I'm just saying - thin walls."

"Incredibly thin," Cucurella agrees solemnly. "Paper, basically paper."

"I had to put headphones in," Lamine adds, shaking his head like he's recounting a trauma. "At four in the morning. On the night we won the World Cup because of you."

Ferran turns back to face the front of the bus. Outside the window, the streets are already lined with people, red and yellow everywhere, flags and scarves and thousands of faces blurring together. The noise of it filters through the glass, and it's enormous, the kind of sound that settles somewhere behind your ribs.

He'd scored the only goal in a World Cup final - he should be allowed to have this.

"She was really that loud?" someone asks from the back, one of the defenders, he doesn't even turn to look.

"Louder," Gavi and Pedri say at the exact same time.

The bus absolutely loses it again.

Ferran tips his head back against the seat and stares at the roof and thinks about how he is going to have to live with this for the rest of his career. Every dressing room, every camp, every time one of them wants a cheap laugh. He's going to be sixty years old and Lamine Yamal is still going to be doing that voice.

But then the bus turns the corner and the crowd comes into full view - hundreds of thousands of them, screaming, crying, holding up his name on banners and someone presses a medal into his hand, while Gavi drops into the seat beside him, shoulder to shoulder, and says quietly, genuinely, "You were unbelievable yesterday. You know that, right?"

Ferran looks at him.

Gavi grins. "The goal, I mean. Obviously."

"I hate you," Ferran says.

"No you don't."

He doesn't.

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"Third door on the left," he murmurs now, close to your ear, and the warmth of it does something stupid to your stomach. He's got your hand in his, fingers laced together, pulling you down the corridor with this urgency that keeps threatening to tip over into something reckless.

"You're going to wake everyone up, Pedri and Gavi are next door," you hiss.

"I'm not doing anything." He stops at his door and turns to face you, and even now - rumpled, champagne-flushed, eyes gone soft with exhaustion and something else entirely, he looks like the man who scored the only goal in a World Cup final. Like someone who got exactly what he wanted and is already thinking about the next thing.

He fumbles with the keycard.

It doesn't work.

You bite down on a smile. "Ferran."

"I know, I know-"

He tries it again, the little light flashing red, and he exhales through his nose and presses his forehead briefly against the door like it's personally betrayed him. You're going to laugh, you can feel it building.

"Flip it the other way," you whisper.

He does. The light blinks green.

He turns back to you with an expression that can only be described as triumphant, like he's scored again. The lock clicked loudly in the silent hallway and you both froze, wide-eyed and drunk, before dissolving into hushed laughter.

"Shh, shh," he grinned, the smile boyish and wicked all at once as he pushed the door open. His hand slid lower on your body, squeezing your hip, then your ass as he guided you inside. "I'll be quiet, baby. I promise."

The door had barely clicked shut before Ferran's mouth was on yours again, hot and desperate. His hands framed your face at first, thumbs stroking your flushed cheeks, but that restraint lasted all of three seconds. One of his big palms slid down to grip the back of your neck, tilting your head exactly how he wanted as his tongue pushed past your lips.

He pressed you harder against the door, his body flush with yours. You could feel every inch of him - his chest, his abs still tight from the adrenaline of the match, and the hard outline of his cock grinding slowly, deliberately against your thigh. He rolled his hips in filthy little circles, letting you feel how badly he needed you.

"Been so hard for hours," he breathed against your mouth between kisses, voice wrecked and quiet. "Every time I looked at you tonight… fuck, I just wanted to drag you somewhere and bury myself in you."

Your hands fisted in his shirt, tugging him impossibly closer. The friction of his clothed cock rubbing against you had heat pooling low in your belly, your panties already soaked. He kissed you like he was drowning, messy and urgent, teeth tugging at your bottom lip before soothing it with his tongue.

You couldn’t take it anymore. Your hands slid down his chest, over the hard planes of his stomach, until you dropped to your knees right there against the door. Ferran's eyes widened, dark with lust, as you quickly worked his belt and zipper open.

"Baby - fuck," he hissed as you freed his cock. It sprang out, heavy and flushed, the tip already glistening with pre-cum. He was rock hard, veins prominent under your gaze.

You didn't tease, just took him into your mouth in one smooth motion, as deep as you could. Ferran's head thunked back against the door with a muffled thud, his hand flying to your hair, fingers tightening almost painfully.

"Shit - yes, just like that," he whispered, voice strained as he fought to stay quiet. His hips jerked forward involuntarily, pushing deeper into the wet heat of your throat.

You sucked him eagerly, hollowing your cheeks, tongue swirling around the head every time you pulled back. The taste of him, salty and warm, made you moan around his length.

He was breathing hard through his nose, chest heaving, trying so hard not to make noise. But you could tell he was already close as his thighs trembled, his grip in your hair grew tighter, and his cock throbbed heavily on your tongue.

After only a minute, he cursed under his breath and pulled you off with a wet pop, breathing ragged.

"Not yet," he growled, voice low as he hauled you back up, kissing you fiercely so he could taste himself on your tongue. "Want to finish inside you, I need to feel you come around me first."

Before you could respond, he scooped you up, hands gripping the back of your thighs. You wrapped your legs around his waist as he carried you across the dark hotel room toward the king-sized bed. His mouth never left your skin - kissing, licking, sucking marks along your neck and collarbone.

He dropped you onto the mattress, the bounce making you both grin drunkenly for a second. His hands were everywhere at once, ripping at your clothes with zero patience. The expensive dress you'd worn to the celebrations was yanked up and over your head, your bra was quickly unclasped and tossed aside as he peeled your soaked panties down your legs and threw them somewhere into the darkness.

You were completely bare in front of him, and Ferran stared like he'd just won another trophy.

"Fuck, look at you," he murmured reverently, running his hands up your thighs, spreading them wide.

He dropped to his knees at the edge of the bed, dragged you to the very edge, and buried his face between your legs without warning.

The first long, slow lick from your entrance to your clit made your back arch off the bed. He groaned loudly into your pussy at how wet you were, the vibration shooting pleasure through you, then he stopped holding back. Ferran ate you out like a man starved - messy, ravenous as two thick fingers plunging deep inside you and curling instantly against that spot that made you cry out.

"Oh my god - Ferran," you cried out, trying desperately to stay quiet. You bit your lip hard, one hand flying to your mouth while the other tangled in his hair.

He didn't let up. He kept devouring you, licking and sucking with obscene wet sounds that filled the room. His fingers pumped steadily, faster and faster, while his tongue worked your clit in tight circles. Every moan he made vibrated against your most sensitive parts, the knot in your stomach getting tighter and tighter.

You were failing miserably at being quiet.

Soft, broken whimpers and gasps kept slipping out despite your efforts. "Ferran - fuck, please- I can’t - ah!"

He pulled back just enough to look up at you, lips shiny with your arousal, eyes blazing with lust. "Shhh, baby," he whispered, voice husky, before diving back in even harder.

The pressure built unbearably fast as your thighs started shaking around his head, hips grinding desperately against his mouth. He was relentless - groaning, licking, sucking, fucking you with his fingers like he needed you to come more than he needed air.

You came hard, back bowing off the bed, a choked cry tearing from your throat before you could muffle it with your hand. "Oh, Ferran!"

Pleasure crashed over you in waves, your pussy clenching rhythmically around his fingers as he kept licking you through it, drawing out every last pulse of ecstasy.

Ferran didn't stop until you were trembling and oversensitive, kissing your inner thighs softly as you came down.

He rose up over you, cock rock hard and leaking, eyes dark with pure need as he climbed onto the bed, crawling over you with a hunger that still somehow looked reverent. His body hovered above yours, skin hot and flushed from the long night.

For a moment, everything slowed. He cupped your face with both hands, thumbs brushing tenderly over your cheekbones as he looked straight into your eyes.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he whispered, voice thick with emotion and lust.

Then he kissed you - soft at first, almost sweet. His lips moved gently against yours, savoring the taste of your shared desire. You melted into it, arms wrapping around his neck, fingers threading through his messy hair as the kiss deepened. Tongues slid lazily together, like he was pouring every ounce of love and triumph into you.

You could feel his cock, heavy and burning hot, resting against your soaked entrance, twitching with need. But he didn't rush, just kept kissing you, breathing you in, forehead pressed to yours between kisses, eyes half-lidded and locked on yours.

With a low, broken groan, Ferran gripped your hips hard and thrust into you in one powerful stroke, burying himself to the hilt. The sudden stretch and fullness ripped a loud cry from your throat. He didn't give you time to adjust as he pulled back and slammed in again, setting a relentless pace right away.

"Fuck - yes," he growled, eyes burning into yours. He refused to look away, staring straight at you as he fucked you senseless.

The headboard started slamming against the wall with every hard thrust. Thud. Thud. Thud. The sound echoed through the quiet hotel room, but Ferran didn't seem to care anymore. He'd completely forgotten about his teammates sleeping next door. All that mattered was you.

He was rough and fast, hips snapping forward with powerful strokes that drove the air from your lungs. Every thrust was deep, almost punishing in its intensity. Sweat dripped from his forehead onto your chest as he pounded into you, the wet slap of skin on skin mixing with your uncontrollable moans and his deep, guttural groans.

You cried out sharply with every thrust, unable to hold back. "Oh, Ferran - oh god, slow down, they'll hear-"

But he just fucked you harder, eyes still locked on yours, pupils blown wide with raw lust. "Let them," he rasped, voice wrecked. "I don't care. Need you, need this."

He was fighting so hard not to cum. You could see it in his face - the clenched jaw, the way his brows furrowed in concentration, the desperate groans that slipped out every time your walls fluttered around him. His fingers dug bruisingly into your hips as he held you in place, driving into you again and again.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he groaned loudly, never breaking eye contact. "So tight… so wet for me. Look at me, baby. Don't look away."

You couldn't have looked away even if you wanted to. His gaze pinned you intensely as he fucked you into the mattress. Tears of overwhelming pleasure pricked at the corners of your eyes, every thrust hit that perfect spot inside you, sending sparks of ecstasy shooting through your body.

Ferran suddenly grabbed your legs, pushing your ankles up onto his shoulders. The new angle folded you in half, letting him sink even deeper. He groaned loudly at the sensation, burying himself as far as physically possible.

"Oh Ferran, oh my fucking god-" you sobbed, the pleasure overstimulating since you were still sensitive from your previous orgasm.

"Gonna cum inside you," he panted, voice hoarse, thrusts growing somehow even deeper. "Fuck, look at me when you cum again."

His words, combined with the relentless drag of his cock against that sensitive spot and the overwhelming eye contact, sent you spiraling. You came hard around him, crying out his name loud enough that half the floor probably heard.

Ferran's rhythm finally broke. With a deep, guttural moan that echoed through the room, he slammed into you one last time and stayed buried deep, hips pressed flush against you. His cock pulsed hard as he came, flooding you with thick, hot spurts. He kept his eyes on yours the entire time, watching every second of your shared climax, forehead pressed to yours as he groaned your name like a prayer.

For a moment, the only sounds were your ragged breathing and the distant thump of your racing hearts. Ferran stayed inside you, gently lowering your legs as he collapsed on top of you, still pressing soft kisses to your lips, your cheeks, your neck.

"Best night of my life," he whispered against your skin, voice soft again.

The next morning, the parade bus is a disaster.

It starts before Ferran even makes it up the steps. Lamine is already there, sunglasses on despite the fact that it's overcast, grinning at him with the specific energy of someone who has been waiting all morning to say something.

"There he is," Lamine announces to no one in particular. "The hero of Spain."

"Don't," Ferran says.

"I'm just saying. Two goals last night."

Ferran stops walking. "I scored one goal."

"That's not what it sounded like from room 804."

The back of the bus erupts. Gavi nearly chokes on whatever he's drinking, Pedri has his face buried in his hands already, and Cucurella is outright cackling, leaning across the seat to slap Lamine on the arm like he's just said the funniest thing anyone has ever said in the history of professional football.

Ferran keeps walking and finds a seat, jaw tight, staring straight ahead.

It lasts about thirty seconds.

"Oh, Ferraaaaaan-"

He turns around. It's Gavi, voice pitched high, hand clutched dramatically to his chest, and now the whole section of the bus is losing it, a full chorus of his name in varying degrees of falsetto, and Ferran closes his eyes slowly like a man searching for patience he does not have.

"You're all children," he says. "We won the World Cup yesterday."

"We know," Pedri says, completely composed except for the way his mouth is twitching. "We were there. We heard."

"Shut up, Pedri."

"I'm just saying - thin walls."

"Incredibly thin," Cucurella agrees solemnly. "Paper, basically paper."

"I had to put headphones in," Lamine adds, shaking his head like he's recounting a trauma. "At four in the morning. On the night we won the World Cup because of you."

Ferran turns back to face the front of the bus. Outside the window, the streets are already lined with people, red and yellow everywhere, flags and scarves and thousands of faces blurring together. The noise of it filters through the glass, and it's enormous, the kind of sound that settles somewhere behind your ribs.

He'd scored the only goal in a World Cup final - he should be allowed to have this.

"She was really that loud?" someone asks from the back, one of the defenders, he doesn't even turn to look.

"Louder," Gavi and Pedri say at the exact same time.

The bus absolutely loses it again.

Ferran tips his head back against the seat and stares at the roof and thinks about how he is going to have to live with this for the rest of his career. Every dressing room, every camp, every time one of them wants a cheap laugh. He's going to be sixty years old and Lamine Yamal is still going to be doing that voice.

But then the bus turns the corner and the crowd comes into full view - hundreds of thousands of them, screaming, crying, holding up his name on banners and someone presses a medal into his hand, while Gavi drops into the seat beside him, shoulder to shoulder, and says quietly, genuinely, "You were unbelievable yesterday. You know that, right?"

Ferran looks at him.

Gavi grins. "The goal, I mean. Obviously."

"I hate you," Ferran says.

"No you don't."

He doesn't.

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the night you’ve been spending with your fairly new boyfriend is slowly coming to an end, and you feel like a princess and an angel wrapped into one. how can you not, when ferran’s strong arms are wrapped around you as he carries you into his sacred space.

don’t get it twisted, though: you’ve been dating ferran for a while, but today is the day you’re finally spending the night at his place after a lot of “please, baby!”s.

his room is tidy and neat, the corners of his duvet tucked into sharp corners, his pillows all fluffed up. a random, dark green hat lies on top of his dresser, as well as a random watch, but that doesn’t matter. you’re more focused on your boyfriend, anyway.

especially when he plops you on his soft bed, your body softly bouncing back on the mattress. and ferran leans down with two arms planted on either side of you and looks at you like you’re the light of his life: his eyes scrunched up in delight, that adorable smile he’s always wearing around you. his brown hair peeking out from the back of his neck, his blushy cheeks.

you’d be an idiot to think he’s not in love with you.

“really,” ferran affirms, voice warm and thick like treacle, descending his face down to yours to press a short, but sweet kiss to your lips. “you always look beautiful, my love. always.” he says against your lips. you can feel your heart stutter at his words, the profoundness of his confession. why’d he have to be so cute? you’ve never been so caught up in a guy.

your boyfriend stands back up straight, grabbing you by your hands to pull you up too. “you wanna wear something of mine to bed?”

you hum back affirmatively, already all sleepy and sated as you stare at how ferran opens the door of his closet, rummaging through his array of shirts before grabbing the softest, most comfortable piece he can find. 

you swiftly change into the piece of clothing he chose, the fabric reaching mid-thigh and the fabric soft and comfortable around your frame. perfect to sleep in. and ferran thinks so too. that you’re perfect.

you know that, because he looks at you like you hung the fucking moon.

“you’re such an angel,” he tells you, his hands finding yours, voice cracked open in vulnerability and wonder. he spins you around slowly in the middle of his room, because here, in the dim yellow light of his bedroom and the stale quaintness of barcelona around you two, all he can focus on is sharing this moment with you.

he pulls one of your hands to his mouth before placing another light kiss to your knuckles, his brown, gooey eyes never leaving yours. “prettiest girl on the planet.” your insides get all mushy at his gravel voice, because all you can think of ferran is how he’s cute. respectful. beautiful. never pushy. accommodating. lovely. excited. he has the humility of a child, the gentleness that reminds you of the bfg, somehow. 

ferran takes a step back, away from you, before turning his back to you to get himself ready for bed too. he sits down on his bed, just doing his thing, plugging his phone into the charger.

but when he hooks his hand around the sturdy fabric of the tee he’s wearing and pulls the shirt over his head, all the innocent, sweet thoughts about him vanish like snow before the sun, because—

well, his entire back is covered in fucking ink.

and you’ve never felt your knees buckle this fast. you genuinely have to hold yourself up, one hand planted on the soft duvet of his bed to prevent yourself from folding. ferran draws up his arm to scratch the back of his neck, and the tendons and the muscles shift underneath his tanned skin.

because now, you think of your boyfriend as sexy. hot. undeniably attractive, as opposed to cute and adorable.

“wow,” is all you can muster, tentatively walking on your knees across his bed until you’re within touching-distance. “i didn’t know you had, y’know—” you vaguely gesture around your boyfriend’s back, “all of this.”

it’s as if ferran can feel the nervous air around you, because he huffs out a self-satisfied, attractive chuckle. “it’s nothing,” he lets his arms rest on his spread legs, his crumpled up shirt still clutched between his fingers, giving you all the time in the world to look at his tattooed back. “it’s just ink on skin.”

the air is pulled taut between you when you reach out your hand, the warmth wavering over ferran’s skin. “can i touch them?” you let the question linger in the air. “can i— can i touch you?”

“you want to?” he shoots back, and you can hear the smirk in his voice.

the tension crackles in the air all of a sudden. it’s sizzling, ferran’s warm, balmy skin under your fingertips. you hear the brunet suck in a small breath when your fingers brush over the chess pawn on the upper left side of his back. “did they hurt?” you decide to ask, your voice so light and broken with curiosity.

ferran can feel himself going absolutely insane. your touch is soothing yet torturing, it’s feathery and delicate, just like you. “not really,” he answers, drawing up his shoulders, his breath weighing heavy in his lungs when he speaks. “can handle the pain.”

the scrape of your nails over his skin has his head falling between his shoulders in delight. the scene looks so intimate from afar: you gently tracing the swirly, intricate designs on your boyfriend’s back, and him revelling in your touch.

“i like this one.” you whisper, both of your hands travelling to the laurel wreath on his lower back, just where the hem of his jeans begins. under the light scratch of your nails, goosebumps erupt across ferran’s skin.

“you do?” he questions, a little playful, a little heartfelt. his voice is strained. his back is like one giant treasure map, every tattoo a new area for you to explore, the empty pathways of skin in between leading you to a new piece.

“and this one—” your fingers meander all the way to his upper back, where the angel wings are. “really fits that name you always call me.”

“yeah, because you are,” he tells you huskily, trying to turn his head so he can look at you. the look in his eyes makes slick dribble on the gusset of your panties. “you’re my angel, baby. you know that.”

ferran’s reassurance is everything you want in life. knowing you’re his. knowing you’re the only one who is able touch him like this, knowing you’re the one who sees the vulnerable, the good, the bad.

you noiselessly move your head down, brushing your lips over the anatomical heart on the upper right side of his back. remnants of your glittery lip gloss stick to his skin like a reminder of you, forever on him.

ferran hums something indecipherable back, something between a jumbled grunt and a helpless whine. “baby…” he breathes exasperatedly, but you just continue to place small, cloying kisses all over him: the set of brains on the other side, the tattooed word below it.

your hands slide over his shoulders, easing the tension away. he smells so clean, like citrus and musk. “what?” you murmur, bringing your face up to his neck, placing kisses there. his faint stubble tickles the sensitive skin of your plump lips. you move your lips to the underside of his chin, the line of his jaw. “can’t show my boyfriend how much i like him?”

“let me kiss you please,” the brunet pulls your face away from him, now finally able to turn around fully. he drops one lingering kiss to your lips, the squelching sound of your lips joining echoing through the tension-ridden bedroom. “gonna show you how much i like you, baby.”

it doesn’t take long until ferran turns around fully and hovers over you, looking at you with stars in his eyes. “i adore you.” he simply confesses, a little out of breath, chest rising and falling with every intake of oxygen. as if you didn’t know.

“show me then.” you reply, hooking two fingers through his belt loop, pulling him in. and all of a sudden, ferran’s weight wavers over you, dipping you back into the mattress of his bed. and you just acquiesce, flexing open your thighs to fit his frame between them.

his lips find yours like a compass needle always pointing north. this time, his hands are hot and heavy on your skin. “i love you,” ferran declares, eyes flitting between yours and your lips before stuffing his face into the sensitive column of your neck, “you’re my girl.”

“i know— i know,” you agree, your voice all trembly, knowing what’s about to happen when you feel his thick fingers hooking under the elastic of your panties before pulling them down. from your point of view, the mop of brown hair moves all the way down your body, kneading the soft of your hips.

“i love these,” ferran hums into the flesh of your thighs, blatantly ignoring the seeping arousal leaking out of you. the subtle scratch of his stubble stimulates you in a way you’ve never felt before. “love taking my time with you.”

the push and pull of his lips on your skin is electrifying. the small tingles of his teeth nipping at your flesh are quickly soothed by the slide of ferran’s wet tongue. and your hands? your hands crawl into his brown hair, pulling the strands taut as a signal for him to do something. anything.

you’re thinking about forever with him, truly. somewhere between a minute and a lifetime.

at last, ferran looks at your weeping pussy. his hooded eyes flick to your face and you watch him with a pleading look. just anything, now. “and i love eating y’r pretty pussy up.” is all he says, voice full of gravel and sin, before his tongue meets your clit.

your hair splays out all around your head like an invisible halo, your head digging further into his spongy, fluffy mattress. his tongue laves up all the slick that’s gushing out of you, his lips brushing gently over your walls, making you a jumbled mess of moans and mewls.

“love the sounds you make,” ferran mumbles into your pussy before prodding his tongue at your entrance. “and that pretty face of yours—” he squeezes into you, his gentle hands adjusting its grip around your legs, keeping you open and accessible to him. “especially when you come f’me.” his stare deepens into something mischievous, a teasing glint in his gaze.

ferran’s tongue works into you like a metronome, keeping his tormenting pace stable and consistent. “talk t’me, angel,” he tells you, tongue-deep into you. your slick dribbles on the duvet, leaving embarrassingly wet patches behind. “tell me what you’re feelin’.”

his accent gets all slurry and deep, literally pussy-drunk. now it’s your turn to babble out an incoherent mess of sounds.

“speak up, baby.” ferran taunts between flicks and thick stripes of his tongue.

“i’m— close, don’t stop,” you try to do your best to meet him halfway. the way your eyes are clenched shut, the little quirk of your eyebrow, ferran knows you’re close. very. your hands are shaky between his strands, tension convoluting all through you. “fer, seriously—”

“give it t’me, baby—” is all he says before squeezing his tongue right into you again, alternating between little presses of his fingers to your pulsating clit. it’s almost as if he’s more eager for you to come than you yourself. “know you can.”

you shatter with a broken moan, feeling as if the dam finally broke. the apples of your cheeks burn up, a shiver running up your spine, and ferran keeps on feeding you subtle pokes of his tongue, fleeting touches of his warm hands around your legs. he really guides you through your orgasm.

when you finally catch your breath with a gratified smile on your face, ferran reaches up to you. his lips and chin are shiny with your slick, but that doesn’t stop him from pushing a quick kiss to your lips. “you’re perfect, honey.”

honey. it’s weird how the simplest words can sound so… intimate when it comes from him. you almost want to squeal at how adorable your boyfriend is.

“all because i traced your tattoos?”

“well, i’m easy when it comes to you, baby.”

Choi Yeonjun is a man. In a broad pair of shoulders, the sharp coffee and black pepper that clings to his skin that lingers in the warm pulse points when you press your face into them, and how he keeps himself put together in clothes without the wrinkles of a twice-worn thing off the carpet like the guys your age, who you could ask if they do exactly that and they would shrug and tell you that they did. Not Yeonjun. None of that was what truly set him apart, nor the things that put that stamp of ratified man on his integrity.

That was in the opening doors for you. He insists on it. He doesn't want your hands on any car door handles, only wants to hear the click of the heels bought on his dime hitting the ground when you step out after him. And he wasn't afraid to tell you it, either. It was in how he took the burden of ordering for you at the diners he took you, with the warm crystal lights that hung low over your table as he'd thumb the back of your hand. In how that card of his was yours, too.

You were sitting in bed after a thorough, all brand new, skincare routine, when he proposed the flight to Hawaii. A face mask seeped into your skin as you gawked into the glow of the screen. If he had only see your face. He tells you it's the best part.

11:00pm [Yeonjun]: We have a suite booked in O'ahu for this weekend. Do you need anything for it, baby?

11:00pm [Yeonjun]: Pack light, you'll be coming home with more than you came.

11:01pm [Yeonjun]: How does that sound?

It was that part that made your stomach twist up like it was in there jump-roping. It always is the way he talks to you; because, what kind of question is that? He knew exactly how it sounded. His texting mannerisms scream older, succinct with an air of a man who knows exactly how off-guard this all still leaves you. He is so cruel, in the most savory way. It has long since been decided that men age like wine. They sit on a shelf and mature, until they're more rich and deep. Or at least until they've had their fun, their money, and are left with an itch to funnel it all into making something bloom pretty at his attention and spoiling.

Honolulu is so much alike the post cards, and in the same vein, so much different. It's a bustling metropolis with buildings that scrape the turquoise sky. The beach is within walking distance from your hotel, and that is just as peppered with tourists in cover-ups they probably bought right from the ABC store along the strip.

"Waikiki looks nothing like I thought it did," you say. A piña colada daiquiri sweats in your hand under the thick sun. It's hot here. Not like the bone dry heat of summer back at home, but instead it's thick on your skin like a layer of salt off the breeze. You fiddle with the tropical ribbons of your bikini bottoms at the swell of your hip. Lazy and pampered, and nobody could deny it. You wouldn't.

With his arms tucked behind his head on a tanning chair adjacent to yours, he grins. "What did you think it was?" He runs his finger around the rim of his own drink. He'd made you sip off it and found the wrinkle of your nose at the burn humorous.

Not full on city with the same beeping cars and traffic as home, perhaps. Your shoulders have long since turned pink. Your cheeks, a radiant burn to match. It tugs every time your face moves like the skin's just a bit too tight. "Like… When you think of Hawaii, the first thing you think of. That." It's about time you roast your other side. Or else you'll be glowing red on your front and springtime pale at the back. The cheeky bottoms of your bikini's ridden up with all your lounging, the soft spot where your ass meets thigh turned up this way around. Yeonjun doesn't look away when you catch him getting an eyeful. "That guy didn't even ID me." The spot where your nose presses to your pillow of crossed arms smells like sweat and coconutty sunscreen.

"He's not gonna ask you while I'm there," Yeonjun says. He holds one hand up like a visor over his eyes, looking at you under it. The shirt he'd changed into as soon as you hit the room There's a healthy glow set deep in his skin that leads you to suspect that, even if this is the first time he's taken you on a pretty penny vacation, it's not his first. It's a deep, bronze that speaks of a tan that's built on. You're not his first sugar baby. That's something you've come to terms with. It gets a little easier with a swipe of the card.

"Why…?"

Thumbing the crease of your bottom, he supplies his answer with a hum. "It's his job to sell it. This whole city loves a dollar bill." Lifting his own glass, he adds, "And that kid's not trying to offend me by asking."

That kid. A guy somewhere near your age, give or take. It's always those little things that send a furious, brilliant storm of butterflies through your belly. The little ways he reminds you exactly what he is. They never come in grand gestures. More in the way he just moves through the world, and how it bends around his shape to meet him. He didn't ask the associates in the luxury stores he takes you shopping in to perk up and run to serve him, knowing he'll buy. They just do it.

A handful of girls three rows down laugh with one another over the holistic sound of the resort pools. Lifeguards, kids here on vacation with parents glad they're cannon-balling into the pools and bothering the group of twenty-somethings with palms over the mouth of their tumbler glasses to save themselves the misery of discovering how teal, chlorine water mixed with margarita. Sweat has glued your cheek to where it squishes against your upper arm. You keep your head oriented to watch him. "But can't they get in trouble for that?" Talking comes difficult. The heat makes you too lazy. You can hardly even summon the words.

Smiling at that, he answers, "If they get caught, yeah." The muscles dormant in his biceps ripple as he crosses his arms about his chest. He didn't hit the gym; not that you knew of. But he maintains that like he does. Another thing that seems to just come with the whole matured, better, older man package.

That felt topically ironic. Especially considering that you never do intend to be caught. You dread the thought so hard that you've learned to banish it the moment it springs up. It's easier this way. And way more fun. It's not like you never thought about it; toeing the line in the sand without ever really letting the tide rush in on you. "This stuff is so sweet. Should I have another one?"

That gets a kick out of him. "Yeah? You like it?" Yeonjun says. There's a languor dripping off the way he does, sticky like the air. "That's because it's rum, babygirl. All sugar."

Your throat goes all tight. Fumbling after words, you quickly say, "It taste like a smoothie."

"That's why you don't need another one." He laughs. "It hits you faster than you think it will. Especially with the heat." Then, picking up the drink, he drinks down what you hadn't gotten to you. Those expressive brows twist. "Shit, that's sweet."

You only smile and watch him cross his arms back. They look fit to throw you any which way, or even to carry all the bags he would snatch from you before you even got to try and carry yourself. "Okay, it's not that sweet."

Not in any hurry, never in any hurry, he gets that look on his face that you've come to know to mean that he's guiding the conversation a different way. He corrals you so easily that you tend to not even notice that you're on the next topic. He takes control of any conversation with such ease. On your first date, you had been a shaking, shy thing sat across from him. It didn't matter much. With a little steering you and a handsome smile as he listened to you answer his questions, the burden of even carrying conversations was off your shoulders. That was his job, he'd told you later on when you told him how terrified you were.

"I was thinking about heading back to the suite," he starts. The sharp lines of his eyes linger on you like he's plotting it all out in real time, and there's a prospective smoothness to his voice. As if he'd already playing it all out in his head, and he knows exactly what he has in store for you. "Getting dressed. No need to rush, we have all night. We're here to enjoy ourselves. And then head down to the beach walk, shop around, get you some things to try on for me." He doesn't even smirk. Nothing to justify the way your stomach swoops quick. "And I put a reservation in at this nice, low-key grill for us after. If we need to come back real quick to drop off your stuff, we can." Taking one last drink off his glass, he says, "Sound good, baby?"

Sound good? How could you have any objections? You blink at him for a moment. Up until yesterday, you'd never even flown overseas. Vacations meant twelve hour drives and scrapping with your siblings and the blankets and luggage for space in the car, just to end up squished against the door anyway. You were half lead to believe that things like this happened only on T.V. or for faceless people in a tax bracket you knew you'd never touch. And yet…

"What? Do you have something else in mind?" His lips do quirk now, perhaps because he knows exactly what. "We can do whatever your sweet heart wants. No need to be shy with me. We're here for you. Me and Hawaii are good friends."

You rush to correct yourself. "No, that's, like, perfect." Pressing up to your elbows, still baking your backside, you say, "I've just never done this before."

He's heard that before, that first time you were intimate with him. You never imagined your first to be a man with sixteen years on you, who was not your boyfriend but instead something suspended in an awkward space between that and something else. Something that makes your blood rise to your ears and lie to everybody you know. A year ago, two, you would've turned your nose up at another girl for sitting in Hawaii on a man's money. After all, down to its core, it's only a trade, isn't it? The sugar in sugar daddy is the tan in your skin and the necklace at your throat studded, in the shape of a 'Y', in true diamonds. And in sugar baby, it was something much more coveted. Well, you couldn't sneer at yourself now; couldn't have known that it could come like him, and not in a sixty year old man who had to pay for sex because he wouldn't get it otherwise.

"Good." He leans back into his low pool chair, the perfect image of the leisure that is company to what he is. But he's got an airy, soft thing going on with his mouth as the sun rushes back over it. "Maybe we'll go out on a boat tomorrow, too."

He doesn't even have to ask to know the answer.

When Yeonjun means get whatever you want, he means that. Not metaphorically. Not loosely, not a ceiling that you might accidentally brush if you got overeager. There wasn't a budget. Not on you. You have your questions concerning where, exactly, he might have all this money. His Seeking profile didn't even tell. And when you asked, he kissed you and said, "I'm old enough to know that you don't really care about my job. You'd get bored to hell of it eventually. So let's not open that door anyway."

Whatever that meant. You gleaned enough from the dress shirts and ironed slacks that it wasn't anything too mystifying. It was, maybe, a bit overdramatic in the way he said it. Or maybe it was your own head that did the work of imagining some big secret.

Bushes with a deep, waxy green up against pink and white Plumerias with yellow blooming at their centers, stand opposite to the glowing warm storefronts which stud the sidewalk. Your hotel is right in the heart of it all. You step out, and you're right there in downtown Honolulu. Clearly, you two had the same idea as everybody else did. It must be the season back home. The streets are packed. Groups of girls walk with their elbows linked with Leis around their necks, probably coming from a restaurant where they were handed out, couples with kids and couples here hoping to get away from theirs, they all have the same essence about them as you feel in your chest. You feel like you're just gawking at stupid things with stars in your eyes like you've never seen a bush, or a lit-up tourist trap. But how did you even get here? Here, where something sweet hangs and makes the air even heaver. Maybe those flowers. Or the street vendors boasting cups of million-dollar pineapple chunks with the rinds still on and passion fruit stuffed in with papayas, and the way it overlaps with the salt from the water. The shoreline is close enough from here than you can watch the black water rush up and disturb the sand.

"You look beautiful," Yeonjun had told you when you stepped out of the bathroom. He didn't need any flowery enhancers to sound like he meant it. He told you in the simplicity that he was unafraid to use, and even more potently, in the lingering inventory he takes of the dress. His hands had flexed where they were shoved into his pockets in patiently waiting. Because he know more than any man, maybe, that patience paid sweeter. He didn't just enjoy the silhouette the sundress made, though you know he definitely did enjoy that. You're still suffering the echoes in your knees that the smolder in his eyes had made shake. But he made sure to enjoy the golden bangles that made feminine, sparkling sounds as you slipped into your heels. How they complimented the sunset pinks and oranges of the tropical floral fabric, and made the sanguine flush to your cheeks speak.

He had stopped, especially, at your neck. Traced the shape of that 'Y' as it glittered. And if anybody were to ask, you were certain that his throat had bobbed.

Now, he keeps one steady hand at your back and the other in his pants. He is an impossibly handsome man, in the most literal sense of the word. But night makes him something else. It cuts the lines of his face which had an angle to them that you could only attribute to aging. His eyes were slow and pleased and all over you and the view your push-up bra makes. "Do you want one?" he asks when your eyes linger on a stand selling Hibiscus flowers. The ones the grew well and didn't get too beat up by the elements, which tourists like to pluck off the bush anyway.

"I mean… They're, like, fifteen dollars." That was a good meal's worth, as far as you were concerned. You could go without. "That's crazy. People just pick them anyway."

"Fifteen dollars to look beautiful on you," he says, "is nothing. Do you know how expensive you look right now, sweetheart?" Passing the person running the stand a bill, he takes your chin with his thumb and tucks a yellow one behind your ear. It's huge, flirting with your eyes and brushing against your temples. Approval flashes over his gaze. "There we go. Now you look like you're in Hawaii."

God. Nothing about that should make your head go so dumb.

You make your way down the street doing pretty much the same. You dip in and out of stores, racking up bags in his free hand. He has no complaints to give. It's something chemical to him. Like foreplay, watching your eyes light up and your mouth go shy with every yes. Yes, yes, yes. That's his favorite word.

Of course you drag him into Sephora. The black-and-white storefront pulls you in with gravity amidst the high-end stores and the shops with the shot glasses and tees plastered with Waikiki beach regalia. He lets you browse and drop things into the shopping basket. You giggle when you catch sight of him, there in his fine muslin button down pushed to his elbows, veins peeking out with the strain, classy sunglasses pushing his hair off his forehead, balancing the damage you'd already done in one hand and the carnage that will ensue at checkout here in the other. With a playing smile on his face, he says, "Don't you want to do something you can't do at home?"

"I can't shop at Sephora in Hawaii at home." You take your lip into your teeth to fight a coquettish grin. A toasty lip liner lands in the cart with a plastic sound of the packaging. "I'm like a thousand percent sure they have stuff here that we just don't have at home." The one by your place is half the size, and even less stocked. You'd probably had a hand in that.

"You've gotten spoiled," Yeonjun says, and you think it sounds like lust. "I've made you into a little money monster. You used to be so shy."

You gasp with affront, coloring your words precisely spoiled. "Me? Not even close. You have to beg me to spend money on myself!" You did, in fact, used to be much more shy with him. It took a few dates to be able to look him in the eyes. It's that contrast between you that is so intoxicating. How you get all dressed up in girly outfits and ramble at him, and he has the answers for it all.

He nudges you around and aisle into the next. The cart is slowly filling up. When he had said you'd be leaving with more than you came, he'd meant it. "I do," he rasps. "I've never taken another girl somewhere who loved shopping more. You're a blushing, pretty hole in my wallet."

A throaty imitation of a laugh if all you can muster in response to that. It's not like you didn't know he had other sugar babies before yourself. Had probably taken them to Hawaii, too. The thought spirals out of control before you can stamp it out. Brushing the buttery petals of the flower at your ear, you consider if he's done exactly this, all of it, with another girl, too. He has the means to. And then you get to thinking what he could've done with those girls. Did he tell them how pretty they sounded like he loved so much to tell you? "You're mean," you say, empty banter. "I'm go back in the bowl and find a sugar daddy that doesn't bully me."

The harsh overhead lights cut his features and catch the way his jaw ticks. "Is that it?" His eyes flicker down the the basket you're filling. You don't know if it's pointed or him doing the math. "They couldn't afford you."

The next step you take is a bit more wobbly, a knot pulling tight deep in your belly and making your coordination all loose. He watches watches you flounder. Realistically, you are very aware you are outmatched. It doesn't stop you doubling down. Your low heels click against the tile floors as you shuffle toward a perfume display. Heavy glass with powdery vanillas and sharp, full black pepper and night blooming jasmine, you are a self-fulfilling prophecy and gravitate toward only the luxe stuff. Maybe that's what ruffles you. That he's right. You take a greenish bottle and spritz it into the sensitive insides of your wrists.

"How about this one?" you say, prim, and offer it up to him. "Is it pretty…?"

Taking the offer up, his nose feathers against the skin. You suppress the thrill it gives you. A moment, a beat in the air exists in intimate tranquility, before you what you're about to say. He looks up at you through his brows as the scent profile hits him. Creamy banana leaf and flirty, fruity coconut that embodied everything that you were right now. His eyes drop to your mouth only long enough for you to see that he does it. "Buy it." He surrenders to one more drag of how it melts into the heat of your skin before straightening back up. You only ever remember that you have to look up at him when he does that. "I want you to wear that when we meet."

You've always known Yeonjun was more attuned to scents than other men. It was often the first thing he'd bring up when he entered a space, but it was also something he'd whisper into your ears, voice scraping, while he was behind you. So you know what you're doing when you pout your mouth and say, "Do you think the new sugar daddy will like it, too? Should I wear it for him?"

Whatever you thought he'd do, he doesn't. A scoff, or maybe a brisk, annoyed dismissal, you'd expected. Or maybe even he'd say something. But Yeonjun just pauses. Goes blank, with no playful retort to volley back. All you know is that his dark eyes, which had been so content on an indulgent walk down downtown and a nice dinner after, go severe. Darker with no trick of the light.

He only says, "Right."

That leaves you with nothing to say. You cap the tester bottle and take a real box of the perfume. Because now, you might really need that in your favor if the way he had been drinking it down was anything to go off of. Maybe it'll soften him. Your little makeup and perfume detour ends with a whimper, not a bang, as you stand beside him in line and then watch him pull out that wallet despite it. Two bags sit on the counter waiting for you to reclaim them. Full bags. But when he thumbs his credit card and runs it, a sleek, black, metal thing with weight that speaks for itself, it goes through with a ding. You toy with the frills of your little dress to expel the mortification somewhere, or even anywhere, that isn't a rambunctious ball in your chest. You open your mouth to smooth things over a few times, but decide against it. You can't claim to have not know that it would bother him, but it's too late for that.

A weird thrill shoots down your spine at the view. His shoulders rigid and sharp from the back, holding all the things in his head right now that you can only guess at.

The final act takes place in a shop, with him leaned up against a wall that separates the changing rooms from the rest of the place into its own little dim hallway. Obnoxious lights oppress the clothing racks and shoppers from a high, warehouse-like ceiling. A pop station closes in from a speaker in the corner of your dressing room. The clothes you'd rummaged through racks for hang on a gold hook on the wall, waiting for you to stop holding your breath. Even when you finally make yourself move to drop your clothes on the glossy floor below, you're elsewhere. The way his faced dropped? Not just that, but the fact that it wasn't even anger. You don't know what it was; maybe something new that the two of you had created yourselves, or something unique to the reality of what you were to each other.

Yeonjun's knock against the door pauses you. You can almost see it, how he'd rap the backside of his knuckles, head down. His mannerisms are so vivid and branded into your psyche that you could step out right now and you're certain that it's exactly how you'd find him. "Need help?"

The center of your shoulder blades burn because you'd been contorting yourself for the past few minutes to reach the strings behind you. You take your lip into your teeth and take a look of yourself in the mirror. You look expensive. You look like all the things that Choi Yeonjun touches: taken care of. "Uhhh." A part of you wants to deny him. To play the cards that you hold in this long game. He never fails to remind you how much power you hold over him and this arrangement. Why not test the boundaries? But you know what would be sweeter than that. Wordlessly, you pull the latch with a loudness that all dressing room locks seem to have.

Then there he is. His arms are crossed, the muscles there loose but still something that you have to take your mind off, or else you might start to think how they would feel under your teeth. You rove over the slanted height of him and how he still looks tall, even when he leans his head and shoulder into the frame. His eyes rove over you, too. Not a flicker. Not a quick assessment. No. God, no. Not with him.

The latch snaps shut behind him with a barely-there gesture. Your whole stomach drops to the floor and shatters.

It's a little showy. You'll give him that. And maybe you'll also admit that you grabbed this exact dress for this exact reason. A corner of your lip wants to twitch with satisfaction, but you have a plan to see through, and it starts and ends with him groveling for you. What a sight that would be. Even just imagining it and turning the imagery of it in your head, when he's the reason you can even live this life that you do, makes you a rapt little tease. Boys your age can't do this. They couldn't be him if they tried. You're beginning to think that he was a different species of man completely.

A beat passes, and then he runs the pads of his fingertips along the hem of your dress. It ends so, so dangerously; right about where your ass folds over at the sanguine softness of your thighs. The skittering brush of contact is straight electricity, and it's the littlest touch. His eyes meet yours through the mirror. Dark. Smoldering like pure wood smoke, erupting slow like the mountains on these islands that move slow enough to watch their molten greed come, but know that you can do nothing to stop it. It's no fair how he looks at you. Your knees go just completely useless.

Yeonjun completely disregards even pretending he was going to lace that skimpy back up for you. You swallow cotton. "Is it cute?" you ask, because you have a pretty good idea of what the answer is already.

The breathy gasp when he takes the soft fat of your hips into his hands with a greed that says he'd been thinking about them since you walked into this store and while he waited patiently on the other side of the door for this. Or before even that. He tugs your bottom to the front of his jeans and says, with his voice smooth like the scotch he sips, "Of course it's beautiful, baby. Do you want it?"

"Yes," you choke out around a thick knot of anticipation. Your own face meets you, palms braced on either side of the ornate gold mirror and your reflection giving you a show of how ditzy and pathetic he makes you. "But I don't know if I should." The syllables waver toward the end and belie your coquettish act.

He laughs like a scoff while he pushes the skirt of the dress up the swell of your hips, then past it until he can devour the bend of your arch. He taught you that form. And it looks like he has no notes on your technique, either. The pressure of him testing it makes your head go dumb. "When have I ever told you no?" he rasps. "You have no idea how expensive you are, baby. No idea. Your little shopping trip would've maxed out any other man's card."

There. That's the spot. You pout your mouth at him and catch him eating it up in his reflection. "I'm expensive? Am I too expensive for you, then?"

Of course not. Look at you. Look at where you are. His card is yours and you think that it's near bottomless at this point. You don't even have to ask. Yeonjun's tongue presses against the inside of his cheek.

Your panties hit the floor in one tug. The walls of the changing room become infinitely smaller as he wraps your hair up in his fist. The ache in your scalp brings a prickle to your eyes. "Is that what you think?" he says, that polished quality wipes completely raw. He tries to sound like he's not losing his mind, but it's there if you look past the lilt. "Do I need to buy you the island? The world?" It sounds like he would. Like he will. Instead of reaching for himself, he tests between your thighs for what he knows he'll find there, because of course you're soaked. You've been soaked since Sephora.

"Uh-huh," you say, because he's flicking your clit in little tests and every time he hits the sensitive underside of it, the nerves there send your heels clattering on the marble and your legs trying to find purchase. And because, what's dignity with a man sixteen years older than you who puts money in your bank account and fucks you in high-end boutique dressing rooms?

He likes that. But he doesn't give you anything real, doesn't reward the behavior you've been prancing around him with. His palm wraps around your waist to press into your belly and steady your scrambling legs like it goes without saying. The way his fingers stretch over the soft, doughy place there, how it eats up the expanse of your waist, makes you swallow hard. "God help the next kid that gets you. What's he gonna do with you? How are you gonna manage pizzeria dates and a one-bedroom apartment when you know what you have? What I've given you?"

You can't answer. His fingers curl into you, and he wastes no time finding the spot that he knows like muscle memory. The delicate anatomy of a woman's sweet spot seems like something that just came with the package of him. He doesn't have to search, and he probably never did. Sparks explode behind your eyelids like the fireworks they had been setting off on the beach in brilliant golds and teals. If he hadn't steadied you with the strength of his palm, you'd probably be crumpling down to the floor right about now.

"Hmm?" You can hear the condescending purr on his mouth, because you don't have the strength to pry your eyes open to see it.

You mewl a sorry imitation for the word, "Yes," and go back to trying to wiggle your ass into the incessant curling of his fingers. The sounds of him fingering you makes your ears and chest flush, each inappropriate, sloppy wet noise proving how easy you are for him. "Right—right there, please." Your head drops as the first word breaks in the air. It's really a sorry excuse for words.

He listens so well. The angle of his two middle fingers, the width of them just enough to make you crazy and the finesse of how he uses them like weapons even worse so, twitches just up. It's as though he feels it himself somewhere inside of you that he's found it, because he finds it and you know you're royally fucked from that moment on. "Good," he says. "That way I know I get to keep you. Because you'll go and you'll try other men,"—his forearm strains with how he forgets the soreness in it to fuck you on his fingers right—"and you'll be right back here. In my bed. On my money. My spoiled little mess."

The thought that maybe, beyond the pleasure he gets out of knowing he could give you anything, buy you anything, dressing you up in him, he likes you this way because it means nothing else would ever fill the spot he carved doesn't occur to you. Currently because your thighs spasm and shake and it takes every working synapse in your brain firing off to digest how he fucks you so good that it's a leash in and of itself. Hopefully you'll be here when he starts going salt and pepper, because what would sex be if not this?

Your choked, scraped whimpers get too loud for him. His palm over your mouth finally has your eyes fluttering open, and the sight that greets you back is potent enough to send the same molasses through your veins as the heel of his palm grinding down on your swollen clit. "Shh, baby." He grinds harder, because he's mean. "So goddamn whiny. What a princess you are; can't take what you were begging for all night. Why act up if you're gonna tell the whole store how I'm being mean to you?"

He gets your answer in a gone, strangled sob against his palm. Your own damp breaths where it seals over your mouth makes the air thinner. Each roll of his palm forward is met with a helpless push of your ass back on him. His wrist is practically pinned between the bulge in his jeans, because of course he's affected even if he'd like to pretend otherwise, and your bottom. It doesn't stop him one bit. The private sounds that his silencing makes is better than any reckless moaning. It's almost dirtier, almost wronger.

"Gonna cum?" he rasps, watching the trashy mess your face makes in the mirror like a god exacting justice. The weeping mascara lines pooling where his hand meets your face and the drooping eyes that want to roll back into your skull, the high pink of your cheeks and how he can watch himself give you this like he give you everything fucking else. You were close, but just the question winds you up tight enough to snap. That face of his goes patronizing with a furrow of his brows. Slick rolls in hot rivulets down the insides of your trembling thighs. "That's right. There we go. You need to grind that pussy on my hand? Grind it. Go ahead and see if I'm gonna give you what you're asking for."

You try to say something. You really do. To tell him that you'll do anything for it, that he's melting your brain like butter, or god, just anything. The backs of your eyes and your throat and the pit of your stomach all prickle and go tight at once. He probably hears something unflattering come out from behind his palm, something strangled and a fie on the decorum that a place like this deserves. That mirror that you'd been depending on to keep you at least somewhat planted where he's had you bent in half goes clattering against the wall behind it because you're grasping at it like it can help you.

He stops. Just completely, unfairly, cruelly stops. His fingers come out of you a mess and you have to pretend they weren't just in you as he straightens up, swipes a thumb through your blackened cheeks, and then he doesn't touch you again. You're left gaping at yourself in the mirror and wondering with a naked dissonance, like when something heavy hits metal and leaves it ringing, what the hell you're supposed to do with the knot in your lower belly now. You almost think to just rub one out after he steps out.

Tugging his collar looser around his throat, he works his jaw and lets you change back. It all feels too tight; the frills and the way you clatter uselessly out when you've finished and the neglected pangs of throbbing, so hard that you can feel the pounding of your heartbeat all the way up in your ears. You avoid eye contact when he pays for the dress up at the register. If the flushed face and the smearing of mascara that would give you away no matter how hard you tried to wipe at your cheeks and jaw didn't give you away, maybe the buzzing in your eyes would. He makes small talk with her and takes the bag and receipt as if he wasn't just knuckle deep in you. It's the antithesis of all things fair. You have to breathe with intention as he leads the way back out onto the streets. The air is thick and salty enough to swim through. It's no help up against clammy, salty skin itself. The only thing that keeps you kinda grounded as you stumble by his shoulder, because even now he's steepled your fingers together, is the sweet scent of the palm leaves touching the sky above you. Otherwise you're swimming through the honking and the weaving between bodies and the pulse of what he did to you.

You want to dig your heels in and demand he wraps his fingers around your throat and fix it. Or make a scene so big he has to. But you just blink dumbly the whole way back to the room, because you are nowhere near as gutsy as that, and half as coherent at the moment.

The door clicks closed behind you again in a pantomime of that stuffy, unreal scene you just left behind. You kick your heels off and wait. Wait to see what he does, to see if he'll pounce on you the way you ran over a generous hundred times on the way here. Yeonjun just steps out of his own shoes, drops the new dress off on a seat, and works his watch off by the night stand. The lamp there, a low warm ambience, lights the angles of him. The way his shirt stretches over his shoulders, and how he tapers out to something thin at the waist that lingers in your mind after you fuck—how the stretch below his navel and the dusting of hair there gives way to the V, and how that gives way to his cock. When you first had seen it, he didn't even laugh, though he could've. You'd just stared like you were torn between running away from it and testing if it was as hard and warm as it looked. No; he held your face as he told you that it was okay, that he wanted you to become so familiar with it that you could feel the exact shape and curve of it in your haziest dreams. You press your thighs together as you struggle with the strap of your heel.

A metallic sound works, and then he sets the silver-faced watch down. Then his eyes finally, for the first time since he stepped into that dressing room, meet yours. Not through any mirrors. The weight of that is entirely different.

"Bend over the bed," he says. "C'mon, baby girl. I've been going insane over this all day."

The hinges of your jaw ache. "Why?" You're stumbling over to do just that, because you're more talk than you are brazen. "So you can just stop again? I have fingers, you know. I don't need you."

And then his belt makes a noise that tells you he intends to see it through this time. Your stomach does three full flips, ass in the air like the obedient lap dog that you'd be for him a hundred times over. Because if he groomed you and petted you and you were his one, favorite girl for it? What else could you possibly need?

"Huh." The belt comes loose in a rasp, somewhere behind you now. He'd circled the bed completely. "I could. We could sit here and do that all night, if we wanted. But where would be the fun in that?" he says, and then he bends over your back and speaks into the shell of your ear, "I have about a thousand other, more creative things I'm gonna do to you, sweetheart. And trust me; I've had a lot of time to think them."

The shudder he tears from you is so visceral, it's like he'd wrapped a hand around your throat. You choke your swallow down dry and say, "Please do it, do whatever you want. I can take it."

He presses a wet, biting kiss into that spot where your pulse meets jawline. And then another that lingers against the back of your shoulder, and then he kisses his way down and straightens back up to make a mess of your outfit all over again. "I know you can," he rasps, his own voice scraped down to something needy that reflects exactly what's burning between your legs right now. You can't tell if it should feel like a good thing, but it just raises a chill on your skin. Because if the same blistering things that's inside you is inside of him right now, then you don't know what you've signed yourself up for.

"You're still on the pill?" he says, and then when you hesitate to answer he takes a handful of ass. "Sweetheart. Please."

You nod. He takes that and forgets the condom in his wallet to let a line of spit fall down over your cunt from the back. As if you weren't wet enough. You don't know if you've ever been so slick in your life, so wiggly that you whine at him to, "Hurrrrry." The glob lands at the top of yout slit and follows gravity to your clit, and he goes quiet to watch it find its place on you. He takes his proud length and strokes it once or twice to feel it twitch, to give himself a pathetic teaser for what was to come.

Then he's pounding into you until stars shoot behind your eyelids, until you're making noises that would embarrass you if they were ever caught on tape. The come from your throat, and they practically stay there, bouncing with each collision of his groin against your ass and the backs of your thighs. You eat straight comforter as he braces one arm beside your hips to cant his hips up, right into the place he had fun with teasing earlier. It's probably pretty obvious to the poor neighbors what the grinding of the headboard against the wall might be, but you're too busy getting your brains fucked away to be a considerate neighbor.

"Mfh!" you tell the bedsheets. The laugh that he pants into your shoulder blades is pure, undiluted dirtiness and heat.

"So mouthy," he croons, though he's no better off than you. Each time you flutter tight around him, his fingers dig deeper divots into your hip. "And so pretty when you're split on my cock and can't talk. Isn't that right, baby?" He bends completely over your back, and you're forced to remember through the scattered thoughts of how he looked behind you in that mirror. His body ate yours up. It didn't matter if you were taller, if you were any other way. He'd make you look tiny anyway, just like how his fingers stretch over the small of your back and how he handles you with it. "Tell me what you need. I wanna hear that mouth go."

Breathing is a thing of the past. You shove your face to one side so at least you aren't suffocating in the sheets, face such a mess that you can feel it more than the twist of your brows and the pout on your mouth. Sweat beads at your temples and hair sticks there over your flaming cheeks. "Choke me, choke me," you say. It's the dumbified words of somebody who has about five words in their current arsenal and was using all their brain power for each. You choke and sob and bite whines into the air and meet every single one of his thrusts.

He's not gonna let you ask twice. The precision of his fingers is food for your brain, thinning your windpipe just enough to twist every nudge of his tip to your cervix into something more potent and overwhelming. Your nails bite into his wrist at your neck, skull digging back into his shoulder and hips being ground into the edge of the mattress every time he strokes with mindless, carnal rhythm. "Choke you?" he almost laughs, like his hand wasn't around your throat right now. "You're full of surprises, you know that? How's that for that sweet brain, baby girl? Huh?"

Your face twists up. "Uh—uh-huh!" You can't breathe, can't think, in the best way. Lips wobbling, you pant, "I like it!"

That has his hips coming down on you in a different way. He falls over your back and drags in the scent at your neck like he's huffing something stronger than the sweet scent of sex on your skin. But it does something electric to him. His abs tighten against your spine, grinding his cock into you like he could be any deeper than this. It feels like he's up in your stomach, you brain, dressing that up just like he does to the rest of you. "Fuck." His voice crumbles into tatters. "You smell so fucking good. Like candy." He kisses at the spot that you, even in this state, recall with a jerk to be where you had sprayed that perfume. It had melted into the warm pulse there, faded down into the base notes. The kiss isn't enough. He presses his tall nose right into it and grabs at you so hard that it aches. "I'm not gonna last long, baby. God, you're getting more of this stuff. I'll buy you more before we—" His wet forehead falls into the soft spot between your shoulders and where your nape begins, every rolling thrust like he's staving off an orgasm coming just from the olfactory sweetness of you.

You've long since raked red-hot lines down his taut forearm, but a particular tightening of his fingers at your throat and a wet slide that hits just the right spot without you having to ask sends you over like a house of cards. The arch in the very angle of your back bows back against him. The suite falls away, all of Hawaii and your agreement follows, until you're just a girl under a man who knows exactly how to play you. "I'm cumming!" you say, all but stumbling over the warning. "Help!"

You don't know what the hell you're saying, and he's off the deep end too. He throws you up the bed and digs his knees in to gain purchase and something in that scent he caught, in the thoughts that had been festering in his head all night, comes alive. He rails you right into the sheets and takes what he needs as you claw at the pillows and sheets through yours. Because with him, you're gonna cum first if he has to grit his teeth and pull out just to make sure he doesn't first.

"That's it," he growls. "That's my spoiled girl." Then his own hips stop and each stutter of them as he fucks it into you, each pant and breath into your shoulders and kiss to the back of your head, tells you that he's followed you down. As his weight smothers you into the pillows, grounding you and suffocating you until you can come down and breathe again, he makes your hair into a loose ponytail to reach the soft parts of your neck that the tangle of it hid.

His heartbeat at your back reverberates into your chest. Speaking into your face as he takes the softness of your cheeks and watches them squish under his fingers, he says, "How's that for leaving you wanting?" There's a lazy, pleased light in his eyes. What else could a man need, more than a pretty girl glowing with post-orgasmic bliss under him, in a bed he put her in, in a frilly, rumpled dress that only he could afford? Nothing. He was living the life that other men loathed him for. He nips the turn of your shoulder and says, "You were put on this Earth to test old bastards like me, huh?"

You can hardly give him an enthusiastic smile. Probably.

ash⦂ #needthat like i finished this in a haze at 4am before a shift so if that tells you anything about how i was feeling…

Choi Yeonjun is a man. In a broad pair of shoulders, the sharp coffee and black pepper that clings to his skin that lingers in the warm pulse points when you press your face into them, and how he keeps himself put together in clothes without the wrinkles of a twice-worn thing off the carpet like the guys your age, who you could ask if they do exactly that and they would shrug and tell you that they did. Not Yeonjun. None of that was what truly set him apart, nor the things that put that stamp of ratified man on his integrity.

That was in the opening doors for you. He insists on it. He doesn't want your hands on any car door handles, only wants to hear the click of the heels bought on his dime hitting the ground when you step out after him. And he wasn't afraid to tell you it, either. It was in how he took the burden of ordering for you at the diners he took you, with the warm crystal lights that hung low over your table as he'd thumb the back of your hand. In how that card of his was yours, too.

You were sitting in bed after a thorough, all brand new, skincare routine, when he proposed the flight to Hawaii. A face mask seeped into your skin as you gawked into the glow of the screen. If he had only see your face. He tells you it's the best part.

11:00pm [Yeonjun]: We have a suite booked in O'ahu for this weekend. Do you need anything for it, baby?

11:00pm [Yeonjun]: Pack light, you'll be coming home with more than you came.

11:01pm [Yeonjun]: How does that sound?

It was that part that made your stomach twist up like it was in there jump-roping. It always is the way he talks to you; because, what kind of question is that? He knew exactly how it sounded. His texting mannerisms scream older, succinct with an air of a man who knows exactly how off-guard this all still leaves you. He is so cruel, in the most savory way. It has long since been decided that men age like wine. They sit on a shelf and mature, until they're more rich and deep. Or at least until they've had their fun, their money, and are left with an itch to funnel it all into making something bloom pretty at his attention and spoiling.

Honolulu is so much alike the post cards, and in the same vein, so much different. It's a bustling metropolis with buildings that scrape the turquoise sky. The beach is within walking distance from your hotel, and that is just as peppered with tourists in cover-ups they probably bought right from the ABC store along the strip.

"Waikiki looks nothing like I thought it did," you say. A piña colada daiquiri sweats in your hand under the thick sun. It's hot here. Not like the bone dry heat of summer back at home, but instead it's thick on your skin like a layer of salt off the breeze. You fiddle with the tropical ribbons of your bikini bottoms at the swell of your hip. Lazy and pampered, and nobody could deny it. You wouldn't.

With his arms tucked behind his head on a tanning chair adjacent to yours, he grins. "What did you think it was?" He runs his finger around the rim of his own drink. He'd made you sip off it and found the wrinkle of your nose at the burn humorous.

Not full on city with the same beeping cars and traffic as home, perhaps. Your shoulders have long since turned pink. Your cheeks, a radiant burn to match. It tugs every time your face moves like the skin's just a bit too tight. "Like… When you think of Hawaii, the first thing you think of. That." It's about time you roast your other side. Or else you'll be glowing red on your front and springtime pale at the back. The cheeky bottoms of your bikini's ridden up with all your lounging, the soft spot where your ass meets thigh turned up this way around. Yeonjun doesn't look away when you catch him getting an eyeful. "That guy didn't even ID me." The spot where your nose presses to your pillow of crossed arms smells like sweat and coconutty sunscreen.

"He's not gonna ask you while I'm there," Yeonjun says. He holds one hand up like a visor over his eyes, looking at you under it. The shirt he'd changed into as soon as you hit the room There's a healthy glow set deep in his skin that leads you to suspect that, even if this is the first time he's taken you on a pretty penny vacation, it's not his first. It's a deep, bronze that speaks of a tan that's built on. You're not his first sugar baby. That's something you've come to terms with. It gets a little easier with a swipe of the card.

"Why…?"

Thumbing the crease of your bottom, he supplies his answer with a hum. "It's his job to sell it. This whole city loves a dollar bill." Lifting his own glass, he adds, "And that kid's not trying to offend me by asking."

That kid. A guy somewhere near your age, give or take. It's always those little things that send a furious, brilliant storm of butterflies through your belly. The little ways he reminds you exactly what he is. They never come in grand gestures. More in the way he just moves through the world, and how it bends around his shape to meet him. He didn't ask the associates in the luxury stores he takes you shopping in to perk up and run to serve him, knowing he'll buy. They just do it.

A handful of girls three rows down laugh with one another over the holistic sound of the resort pools. Lifeguards, kids here on vacation with parents glad they're cannon-balling into the pools and bothering the group of twenty-somethings with palms over the mouth of their tumbler glasses to save themselves the misery of discovering how teal, chlorine water mixed with margarita. Sweat has glued your cheek to where it squishes against your upper arm. You keep your head oriented to watch him. "But can't they get in trouble for that?" Talking comes difficult. The heat makes you too lazy. You can hardly even summon the words.

Smiling at that, he answers, "If they get caught, yeah." The muscles dormant in his biceps ripple as he crosses his arms about his chest. He didn't hit the gym; not that you knew of. But he maintains that like he does. Another thing that seems to just come with the whole matured, better, older man package.

That felt topically ironic. Especially considering that you never do intend to be caught. You dread the thought so hard that you've learned to banish it the moment it springs up. It's easier this way. And way more fun. It's not like you never thought about it; toeing the line in the sand without ever really letting the tide rush in on you. "This stuff is so sweet. Should I have another one?"

That gets a kick out of him. "Yeah? You like it?" Yeonjun says. There's a languor dripping off the way he does, sticky like the air. "That's because it's rum, babygirl. All sugar."

Your throat goes all tight. Fumbling after words, you quickly say, "It taste like a smoothie."

"That's why you don't need another one." He laughs. "It hits you faster than you think it will. Especially with the heat." Then, picking up the drink, he drinks down what you hadn't gotten to you. Those expressive brows twist. "Shit, that's sweet."

You only smile and watch him cross his arms back. They look fit to throw you any which way, or even to carry all the bags he would snatch from you before you even got to try and carry yourself. "Okay, it's not that sweet."

Not in any hurry, never in any hurry, he gets that look on his face that you've come to know to mean that he's guiding the conversation a different way. He corrals you so easily that you tend to not even notice that you're on the next topic. He takes control of any conversation with such ease. On your first date, you had been a shaking, shy thing sat across from him. It didn't matter much. With a little steering you and a handsome smile as he listened to you answer his questions, the burden of even carrying conversations was off your shoulders. That was his job, he'd told you later on when you told him how terrified you were.

"I was thinking about heading back to the suite," he starts. The sharp lines of his eyes linger on you like he's plotting it all out in real time, and there's a prospective smoothness to his voice. As if he'd already playing it all out in his head, and he knows exactly what he has in store for you. "Getting dressed. No need to rush, we have all night. We're here to enjoy ourselves. And then head down to the beach walk, shop around, get you some things to try on for me." He doesn't even smirk. Nothing to justify the way your stomach swoops quick. "And I put a reservation in at this nice, low-key grill for us after. If we need to come back real quick to drop off your stuff, we can." Taking one last drink off his glass, he says, "Sound good, baby?"

Sound good? How could you have any objections? You blink at him for a moment. Up until yesterday, you'd never even flown overseas. Vacations meant twelve hour drives and scrapping with your siblings and the blankets and luggage for space in the car, just to end up squished against the door anyway. You were half lead to believe that things like this happened only on T.V. or for faceless people in a tax bracket you knew you'd never touch. And yet…

"What? Do you have something else in mind?" His lips do quirk now, perhaps because he knows exactly what. "We can do whatever your sweet heart wants. No need to be shy with me. We're here for you. Me and Hawaii are good friends."

You rush to correct yourself. "No, that's, like, perfect." Pressing up to your elbows, still baking your backside, you say, "I've just never done this before."

He's heard that before, that first time you were intimate with him. You never imagined your first to be a man with sixteen years on you, who was not your boyfriend but instead something suspended in an awkward space between that and something else. Something that makes your blood rise to your ears and lie to everybody you know. A year ago, two, you would've turned your nose up at another girl for sitting in Hawaii on a man's money. After all, down to its core, it's only a trade, isn't it? The sugar in sugar daddy is the tan in your skin and the necklace at your throat studded, in the shape of a 'Y', in true diamonds. And in sugar baby, it was something much more coveted. Well, you couldn't sneer at yourself now; couldn't have known that it could come like him, and not in a sixty year old man who had to pay for sex because he wouldn't get it otherwise.

"Good." He leans back into his low pool chair, the perfect image of the leisure that is company to what he is. But he's got an airy, soft thing going on with his mouth as the sun rushes back over it. "Maybe we'll go out on a boat tomorrow, too."

He doesn't even have to ask to know the answer.

When Yeonjun means get whatever you want, he means that. Not metaphorically. Not loosely, not a ceiling that you might accidentally brush if you got overeager. There wasn't a budget. Not on you. You have your questions concerning where, exactly, he might have all this money. His Seeking profile didn't even tell. And when you asked, he kissed you and said, "I'm old enough to know that you don't really care about my job. You'd get bored to hell of it eventually. So let's not open that door anyway."

Whatever that meant. You gleaned enough from the dress shirts and ironed slacks that it wasn't anything too mystifying. It was, maybe, a bit overdramatic in the way he said it. Or maybe it was your own head that did the work of imagining some big secret.

Bushes with a deep, waxy green up against pink and white Plumerias with yellow blooming at their centers, stand opposite to the glowing warm storefronts which stud the sidewalk. Your hotel is right in the heart of it all. You step out, and you're right there in downtown Honolulu. Clearly, you two had the same idea as everybody else did. It must be the season back home. The streets are packed. Groups of girls walk with their elbows linked with Leis around their necks, probably coming from a restaurant where they were handed out, couples with kids and couples here hoping to get away from theirs, they all have the same essence about them as you feel in your chest. You feel like you're just gawking at stupid things with stars in your eyes like you've never seen a bush, or a lit-up tourist trap. But how did you even get here? Here, where something sweet hangs and makes the air even heaver. Maybe those flowers. Or the street vendors boasting cups of million-dollar pineapple chunks with the rinds still on and passion fruit stuffed in with papayas, and the way it overlaps with the salt from the water. The shoreline is close enough from here than you can watch the black water rush up and disturb the sand.

"You look beautiful," Yeonjun had told you when you stepped out of the bathroom. He didn't need any flowery enhancers to sound like he meant it. He told you in the simplicity that he was unafraid to use, and even more potently, in the lingering inventory he takes of the dress. His hands had flexed where they were shoved into his pockets in patiently waiting. Because he know more than any man, maybe, that patience paid sweeter. He didn't just enjoy the silhouette the sundress made, though you know he definitely did enjoy that. You're still suffering the echoes in your knees that the smolder in his eyes had made shake. But he made sure to enjoy the golden bangles that made feminine, sparkling sounds as you slipped into your heels. How they complimented the sunset pinks and oranges of the tropical floral fabric, and made the sanguine flush to your cheeks speak.

He had stopped, especially, at your neck. Traced the shape of that 'Y' as it glittered. And if anybody were to ask, you were certain that his throat had bobbed.

Now, he keeps one steady hand at your back and the other in his pants. He is an impossibly handsome man, in the most literal sense of the word. But night makes him something else. It cuts the lines of his face which had an angle to them that you could only attribute to aging. His eyes were slow and pleased and all over you and the view your push-up bra makes. "Do you want one?" he asks when your eyes linger on a stand selling Hibiscus flowers. The ones the grew well and didn't get too beat up by the elements, which tourists like to pluck off the bush anyway.

"I mean… They're, like, fifteen dollars." That was a good meal's worth, as far as you were concerned. You could go without. "That's crazy. People just pick them anyway."

"Fifteen dollars to look beautiful on you," he says, "is nothing. Do you know how expensive you look right now, sweetheart?" Passing the person running the stand a bill, he takes your chin with his thumb and tucks a yellow one behind your ear. It's huge, flirting with your eyes and brushing against your temples. Approval flashes over his gaze. "There we go. Now you look like you're in Hawaii."

God. Nothing about that should make your head go so dumb.

You make your way down the street doing pretty much the same. You dip in and out of stores, racking up bags in his free hand. He has no complaints to give. It's something chemical to him. Like foreplay, watching your eyes light up and your mouth go shy with every yes. Yes, yes, yes. That's his favorite word.

Of course you drag him into Sephora. The black-and-white storefront pulls you in with gravity amidst the high-end stores and the shops with the shot glasses and tees plastered with Waikiki beach regalia. He lets you browse and drop things into the shopping basket. You giggle when you catch sight of him, there in his fine muslin button down pushed to his elbows, veins peeking out with the strain, classy sunglasses pushing his hair off his forehead, balancing the damage you'd already done in one hand and the carnage that will ensue at checkout here in the other. With a playing smile on his face, he says, "Don't you want to do something you can't do at home?"

"I can't shop at Sephora in Hawaii at home." You take your lip into your teeth to fight a coquettish grin. A toasty lip liner lands in the cart with a plastic sound of the packaging. "I'm like a thousand percent sure they have stuff here that we just don't have at home." The one by your place is half the size, and even less stocked. You'd probably had a hand in that.

"You've gotten spoiled," Yeonjun says, and you think it sounds like lust. "I've made you into a little money monster. You used to be so shy."

You gasp with affront, coloring your words precisely spoiled. "Me? Not even close. You have to beg me to spend money on myself!" You did, in fact, used to be much more shy with him. It took a few dates to be able to look him in the eyes. It's that contrast between you that is so intoxicating. How you get all dressed up in girly outfits and ramble at him, and he has the answers for it all.

He nudges you around and aisle into the next. The cart is slowly filling up. When he had said you'd be leaving with more than you came, he'd meant it. "I do," he rasps. "I've never taken another girl somewhere who loved shopping more. You're a blushing, pretty hole in my wallet."

A throaty imitation of a laugh if all you can muster in response to that. It's not like you didn't know he had other sugar babies before yourself. Had probably taken them to Hawaii, too. The thought spirals out of control before you can stamp it out. Brushing the buttery petals of the flower at your ear, you consider if he's done exactly this, all of it, with another girl, too. He has the means to. And then you get to thinking what he could've done with those girls. Did he tell them how pretty they sounded like he loved so much to tell you? "You're mean," you say, empty banter. "I'm go back in the bowl and find a sugar daddy that doesn't bully me."

The harsh overhead lights cut his features and catch the way his jaw ticks. "Is that it?" His eyes flicker down the the basket you're filling. You don't know if it's pointed or him doing the math. "They couldn't afford you."

The next step you take is a bit more wobbly, a knot pulling tight deep in your belly and making your coordination all loose. He watches watches you flounder. Realistically, you are very aware you are outmatched. It doesn't stop you doubling down. Your low heels click against the tile floors as you shuffle toward a perfume display. Heavy glass with powdery vanillas and sharp, full black pepper and night blooming jasmine, you are a self-fulfilling prophecy and gravitate toward only the luxe stuff. Maybe that's what ruffles you. That he's right. You take a greenish bottle and spritz it into the sensitive insides of your wrists.

"How about this one?" you say, prim, and offer it up to him. "Is it pretty…?"

Taking the offer up, his nose feathers against the skin. You suppress the thrill it gives you. A moment, a beat in the air exists in intimate tranquility, before you what you're about to say. He looks up at you through his brows as the scent profile hits him. Creamy banana leaf and flirty, fruity coconut that embodied everything that you were right now. His eyes drop to your mouth only long enough for you to see that he does it. "Buy it." He surrenders to one more drag of how it melts into the heat of your skin before straightening back up. You only ever remember that you have to look up at him when he does that. "I want you to wear that when we meet."

You've always known Yeonjun was more attuned to scents than other men. It was often the first thing he'd bring up when he entered a space, but it was also something he'd whisper into your ears, voice scraping, while he was behind you. So you know what you're doing when you pout your mouth and say, "Do you think the new sugar daddy will like it, too? Should I wear it for him?"

Whatever you thought he'd do, he doesn't. A scoff, or maybe a brisk, annoyed dismissal, you'd expected. Or maybe even he'd say something. But Yeonjun just pauses. Goes blank, with no playful retort to volley back. All you know is that his dark eyes, which had been so content on an indulgent walk down downtown and a nice dinner after, go severe. Darker with no trick of the light.

He only says, "Right."

That leaves you with nothing to say. You cap the tester bottle and take a real box of the perfume. Because now, you might really need that in your favor if the way he had been drinking it down was anything to go off of. Maybe it'll soften him. Your little makeup and perfume detour ends with a whimper, not a bang, as you stand beside him in line and then watch him pull out that wallet despite it. Two bags sit on the counter waiting for you to reclaim them. Full bags. But when he thumbs his credit card and runs it, a sleek, black, metal thing with weight that speaks for itself, it goes through with a ding. You toy with the frills of your little dress to expel the mortification somewhere, or even anywhere, that isn't a rambunctious ball in your chest. You open your mouth to smooth things over a few times, but decide against it. You can't claim to have not know that it would bother him, but it's too late for that.

A weird thrill shoots down your spine at the view. His shoulders rigid and sharp from the back, holding all the things in his head right now that you can only guess at.

The final act takes place in a shop, with him leaned up against a wall that separates the changing rooms from the rest of the place into its own little dim hallway. Obnoxious lights oppress the clothing racks and shoppers from a high, warehouse-like ceiling. A pop station closes in from a speaker in the corner of your dressing room. The clothes you'd rummaged through racks for hang on a gold hook on the wall, waiting for you to stop holding your breath. Even when you finally make yourself move to drop your clothes on the glossy floor below, you're elsewhere. The way his faced dropped? Not just that, but the fact that it wasn't even anger. You don't know what it was; maybe something new that the two of you had created yourselves, or something unique to the reality of what you were to each other.

Yeonjun's knock against the door pauses you. You can almost see it, how he'd rap the backside of his knuckles, head down. His mannerisms are so vivid and branded into your psyche that you could step out right now and you're certain that it's exactly how you'd find him. "Need help?"

The center of your shoulder blades burn because you'd been contorting yourself for the past few minutes to reach the strings behind you. You take your lip into your teeth and take a look of yourself in the mirror. You look expensive. You look like all the things that Choi Yeonjun touches: taken care of. "Uhhh." A part of you wants to deny him. To play the cards that you hold in this long game. He never fails to remind you how much power you hold over him and this arrangement. Why not test the boundaries? But you know what would be sweeter than that. Wordlessly, you pull the latch with a loudness that all dressing room locks seem to have.

Then there he is. His arms are crossed, the muscles there loose but still something that you have to take your mind off, or else you might start to think how they would feel under your teeth. You rove over the slanted height of him and how he still looks tall, even when he leans his head and shoulder into the frame. His eyes rove over you, too. Not a flicker. Not a quick assessment. No. God, no. Not with him.

The latch snaps shut behind him with a barely-there gesture. Your whole stomach drops to the floor and shatters.

It's a little showy. You'll give him that. And maybe you'll also admit that you grabbed this exact dress for this exact reason. A corner of your lip wants to twitch with satisfaction, but you have a plan to see through, and it starts and ends with him groveling for you. What a sight that would be. Even just imagining it and turning the imagery of it in your head, when he's the reason you can even live this life that you do, makes you a rapt little tease. Boys your age can't do this. They couldn't be him if they tried. You're beginning to think that he was a different species of man completely.

A beat passes, and then he runs the pads of his fingertips along the hem of your dress. It ends so, so dangerously; right about where your ass folds over at the sanguine softness of your thighs. The skittering brush of contact is straight electricity, and it's the littlest touch. His eyes meet yours through the mirror. Dark. Smoldering like pure wood smoke, erupting slow like the mountains on these islands that move slow enough to watch their molten greed come, but know that you can do nothing to stop it. It's no fair how he looks at you. Your knees go just completely useless.

Yeonjun completely disregards even pretending he was going to lace that skimpy back up for you. You swallow cotton. "Is it cute?" you ask, because you have a pretty good idea of what the answer is already.

The breathy gasp when he takes the soft fat of your hips into his hands with a greed that says he'd been thinking about them since you walked into this store and while he waited patiently on the other side of the door for this. Or before even that. He tugs your bottom to the front of his jeans and says, with his voice smooth like the scotch he sips, "Of course it's beautiful, baby. Do you want it?"

"Yes," you choke out around a thick knot of anticipation. Your own face meets you, palms braced on either side of the ornate gold mirror and your reflection giving you a show of how ditzy and pathetic he makes you. "But I don't know if I should." The syllables waver toward the end and belie your coquettish act.

He laughs like a scoff while he pushes the skirt of the dress up the swell of your hips, then past it until he can devour the bend of your arch. He taught you that form. And it looks like he has no notes on your technique, either. The pressure of him testing it makes your head go dumb. "When have I ever told you no?" he rasps. "You have no idea how expensive you are, baby. No idea. Your little shopping trip would've maxed out any other man's card."

There. That's the spot. You pout your mouth at him and catch him eating it up in his reflection. "I'm expensive? Am I too expensive for you, then?"

Of course not. Look at you. Look at where you are. His card is yours and you think that it's near bottomless at this point. You don't even have to ask. Yeonjun's tongue presses against the inside of his cheek.

Your panties hit the floor in one tug. The walls of the changing room become infinitely smaller as he wraps your hair up in his fist. The ache in your scalp brings a prickle to your eyes. "Is that what you think?" he says, that polished quality wipes completely raw. He tries to sound like he's not losing his mind, but it's there if you look past the lilt. "Do I need to buy you the island? The world?" It sounds like he would. Like he will. Instead of reaching for himself, he tests between your thighs for what he knows he'll find there, because of course you're soaked. You've been soaked since Sephora.

"Uh-huh," you say, because he's flicking your clit in little tests and every time he hits the sensitive underside of it, the nerves there send your heels clattering on the marble and your legs trying to find purchase. And because, what's dignity with a man sixteen years older than you who puts money in your bank account and fucks you in high-end boutique dressing rooms?

He likes that. But he doesn't give you anything real, doesn't reward the behavior you've been prancing around him with. His palm wraps around your waist to press into your belly and steady your scrambling legs like it goes without saying. The way his fingers stretch over the soft, doughy place there, how it eats up the expanse of your waist, makes you swallow hard. "God help the next kid that gets you. What's he gonna do with you? How are you gonna manage pizzeria dates and a one-bedroom apartment when you know what you have? What I've given you?"

You can't answer. His fingers curl into you, and he wastes no time finding the spot that he knows like muscle memory. The delicate anatomy of a woman's sweet spot seems like something that just came with the package of him. He doesn't have to search, and he probably never did. Sparks explode behind your eyelids like the fireworks they had been setting off on the beach in brilliant golds and teals. If he hadn't steadied you with the strength of his palm, you'd probably be crumpling down to the floor right about now.

"Hmm?" You can hear the condescending purr on his mouth, because you don't have the strength to pry your eyes open to see it.

You mewl a sorry imitation for the word, "Yes," and go back to trying to wiggle your ass into the incessant curling of his fingers. The sounds of him fingering you makes your ears and chest flush, each inappropriate, sloppy wet noise proving how easy you are for him. "Right—right there, please." Your head drops as the first word breaks in the air. It's really a sorry excuse for words.

He listens so well. The angle of his two middle fingers, the width of them just enough to make you crazy and the finesse of how he uses them like weapons even worse so, twitches just up. It's as though he feels it himself somewhere inside of you that he's found it, because he finds it and you know you're royally fucked from that moment on. "Good," he says. "That way I know I get to keep you. Because you'll go and you'll try other men,"—his forearm strains with how he forgets the soreness in it to fuck you on his fingers right—"and you'll be right back here. In my bed. On my money. My spoiled little mess."

The thought that maybe, beyond the pleasure he gets out of knowing he could give you anything, buy you anything, dressing you up in him, he likes you this way because it means nothing else would ever fill the spot he carved doesn't occur to you. Currently because your thighs spasm and shake and it takes every working synapse in your brain firing off to digest how he fucks you so good that it's a leash in and of itself. Hopefully you'll be here when he starts going salt and pepper, because what would sex be if not this?

Your choked, scraped whimpers get too loud for him. His palm over your mouth finally has your eyes fluttering open, and the sight that greets you back is potent enough to send the same molasses through your veins as the heel of his palm grinding down on your swollen clit. "Shh, baby." He grinds harder, because he's mean. "So goddamn whiny. What a princess you are; can't take what you were begging for all night. Why act up if you're gonna tell the whole store how I'm being mean to you?"

He gets your answer in a gone, strangled sob against his palm. Your own damp breaths where it seals over your mouth makes the air thinner. Each roll of his palm forward is met with a helpless push of your ass back on him. His wrist is practically pinned between the bulge in his jeans, because of course he's affected even if he'd like to pretend otherwise, and your bottom. It doesn't stop him one bit. The private sounds that his silencing makes is better than any reckless moaning. It's almost dirtier, almost wronger.

"Gonna cum?" he rasps, watching the trashy mess your face makes in the mirror like a god exacting justice. The weeping mascara lines pooling where his hand meets your face and the drooping eyes that want to roll back into your skull, the high pink of your cheeks and how he can watch himself give you this like he give you everything fucking else. You were close, but just the question winds you up tight enough to snap. That face of his goes patronizing with a furrow of his brows. Slick rolls in hot rivulets down the insides of your trembling thighs. "That's right. There we go. You need to grind that pussy on my hand? Grind it. Go ahead and see if I'm gonna give you what you're asking for."

You try to say something. You really do. To tell him that you'll do anything for it, that he's melting your brain like butter, or god, just anything. The backs of your eyes and your throat and the pit of your stomach all prickle and go tight at once. He probably hears something unflattering come out from behind his palm, something strangled and a fie on the decorum that a place like this deserves. That mirror that you'd been depending on to keep you at least somewhat planted where he's had you bent in half goes clattering against the wall behind it because you're grasping at it like it can help you.

He stops. Just completely, unfairly, cruelly stops. His fingers come out of you a mess and you have to pretend they weren't just in you as he straightens up, swipes a thumb through your blackened cheeks, and then he doesn't touch you again. You're left gaping at yourself in the mirror and wondering with a naked dissonance, like when something heavy hits metal and leaves it ringing, what the hell you're supposed to do with the knot in your lower belly now. You almost think to just rub one out after he steps out.

Tugging his collar looser around his throat, he works his jaw and lets you change back. It all feels too tight; the frills and the way you clatter uselessly out when you've finished and the neglected pangs of throbbing, so hard that you can feel the pounding of your heartbeat all the way up in your ears. You avoid eye contact when he pays for the dress up at the register. If the flushed face and the smearing of mascara that would give you away no matter how hard you tried to wipe at your cheeks and jaw didn't give you away, maybe the buzzing in your eyes would. He makes small talk with her and takes the bag and receipt as if he wasn't just knuckle deep in you. It's the antithesis of all things fair. You have to breathe with intention as he leads the way back out onto the streets. The air is thick and salty enough to swim through. It's no help up against clammy, salty skin itself. The only thing that keeps you kinda grounded as you stumble by his shoulder, because even now he's steepled your fingers together, is the sweet scent of the palm leaves touching the sky above you. Otherwise you're swimming through the honking and the weaving between bodies and the pulse of what he did to you.

You want to dig your heels in and demand he wraps his fingers around your throat and fix it. Or make a scene so big he has to. But you just blink dumbly the whole way back to the room, because you are nowhere near as gutsy as that, and half as coherent at the moment.

The door clicks closed behind you again in a pantomime of that stuffy, unreal scene you just left behind. You kick your heels off and wait. Wait to see what he does, to see if he'll pounce on you the way you ran over a generous hundred times on the way here. Yeonjun just steps out of his own shoes, drops the new dress off on a seat, and works his watch off by the night stand. The lamp there, a low warm ambience, lights the angles of him. The way his shirt stretches over his shoulders, and how he tapers out to something thin at the waist that lingers in your mind after you fuck—how the stretch below his navel and the dusting of hair there gives way to the V, and how that gives way to his cock. When you first had seen it, he didn't even laugh, though he could've. You'd just stared like you were torn between running away from it and testing if it was as hard and warm as it looked. No; he held your face as he told you that it was okay, that he wanted you to become so familiar with it that you could feel the exact shape and curve of it in your haziest dreams. You press your thighs together as you struggle with the strap of your heel.

A metallic sound works, and then he sets the silver-faced watch down. Then his eyes finally, for the first time since he stepped into that dressing room, meet yours. Not through any mirrors. The weight of that is entirely different.

"Bend over the bed," he says. "C'mon, baby girl. I've been going insane over this all day."

The hinges of your jaw ache. "Why?" You're stumbling over to do just that, because you're more talk than you are brazen. "So you can just stop again? I have fingers, you know. I don't need you."

And then his belt makes a noise that tells you he intends to see it through this time. Your stomach does three full flips, ass in the air like the obedient lap dog that you'd be for him a hundred times over. Because if he groomed you and petted you and you were his one, favorite girl for it? What else could you possibly need?

"Huh." The belt comes loose in a rasp, somewhere behind you now. He'd circled the bed completely. "I could. We could sit here and do that all night, if we wanted. But where would be the fun in that?" he says, and then he bends over your back and speaks into the shell of your ear, "I have about a thousand other, more creative things I'm gonna do to you, sweetheart. And trust me; I've had a lot of time to think them."

The shudder he tears from you is so visceral, it's like he'd wrapped a hand around your throat. You choke your swallow down dry and say, "Please do it, do whatever you want. I can take it."

He presses a wet, biting kiss into that spot where your pulse meets jawline. And then another that lingers against the back of your shoulder, and then he kisses his way down and straightens back up to make a mess of your outfit all over again. "I know you can," he rasps, his own voice scraped down to something needy that reflects exactly what's burning between your legs right now. You can't tell if it should feel like a good thing, but it just raises a chill on your skin. Because if the same blistering things that's inside you is inside of him right now, then you don't know what you've signed yourself up for.

"You're still on the pill?" he says, and then when you hesitate to answer he takes a handful of ass. "Sweetheart. Please."

You nod. He takes that and forgets the condom in his wallet to let a line of spit fall down over your cunt from the back. As if you weren't wet enough. You don't know if you've ever been so slick in your life, so wiggly that you whine at him to, "Hurrrrry." The glob lands at the top of yout slit and follows gravity to your clit, and he goes quiet to watch it find its place on you. He takes his proud length and strokes it once or twice to feel it twitch, to give himself a pathetic teaser for what was to come.

Then he's pounding into you until stars shoot behind your eyelids, until you're making noises that would embarrass you if they were ever caught on tape. The come from your throat, and they practically stay there, bouncing with each collision of his groin against your ass and the backs of your thighs. You eat straight comforter as he braces one arm beside your hips to cant his hips up, right into the place he had fun with teasing earlier. It's probably pretty obvious to the poor neighbors what the grinding of the headboard against the wall might be, but you're too busy getting your brains fucked away to be a considerate neighbor.

"Mfh!" you tell the bedsheets. The laugh that he pants into your shoulder blades is pure, undiluted dirtiness and heat.

"So mouthy," he croons, though he's no better off than you. Each time you flutter tight around him, his fingers dig deeper divots into your hip. "And so pretty when you're split on my cock and can't talk. Isn't that right, baby?" He bends completely over your back, and you're forced to remember through the scattered thoughts of how he looked behind you in that mirror. His body ate yours up. It didn't matter if you were taller, if you were any other way. He'd make you look tiny anyway, just like how his fingers stretch over the small of your back and how he handles you with it. "Tell me what you need. I wanna hear that mouth go."

Breathing is a thing of the past. You shove your face to one side so at least you aren't suffocating in the sheets, face such a mess that you can feel it more than the twist of your brows and the pout on your mouth. Sweat beads at your temples and hair sticks there over your flaming cheeks. "Choke me, choke me," you say. It's the dumbified words of somebody who has about five words in their current arsenal and was using all their brain power for each. You choke and sob and bite whines into the air and meet every single one of his thrusts.

He's not gonna let you ask twice. The precision of his fingers is food for your brain, thinning your windpipe just enough to twist every nudge of his tip to your cervix into something more potent and overwhelming. Your nails bite into his wrist at your neck, skull digging back into his shoulder and hips being ground into the edge of the mattress every time he strokes with mindless, carnal rhythm. "Choke you?" he almost laughs, like his hand wasn't around your throat right now. "You're full of surprises, you know that? How's that for that sweet brain, baby girl? Huh?"

Your face twists up. "Uh—uh-huh!" You can't breathe, can't think, in the best way. Lips wobbling, you pant, "I like it!"

That has his hips coming down on you in a different way. He falls over your back and drags in the scent at your neck like he's huffing something stronger than the sweet scent of sex on your skin. But it does something electric to him. His abs tighten against your spine, grinding his cock into you like he could be any deeper than this. It feels like he's up in your stomach, you brain, dressing that up just like he does to the rest of you. "Fuck." His voice crumbles into tatters. "You smell so fucking good. Like candy." He kisses at the spot that you, even in this state, recall with a jerk to be where you had sprayed that perfume. It had melted into the warm pulse there, faded down into the base notes. The kiss isn't enough. He presses his tall nose right into it and grabs at you so hard that it aches. "I'm not gonna last long, baby. God, you're getting more of this stuff. I'll buy you more before we—" His wet forehead falls into the soft spot between your shoulders and where your nape begins, every rolling thrust like he's staving off an orgasm coming just from the olfactory sweetness of you.

You've long since raked red-hot lines down his taut forearm, but a particular tightening of his fingers at your throat and a wet slide that hits just the right spot without you having to ask sends you over like a house of cards. The arch in the very angle of your back bows back against him. The suite falls away, all of Hawaii and your agreement follows, until you're just a girl under a man who knows exactly how to play you. "I'm cumming!" you say, all but stumbling over the warning. "Help!"

You don't know what the hell you're saying, and he's off the deep end too. He throws you up the bed and digs his knees in to gain purchase and something in that scent he caught, in the thoughts that had been festering in his head all night, comes alive. He rails you right into the sheets and takes what he needs as you claw at the pillows and sheets through yours. Because with him, you're gonna cum first if he has to grit his teeth and pull out just to make sure he doesn't first.

"That's it," he growls. "That's my spoiled girl." Then his own hips stop and each stutter of them as he fucks it into you, each pant and breath into your shoulders and kiss to the back of your head, tells you that he's followed you down. As his weight smothers you into the pillows, grounding you and suffocating you until you can come down and breathe again, he makes your hair into a loose ponytail to reach the soft parts of your neck that the tangle of it hid.

His heartbeat at your back reverberates into your chest. Speaking into your face as he takes the softness of your cheeks and watches them squish under his fingers, he says, "How's that for leaving you wanting?" There's a lazy, pleased light in his eyes. What else could a man need, more than a pretty girl glowing with post-orgasmic bliss under him, in a bed he put her in, in a frilly, rumpled dress that only he could afford? Nothing. He was living the life that other men loathed him for. He nips the turn of your shoulder and says, "You were put on this Earth to test old bastards like me, huh?"

You can hardly give him an enthusiastic smile. Probably.

ash⦂ #needthat like i finished this in a haze at 4am before a shift so if that tells you anything about how i was feeling…

You're straddling him now, knees on either side of his thighs, the thin fabric of your stage skirt riding up your legs. His hands rest on your hips, thumbs tracing lazy circles through the material, but he's not gripping. Not guiding. He's waiting. He always waits for you.

"You're staring," you murmur, looping your arms around his neck.

"Can you blame me?" His voice is low, a little breathless. "You looked so good on stage tonight, noona."

There it is. That word. Delivered with a smile that's just shy of teasing, eyes glittering with amusement. He knows exactly what he's doing.

You roll your eyes. "Don't start."

"Start what?" His thumbs press a little deeper into your hips, while giving you puppy eyes. "I'm just complimenting you. You're older, you're wiser, you're sooo experienced. I should respect you."

"You're mocking me."

"I would never." He leans forward, his lips brushing the curve of your jaw. "Respect your elders, right, noona?"

Your fingers tighten in his hair. You should correct him. But his mouth is trailing down your neck now, soft and warm, and he's still murmuring that word against your skin like a prayer.

Noona. Noona. Noona.

"You're insufferable," you manage, but your voice comes out shakier than you intended.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, and that teasing glint is still there, but underneath it is something hungrier. "You love it."

"I hate it."

"Liar." He nips at your bottom lip. "You get so wet every time I say it. I can feel you through your panties, noona."

Heat floods your cheeks. He's right. You hate how much you love it, hate the way your body reacts every single time that word leaves his mouth. But you'll never admit it. Not to him.

"You're so full of yourself."

"Stop acting like you don’t love it." His hands slide down to grip your ass, pulling you tighter against him. You can feel how hard he is through his pants, and the contact makes you both gasp. "See? You can't even pretend anymore."

"Shut up, Jake."

You crash your mouth against his, kissing him hard and deep, and he groans into it like he's been waiting. His tongue slides against yours, messy and desperate, and his hands roam your body like he's trying to memorize every curve. He's always like this sweet and obedient until you give him an inch, and then he's everywhere.

But you're still in control. You pull back first, leaving him chasing your lips with a whine.

"Take off your pants," you say.

He scrambles to obey, lifting his hips to shove his pants down his thighs, boxers following. His cock springs free, flushed and leaking, and you watch him squirm under your gaze.

"You're staring," he says mimicking you from earlier with a shaky laugh in his voice.

"Can you blame me?" You reach down and wrap your hand around him, watching his head fall back against the chair. "You're so pretty like this, Jake. All desperate and whiny."

"I'm not whiny-"

You squeeze gently. He whines.

"Not whiny at all," you agree, smiling. "You're gonna listen to what I say right?"

He nods, eyes blown wide.

You shift off his lap, only to reposition each other on a nearby couch. You climb over him again, swinging your leg over his head until you're facing his lower body and straddling his face. He gets the idea immediately. His hands grab your thighs, pulling you down until your center hovers just above his mouth.

"Wait," you say, and he freezes.

You lean forward, lowering yourself until your mouth is level with his cock. When your breath hits his skin he shudders beneath you.

"You eat me out. I'll suck you off. And if you're good-" you drag your tongue up the length of him just once, just enough to make him whimper " maybe I'll let you cum."

"Fuck," he breathes. "Noona, you're going to kill me."

"Probably." You wrap your lips around the tip and suck gently. "Now shut up and get to work."

He doesn't need to be told twice.

His mouth finds you immediately, tongue parting your folds with an eagerness that makes your hips buck forward. He's messy about it he always has been, too hungry to be neat but he knows exactly where to put his tongue. He laps at your clit in broad strokes, then sucks gently, then does it again, and you have to pull off his cock just to gasp for air.

"Fuck, Jakey-"

He hums against you in response, the vibration shooting up your spine, and you can feel him smiling. That smug little shit.

You retaliate by taking him deeper, swallowing him down until your nose presses against his pelvis. He chokes on a moan, his hips jerking up, and his rhythm falters for just a second before he doubles down.

But then he pauses. His mouth leaves you, and you feel his breath hot against your inner thigh.

"You know what would make this better?" he asks, voice thick.

You lift your head just enough to glare at him over your shoulder. "If you stopped talking?"

"If you admitted you love when I call you noona." You can hear the grin in his voice. "Say it. Just once. 'Jake, I love when you call me noona.'"

"I will bite you."

"That's not a no."

You drop your head back down and take him in your mouth again, hoping to shut him up. He groans, hips stuttering, but he's not done.

"That's not how this works, noona," he says, and the word is muffled because he's burying his face back between your legs, but you still hear it.

His tongue finds your clit again, and this time he's relentless fast and firm and exactly how you like it. Your legs start to shake. Your mouth goes slack around his cock.

"There she is," he murmurs against you. "There's my good girl. You gonna cum for me, noona? Gonna soak my face and pretend you hate me?"

You want to tell him to shut up. You want to pull his hair and remind him who's in charge. But you're so close, so fucking close, and his tongue is doing that thing and his hands are gripping your thighs so tight they'll bruise and he's still saying it, noona noona noona like a fucking mantra.

You cum with his name on your tongue, except it comes out wrong, comes out shaky and desperate and exactly what he wanted to hear.

He moans against you through it, drinking you down, and when you finally go limp above him he pulls his mouth away just long enough to say, "See? I knew you loved it."

You hate him. You hate him so much.

But he's still hard and leaking against your lips, and you took it upon yourself to finish what you started.

You crawl off him and he sits up. Both of you are a mess. His hair is sticking up in twenty directions. His chest is covered in sweat and spit. His eyes are glazed over, lips swollen, cheeks flushed.

You're not much better.

But you're also not done with him.

You settle back between his thighs, fingers tracing lazily along his hip, feeling the way his muscles jump under your touch. He's watching you with those desperate hazy eyes, already trembling again just from the anticipation.

You don't say anything. You just look at him really look at him and let the silence stretch until he can't take it anymore.

"Noona?" His voice cracks. It's small. Fragile. Nothing like the teasing tone from earlier. His lower lip trembles and his eyes are glassy, wet at the corners. He's holding back tears. "Noona, did I- did I not do good?"

Your heart falters.

"I did everything you said," he continues, voice wobbling. "I was good. I didn't complain. I let you- I let you do whatever you wanted. You said if I was good I could-" He stops, swallows hard, and a single tear slips down his cheek. "You said I could cum, noona. You promised."

He's whining now, high and desperate, hips twitching like he can't help chasing friction. His cock is still hard, flushed red, leaking against his stomach. He looks wrecked. Completely wrecked.

"Please," he whispers. "Please, noona. I'll be better. I'll be so much better. Just tell me what I did wrong and I'll fix it. I'll do anything. Just please don't- don't leave me like this."

His hands reach for you but stop halfway, remembering he's not allowed to touch without permission. Instead they fall back against the couch, fingers curling into the fabric like he needs something to hold onto.

"Did I not make you feel good?" His voice breaks on the last word. "I thought- I thought made you feel good. You made a mess all over me and you kept saying my name and I thought you were happy. I thought I was doing good."

Another tear falls. Then another.

He's not even trying to hide it anymore.

Your thumbs brush away his tears, slow and gentle, as you lean in until your forehead touches his.

"Hey," you whisper. "Hey, look at me."

His glassy eyes meet yours, wet and scared and so vulnerable it makes your chest ache.

"You did so good," you say softly, firmly, like you need him to hear it and understand. "So fucking good, Jake."

He sniffles, lower lip still trembling. "But I-"

"Shhh." You shake your head, thumbs still stroking his cheekbones. "You were perfect. You did everything I asked. You let me have you however I wanted. You're being good I like it a lot."

A shaky breath escapes him.

"I'm not leaving you like anything," you continue, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. "I'm right here. I've got you. You're my good boy, okay? My good, pretty boy who did everything right."

He blinks, more tears spilling over. "Then why did you stop?"

You smile softly, kissing the other corner of his mouth. "Because I wanted to look at you. Because you're perfect everything about you is and I wanted to remember every second of it."

A broken sound leaves his throat.

"You want to cum, baby?" you ask, lips brushing against his.

He nods frantically, hands still fisted in the couch fabric, still obeying even now. "Please, noona. Please im so needy for you, just wanna feel you."

"You will," you promise, pulling back just enough to look into his eyes.

He gets shy at the thought of it and tries to hide his smile.

"That's my boy," you whisper, and you lean down to kiss him soft and slow and full of everything you can't say. He melts into it, tears wet against your cheeks, and when you finally pull away, his eyes are still glassy but the panic is gone.

He doesn't hesitate. "I need you so bad. I've been thinking about you all day. All week. Every time I see you I just want to -" He cuts himself off with a shuddering breath as you squeeze gently.

"You just want to what?"

"I want to be inside you," he admits, voice barely above a whisper. "I want- I want to make you feel good too. I want to make you cum so hard you forget your own name. Please, noona. Please let me."

You hold his wrists against the back of the couch. His hips buck up involuntarily, grinding against you and it's a mess. His leaking pre cum mixes with yours, both of you still slick and sticky from before, Jake's own spit still wet on your skin. The slide is filthy, and you can feel him growing hard again beneath you, pressing between your swollen folds.

You roll your hips slowly, watching his face contort with pleasure.

"Does that feel good?"

"Yes. Fuck, yes, noona it feels so fucking good," he gasps. "Noona, please-"

You keep moving, slow and torturous, and his eyes roll back. His fingers curl into fists above his head but he doesn't lower them, doesn't try to touch you. He's being so good. So obedient.

"You're going to cum like this just from a little grinding," you tell him. "Like a teenage boy. And you're going to thank me for it."

He moans, loud, and you press your hand over his mouth.

"Quiet. Someone could hear."

His eyes widen. His hips stutter. The thought of getting caught, of someone walking past and hearing him fall apart for you it pushes him closer. You can feel it in the way his body tenses, the way his breathing goes ragged against your palm.

"Imagine if a staff member walked in right now," you whisper in his ear. "Imagine if they saw you like this. Their precious Jake. Begging. Whining. About to cum because his noona told him to."

Thats all it takes.

His whole body goes rigid, his mouth opening in a silent cry against your hand, his hips jerking up into you as he spills in the space between the both of you. You watch his face the whole time, drinking in every expression, every twitch, every broken sound he can't quite hold back.

When it's over, he slumps against the couch out of breath, wrists going limp in your grip. His face is flushed, his eyes are wet, and he looks completely wrecked.

Beautiful.

You release his wrists and cup his face in both hands, tilting his head up.

"You did so good," you murmur. "Such a good boy for me."

He leans into your touch, eyes fluttering closed. "Noona..."

"I know." You kiss his forehead softly. "I know."

He's still hard. You can feel it. One orgasm isn't enough for him and you have no intention of stopping here.

"You can touch," you tell him.

His hands fly to your waist immediately, gripping tight, like he's afraid you'll disappear. But you grab his wrists and guide them higher, up to your chest, pressing his palms flat against your breasts.

"Here," you say softly. "I want you here."

He doesn't need to be told twice. His fingers curl around the soft flesh, thumbs brushing over your nipples, and you shiver at the contact. He's learning by watching your face, paying attention to what makes your breath catch. When he circles his thumb around one nipple, your hips jerk forward involuntarily, grinding against his length again.

"Yeah," you breathe. "Just like that."

He gains confidence, squeezing and kneading, pinching lightly just to watch you gasp. Your head falls back and you let him play. Let him explore. His touch is worshipping, desperate, like he's trying to memorize every inch of you.

"Noona," he whines, hips bucking up. "Please. I need- I need you so bad."

You look down at him wrecked, hard, completely at your mercy and you feel a surge of affection so strong it almost hurts.

"I know, baby." You lean forward, bracing your hands on either side of his head, and let your tits brush against his chest. He tries to chase your mouth but you pull back just out of reach. "Tell me what you want."

"You," he gasps. "Just you. Always you."

"That's not specific enough."

His fingers dig into your hips, desperate. "I want you to ride me. I want to be inside you. I want to feel you cum around me. Please, noona. Please."

You reward him by lowering yourself just enough for the tip of him to press against your entrance. He moans, loud and broken, and his head falls back against the couch.

"Say it again," you whisper.

"Noona," he breathes. "My noona. Please tell me you love it. Please tell me you love when I call you that."

You sink down just an inch.

"I love it," you admit, voice barely above a whisper. "I love when you call me noona. I love the way it sounds coming from your mouth. I love how desperate you get.

A sob catches in his throat.

"I love it, Jake. I love when my good boy calls me noona."

You sink down fully, taking all of him in one slow, steady motion, and the sound he makes is inhuman. His back arches off the couch, mouth open in a silent scream, and you feel him throbbing inside you immediately.

You don't move at first. You just sit there, full of him, watching him come undone beneath you.

"Spit," you say suddenly.

His eyes flutter open, hazy with pleasure. "What?"

"Spit in my mouth."

Something dark flashes across his face. He reaches up, fingers trembling, and gathers saliva in his mouth. Then you lean down, lips parting, and he lets it fall from his lips to yours, warm and wet and obscene. You catch it on your tongue, moan at the taste of him, and then you lean back up and let it drip from your mouth down onto his chest.

"Again," you whisper.

He does it again. And again. Each time more desperate, more sloppy, until both of you are covered in spit and sweat and the evidence of how badly you want each other.

Then you start to move.

You ride him slow at first, which has him gasping your name. His hands find your tits again, playing with them, pinching and pulling until you're crying out above him. Every flick of his thumb sends a jolt through your body, makes you clench around him, makes him moan.

"Harder," he begs. "Please, noona, harder. I can take it. I'll take whatever you give me."

So you give him more. You bounce on his cock, fast and brutal, letting him watch the way your tits move with every thrust. His mouth waters. You can see it. He reaches up and spits directly onto your chest this time, watching his saliva drip down your skin, and you moan so loud you're sure someone could hear.

"Do you love it?" he gasps, thrusting up to meet you. "Do you love when I call you noona?"

"Yes," you cry out. "Yes, I love it, I love it so much-"

"Fuck- you're so fucking hot, say it again."

"I love it Jakey."

He grips your hips, flipping you both over so he's on top, and the sudden change in position makes you gasp. He doesn't enter you again, not yet. Instead he hovers over you, one hand braced beside your head, the other reaching down to guide himself through your soaked folds.

"You love being my noona," he says, and it's not a question anymore. It's a statement. "You love that I'm younger and you love that I make you feel this good."

"Yes." You're nodding frantically, beyond caring about pride. "Yes, Jake, yes-"

He pushes inside you in one sharp thrust and your vision goes white.

He fucks you hard no slow pace, no more teasing. Just desperate, animalistic rhythm, his hips slamming into yours, his mouth hovering over your chest. He spits on your nipples, watches the saliva glisten, then lowers his mouth to suck them clean. His tongue swirls around each peak, teeth grazing sensitive skin, and you're clawing at his back, leaving marks you know will last for days.

"Cum for me," he growls against your breast. "Cum on my cock, noona. Want to feel you squeeze me. Want you to soak me."

Your orgasm crashes over you without warning, your back arching off the couch, a scream tearing from your throat. You clamp down around him so tight he can barely move, but he keeps thrusting anyway chasing his own release, desperate and sloppy and perfect.

"Noona," he chants, thrusting erratically now. "Noona, noona, noona-"

His hips stutter, his eyes roll back, and he spills inside you with a broken cry of a mix of your name and noona.

He collapses onto your chest, both of you shaking, both of you soaked in sweat and spit and each other.

For a long moment, neither of you speak.

Then he lifts his head, chin resting on your chest, and gives you that familiar teasing smile but softer now, edges blurred by exhaustion and satisfaction.

"Love you, noona," he whispers.

You laugh, weak and breathless, and run your fingers through his sweaty hair.

"Love you too, loser."

Beneath the pixelated photos lay thousands of comments, a relentless waterfall of opinions from people who didn't know her name but felt entirely qualified to judge her right to exist.

“What is he even doing with her?”

“She needs to leave him alone so he can focus on the comeback.”

“Just another attention seeker trying to ride his coat-tails. She’s completely ruining Yeonjun.”

A heavy, familiar ache settled deep in her chest. Y/n wasn't a celebrity. She didn't have a stylized wardrobe, a dedicated public relations team, or a thick skin built from years of harsh public scrutiny. She was just an ordinary person who happened to love Choi Yeonjun—the guy who stole her fries when they ate out, complained loudly about being cold just to steal her warmth, and laughed until he couldn't breathe in the quiet spaces of her living room. But to the world, she was a glaring flaw in his perfect, polished equation.

Every notification that lit up her screen felt like a tiny, digital blow. Her finger hovered over the screen, tempted to close the app, yet she kept scrolling, drawn into the masochistic loop of reading what strangers thought of her ordinary life.

The sudden, familiar sound of the front door passcode clicking open startled her. Y/n quickly locked her phone, dropping it onto the mattress as if it had burned her, but she wasn't fast enough to wipe the lingering tension from her shoulders or the raw vulnerability from her face.

Yeonjun walked into the apartment, looking utterly deflated from a grueling twelve-hour dance practice. His hair was a messy, damp tangle buried beneath a black beanie, and his oversized hoodie swallowed his broad frame. His eyes were heavy with fatigue, the dark circles beneath them a testament to the brutal schedule he kept. Yet, the exact moment his gaze found her sitting on the bed, the tired lines etched into his face noticeably softened.

"Hey," he murmured, his voice a low, raspy rumble as he kicked off his sneakers at the entryway. He didn't even bother to drop his gym bag on the floor properly before walking straight over to the bed. He slumped down beside her, immediately burying his face into the crook of her neck, letting his heavy weight lean completely into her. He smelled like the cold winter air outside, stale sweat, and fabric softener. "I missed you so much today."

"Missed you too," she whispered. She wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders, but her voice was tighter, more constrained than she intended it to be.

Yeonjun pulled back almost instantly, his sharp, perceptive eyes scanning her face in the dim light. He looked down at the locked phone resting on the blanket beside her thigh, then back up to meet her eyes. He knew that look. He had seen it on his members, on his friends, and now, most painfully, on her. The immediate flash of guilt that flared in his eyes cut straight through his own physical exhaustion.

"Let's go eat something," Y/n said quickly, trying to shift the focus away from her face. "You must be starving. I made dinner... I erm.. tried your mother's recipe."

The clink of ceramic and the steady rush of warm water filled the small kitchen a little later. Dinner itself had been a remarkably quiet affair—far quieter than their usual chaotic meals. Yeonjun had eaten everything she put in front of him, but his eyes never really left her. There was no easy banter tonight, no shared laughs over stupid internet memes or gossip from the studio. There was just the heavy, rhythmic hum of the refrigerator filling the space between them.

Now, they stood side-by-side at the sink. Yeonjun leaned back against the counter with a dry dish towel slung over his shoulder, waiting to receive the clean items, while Y/n stared blankly into the soapy water. Her hands were submerged, her fingers blindly scrubbing the exact same spot on a ceramic bowl she had already cleaned twice.

"Hey," Yeonjun said softly. He reached past her wet sleeve and gently turned off the running faucet. The sudden silence in the kitchen was incredibly loud. "You're gonna wash the glaze right off that thing if you keep going."

Y/n blinked rapidly, coming out of her trance abruptly, and forced a quick, practiced smile that completely failed to reach her eyes. "Oh. Sorry about that. Just spaced out for a second." She quickly handed him the dripping bowl and reached into the water for a mug, deliberately avoiding his piercing gaze.

Yeonjun didn't take the bowl to dry it. Instead, he set it firmly down on the counter behind him and caught her right wrist, gently but unyieldingly tugging her hand completely out of the dishwater.

"You've been spacing out since the second I walked through the front door," he murmured, his eyes searching hers. "What's going on in that head of yours?"

"Nothing," she said quickly, the word rushing out of her mouth a little too fast to be believable. She kept her eyes glued to the white bubbles clinging to her fingers. "Just had a really long, exhausting day at work. I'm just tired, Yeonjun. Seriously, that's all it is."

It was a safe lie. A normal, mundane lie. The exact kind of excuse an ordinary person could use to get through a rough evening. But Yeonjun knew Y/n too well. He knew the precise difference between her being physically tired and her being mentally checked out, retreating into her own head to protect herself. He looked closely at her face, noting the slight, rigid tension in her jaw and the way she deliberately refused to look across the kitchen toward the dining table, where her phone lay face down.

The paparazzi photos from their weekend walk had leaked across every major social media platform that morning. He had seen the headlines during his lunch break. He knew what the internet looked like right now. And he knew she had seen it, too.

"A long day at work," he repeated softly, his voice dropping an octave. He didn't let go of her wrist. Instead, he reached over, grabbed a clean, dry towel, and slowly began to wipe the remaining soap and water from her hands. His movements were incredibly deliberate, calm, and tender, as if he were handling something fragile. "So it has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that your phone has been lighting up every two minutes? Or that you haven't looked me dead in the eye once tonight?"

Y/n swallowed hard against the lump rising in her throat, her carefully constructed defensive wall instantly springing a massive leak. She tried to subtly pull her hand back from his grip, but his fingers remained firm, yet entirely gentle around her skin.

"I just... I really don't want to talk about it tonight," she whispered, her voice cracking just enough at the end to completely betray her emotional state. "You're already exhausted from practice. You have a massive comeback next month. You don't need to come home to this apartment and deal with me being... insecure and dramatic."

"Deal with you?"

Yeonjun took a deliberate step closer, completely closing the small physical gap between them until her back was pressed slightly against the edge of the kitchen counter. He reached up with his free hand, his long, warm fingers gently catching her chin, tilting her head up and forcing her to finally look directly into his eyes. His gaze wasn't tired or unfocused anymore; it was intensely locked onto hers, completely stripped of the charismatic, untouchable idol persona he wore like armor on stage.

"Don't ever say that," he murmured, his thumb brushing softly against her cheekbone. "Don't lie to me just to protect me from things that are happening strictly because of my life, because of my career choice. If you're hurting, I need you to tell me."

Y/n looked down, unable to hold the sheer intensity of his stare, and a single, heavy tear finally slipped past her lashes, trailing down her cheek.

"It’s just a lot, Yeonjun," she admitted, her voice barely audible over the hum of the fridge. "Seeing thousands of people pick apart everything about me—how I look, what I wear, how I walk. Hearing them call me names, calling me a massive mistake for your career... I don't know how to handle that kind of criticism. I don't have a shield for this."

Yeonjun didn't say a word at first. The silence stretched between them, but it wasn't heavy anymore; it was full of a quiet, protective understanding. Slowly, he leaned his head down, resting his forehead gently against hers, closing his eyes as if simply soaking in her physical presence to center himself.

"They don't know a single thing about us," he whispered into the fraction of space left between them, his warm breath fanning across her face. "They see a grainy, stolen photo from a distance and think they understand my entire life. They don't see you holding me together when I'm so stressed. They don't know the only person who makes me actually look forward to leaving the studio and coming home."

He slid his long arms completely around her waist, pulling her flush against his chest. He buried his face deep into the crook of her neck, holding her tight enough to ground her, tight enough to let her feel the steady, rapid beat of his heart against her ribs.

"Let them talk," he muttered fiercely against her skin, his grip tightening just a fraction more. "They don't get a say in our relationship. They don't get a seat at our table. If they want to waste their time and energy being angry because I found someone who genuinely makes me happy, then let them waste it. Just promise me you won't let them make you feel like you don't belong here. Because you do. You belong with me, just as I belong with you."

Y/n let out a long, shaky breath, her hands finally moving up to tightly grip the thick fabric of his oversized hoodie. There still may be people outside their bubble sharing unsolicited criticism, but in the quiet, soapy warmth of the apartment, his weight against her was the only thing that felt real.

You step out of the meeting with your manager and a few higher ups of the company, disappointment crashing over you in waves. Your brain is like a train running at full speed off the side of a cliff, and at this point, you'll let it. You're not really even thinking about where you're headed, but your legs take you right where you want to go anyway.

You could probably walk through the maze of hallways in your sleep at this point. You know the way to TXT's practice room better than you know your own phone password. And you also know Yeonjun's schedule, because if you didn't, you probably wouldn't see the man for several months at a time.

You walk into the practice room unnanounced. You don't need decorum at this point. No one is in it besides your boyfriend, going over the choreography for one of his upcoming performances. You beeline for the couch and flop down on it, curling up on it with your cheek pressed against the cool leather.

You could cry. Maybe. But you don't. In truth, you feel more numb than sad, because by now, you're quite used to this outcome. And so is Yeonjun, but he never seems to take it as hard as you do. But you get it. It isn't as rough on him. He mostly reaps the benefit, not the disappointment of always being pushed to the background—always excluded intentionally.

You know that he also hates this reality. That the company won't let you and him show any amount of interaction to the public, even if your group is heavily associated with him at this point.

"Too much risk."

That was always the excuse. That fans would somehow be able to tell with just one TikTok challenge that you and Yeonjun have been dating for years. There's always a slight sting whenever you're reminded that no one believes you're professional enough to even film a dance challenge with him.

You have a whole folder of them in your phone. Dozens and dozens of videos you've filmed with him, all in hopes that your social media team might approve of just one of them. Of course, it never happened. And in the meeting today you got another piece of disappointing news. Your invite to an upcoming fashion week had been switched out to one of your members instead because Yeonjun would also be in attendance. Apparently you two attending the same event would be the end of the world.

You try not to think about it too much and let your eyes soak up the sight of Yeonjun dancing. He hasn't stopped since you came into the room, but he's smiling at you through the mirror, and it's just enough to make your lips tug up a bit as well. That's always been his effect on you. The ability to make you smile through anything. Through all your rough trainee days and the road to debuting to the pressures of daily idol life, and, of course, the ridiculously excessive decisions of the company.

He supports you through it all the best he can admist his own even busier schedule, and you'll always be eternally grateful for that. You wish you could support him in the same way, but all you can really offer are back massages and the motivation of hugs and kisses. You're not sure it does much, but your boyfriend always tells you that you're the best thing to ever happen to him. You have no choice but to believe him, even though you think he's exaggerating. He always starts pouting if you say otherwise.

By the time the song comes to an end, Yeonjun is already jogging towards you. He seems so full of energy while you're completely deflated. It's ironic. He's the one who has been dancing for over an hour, yet you're the one exhausted just from being stuck in a meeting for thirty minutes.

"Guessing it didn't go well?" he asks as he sits down on the ground next to the couch. You shake your head a little, expression somber. He nods and mumbles a small, "expected."

"I just don't get it," you say quietly. "It's not like I want to declare my love for you to the entire world—"

Yeonjun raises an eyebrow, amused, and you frown.

"Okay, I would declare it if it didn't come with an insane amount of consequences, but that's beside the point. I just want to be able to work with you professionally, like everyone else does. And yeah, maybe I am a bit jealous that I'm not the one to do a sexy dance with you on your solo song, but I would be satisfied with less. Just one TikTok. That's literally all I want. I'd even do some stupid aegyo challenge if it just meant I could upload something with you."

"They're making my girl that desperate, huh?" Yeonjun comments, teasing you. You huff as he rests his chin on his arms, getting just a bit closer to you. "You're adorable, you know."

You try to roll your eyes, but you can barely stop from feeling inexplicably soft from the comment. You love Yeonjun so much, and he adores you just as much. You really wish you didn't have to hide it everyday.

You reach out your left hand to stroke through Yeonjun's hair, craving to feel his skin under your touch.

"I'm sweaty."

"I know and I don't care."

He doesn't fight you on that. You've both seen each other drenched in sweat from practice or after a performancee and still decided to go for a hug or kiss. It might be a little gross, but dating Yeonjun has always forced you to sacrifice some things. You'll take all the hugs you can get, sweaty or not.

"I'm not going to fashion week anymore," you tell him quietly, still stroking his hair. He had leaned into the touch and relaxed completely, but when he hears your words, he tenses and opens his eyes.

"What?"

You've processed it in the fifteen minutes since your meeting ended, so it doesn't hurt as much, but for Yeonjun, who is just hearing of it now, it burns. Your chest starts to ache a little again, not for yourself, but for him this time. You didn't quite expect him to sound so crestfallen about the news.

"I was going to take you to the Eiffel Tower," he says with a pout. Your palm cups his cheek.

"The Eiffel Tower? Really, Jun? You know we can't go on a date like that in public."

"Well we definitely can't now."

You laugh somehow, even though you feel angry inside all over again. It hurts when the company won't let you do the simplest things you want, but when they don't let your boyfriend have what he wants either, your frustration is doubled. There's no real point in being mad, especially not during your precious time with Yeonjun. So you laugh instead, and it earns you a sad smile from your boyfriend.

He crawls onto the couch with you, somehow making enough space for two even though it's cramped. You let yourself relax into his arms and press your cheek against his chest. He's still warm from the hour of dancing, and you can feel the restrained frustration in the way he holds you; as if being in his arms could shield you both from this reality for just a few minutes. And maybe it does a little when you feel him press a kiss to the top of your head and mumble a soft "I love you" into your hair.

It's exhausting to have to fight for it—fight just to be allowed to exist in the same space as him or merely seen next to him by the public eye. You don't know if it will ever change one day or if things will continue to be stuck as they are. Even for the slightest chance of it being different in the future, you won't give up. You won't view it as a waste. Nothing for Yeonjun could ever be a waste in your eyes. He's worth it all.

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The building's underground parking lot was dim and quiet when Yeonjun pulled up, engine idling low.

You slid into the passenger seat still carrying the faint scent of stage makeup and hairspray, hoodie zipped halfway, legs already restless from too many hours of schedules.

He didn’t say anything at first—just reached over, buckled your seatbelt for you with that automatic tenderness he never quite shook, even when he was pissed. The silence stretched until you were out on the main road, city lights sliding across the blacked-out windows.

Then, Yeonjun spoke, voice tight, knuckles white on the steering wheel. “He knows you’re mine. Everyone fucking knows.” His jaw ticked. “The whole industry knows and yet he still stands there batting his lashes, calling you ‘baby girl’ like it’s a joke we’re all in on. Like I’m not the one who takes you home every night.”

You exhaled through your nose, staring at the passing taillights. “Chan's like that with literally everyone, Jun. You’ve seen him do it to half the female trainees, the makeup noonas, even Felix when he’s feeling extra dramatic. It’s just... Chan.”

Yeonjun’s laugh was short and bitter. “Yeah? He doesn’t look at them the way he looks at you.” He flicked the turn signal harder than necessary. “Doesn’t lean in that close. Doesn’t drop his voice like he’s telling you a secret meant only for your ears.”

You didn’t argue. Instead you reached over, caught his right hand where it rested on the gear shift, and lifted it to your mouth. The first slow drag of your tongue along the length of his middle finger made his breath hitch audibly. You sealed your lips around the tip, sucked lightly, then kissed the center of his palm—open-mouthed, taking all the time in the world.

His fingers twitched against your tongue. “Baby—”

You didn’t let him finish.

You guided his hand down, under the hem of your hoodie, over the soft cotton of your shirt until his palm cupped the swell of your breast. You pressed him there, letting him feel the stiff peak already pushing against the fabric. Then you dragged lower. Past the elastic of your sweatpants, under the damp lace of your panties. When his fingertips brushed bare, slick folds, he froze.

“Fuck,” he breathed, so low it was almost lost under the hum of the engine.

You tilted your hips, dragging yourself along his curled fingers. “Only you do this to me,” you whispered, voice husky. “Just listening to you get all possessive and jealous... that’s enough.”

Yeonjun’s gaze darted between the road and your lap. “I’m driving.”

“You always drive one-handed anyway.” You curled your fingers around his wrist and rocked forward, coating his hand in the evidence of how much his rant had affected you. “See?”

A car honked somewhere behind you because he apparently drifted half a lane. He cursed under his breath and jerked the wheel to correct. “Jesus—baby, stop. I can’t—”

You didn’t stop.

Instead you hooked your thumbs into the waistband of your sweatpants and shoved them down your thighs, bunched just above your knees.

You spread your legs as wide as the seat would allow, one foot braced on the edge of the dashboard, the other pressing against the center console—opening yourself completely to the dim glow filtering through the tinted glass.

The rich, distinct scent of your arousal immediately filled the car as Yeonjun inhaled sharply through his nose, nostrils flaring as his chest rose hard, making his pupils dilate further even as he kept his eyes glued to the dark stretch of road ahead.

“Fucking hell… thank god the windows are tinted,” he muttered, voice gruff and strained. “One wrong glance from the next car over and they’d see exactly how soaked you are for me right now.”

You moaned—soft, needy, the sound slipping out like liquid heat—when you finally guided his slack hand back in between your thighs.

You hooked his fingers on the damp lace of your panties before you pushed it to the side, the fabric catching briefly on your swollen folds before sliding away with a faint, wet drag. The moment his warm palm met bare skin again, you ground down hard against his knuckles.

The friction was devastating.

Rougher than your own fingers ever managed, scraping deliciously along your slick entrance, the heat of him seeping straight into your core. You could feel every ridge, every subtle flex of tendon as you rocked forward, coating his skin in a fresh, glossy layer of your arousal.

He tried to pull away once, forearm tensing under your grip.

“We’re gonna crash,” he gritted out, voice strained, almost pleading.

You clamped both hands around his wrist, nails digging into the soft skin just below his watch strap, and held him exactly where you wanted him.

Your hips rolled in slow, filthy circles—deliberate, obscene—dragging your clit along the prominent knuckle of his middle finger until sparks danced behind your closed lids.

“Then drive careful,” you breathed, the words dissolving into another low, trembling moan.

A red light flared ahead, bathing the dashboard in crimson. The car rolled to a smooth, reluctant stop.

For three long heartbeats, silence swallowed everything except the wet, rhythmic slide of your hips against his unmoving hand and the shallow rasp of his breathing.

Then, Yeonjun exhaled roughly through clenched teeth—a sound that was half curse, half surrender. He shifted in the driver’s seat, leather creaking under him, twisting his torso just enough to angle his wrist at a sharper, more devastating angle.

And finally—finally—he gave in.

Two fingers plunged inside you without warning, thick and unyielding, stretching your soaked walls in one smooth, ruthless glide.

The sudden fullness punched the air from your lungs; your back arched hard against the seatbelt, head thumping back against the headrest. He curled them immediately—deep, practiced hooks that dragged along the spongy front wall with brutal precision, fingertips pressing right against that spot that made your vision white out at the edges. His thumb found your clit at the same moment—already throbbing, slick, hypersensitive—and circled once. Hard.

Your head fell back against the seat with a choked moan. “Fuck—yes—Jun—"

He didn’t look at you.

One glance at your flushed face, your parted lips, the way your chest heaved under the shoved-up fabric, and he knew every last scrap of control would evaporate. So his eyes stayed locked on the red glow ahead, jaw clenched so hard the muscle in his cheek ticked visibly under the passing streetlights.

But his hand never faltered as he worked you ruthlessly—deep, steady pumps, thumb flicking faster every time your hips jerked.

You shoved your hoodie and shirt up in one frantic motion, exposing your breasts to the cool blast of the AC vents. The sudden chill pebbled your nipples instantly; they ached, stiff and begging. Your own hands flew to them—cupping the soft weight first, then pinching the peaks between thumb and forefinger, rolling them hard.

Sharp pleasure-pain shot straight to your core as your walls clenched violently around his invading fingers, vibrating in frantic little pulses that dragged a low, jarring groan from deep in Yeonjun’s chest. He stole the quickest glance—barely a second—eyes so dark the pupils had swallowed the irises entirely.

“Goddamn it,” he rasped, voice gravel-rough and fraying. “Look at you. Tits out, pinching yourself like that while I finger-fuck you in the middle of traffic. Can’t even wait till we get home, can you? So fucking desperate for it.”

The light turned green but he didn’t take his hand away. 

He drove one-handed through the intersection, left palm steady on the wheel, right wrist angled awkwardly but never stopping. Every subtle shift of the steering—every small correction—ground the heel of his hand harder against your swollen clit.

Your moans turned breathy, ragged—high little keens that fogged the passenger window in uneven bursts. The car rocked faintly with the rhythm of your hips grinding down onto his hand; the seatbelt dug into your shoulder, a thin line of restraint against the chaos building low in your belly.

“Faster,” you begged, voice cracking. “Jun—please—harder—”

He swore again, thick and wrecked, and sped up—brutal now, wet sounds loud enough to drown out the low purr of the engine. Your thighs trembled, stomach clenching, breath coming in short, desperate pants. 

When you came, it hit hard and sudden—back arching off the leather, a broken cry tearing out of your throat as you pulsed around his fingers, slick coating his palm, dripping down the inside of your thigh, through your uselessly soaked panties and onto the seat. 

He kept moving through it, drawing it out until you were whimpering, oversensitive, thighs shaking. Only when your hand weakly pushed at his wrist did he finally ease out, fingers glistening.

You didn’t give him time to recover.

Still panting, chest heaving, skin fever-hot and slick with sweat—you flicked the seatbelt buckle open with a soft metallic click. You climbed over the center console in one clumsy, desperate scramble, knees digging into the edge of the passenger seat for leverage, thighs straddling his right leg. Your panties, soaked from your orgasm brushed the rough cotton of his sweatpants and left a dark, wet smear across his thigh.

“Baby—what the—”

You didn’t answer and just yanked at the drawstring of his sweatpants, tugged the waistband down enough to free him. He was already hard—painfully so—tip flushed dark and leaking. Your fingers wrapped around him, slick from your own release, and stroked once from base to tip. 

Yeonjun’s head thudded back against the headrest. “Fuck—fuck—fuck—”

His voice cracked, half-warning, half-plea. The car gave the tiniest swerve; he corrected it instantly, jaw clenched so hard you could see the muscle jump under his skin.

You ignored him.

Fingers found the drawstring of his sweatpants, yanked it loose with a sharp tug. The elastic gave way easily; you shoved the waistband down just far enough. His cock sprang free—thick, flushed an angry dark pink at the head, already glistening with precum that beaded at the slit and slid slowly down the underside in a lazy, shining trail.

Your hand—still slick and warm from where you’d come all over his fingers—wrapped around him. Base to tip in one long, slow drag. Your palm glided over velvet skin stretched tight, veins pulsing under your grip. You twisted lightly at the head, thumb swiping through the slickness there, spreading it until every stroke made a soft, wet schlick sound that was louder than the tires on asphalt.

Yeonjun’s head thudded back against the headrest with a dull thump. A string of broken curses spilled from his lips.

“Fuck—shit—fuck—” each one rougher, more ragged than the last. His hips jerked up into your fist on instinct; the car lurched forward half a meter before he stamped the accelerator to steady it again.

You leaned in close, breasts brushing his chest through your thin hoodie, nipples hard and aching against the fabric. Your lips grazed the shell of his ear—hot breath fanning over the sensitive skin there.

“Keep driving,” you whispered, voice low and wrecked, lips catching on the tiny silver hoop in his lobe. “Don’t stop.”

He sucked in a sharp breath as you pumped him teasingly slow at first—then faster, matching the rhythm he’d used on you moments earlier. Every time he hissed or cursed you squeezed a little tighter, thumb swiping over the slit to spread the bead of precum there. A car passed on the left; Yeonjun’s grip on the wheel turned brutal.

“You're gonna make me wreck us,” he growled, but he didn’t push your hand away.

You smiled against his neck, teeth grazing skin. “Then pull over.”

He didn’t.

Not yet.

The city lights blurred past in streaks of red and gold, but Yeonjun’s focus had long since fractured and by the next red light—he used both hands as one tangled in your hair, yanking your mouth to his in a messy, desperate kiss while the other cupped your face roughly. 

You kept stroking him through it—harder, faster—until his hips were stuttering, breath ragged against your lips, curses muffled against your tongue until you pulled back slowly, lips glistening and swollen as a thin, glistening thread of saliva stretched between your mouths before it snapped the moment the light turned green, Yeonjun panting as one of his hands returned to the wheel.

You continued to jerk him off with the same filthy rhythm he’d used to wreck you minutes earlier. Every upward stroke dragged a low hiss from between his teeth; every twist at the head made his hips jerk involuntarily against the seat. He was leaking steadily now, your palm gliding through it, making obscene wet sounds that mixed with the low growl of the engine.

“Baby—shit—slow the fuck down,” he rasped, voice splintering, barely audible over the blood pounding in your ears.

The plea was useless. You only squeezed harder at the base—firm, possessive—then dragged your thumb in slow, deliberate circles over the slit, spreading the glossy bead of precum until your entire palm glistened and slid with obscene ease.

Then, you shifted. 

You leaned down, hair spilling over his thigh, breath hot against the sensitive skin just below the head. One teasing flick of your tongue—flat, slow, dragging from just below the ridge all the way up to collect that bead. The taste burst sharp and bitter-salty across your tastebuds; you hummed low in your throat at the flavor of him, letting the vibration rumble straight down his length.

Yeonjun’s entire body locked.

“Fuck—baby, don’t—” His voice cracked, frayed at the edges, barely louder than the blood roaring in your ears. “I’m still driving—fuck—don’t you dare—”

Too late.

You took him into your mouth in one slow, intentional slide. The heat, the wet suction, the way your tongue flattened along the underside and curled—it shattered whatever thread of restraint he’d been clinging to. 

A throaty curse tore out of him, raw and broken as his free hand shot to the back of your head, gripping hard enough that you felt every tremor in his fingers.

“That’s it,” he rasped, voice wrecked. “That’s fucking it—I can’t—I can’t drive like this.”

The car swerved slightly as he jerked the wheel toward the shoulder of the road but you didn't stop. Your mouth stayed locked around him, cheeks hollowed, tongue pressing flat along the throbbing underside while you sucked harder, wetter, sloppier. Spit dripped down his shaft in warm rivulets, pooling at the base, soaking into the dark fabric bunched around his hips.

Tires bit gravel, the vehicle lurched once before he slammed on the brakes and killed the engine in one rough motion. The sudden silence was deafening—only your wet, sloppy sounds and his ragged breathing filling the dark interior. 

He was shaking.

“Fuck, I tried,” he growled, fingers tightening in your hair until your scalp burned with sweet, stinging pleasure, tiny sparks dancing behind your eyelids. “I tried so fucking hard to be the responsible one tonight. Keep it together. Get us home. But you—” His voice cracked on a bitter, breathless laugh. “You just had to keep going, didn’t you? Had to push and push until I fucking snapped.”

He didn’t give you time to answer. Didn’t even give you the chance to pull off him completely.

Strong, calloused hands roughened from endless hours of training slid under your arms. He hauled you up in one brutal motion, forcibly dragging your mouth off his cock with a wet, obscene pop. A thick string of saliva and precum stretched between your swollen lips and the glistening head before it snapped, landing in a warm, sticky line across your chin.

You barely had time to gasp before he was dragging you fully into his lap, knees straddling his hips, chest pressed flush to his. Your sweatpants were already halfway down your calves but he didn’t bother pulling them off all the way. His hands went straight for the waistband of your ruined panties—black lace, once delicate, now dark and sodden, plastered obscenely to your swollen folds like a second skin.

He hooked two fingers under the front panel and paused—just long enough for you to feel the heat of his knuckles brushing your mound, the faint tremor in his grip.

Then he yanked upward.

Hard.

So hard that the thin strip of fabric dug into your slit like a cruel harness, the lace sawing roughly against your oversensitive clit. The sudden, sharp pressure made your hips jerk forward on instinct, a broken moan ripping from your throat as your nails dug into his shoulders.

Yeonjun’s eyes were black, pupils blown wide, watching every twitch of your face like he was memorizing it. “Yeah?” he muttered, voice low and dangerous. “You like that, huh? Like it when I make it hurt just a little?”

He tugged again—slower this time, deliberate—dragging the soaked lace up and down your slit in tight, punishing little pulls. Each upward yank rubbed the rough texture directly over your clit, forcing fresh slick to leak out and darken the fabric even more.

Your thighs trembled violently around his hips; your breath came in short, desperate pants. “Jun—please—”

“Please what, baby?” He twisted his wrist, making the lace bite deeper into your folds.

You couldn’t answer—could only whimper and rock forward, chasing the brutal friction.

He gave one last, vicious yank—hard enough that you felt the seams strain and then give with a soft, final rip. The panties tore away completely, leaving angry red marks etched across the crease of your thighs and the tender, swollen skin just above your clit.

Cool air hit your dripping cunt for half a second before his hand claimed it.

Two fingers spread you open roughly, exposing every slick, sensitive inch. Then without mercy, Yeonjun’s thumb and forefinger found your clit, already throbbing and engorged from the earlier torment. He pinched it firmly between them and squeezed.

Not a gentle roll. Not a teasing flick.

A hard, possessive squeeze that sent a white-hot jolt shooting straight up your spine. Your whole body seized as a strangled cry tore from your throat, hips bucking violently forward, trying to escape and chase the overwhelming sensation at the same time. Fresh slick gushed out around his fingers, coating his hand, dripping onto his lap.

“Fuck—listen to you,” he growled low, voice thick with dark satisfaction. “So sensitive already. Just from me squeezing this little clit like it belongs to me.”

He held the pressure for another heartbeat—long enough that your thighs trembled uncontrollably, walls clenching around nothing—before he finally released it with a slow, deliberate drag of his fingertips, letting the blood rush back in a dizzying pulse.

You were shaking, gasping, barely able to hold yourself up, forehead pressed to his shoulder as you tried to catch your breath.

Yeonjun’s lips brushed the shell of your ear, voice dropping to a rough, taunting whisper. “You wanted this, didn’t you?” 

He didn’t wait for an answer—just tilted your chin up with two slick fingers so you had to meet his eyes.

“Admit it,” he murmured, thumb brushing your bottom lip, smearing your own arousal there. “All that teasing while we were on the fucking highway... sucking me off while I’m trying to drive... grinding on my hand like you couldn’t wait another second. You wanted me to lose it. Wanted me to snap and fuck you raw right here on the side of the road.”

He squeezed again—sharper this time—making your thighs quake and a broken sob escape you.

Your breath hitched, cheeks burning, but you couldn't deny it. Not when he was looking at you like that—like he already knew every filthy thought in your head.

“Say it,” he demanded, leaning in until his mouth brushed your ear, breath hot. “Tell me you wanted me to lose control like this.”

You could barely form words, but the answer spilled out anyway—shaky, desperate. “Y-yes... fuck, yes—I wanted it... Wanted you to snap. Wanted you to fuck me right here.”

His eyes flashed—satisfaction, hunger, triumph all at once.

“That’s my girl.”

He held the pinch for one final, agonizing heartbeat—long enough that your walls clenched around nothing, begging—before he released your clit with a slow, deliberate drag of his fingertips, letting the blood rush back in a dizzying, overwhelming pulse.

You were shaking, gasping, barely able to hold yourself up when he lined himself up—still slick from your mouth—and slammed in—deep, brutal, all the way to the hilt in one punishing thrust.

Your scream was muffled against his shoulder as your nails raked down the back of his neck. The stretch burned in the best way—thick, unrelenting, filling you so completely you could feel every vein, every angry twitch of him inside you.

“Fuck—still so tight,” he snarled against your throat, teeth sinking into skin hard enough to leave marks. “Even after coming all over my fingers. Greedy little thing.”

He didn’t give you time to adjust and clamped his hands around your hips—fingers digging in hard enough to bruise—and he started moving. Rough. Fast. No rhythm at first, just raw, possessive need, hips snapping up to meet yours on every brutal downward stroke, driving himself deeper until your cervix ached and you were crying out with every thrust, the car rocking violently with the force of it.

Your back hit the steering wheel once—twice—horn blaring for a split second before he yanked you forward again, crushing your chest to his so he could bury his face in your neck and bite down harder.

“Mine,” he growled against your pulse, hips pistoning relentlessly. “Say it.”

“Yours—shit—Yeonjun—”

“Louder.” he demanded.

“I'm—fuck—yours!” you practically screamed in between breaths.

He rewarded you with a particularly vicious grind, pubic bone dragging hard against your clit on every upward stroke. Your walls fluttered around him, already fluttering toward the edge again from the relentless pressure, the way he was fucking you like he needed to ruin you for anyone else.

One hand left your hip and shoved up under your hoodie, palming your breast roughly—pinching the nipple between thumb and forefinger until you arched and sobbed his name.

“Look at me,” he demanded. You forced your eyes open—tears clinging to your lashes—and met his gaze. Dark, possessive, and completely unraveled. 

“Chan doesn’t get to have this,” he rasped, punctuating each word with a punishing thrust. “No one else gets this. Only me. Only fucking me.”

You shattered around him mid-sentence—walls clamping down hard, quivering wildly as your orgasm ripped through you. Your thighs locked around his hips; your cry was high and broken, echoing in the confined space but he didn’t stop. He kept thrusting you through it—harder, if anything—chasing his own release with short, erratic snaps of his hips.

“Gonna—fuck—gonna fill you up,” he warned, voice fraying at the edges. “Gonna mark you so deep you’ll feel me for days. Drip with me on every step tomorrow.”

You clenched around him on purpose—once, twice—and that was it.

Yeonjun came with a choked, guttural groan, burying himself to the hilt and pulsing hot inside you. His grip on your hips turned bruising as he ground up into you, riding out every shudder, spilling so much you could feel the excess leaking out around where he was still buried deep, streaking down your thighs and soaking into the leather beneath you.

He exhaled roughly, forehead pressed to yours, panting like he’d just run sprints. For a long minute the only sound was both of you breathing—harsh, uneven, the faint creak of the cooling engine, the quiet click of the turn signal he’d forgotten to cancel, and the thick scent of sex hanging heavy in the air.

Then Yeonjun laughed, rough and disbelieving, and dropped his head back against the seat again.

“Fucking hell, you are insane,” he muttered, voice wrecked. “Completely fucking insane.”

You smiled against his neck, still trembling, still very much full of him, walls vibrating weakly around his softening length. He huffed a low, wrecked laugh and pressed a surprisingly tender kiss to the fresh bite mark blooming on your neck.

“Next time,” he rasped against your skin, voice gravel-rough, “we’re taking the fucking van. Tinted windows all around, way more room in the back. I’m not doing this in a cramped drivers' seat on the side of the goddamn highway again." He pressed a kiss to your temple. "Gonna spread you out properly, take my time, make you scream until your voice gives out.”

You clenched around him once more, just to feel him twitch inside you, and felt the way his breath hitched.

“Liar,” you whisper.

He groaned, low and defeated. “Right” he admitted, lips brushing your ear. “I’ll probably still fuck you anywhere you let me.”

You grinned. “Yeah,” you whispered. “You really will.”

「 YEONJUN 」 ⤷ hes the king of fashion and he 100% influences you to get into it too, so when you try wearing a tighter style of shirt which hugs your chest in the perfect way? YEONJUN can only handle so much before he's drooling on his knees.

"jjunnie, i don't think this looks good," you turn push the door open to the bedroom the two of you shared, some low waisted jeans barely hanging onto your hips whilst a tight baby tee was being pushed to its limits on your top half.

yeonjun chokes on his ice coffee he was sipping on, his chair almost snapping in half with how fast he turns around. "jesus christ the lord please save me for all the sins im about to commit," yeonjun clasps his hands together in front of his chest, eyes squeezed shut.

worry bubbles in your stomach, "do you not like it? is it too much?" you whisper and yeonjun's eyes narrow into slits, long legs easily eating up the distance between the two of you.

"i don't like your outfit baby," he leans down, lips brushing against your own as he speaks, your eyes widen with fear at his words. you lift your arms to cross them over your chest but yeonjun just laughs, "i fucking love it baby."

"you scared me, i thought it was all too much, considering my," you look at your chest before blushing and looking away. yeonjun cocks a brow, his large hands coming up to cup the large swell of your breasts.

"you thought it was too much because your shirt makes your tits look so fucking good?" yeonjun smirks, giving your boobs a firm squeeze. you whimper, trying to leave his grasp but he steps closer, pressing his hard bulge into his thigh.

"fuck baby, you're not leaving the house until i stuff you full of my cum."

「 SOOBIN 」 ⤷hes submissive, needy and whiney so obviously hes going to be a sucker for your tits. SOOBIN is arguably the most in love with your tits out of the five of them.

"baby.." you yawn, the shirt you had been sleeping in had completely bunched up around your neck rather than hiding your precious features. "soobinnie?" you rub your eyes, the cool air of the room hitting your exposed chest.

soobin was already awake, eyes wide as he looks at the large swell of your chest, his hands itchy by his hands to touch you. his lips form the perfect pout, his cheek resting against your shoulder.

" 'm here," soobin hums, his hands coming up to cup your large breasts, your eyes widen, cheeks turning a soft shade of pink. you try to pull the blanket up over yourself but soobin whines, already burying his face between your boobs.

"how- my shirt, soobin move so i can cover myself," you tangle your hand in his dark hair to try push him away, but he whines so loud it almost gives you a headache. soobin wraps his hands around your waist, laying full on top of you as he latches onto one of your nipples.

a shocked moan forces its way from your throat, eyes widening as your boyfriend eagerly laps and sucks on your chest as if he were going to get milk from you. "soobin what the fuck are you doing?"

his brown eyes flutter open, mouth temporarily pulling away from your chest. "i'm hungry mommy, n they look so pretty, fuck," your boyfriend whimpers, his other hand fondling your other breast as he kisses all over your other one and sucks on your nipple again.

"you're a pervert binnie"

「 BEOMGYU 」 ⤷ clingy, soft dom BEOMGYU that talks you through literally everything because hes the best boyfriend ever? but,, at the end of the day, he is just beomgyu so he can't help but get horny every time he walks in on you changing!

"baby girl, are you almost ready? i miss you," beomgyu whines from the other side of your bedroom door, he always insisted on not being in the room whilst you changed to give you some sort of privacy.

"just come in daddy, i'm almost done," you call out to him, your back was turned to the door as you looked through the closet to find a shirt. beomgyu hums, pushing the door open and getting comfortable on the bed his hands already finding the pants you were meant to wear that you had left on the bed.

"daddy i need them!" you giggle, turning around to face beomgyu. his eyes widen at the sight, nothing but a black lacy bra on your chest that was barely containing your tits and a matching pair of panties. he lets out a loud moan, immediately pulling you down onto his lap.

"holy fucking shit baby," beomgyu growls, his lips finding yours in a needy, desperate kiss. his large hands knead the soft flesh of your breasts, thumbs rubbing over your nipples. "lay down, fuck, lay down. need to fuck your tits, so fucking big and perfect, be a good girl for daddy bunny."

you giggle, your cheeks a dark shade of red as you lay down on the bed, your boyfriend had already shed his sweatpants and had grabbed the lube from the bedside table before straddling your chest. "bunny, you're so perfect, just look at you, and you're all mine aren't you? say it. say that you're mine."

you mewl, gyu's" left hand pinching your cheeks so you had no choice but to look him in the eye as his right hand smeared lube down the valley of your breasts. "I-i'm all yours daddy, your bunny, your good girl. m yours," you whimper, his thick length finally sliding between your boobs.

he groans, "hold them together, tell me how perfect you are as i fuck your tits bunny, tell daddy how fucking hot you are."

「 TAEHYUN」 ⤷ going to the gym had always been a big part of TAEHYUN'S life so he was more than over joyed when you said you would come with him. what he didn't expect, was for you to turn up in the smallest, tightest sports bra known to man.

taehyun was half way through his set when he saw you walk into the gym, some tight leggings that made your ass look huge but that wasn't where his eyes were and taehyun was a very well known ass man. his eyes are glued to your chest, the nike sports bra you wore was barely holding your tits!

"princess, over here," taehyun calls out to you, there's no need for him to raise his voice because he knows you can pick his voice up from any where.

you turn your head in his direction, a wide smile already spreading across your face at the sight of your boyfriend. you meet in the middle, taehyun hands immediately going to your waist to guide you towards the shower room.

"fucking hell baby girl, are you trying to kill me? dressing up like this. you're lucky no one else is here to see you like this, like a fucking whore," tyun tuts, his eyes scanning your outfit with a disappointed look, his arms crossing over his chest.

you whimper, immediately feeling small under his gaze you. "w-what? i was just trying to wear gym clothes. we were going to work out together weren't we?" you look up at him, arms crossed over your chest to attempt to hide yourself from his strong gaze but its futile.

"there's no point in hiding yourself now baby, everyone's already seen how much of a slut you look like, showing off these perfect tits,"taehyun raises his left hand, landing a firm spank on your left boob. you moan, arms falling down to your sides.

his skin is still damp from his half finished work out, biceps bulging as he picks you up and practically slams you against the ground. you don't even release it but your leggings get ripped in the crotch, his sweatpants down by his mid thigh.

"dress like a slut, get treated like a slut."

「 HUENING KAI」 ⤷ subby KAI who can't keep his paws off of you no matter what, whimpering and crying because you're not near him at all times. he even wears his collar around the house when you're out because he misses you!

after a long day of being away from you, poor kai can't wait to play with you.

"good puppy, you fuck me so well," the fake dog ears on kai's head bounce with each thrust into you, the tail plug in his ass pressing into his prostate. he whimpers at your praise, his hips speeding up to try coax more of the sweet words from your mouth.

his eyes are staring down at your chest, mesmerised by the way your tits bounce each time he fucks into you. his mouth moving down to kiss the softness of your chest.

"does-does it feel good mommy? am i doing it good-good enough?" kai's voice is airy, a mixture of submission and pleasure. "nghh mommy, i'm im so close,"

you chuckle at his cuteness, how he attempts to shake his hips so his tail will wag and the drool that ran down his chin. kai's eyes glass over as he cums, fucking it deep inside of you, it doesn't take long for you to cum, clenching around your puppy's cock to milk him of all of his cum.

kai soon falls on top of you, heavy weight crushing you, his cock still buried deep inside of you. his lips attach to your nipple, gently sucking as his tail wags with the movement of his slow grinds.

"good boy, you did so well for me, so well for mommy," you coo, gently scratching at his scalp in the way that had kai letting out a high pitched whine.

"my milk drunk puppy."

"Ngh, c-can't-," you whimpered.

You thrusted out your hands, blindly trying to finding something, anything to grip onto. Only for you to end up grabbing a fistful of Yeonjun's long, silky pitch-black hair while your free hand grasped onto the pillow beneath your head for dear life.

You could literally feel the way your pussy continuously pulsating around his skillful tongue. The cold, smooth surface of his tongue piercing occasionally bumping against your clit makes you see the white pearly gates of heaven. The way Yeonjun grinned into your pussy didn't went and feel unnoticed by you.

"Oh fuck!"

You cried out, back arching off the bed when he pushed two fingers in. There wasn't any resistance and the glide was smooth. He expertly curled them, easily locating that delicate, spongy spot and poked at it, causing stars to explode behind your eyelids. Your thighs trembled, your stomach muscles tightening with the all-too familiar feeling of arousal making its appearance.

You could hear the faint sounds of heavy-boosted music playing downstairs—a reminder of that you're supposed to be enjoying the party with your friends. And not laying on the sheets with your legs spread as Yeonjun have you for breakfast, lunch, dinner and dessert too.

Goosebumps formed on your skin when you feel the cold frames of his glasses firmly pressed against your inner thighs, with how he was trying to bury his face in your dripping pussy. The rings Yeonjun wore didn't help either—the cold metal circles with different designs hovering over it had left imprints behind, with how hard he dug his fingers into your thighs.

The rings were covered in a thin layer of your slick—solid evidence of how you reaching your high a few minutes ago the moment your back hit the sheets.

Your ears turn red with embarrassment at the sound of Yeonjun greedily slurping your slick, like there was no tomorrow. You would have thought he was about to die, with how needy he was.

"Fuck, pussy so good. Could stay here forever," he whined, mind spinning with how addictive you taste on the tip of his tongue. To him, nothing could taste as good as you. If he could, he would rather spend the rest of his life living between your legs, worshiping you like you deserve it.

It's insane with the fact that he was able to make you come undone twice in the span of thirty minutes—a sign he knows your body well. Even better than you. You should be pushing him away, your poor, overstimulated pussy crying and screaming for help.

But you couldn't.

Not when Yeonjun gave a light, sharp nip to your puffy lips, causing you to cry out his name. You mewled when he chuckled against your pussy—the vibrations making your legs twitched.

"Shh, we don't want them to hear you now, do we? Unless that's something you're into," he shushed you, eyes flickering up to your face for a split second.

Your lips dropped, forming a silent 'O' shape at the feeling of him pushing two fingers into your stretched-out, red and swollen pussy. Yeonjun swore under his breath at how your gummy walls let him in with ease, feeling no form of resistance.

He pushed them in until he was knuckles-deep, his cold metal rings brushing against your pussy causing you to let out a series of soft whines and moans that sounds nothing but angelic to him.

"Look at you, already fucked out before I fuck you," he sneered, words dripping with disdain as he pushed himself up so he could get a clear, unobstructed view of your state.

Your eyes were glazed over with lust. Swollen, bruised lips parted as you panted, trying to catch your breath. Your hair was a mess, spread out beneath you. The sad excuse of the tank top you wore was pushed up, along with the straps of both your top and bra pushed down to your shoulders. Your neck was covered in hickeys and bite marks, thanks to Yeonjun who had purposely left them higher than what your shirts can conceal from the public's curious eyes.

He cooed when you whimpered, eyes rolling up to the back of your head as he curled his long, slender fingers in just the right angle, enough for you to see stars exploding in your vision. Stretching himself, he ducked his head so he could whisper into your left ear.

"Aw, what's wrong? Can't speak? What happened to the (Name) that was telling me she wanna end this, hm?" He taunts, his hot breath grazing against your skin with every word he spoke. He smirked when he felt you tighten around his fingers.

Yeonjun rested his thumb on your clit, pressing down on it before rubbing it in slow circles. His action made your legs kicked out but he was quick to hold you down, locking you in place. He moved back down, returning to his previous and rightful position.

This time, he paid special attention to your clit, licking at it only with the tip of his tongue. He could see how your pussy fluttered, with more slick dripping.

The filthy sight sends heat down to his cock, twithcing in the tight, uncomfortable restraints of his jeans. As much as he wants to pound into you with no mercy, he wants you to know that no matter what you say, you'll always come back to him. Because he's the only one who knows how to please you.

With newfound determination, Yeonjun buried his face deep in your pussy, until the tip of his nose brushed against your clit, gliding his tongue piercing along your walls. It's like he wants to die with him being suffocated by your pussy. This drew a moan from you, followed by your weak protests.

"Wait, t-too much—hah," you moaned, smacking his broad, sturdy shoulders but he was unfazed.

Slap!

You jumped when he landed a light, fleeting slap right on your core. The way your pussy reacted—fluttering at the mere contact didn't go unnoticed by him. And of course, he took this chance to tease you.

"Oh? Does this turns you on? Knew you're a dirty slut," he purred, running his ring finger along your puffy folds.

"Wonder how your friends will react if they see how much of a whore you are. Getting fucked by someone who you claimed you have had enough," he barked out a laugh.

He didn't give you time to breathe, to speak or to react. Yeonjun switched between licking and sucking on your clit until you were being tipped over the edge. He didn't slow down or let up, greedily swallowing your creamy slick like a man on a mission while pumping his fingers in and out of you. The bedroom was filled with the loud squelching sounds along with your pleasured sounds as it gradually get louder and louder.

A part of you felt embarrassed, thinking that the people downstairs will be able to hear you but the thought flew out of your mind when he slide his stained, dirtied fingers out of your leaking hole with an embarrassingly loud squelch sound. You felt boneless, your limbs growing as heavy as steel as you struggle to breathe, panting loudly to catch your breath.

Slap!

You let out a started yelp when Yeonjun slapped your stimulated, sensitive pussy for the second time. You glared at him, ready to tell him off but you paused at how his glasses were drenched with your slick. It's clear he didn't bother removing or cleaning it. You weren't sure why but seeing your body fluids dripping from his glasses made you want to rub your thighs together.

It's like he belongs to you. But deep down, you knew that won't happen.

The two of you had agreed that this was only a friends with benefit relationship, with no strings attached. But as time past, the lines start to blur. You weren't blind with the way Yeonjun was treating you—like you're his partner. His girlfriend.

And the thought would have made your heart flutter, if you haven't seen him shoving his tongue down some random girl's throat an hour ago.

That was what made you decided to pull your big girl pants up, to confront him—to tell him that you were done with this. But all it takes was for Yeonjun to cock his head to the side, pull you in by your waist and crash his lips against yours for you to forget everything else, bringing you to your current situation.

You let out a muffled whine against his lips as he rocked his hips against your core. You could feel the outline of his cock, thick and hanging between his legs and in the restraints of his jeans.

"Look at you, dripping all over me. Want me to fuck you, baby?" He chuckled, breaking the kiss.

His eyes flickered down, watching how you were soaking the thick fabric of his jeans with you grinding against him. The slightly rough surface made your pussy throbbed, the need to be filled rising.

You nodded your head, unable to find it in yourself to speak. But Yeonjun wasn't pleased. He reached down to give a mean pinch of your clit, watching how you flinched from it.

"Nuh uh, use your words, baby. I can't read your mind," he clicked his tongue.

And because this is Yeonjun, he pushes two fingers back into your stretched pussy, easily finding that one spongy spot and wasted no time in abusing it, reducing you to a whining mess as you couldn't speak. You wildly thrashed about on the soiled sheets, letting out a series of moans and whines along with the chanting of his name. Although, you weren't sure if you want him to stop or to keep going.

"I'm waiting," he drawled.

Unlike you, who was already fucked out and in a mess, Yeonjun was still fully clothed and relaxed, like he has all the time in the world. The contrast of your appearances show the dynamic of your relationship. Of who's sitting on the throne while who obeys who.

"J-Junie," you mewled, accidentally using his nickname instead of his real name but he didn't point it out.

His eyes were focused on your face, admiring how responsive you are to every single, little touch. Something possessive dark came to life at the thought of how no one else was able to see you like this. About how he was the reason why and how you had ended up like this.

"Yes, sweetheart? C'mon, use your words. I know you want it," he coax you, as if you're actual lovers when you're far from that.

You whimpered, pawing at the front of his black shirt as you looked at him with teary eyes, lips curling down in a pout.

"P-Please, wan' you to touch me.. Wanna feel you.."

"Oh? But I am touching you already. You gotta be more specific," he teases, his fingers moving in a scissors-like movement in your pussy, making a series of squelching sounds that sounds like something shot straight out of a pornographic movie.

You sniffled, tear droplets trickling down your cheeks. "M-Mean, so mean," you babbled.

Yeonjun did everything but to give in to your pleas. He furrowed his eyebrows, purposely jutting his lips down to a pout—copying your expression.

"Mean? You're saying I'm mean when you're the one laying on my bed and soaking my sheets? Guess you don't want my cock then."

To show that he wasn't lying, he pulled his fingers out, ignoring your pathetic attempts of trying to stop him, to hold him in place. He backed away, ready to get out of bed when you shot up, hand grabbing his wrist.

"No, don't!" You protested.

Yeonjun paused, looking at you over his shoulder and arched an eyebrow. "Don't what?"

"..Don't go," you muttered under your breath, not having the courage to face him.

"And why not?"

You internally groaned at how he was playing hard to get. If you were in your right mind, you would've said something snarky but at this point, you were too far gone to care. All you care about was getting his stupid cock in you, wanting him to fill you up. And the sooner he do it, the better it is for you. And maybe him, but who knows?

"'Cause I want you to.." Your voice trailed off, hesitant and embarrassed.

"To? Go on, I'm listening," he prods you further, lips curling up in a smirk. You were almost tempted to smack it off his stupidly handsome face. Curse him and his good looks.

"Want you to fuck me, pretty please?" You begged.

The moment those words left your lips, you were being shoved down into the sheets but this time, onto your arms and knees with your bare ass up in the air. You squeaked, face buried in the pillow—the very same pillow that you had drooled on. Your ears registered the sounds of Yeonjun unbuckling his belt, followed by the unzip of his jeans.

"W-Wait—hngh!"

You protested, only for the words to die in your throat as your fluttering cunt were being split into half, condom forgotten. The obscene sound of slick spewing out everywhere reverberated against the thin four walls.

Your elbows were trembling while trying to support your body weight. No matter how many times you've done this, you still couldn't get used to the grith and size of his cock. Without the condom, you could feel every ridge against your gummy, velvety walls.

Yeonjun, on the other hand, felt like he was in heaven. He sharply inhaled, digging his hands into your waist as he looks down at you from above, desire glimmered in his clouded eyes.

"Shit, you feel so good. So tight for me," he murmured, his right hand tracing the outline of your spine, feeling the way you shivered under his touch. Leaning down so his body engulfed yours, shielding you from the ceiling lights, he whispered into your right ear, the hand that was on your spine now moved to tease your hardened right nipple, kneading your breast like it's dough.

"You like this, don't you? Like that you're made for me," he coos.

"Choi Yeonjun, if you don't start moving, I swear to god I'll—"

You couldn't finish your half-empty threat, not when he starts pounding into your swollen pussy at a harsh, unrelenting and unforgiving pace—a breathless but loud moan was ripped from your throat—needy, carnal and erotic.

Your pussy was comically stretched wide around his member to accommodate the girthy size. The coil in your stomach enlarges as every second passed by how full you felt as he slides in and out of your soaked center.

Yeonjun lets out a mean, low chuckle. "You'll what? Find someone else to fuck you?" He paused, forcefully pushing you down into the pillow and grabbed a fistful of your hair, tugging on it like he's riding a horse.

The sounds you let out could be compared to a professional pornstar, with how you're babbling nonsense and chanting his name like a sacred prayer. You couldn't speak or focus on anything else but on the intoxicating feeling of his cock hitting that one sensitive spot, over and over.

"Think you can find someone else to keep you and this greedy little cunt of yours satisfied?" He sneered, his free hand moving to pinch your poor, sensitive clit.

He laughed at how your tighten around him at his action. "They'll never be able to keep up with you, princess. Only I can and you best remember that."

"Ngh, I-I'm so-sorry daddy," you moaned, not even aware that you had slipped up but thankfully, Yeonjun was too far gone to notice.

"Yeah? You're sorry? If you're sorry then you better moan my name so everyone can hear who's making you feel this good," he snarled, tugging your hair backwards.

"F-Fuck! It's y-you, Yeonjun! Oh god, I'm gonna cum," you let out a wanton and high-pitched moan, not caring if the people downstairs were able to hear it or not.

"Then cum," he demanded, delivering one final, sharp and hard thrust that buries himself deep to the hilt as you came with his name spilling from your lips, smooth like water.

Yeonjun was quick to follow suit, spilling deep inside of you as he painted your abused walls white. He groaned, leaning back to get a magnificent view of a creamy, white ring surrounding the base of his cock. He spread you apart, watching while chewing on his bottom lip at how the sticky, thick and white strands are further spread apart.

Snap snap!

The sound of a camera going off made you twitched as you lay on the sheets, body violently twitching from the aftershocks of a mind-blowing orgasm. You wanted to question him but you didn't have the strength in you to push yourself up or even turn your head to his direction.

While you remained laying on his bed, body already turned to goo, Yeonjun was still able to move perfectly fine, like he wasn't the cause for your current state.

He got off the bed, running a hand through his ruffled, messed-up black hair as he headed to the joint bathroom. He reappeared shortly, holding two damp towels. One to wipe you down and the other for himself. Yeonjun muttered soft apologies when you flinched from the towel's rough surface against your sensitive pussy.

Once he was done, he changed the sheets, replacing them with new ones. He then handed you a plastic bottle of water, even helping to unscrew the tightly sealed lid and you gulped it down without hesitation.

"Here, you can wear this while your clothes are being washed in the washing machine," he murmured, handing you a pile of clean, fresh clothes.

Nodding, you allowed him to aid you in wearing them. You were immediately hit with the scent of his lingering cologne as his clothes completely engulf you. You saw the way Yeonjun's eyes lingered on your frame, drinking in the way you fit in his clothes before he forcefully tear them away.

You fiddled with the left sleeve, unsure of what to say. Normally, you would be getting dressed and leave his room but something tells you that just for today, something was different.

"..Do you wanna stay for the night? It's late and it isn't safe for you to go home," he asked, uncertainty laced in his voice.

Gone was the cocky and smug Yeonjun, now replaced with him acting awkward and shy, as if he wasn't the one responsible for blowing your back out a few minutes ago. Your heart softened at how he scratched the back of his neck, fiddling with his now cleaned rings.

"Yea, sure. I'll stay," you murmured, your heart skipping when his face lit up like a lightbulb.

Yeonjun got onto the bed, making himself comfortable and you followed. You ended up resting your head under his chin as he wrapped an arm around you, pulling you close until you're squashed against his chest. You didn't say anything, didn't mention about why he was doing this out of a sudden.

There wasn't any need to. Not when you already knew how he feels when he pressed a soft, loving kiss on your forehead. Not when he draw invisible, random patterns on your elbow lovingly.

"Good night, I'll be here when you wake up," he whispered and if you closed your eyes, you can hear the smile in his words.

Except for this one lie. 

Perhaps not even a real lie, but a withholding of information. A secret you’ve always kept from boyfriends and even some friends.

Keeping it a secret makes it special. A memory that’s only yours. Yours and his—one that can’t be tarnished by anything. Not new boyfriends or judgmental friends. 

You keep those memories in a jar, not because you want to relive them, but because sometimes you like to look back, to take a peek inside, to remember what things were like before they ceased to exist. 

And of course, you never expected it to come up like this. You never expected to be standing in line for a meet and greet, post-concert, clasping your hands together in front of your chest, trying not to think about what it will feel like to look at him again, to make eye contact with him. 

He’ll remember you. There’s no doubt in your mind. What you had was real and special, and honestly, not all that long ago. There hadn’t been any huge fallout, any fights, or negativity. You’d just grown apart. And at some point, the distance got so large that it felt impossible to cross. And that was before his rapid ascent into popularity. 

“Maybe we should just go,” you say when there are only a few people ahead of you in line. It’s easier to bail, to pretend none of this happened at all. 

It’s Jiung who encourages you forward. “We’re almost there. It’s okay. I don’t mind the wait.”

You wish the stress developing like a tight ball at the base of your stomach had anything to do with the amount of time you’ve been waiting. No, it’s the idea of him. Of Yeonjun looking you in the eyes. 

So, you want to turn and run. But you don’t. Not when Jiung has a hand on your lower back, and you can see Yeonjun just ahead, chatting with other fans. 

You are a fan. You’ve been following their comebacks, listening to their music at home. Concerts were always a step too far out of your comfort zone, over the line you drew in the sand to protect your heart. 

But now you’re there. So far past the line you can hardly even see it anymore. Then, you’re standing in front of him, watching his big brown eyes roam over your body, taking note of the man standing next to you, touching you. 

And you have to wonder what he’s thinking—because you certainly can’t ask. 

There’s nothing immediately evident in the way that he looks at you. He recognizes you. You know he does. And when Jiung turns away for a brief moment, there’s a ghost of a smile on Yeonjun’s lips like he wants to be caught. 

Because he can’t stop looking at you. At the way the corners of your lips turn up in a smile, at the inch of skin he can see over the table, but below your skirt, at the way your shirt cuts downward. He looks at you, and he thinks things he should not be thinking in public, in front of all those fans—but neither can he stop thinking them. 

“Really nice to meet you,” Yeonjun says, pressed smile across his lips. Fake. “This your boyfriend?”

You clear your throat, trying to free all the emotion jammed to a stop in the center. Because he did not just ask you that. It could be played off. You’ve seen the videos of him with fans. You’ve seen his jealous nature in those conversations. But so, too, do you know what he looks like when he’s really jealous. That glint of subtle anger behind his eyes. 

And you want to say something, because who does he think he is, being jealous of you, in this moment? You hold your tongue. 

Jiung smiles. None the wiser. 

“Yes,” you say. 

Yeonjun makes a face, lips twisted up in a half scowl that he tries to play off as unserious. 

“You want a picture?” he asks, because he doesn’t know what else to say, and neither do you. You can’t imagine filling the silence with questions about his career, about the group—you don’t care about any of that shit. Not really. 

And you didn’t account for any of this, really. And maybe if you had, you would have cancelled on Jiung, feigned sick or something, because holy shit, he looks so handsome. Blonde hair pushed back with gel, a tight red tank top, shoulders exposed. 

Had he been this attractive when you were together? 

Jiung elbows you gently in the side when you don’t immediately respond to the question. “Oh,” you say. “That would be nice.”

Yeonjun reaches over and takes your phone out of his grasp. He rolls his eyes at your lock screen photo. Jiung with his arms around you, his chin resting on your shoulder. 

He turns in his chair to take the photo with the two of you, then places your phone flat on the table, face down. 

He makes small talk. Asks you a little bit about yourself. Things he already knows. He’s teasing you, you know it. Making you say all this stuff. He presses a little too hard, hoping Jiung will ask you about it on the ride home. Comment on how strange it was in the moment. He wants it to stick with you, make you uncomfortable now, and make you talk about it later.

Of course, you don’t know the fine details—just that he’s getting under your skin. Just that you’ll be thinking about him later, too. That annoys you more than anything else. 

He folds his arms over his chest, leaning forward. His elbow obscures your phone from view. 

“Nice to meet you again,” Yeonjun says as you step away from the table. “Thanks for coming.” 

He waits until you’re gone to slip your phone into his lap, then into his pocket. 

“So,” Jiung says, as he starts the car and readies to pull out of the parking lot. “Was that everything you hoped it would be?” 

The rest of your conversations with the other members went smoothly. More fan service than strange, ex-boyfriend mind games. 

“Mhm,” you say, looking out the passenger side window. You reach into your purse, looking for your phone. You check the pockets of your jacket. “Hold on,” you say, checking under your butt and anywhere else that a phone could possibly be located. “You don’t have my phone, do you?” you ask. 

Jiung shakes his head. “Maybe you left it inside. Do you want me to go get it?” 

“No,” you say, maybe too quickly. “It’s fine.” You unbuckle your seatbelt. “I’ll be right back.”

The walk back into the concert hall is a little more stressful than the first, and it has no reason to be. You’ve already seen him. Besides, some staff member probably has your phone. You just need to find them. 

There are still lines curving throughout the place, fans waiting to be acknowledged, even momentarily, by their biases. 

You approach a staff member in all black, scanning tickets near the front. 

“Hey, I think I left my phone on the table,” you say. 

She looks at you with a raised brow, like it’s the worst excuse she’s ever heard. But she tells you to wait while she calls over another employee, who then approaches the table. You watch them lean down to whisper something in Yeonjun’s ear. His eyes drift past the fan he’s talking to to find yours, and a chill runs through your system. 

God, how the fuck did either of you let things end so abruptly? You were there, and then you weren’t. And all of a sudden—being together again felt like an impossibility. So you never called. And neither did he. 

The staff member finds you again and gestures for you to step to the side. She doesn’t say much, but leads you further away from the crowd, then down a hallway. “Just wait here for one moment,” she says, extending an arm toward a couch in a small dressing room. 

You take a seat, then turn to say something, but she’s already gone. 

There’s no clock, just a rack of clothes and a large mirror lined with lights. It occurs to you in some far-off part of your brain that this must be Yeonjun’s dressing room. There’s an unzipped makeup bag on the table in front of the mirror, and a backpack—much more casual than the rest—slouched against the table. 

The door opens while you’re studying the place, and then he’s there. Standing with his arms crossed in front of the door, looking down at you. 

You stand up, crossing the minimal space until you’re in front of him. 

It’s so much different, this moment, than the one not fifteen minutes ago. There’s no long table separating you, no fans watching your every move. No Jiung. With all that stripped away, his eye contact makes your skin hotter, makes the blood boil beneath it. 

There’s nothing to be angry about. Not really. You still find the way to some brand of spite. 

Yeonjun pulls your phone out of his back pocket and holds it up between two fingers. “Looking for this?” he asks. 

“You know that I am,” you say. 

He tilts his head to the side, studying you. “Bummer,” he says. “I thought you came back to see me.”

“Why would I do that?” you ask, keeping your voice even. Free of any kind of feeling, even as your heart skips and stutters under his eye contact. 

You reach for your phone, and he pulls it back, just out of reach. “Maybe because you missed me,” he suggests. 

“I didn’t.”

“Then what are you doing here?” he asks. 

“Jiung—my boyfriend. He got me the tickets,” you say. “He knows I’m a fan, so.”

Yeonjun raises a brow. God, there’s so much fucking history between the two of you. You can feel it pressing in from every angle, oppressive and loud, vibrating your eardrums and making it difficult to focus. You can’t look at him and just see an idol. You look at him and see someone who was yours for so long, before they weren’t. 

Yeonjun nods. There’s no change to the way he looks at you, or the way he holds himself. He nods like it's the most uninteresting conversation in the world. 

“If you want to say something, just say it,” you tell him. 

He shrugs, lips turning downward at the corners as he does so. 

“Can I have my phone back?” you ask. 

“Not yet,” he says. Then, “Must not be a very good boyfriend, if he doesn’t know about me.” He takes half a step closer to you. 

You will yourself to take a step back, to even the distance back out, but your body doesn’t listen to your brain. 

“He’s a good boyfriend,” you say. 

“Then you must not be a very good girlfriend,” Yeonjun says, with a light shrug. It’s not serious to him. None of this is. 

Your brows furrow. Your nose scrunches at the bridge. “I’m—I’m a good girlfriend.” 

He holds your phone up, and you don’t realize what he’s doing until it’s already done. With your phone unlocked, he pulls up the phone app. “I could call him, tell him our little secret.”

You reach for the phone, wrapping your hand around his in an attempt to tug it away. You freeze there, hand on top of his, chests a few inches apart. 

“Why haven’t you told him about me?” Yeonjun asks, leaning down, meeting your eyes. His voice is low, and the hushed tone makes goosebumps rise on your forearms. And you don’t even know the answer to his question. You don’t know why you never told Jiung about Yeonjun. Why you never told any of the guys you dated before Jiung about him, either. Maybe you just like having the secret. 

He presses your phone into your hand, closing your fingers around it. 

“I don’t know,” you say, and the words come out nearly silent. 

A smile crosses his lips for the first time since that small dressing room. He reaches out and places a hand on your bare upper arm. 

“Does he make you happy?” he asks. 

“Yes,” you say. 

“Happier than I made you?” he asks. 

You don’t answer immediately, and his smile grows. 

“What are you doing right now?” you ask him, because you can’t seem to wrap your mind around whatever game it is he’s playing. 

“I didn’t expect to see you today, that’s all,” Yeonjun says. 

“Why would you?” you say. 

“You’re right,” he says. “I didn’t even know you were a fan.”

You roll your eyes because you’re really not going to have this conversation with him right now. “Yeonjun,” you say, firmly. 

He bats his eyes, lets the smile creep over the rest of his features. “Yes?”

It’s hard to say the words, but you say them anyway. “I should go.” Maybe if you had all the time in the world, you would stay. You would stay, and you would talk. Maybe you would even try to figure out what went wrong last time. But you can’t. Jiung’s waiting in the car, and you’ve already taken longer than necessary. 

He doesn’t budge from his spot in front of the door. You stare at him for a beat longer, and he finally does move, sidestepping you. 

You open the door, and his hand shoots out, landing on your wrist. You freeze again. His hand is warm on your skin, and it brings with it memories you’ve tried to forget. 

Yeonjun doesn’t speak. You turn slowly to look at him, eyes cast downward at his grip. They drag slowly upward to meet his eyes. 

“Wait,” he says, and the word comes out more desperate than anything else he’s said. That bravado all stripped away, now. 

The tension breaks when he steps in one more time, when he drops your hand to push the door closed behind you. 

He’s too close. Too warm. Too suffocating. And somehow still too far away. 

You move in slow motion, between moments where you’re both frozen looking at one another and moments where time slams back into full speed, ticking by in your ears, but you still don’t move—contemplating the next step, and the next. And your heart is racing out of your chest, and he’s looking at you like it’s years in the past, and you can’t seem to remember anything except how his lips used to feel against yours. 

He can’t take it, either. The intoxication of you. If you just hadn’t been there. If you hadn’t been there today, if he hadn’t seen you. He would be able to keep pretending you didn’t mean something. But you’re here, standing in front of him, and he can’t just let you leave again. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, right before he closes the distance. “I just—I have to—” and then his hands are cupping your cheeks and his lips are on yours. 

You hardly register the apology, let alone feel bad for what’s happening. The electricity in the air doesn’t fizzle at the contact. It surrounds you. Hot and blinding. You don’t stop him. Stopping him is the last thing on your mind. 

Your lips move slowly, tasting each other and remembering. It hardly even occurs to you that you should not be doing this. Not when it feels so good, so right. Not when he’s holding you like he never should have let go in the first place. 

You don’t break apart to speak, only to catch your breath, to change angles. He deepens the kiss as his hands fall from your face, tracing down the sides of your body before they land on your hips. He sucks on your lower lip, and you gasp into his mouth. 

It takes a long time—longer than you would be proud to admit—for you to realize exactly what you’re doing. 

You reach up to push against his chest. “Yeonjun,” you mumble against his lips. “Yeonjun,” you say again. “We can’t—I shouldn’t.”

His fingers dig into the fabric covering your hips. His eyes bore into yours, then drop back to your lips. He runs a tongue across his, and you lose track of what you’re saying, of why you’re saying it. “Why not?” he asks. 

“I—” you start, trying to remember why this is such a bad idea. “He’s—” 

You can’t bring yourself to care. That’s the problem. Yeonjun is here. He’s here, in front of you, breathing heavily, sweaty from the concert, looking at you like you’re everything in the entire world. And he’s here. How many times have you wished for this?

One hand hooks around the back of his neck, and you pull him back down for another searing kiss. He steps forward into you, pressing you against the door. 

“God,” Yeonjun mumbles into your lips. “Missed you.”

The words and his fervent kisses awaken something deep inside of you. Heat flares at your core, and you think, absent-mindedly, that you’re so fucked. 

“Yeah? Did you?” you ask, just barely breaking apart. Despite your anger, still ever present, neither can you stop kissing him. 

The back of his hand drags slowly across an exposed patch of skin just above your skirt. His eyes are focused there, but they snap upward at your question. “What?” he says, before kissing you again, before snaking that same hand around your waist and pulling you flush against his body. “Of course I did.”

Your hands ball into the fabric of his shirt. His tongue slips between your lips, and you angle your head backward to give him better access. When you break apart again, to breathe, you’re still thinking about the anger beneath it all—and whether or not you have a right to it. “You could have called,” you say. “I would have answered.”

“Is that your way of saying you missed me, too?” he asks. “I’m here now.” 

He curls a finger under your chin and lifts it, soft brown eyes finding yours. 

“I have a boyfriend now,” you say. But you don’t untangle your hands from his shirt, don’t take a step backward away from him, don’t even think about leaving. But it’s a thing you have to say. Even if you don’t know why, when it would be so much easier to ignore it. 

“Yeah, and you seem really eager to get back to him,” he says. 

“I am,” you say, pulling him down by the shirt. Then, “Take this off.”

He drops his hands to the hem of his shirt and pulls it off over his head. Your hands shoot out to touch his bare skin immediately. Your fingers run over his chest, down the hard plane of his stomach. He pushes your jacket off your shoulders, and you let it fall to the ground.

Yeonjun laces one hand through your hair and kisses you again. Harsher this time. More desperate. His other hand sits on your hip, keeps pulling you closer and closer. 

He presses against you, shifting one leg between yours and pinning you to the door. He slips a hand under your shirt, eager to touch any skin there. You gasp into his mouth at the mere contact. 

“Fuck,” he says against your lips. “I don’t want to rush this.”

“He’s waiting for me, Jun,” you say. 

Yeonjun rolls his eyes. There’s so much he wants to say. So many comments he could make. He kisses you again, instead. He drops his hand between your legs, instead, reaching under your skirt. 

He wastes no time—that’s what you wanted, right? His fingers brush your core, and he hums into the kiss. You can feel the smirk on his lips. 

“Shut up,” you say.

“You want me so bad, don’t you?” he whispers, leaning his forehead against yours. “Can’t figure out how to just ask for it?” he says. He pushes your panties to the side and nudges a finger inside of you, watching for a reaction. 

Your lips part, and you let your head fall back against the door behind you. 

“Trying to make me feel bad for wanting you when you have a boyfriend—but god, you want me just as fucking bad, don’t you?” he asks. You don’t respond fast enough, so he presses harder. “Don’t you?” 

He slides another finger inside of you and pumps them slowly. “Yes,” you say. 

“Yes, what?” Yeonjun asks, raising a brow at you, cocking his head to the side just so. He’s enjoying this. Playing with you even when you have such minimal time together. 

“Shut the fuck up, Yeonjun,” you say as you roll your hips forward. “I don’t have time—”

“I know,” he says. “Your boyfriend.” He moves his fingers faster, savoring the feeling of you clenching around them, of you grinding to meet each thrust. 

He pulls his fingers out and places them in his mouth while his other hand works to undo his belt, to push down his pants and boxers. He doesn’t bother kicking them all the way off. He licks his fingers clean, then takes your hand, tugging you toward the vanity. 

He leans forward and presses another kiss to your lips, then along your jawline, to the space beneath your ear. “Turn around,” he whispers. 

You listen. 

He pulls you backward against him, and you can feel the line of his hard cock on your ass through your skirt. You grind backward into him and swear you can hear him grin. You place your hands on the table in front of you as he pushes your skirt further up your thighs. 

You look forward, catching your own reflection in the mirror. Lipstick smudged, hair messy, and Yeonjun behind you, watching with appreciation as he runs a hand over your ass. 

He spreads your legs with the back of one hand and uses the other to guide his dick to your entrance. He swipes the tip through your slick, taking his time. 

“Yeonjun,” you whine, trying to catch his eyes in the mirror. It’s not about time anymore. Not about being in a rush. You need him. 

“Swear to god if you mention him one more time,” he says as he slides his tip down your slit again, pausing at your entrance for a split second before moving past it. 

“No,” you say. “Just—need you.”

He places a hand between your shoulder blades and lets it slowly trail downward. “Don’t worry, pretty. I’ll make you forget his name.” 

“Yeonjun,” you say again, whimpering. 

“That’s it,” he says, reveling in the sound of his name on your lips. He presses forward into you, slowly, and your knuckles go white on the edge of the table. 

You know you shouldn’t be doing this. But as he sinks into you an inch at a time, you can’t think about anything else. Not even the person waiting for you hundreds of feet away. And it doesn’t even feel like cheating, not really. It’s like returning back to the time you shared together before and enjoying it one more time. 

“Fuck,” Yeonjun whispers as he bottoms out. His fingers press into your hips, holding you steady as he shifts slowly back. He snaps forward, burying himself deeper inside of you. Your legs shake, and moans fall off parted lips. 

He does it again. The slow withdraw before a quick thrust. “Feels so fucking good,” he murmurs, voice dripping with want like having you again is making him a little crazy. He reaches forward to wrap a hand around the front of your neck, pulling you backward, making you look up. 

Your eyes reach his through the mirror. 

“Look at you,” he says, tilting his head to the side. He’s still rolling his hips forward hard and fast, and you can hardly keep your eyes open to watch him. “Maybe if I knew you were still such a slut, I’d have called you.” 

Your fingers tighten on the desk in anger and pleasure, but you can’t seem to form words to talk back, not with the way he’s moving. 

“Boyfriend waiting for you outside, but you’re letting me fuck you senseless instead.” He lifts one of your hands and pulls it behind your back. “Haven’t changed at all.” 

You flip him off with the hand he’s holding back, and he laughs, lifting his eyes to meet yours in the mirror. He releases your neck to grab your other hand, too, collecting them in one hand and pulling you backward. Your back arches as he thrusts deeper, harder. 

“Yeonjun—oh my god.” 

He smiles again. “Can’t even hate me properly, can you?” 

“Yes,” you mutter between broken gasps and moans that slip past your attempts to hold them back. “I can,” you say. “I do.” But you don’t mean it. What reason do you have, anyway, besides time? Besides the fact that he’s making you feel like this when you have someone waiting. 

He tugs your arms sharply back, uses his other hand to force you upward, so your back is nearly touching his chest. He drops your arms and lowers his lips to your ear, slowing his pace while he speaks. “Go, then,” he says. 

Yeonjun takes a step back, pulling out of you. He stops touching you. You turn around to look at him. Your eyes roll in annoyance, but you take the step forward anyway, reaching for him. He laces his fingers through yours and pulls you against him. 

“That’s what I thought,” he says, before pressing a kiss into your hair. He kicks his pants the rest of the way off and leads you a few steps over, toward the couch. The backs of your knees hit the cushion, and you’re forced to sit. He kneels down in front of you. He places a hand on your cheek and leans forward to capture your lips. A brief moment of softness before both his hands are on top of your thighs, and he’s pulling you down. Your elbows hit the couch cushions as he pulls your ass completely off it. 

He holds the backs of your thighs together with one hand as he uses the other to guide his length to your entrance. He pushes forward into you, and you gasp, biting down on your lower lip to keep from moaning. 

Yeonjun holds your legs up by the back of your thighs, just under your knees, as he rolls his hips forward into you. Your lip stays firmly between your teeth, even as your head falls back. 

“Come on,” Yeonjun says, his own voice devolving into a gravely, rough mess the longer this continues. “Let me hear you.”

His hips snap forward, deep and hard, trying to elicit something from you. Your eyes roll back and your back arches greedily, but you don’t let out anything more than a sharp gasp. He shifts forward, moving your legs to one side, barring them against him with one arm, while his other hand collects your hands and pins them to the back of the couch, while he leans over you. 

The angle change makes it all the more difficult to keep quiet. You toss your head to the side to avoid his gaze, the lopsided smile on his face, and his blown-out pupils. It’s easier to focus when you aren’t looking at him. He laughs under his breath and thrusts forward harder, driving even deeper. 

A few moans tumble off your lips without permission, and you don’t need to look at him to know he’s pleased with himself. 

You test the strength of his hand holding yours back, pushing against his grip. 

“Don’t like being held down, pretty?” he asked, the soft lilt of his voice making you shiver. “That’s not what I remember.”

“I don’t remember you.” A moan breaks your sentence. “Being this annoying.” 

“God, you love it though, don’t you?” he asks, slowing to an agonizing pace, languid drags that make your hips stutter, your lips part, your hands work harder against his grip. “You fucking love it. Look at you.”

Your next words are cut off by your phone, vibrating in your jacket pocket on the floor, a foot away from Yeonjun. His eyes shoot to it, and he stills inside of you. 

“Yeonjun,” you say, a word of warning, because you know who’s on the other end of the phone call before he drops your hands and fishes the thing from your coat pocket, before he holds it up. A picture of your boyfriend on the screen, his name surrounded by hearts. Yeonjun’s finger hovers over the accept button. “Don’t you fucking dare,” you say, reaching forward to grab it. 

He grabs your hands again, holding them in front of his chest. 

“You should talk to him,” Yeonjun says. “He’s probably so worried.”

“Yeonjun,” you say again, sharply. 

He clicks accept, then presses the phone against your ear, holding it there. 

“Hello?” Jiung says, sounding a little more confused than normal. 

You clear your throat. Yeonjun moves an inch, and you nearly bite through your lip. “Hey,” you manage to choke out. “It’s me.” 

“Oh, good,” he says. “You found it.”

Yeonjun pulls out another inch, the slow drag against your walls short-circuiting your brain every time he does it. You’re glaring at him, but he’s just smiling, fucking proud of himself. 

“Yeah,” you say. Another inch. “I—yeah, I found it.”

“You get lost in there?” he asks. 

“No—no,” you say, breath catching as Yeonjun shifts forward, just as slow. “I should be right out. Sorry for keeping you waiting.” 

“No worries, baby,” Jiung says. 

Yeonjun rolls his eyes. 

“I love you,” he says. 

Yeonjun’s hips snap forward, and he buries himself fully. Your head rolls back, and your mouth falls open, but you don’t make a sound. 

He stills enough to let you speak, and you’re looking at him, when you say it. “Love you too,” you say, but the words come out a fraction too breathy. You don’t have enough time to worry about whether or not it sounds suspicious. 

Yeonjun pulls the phone away, ends the call, and tosses it back onto the floor. He releases your hands, and you lean forward, pushing his chest. “You’re an asshole,” you say, breathing heavily, trying to hit him and grab him at the same time. 

“God, that was so hot,” Yeonjun says. “I bet he didn’t even know—didn’t even realize.” He laughs, starting his slow thrusts back up again. 

Your nails dig into his shoulders as you pull him down. You can just barely mutter a “Shut up” against his lips before you kiss him. He returns your desperation, lets you slip your tongue into his mouth as he increases the pace of his thrusts. You break away to breathe, and he drops his forehead against yours, eyes finding yours. 

Something softens in his expression, and your eyes fall closed under his kind gaze. 

He pulls back, holding your legs upright again, spreading them so one rests against each shoulder. He drops a hand between them and finds your clit. His initial touch feels electric. He rubs lazy circles on it with his thumb, looking down, watching his cock drive into you over and over, harder and harder as you squirm, clenching around him while he increases the stimulation. 

“Yeonjun, fuck, oh my god,” you moan, dropping your head backward. 

He moans, too, the sound music to your ears. He places his other hand low on your stomach, flat—feeling himself fuck into you. “Fuck, baby,” he says, soft and reckless, enough to make you forget about anything else, anyone else. “You feel so goddamn good, it’s insane.”

He rolls your clit between two fingers, and you clench hard around him, slowing his pace a fraction. Your bach archs even more, and your hands reach out for something to hold onto, settling on the edge of the couch. You press yourself forward, hips rising to meet each thrust even as your thighs shake. 

“That’s it,” he purrs. “Come on, baby, please.” 

You say his name again, like a prayer—even though it feels fucking damning. 

And when you cum, it’s with his lips crashing into yours, capturing your moans, and your hands grasping his bare skin, taking everything you can get. 

You collapse back against the couch. For a moment, Yeonjun doesn’t move. He trails a few fingers along your jawline. His eyes wander your face. They meet your eyes, then shift away. He pulls out and stands up, quickly putting on his boxers and pants. You study the muscles in his back and the way they tense, before snapping back into reality. 

You shift your underwear back into place and stand up, smoothing out your skirt. You pick your jacket up off the ground and slip your phone back into your pocket. 

The room is dead silent, and Yeonjun won’t turn to look at you. 

You clear your throat, and he does. “I should—um,” you say, dropping your eyes away from his gaze. You can’t even look at him, now. Not after that. Not when you have to go back to your boyfriend, waiting in the car, oblivious. 

Yeonjun takes a step forward and fixes your hair, combing his fingers through it. He runs a finger just under your lip, wiping away some of the smudged lipstick. 

You do look up at him, then, eyes widened, trying to figure him out. 

“Do you love him?” Yeonjun asks as he tucks a piece of hair behind your ear. 

The question makes you freeze. “Yes,” you say, after a moment. It’s the gut reaction. The answer you’re supposed to give. It’s not the truth. “No,” you say, but that doesn’t feel right either. “I don’t know.”

He doesn’t say anything, just keeps looking down at you, keeps adjusting your hair. It’s probably fine now, but he can’t stand the idea of ceasing physical contact. If he drops his hand, when will he get to touch you again? 

Yeonjun nods. 

“Okay,” he says, voice soft—almost broken. Something sad behind the word. An acceptance, maybe. He takes a step back, away from you and the heavy tension pressing on your shoulders. 

He leans down next to a backpack and fishes something out. 

He closes the distance again and presses a card into your hand. 

“What—” you start to ask. 

“That’s the key to my room,” he says. 

“I can’t—”

“Break up with him, then come to my room tonight,” Yeonjun says. “Or don’t break up with him, I don’t care. Just come.” 

You can’t bring yourself to look down at the card in your hand, can’t bring yourself to look away from his intense eye contact. 

“Hell, I’ll be there for the next few days,” he says. “If you don’t come, I’ll know this didn’t mean anything.” 

“Yeonjun—” you say, like you can figure this out now, talk this through now. 

“You should go,” he says, leaning forward to press a kiss into your hair. “I’ll see you later, okay?” 

It was a cycle.

A routine — a fantastic, addicting cycle that Yeonjun had.

It was a night like any other, in your apartment after work — the sun long set as you're cleaning up after making dinner, Yeonjun's portion stashed on the microwave for when he returns — but you know it would sit there longer.

You feel his presents in the room before you hear him — before you can even mutter his lips are on yours, his plush lips utterly consuming you whole. His hands are holding onto your face as if he's trying to ensure you won't leave, moaning into your mouth. The kiss is sloppy and needy — pathetically nipping on your bottom lip as one of his hands slip beneath your shorts —

And that's exactly what gets you into this situation.

Every

Single

Time.

You could barely make it to the bedroom — Yeonjun too desperate for you after an excruciating schedule, tumbling through the doors of your bedroom, pushing you onto the unmade bed crawling ontop of you.

His lips promptly attached back to yours, one of his hands holding your chin up to meet his kiss. You kiss back instantly, sucking on his plump bottom lip earning a small whimper from him. Both of you fighting for dominance in the kiss, both of you desperately chasing each other. His tongue glides over your lip, his tongue meeting yours as he moans at the feeling of your tongue against his.

When he pulls back unwillingly his lips are slicked with both of your spit, his eyes dark with desire as he looks down at you. Your own lips swollen, puffy and wet, parted — trying to catch your breath. He doesn't let you rest for too long. His fingers skim at the hem of your oversized pajama shirt, which is actually his.

He pulls the shirt off your frame, letting it fall onto the floor, unbothered about wherever it ended up. Yeonjun's eyes linger on you, your buds perked from the sudden change in temperature, he lets out a sound edging between a groan and a whine as he drinks you in, absolutely captivated by you under him.

You can barely breathe before his lips are back on you, pressing chase kisses on your lips, his need to feel you, all of you, making it impossible for him to stay still. His lips quickly attach to your neck, kissing down the column of your neck before kissing down the side of your neck slowly, sucking faint marks in his path.

When he finally pulls back from your neck he lingers; you can faintly feel his warm breath centimeters from your marked skin. When Yeonjun finally looks at you his expression is dazed, drunk on you.

"God you're beautiful.." His voice is strained, barely able to contain himself — you can feel him hard against your thigh, trying desperately to not rut into the soft plush skin of your thigh.

you let out a muddled comment he can't understand, too dazed and spent on you to fully grasp anything besides how you taste and feel. You can feel Yeonjun's hands all over you, his touch leaving a burning feeling over your warm skin, his fingers dip into your pajama shorts feeling you through your soaked panties — doing nothing to stop him from feeling you.

"J-jjunie —" you gasp out at the sudden feeling of his fingers catching at your clothed cunt, arching slightly into his touch making him let out a shakey breath.

"Fuck, you're unreal — all this f'me huh, baby?" Yeonjun coos in your ear, his voice unsteady — you can tell he's barely hanging on, his overwhelming need to be as close to you as possible.

Yeonjun's lips attach back to your skin, moaning against it as he kisses down your neck — leaving a sloppy trail of spit in his path. He's practically vibrating with need — his desire to feel you, to be consumed by you. Your perfume, whatever shampoo is lingering from your hair —its addicting.

He mumbles incoherent praises or nonsense into your skin as he moves down your chest, worshiping you with every kiss, his slicked lips kissing every inch of you like a prayer — like your a goddess he's vowed to forever — which you are to him.

If you allowed him — he would kiss you till his lips went numb — till all you could feel was him.

His lips move down your chest with devotion — his free hand holding onto your hip, grounding himself and you. he ghosts over one of your buds — making you let out a gasp, your fingers curling into his hair.

His teeth graze over the sensitive bud — savoring the whiny gasps you let out, Yeonjuns lips wrap around your nipple, his tongue pressing down on the bud — the sensation of his warm mouth on you makes you feel floaty — like if you or him let go, you'll drift away.

His teeth keep grazing the bud — moaning into your chest, fingers tightening on your hip as he relishes in how you feel against him, all for him, only him.

When he finally leaves your bud, its not for long — immediately attaching to your neglected nipple, giving it the same attention.

Yeonjun only pulls away when you pull him off — your tits feeling sensitive and leaving you needing more desperately.

When you pull him off, his eyes meet yours — dark and low, you can see the hunger in him. God he looks unreal, his pouty lips bruised and glossy — cheeks tinged a soft pink.

His lips don't stray from you, connecting to the flesh of your chest — sucking purple marks into the soft skin, nipping at it before pressing soft, reverend kisses on the forming bruises.

He kisses all over you — you can feel the cold air nip at the wet skin trailing from him, kissing all over your chest, down your torso. His body moving with him to press kisses above your belly button — his fingers skimming the edge of your shorts.

Heat radiates off you — the room stuffy and hot from the summer night and Yeonjun's body radiating pure warms.

His lips hover over the waistband, briefly looking up at you before pulling both your shorts and panties off your body in one motion.

You instinctively trying and clamp your thighs shut but he stops you, settling in between your thighs — pulling your legs over his shoulders.

He lets out a gutted sound — in between a groan and a whimper. God he needed this, needed you. Like you were the forbidden fruit he desperately craved.

His nose bumps your clit as he nuzzles into you — his tongue diving in, linking a long stripe up your cunt.

You hear him moan against you — like you're the one in between his legs. His lips attach to the sensitive bud — sucking hard, causing you to arching into him, pushing your cunt even more into his face.

A sharp whimper escapes your lips without warning. His lips detach from your clit, his tongue lapping up all your juices — his tongue prodding your entrance. Your breath ragged as you buck your hips into his face, causing his nose to brush against your clit, pulling a strained whimper from you.

"So good f'me huh, baby?" Yeonjun mumbles against your pussy — not sure if he's talking to you or it but fuck you can't be bothered to care. His hold on you is tight, not letting you squirm away even an inch — pulling you further down on his face. His mouth switching between licking through your folds sucking up all you have to give and toying with your needy clit.

It feels like he's trying to consume you whole — like he's trying to merge you both together so he can't tell where he ends and you start.

Your fingers tug on the strands of his hair, fidgeting and squirming under him — the pleasure is so so good. Your legs start feeling like mush — only aware they are there from Yeonjuns bruising grip to keep them around him.

Usually you would feel guilty, worried you're going to suffocate him but fuck.

The way he's devouring you — moaning into your pussy, you would and do think he's enjoying this more than you.

His tongue breaches your hole, pulling a loud moan from the back of your throat. The room filled with the smell of sex and the wet squelching of him worshiping your pussy. You can't even feel embarrassed — Yeonjun's movements and just him making you feel dizzy and unable to think of anything but his tongue and the orgasm he's coaxing you to.

Yeonjuns tongue is fucking into you at a speed you can barely comprehend, the sloppy and hungry movements are so good — and every so often at a particularly deep thrust of his tongue his nose nudges at your sore clit.

The way Yeonjun's moving — he's hungry. Like he's been waiting for this since he woke up, which he probably has, you make jokes about him being obsessed but to him — this is his solace. The way you feel under him — soft and so compliant to anything he wants, and fuck how you taste. He craves you after a day of schedules and after weeks of touring — nothing can soothe him like being in between your legs pulling orgasm after orgasm out of you.

And fuck — he gets off to it.

Yeonjun can feel his cock — rock hard at this point, all he can do is mindlessly hump into the sheets — the stimulation and your thighs around his head is enough for him.

Your nail nearly dig into his scalp from the pleasure — and when you manage to open your eyes to look at him you can't stop the moan that slips. The bottom of his face covered in wetness — slick and spit, his lips pink and plump covered in your juices. Fuck — the blissed out look on his face, his eyes scrunched in pleasure, you can faintly feel the movements of him humping helplessly into the mattress.

Every sound and touch feels amplified, Yeonjuns moans against your pussy causing vibrations that can only make you whimper in overwhelming pleasure. You can feel your orgasm coming quick, the knot in your stomach tighten with every lick and thrust of his skilled tongue.

Yeonjun can also feel his orgasm approaching — the taste of you and the friction from the desperate humping makes his brain go into overdrive — yearning to taste you, feel you come undone for him. His tongue attacks your sensitive clit — the unexpected jolt of pleasure sending you straight to your orgasm.

Yeonjun helps you rude out the orgasm, his tongue licking your slit and catching on your clit as you desperately grind against his face. Your thighs tighten around his head — your ears ringing as a string of incoherent moans and whimpers flea your lips.

As your orgasm slows so does Yeonjuns movements, not trying to overwhelm you. When your legs finally stop shaking uncontrollably and you can actually think without it being fuzzy. Your grip on his locks loosens, your chest rising and falling fast, trying to catch your breath from the overwhelming orgasm.

When you open your eyes you look down at Yeonjun — whose resting his head on your thigh, his gaze already on yours, with a shit eating grin.

"This is where you say thank you~" Yeonjun teases with a wide, fox like grin. You shove his head slightly letting out a breathed laugh.

'Fuck you." You say breathlessly with a small small in your lips.

"Maybe later." He says swiftly making you click your tongue, rolling your eyes at him.

When your head clears up slightly you sit up a bit — your hand making its way to him which he quickly grabs. pressing a kiss to your wrist.

"Jun —" you're about to protest when his free hand presses you back onto the mattress —unable to fight back, still weak from your orgasm.

"Don't worry 'bout me." He mumbles into the skin of your thigh, pressing a kiss onto it.

You're about to complain again when you realise why. "Oh"

"Yeah, 'oh'." He smirks against your skin before kissing up your thigh making his way into your cunt again.

"I gotta clean up my mess, pretty girl."