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honeyhaeya · 6 months ago

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Sucker For You

Jeon Wonwoo x F!Reader

genre / tags: smut, romance, humor, slice of life, wonwoo x reader, college au, slow burn to fast burn, mutual pining, friends to lovers, cockwarming, gamer wonwoo, subtle dominance, light degradation, reader insert, cute dynamics, playful teasing, soft/dom wonwoo, loser!wonwoo x popular!reader. warnings: explicit sexual content (18+; MDNI), light degradation (terms like "slut" used in consensual play), semi-public encounter (storage room smut scene), cockwarming while gaming, swearing, mention of overstimulation and rough sex, mutual pining, unprotected sex (wrap that boner !). smut warnings: detailed explicit content (penetration, oral, cockwarming), rough sex in semi-public and private settings, use of pet names and light degradation, safe, consensual sexual activity between characters, descriptions of body reactions and sensations. wc: 8,793 (porn with little plot) a/n: to my beloved @kpoppiesofinternet , thank you for giving me the idea. seventeen taglist: @archivistworld <33 Preview: Wonwoo never thought he’d end up here, in his dimly lit apartment, with you perched on his lap, his gaming chair squeaking softly beneath the weight of both your bodies. The glow from his monitor illuminated your face as your cheek rested against his shoulder, your warm breath fanning over his neck. “You’re really good at this,” you murmured, voice laced with awe as his fingers danced skillfully across the keyboard. His lips quirked upward. “I told you, I’m not always a loser.” The way his cock twitched inside you at the sound of your soft, teasing laugh almost had him losing his grip on the game. The warmth of your body around him made every movement sharper, every second harder to concentrate. “Wonwoo, how do you even focus like this?” you whispered, your tone edged with playful disbelief as you clenched around him. His hand stuttered over the mouse for the briefest moment, a hiss escaping his lips. “You’re going to make me lose,” he muttered, jaw tightening. “You said you wouldn’t,” you shot back smugly, your hands sliding up his chest as your thighs flexed around his. “Be quiet, or I’ll make you regret it,” he growled softly, the mic on his headset still live.

Wonwoo stood awkwardly near the corner of the elevator, clutching his phone like it was his lifeline. He didn't even know why he was here—okay, he knew why. Mingyu asked him to get his stuff, but fate decided to test him today.

You. Running toward the elevator, hair bouncing lightly with each step, the pleated skirt swaying just enough to make his brain short-circuit. And that smile you threw him when he awkwardly reached out to hold the elevator door? That should've been illegal. You looked like a dream—pink blouse, effortless charm, and some sort of aura that made every neuron in his head shut down.

Now, he was trapped. Trapped in the best kind of torture.

You stood just a few feet away, scrolling through your phone, seemingly unaware of the chaos you were causing in his head. The sweet scent of your perfume filled the elevator, wrapping around him like a vice. It wasn't overpowering—no, it was subtle, delicate, but absolutely maddening. Wonwoo inhaled slowly, trying not to make it obvious that he preferred your perfume over oxygen right now.

What was he supposed to do? Say something? Compliment you? Laugh at some imaginary joke and hope you joined in?

Instead, he stood there, silent, practically glued to the wall like the loser he was. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the elevator mirror and winced. His hair was slightly messy from running around earlier, his hoodie slightly wrinkled. Meanwhile, you looked like you had stepped out of a movie scene.

The elevator dinged, signaling someone's floor, and Wonwoo almost panicked, realizing it was his. He took a step forward but froze. Should he say goodbye? No, that was weird. Should he—

"Wonwoo, right?"

Your voice broke through his internal monologue, and he turned so fast he almost sprained his neck. You were looking right at him, smiling that same radiant smile, and he swore he might pass out.

"Y-Yeah," he stammered, cursing himself for the crack in his voice.

You tilted your head, eyes sparkling with genuine curiosity. "You were at the festival earlier, right? I think I saw you near the game booths."

Oh. My. God. You noticed him?

"I... uh, yeah. I was just... helping out. Nothing big," he managed, trying to sound casual but failing miserably.

"That's cool," you said, the elevator dinging again. The doors opened, and you stepped out, turning to face him briefly. "See you around, Wonwoo."

The doors closed before he could respond, leaving him standing there, wide-eyed, as your scent lingered in the elevator.

"See you around?" he whispered to himself, the tiniest, stupidest grin forming on his lips.

God, he really needed to get his act together. But maybe, just maybe, this wasn't a complete disaster.

Wonwoo didn't know what was worse: the fact that he forgot why he was on this floor in the first place or the fact that you had just casually walked out of nowhere and into his life with the audacity to smile at him like that. Like you knew exactly how your charm was working on him.

He'd stepped out of the elevator to grab Mingyu's bag—it was lying near the corner of the hallway like someone had abandoned it—and then bam, there you were. The sound of your voice, light and teasing, stopped him in his tracks before he even realized it.

"Hey, Wonwoo!" you chirped, juggling a camera, a bouquet of flowers, and a handful of props. How you managed to look so effortlessly composed while holding so much stuff was beyond him. "Did you get lost or something?"

Lost? Yeah, definitely. But not in the way you were implying.

"I... no, I'm just grabbing Mingyu's stuff," he said, his voice a little too quiet, a little too awkward. He shifted on his feet, trying not to meet your eyes for too long because if he did, he might just melt into the floor.

Your grin widened. God, why were you so unfair? "Of course, Mingyu. I see you with him all the time. You two are pretty close, huh?"

Wonwoo blinked. Oh. That was why you noticed him. Mingyu. Of course. Who wouldn't notice Mingyu? Tall, confident, handsome Mingyu, who had a way of commanding attention without even trying. Compared to him, Wonwoo might as well have been a ghost.

He nodded stiffly, biting back the disappointment tugging at his chest. "Yeah, we're friends."

You hummed, a soft, melodic sound that made his stomach twist in knots. As the two of you started walking toward the elevator, you adjusted the camera in your hands, your fingers brushing against the petals of the flowers you carried. "The festival's been fun, huh? I've been running around so much, but I'm definitely going to check out the game booths later. You're helping out there, right?"

Wonwoo felt his heart skip a beat. You knew that he was helping out? You knew something about him that wasn't tied to Mingyu? His brain scrambled to process it, and for a moment, he just stared at you like an idiot before managing a weak, "Y-Yeah, I'll be there."

You smiled again—this time softer, sweeter—and stepped into the elevator with him. The small space felt a little too intimate, your perfume lingering in the air again, and Wonwoo swore the temperature rose by a hundred degrees.

The ride down was quiet at first, save for the soft hum of the elevator. Wonwoo clutched Mingyu's bag tightly, his knuckles white as he tried to act normal. But it was impossible when you were standing right there, so close, your presence making it hard to think straight.

As the elevator dinged, signaling the ground floor, you turned to him with a mischievous glint in your eyes. "See you at the game booths, Wonwoo," you said, stepping out before he could even think of a response.

He stared after you, rooted to the spot as the elevator doors closed again. His reflection stared back at him, wide-eyed and slack-jawed.

"Idiot," he muttered to himself, adjusting his grip on the bag. But even as he walked toward the festival grounds, his heart raced at the thought of seeing you again. Maybe, just maybe, being a loser around you wasn't the worst thing in the world.

Wonwoo was pretty sure he was about to have a heart attack.

Your booth was the most popular one in the festival—of course, it was. The crowd seemed drawn to you like moths to a flame, and why wouldn't they be? You stood at the center, effortlessly charming, laughing, and engaging with everyone who passed by. You were magnetic, the kind of person people gravitated toward without even realizing it.

But for Wonwoo, it wasn't just your charm that had him spiraling—it was you. The way your hair caught the light, the way your voice carried over the noise, the way your smile lit up the entire space. And now, thanks to Mingyu's insistence, he was walking straight into the lion's den.

"Come on, Wonwoo. Don't be weird," Mingyu had teased, dragging him toward your booth. "She's cool. You're cool. Just... be normal for once around her."

Normal? Wonwoo felt like he was about to combust.

When the two of them finally reached your booth, you were busy helping another group of students, but the second your eyes lifted, they landed on him. Not Mingyu. Not the crowd. Him.

Wonwoo swore time slowed down for a moment. Was he imagining it? The slight glint of recognition in your gaze? The tiny smile that tugged at the corners of your lips? He couldn't help the way his heart stuttered in his chest.

"Wonwoo! Mingyu!" you called, stepping closer to the front of the stall, holding a bunch of roses in your hands. You looked so natural, so perfect, standing there surrounded by flowers and festival decorations. "You guys finally made it!"

He wanted to respond, maybe say something clever or funny, but his brain had completely shut down. All he could do was nod stiffly, hands shoved deep into his hoodie pocket, while Mingyu carried the conversation like the social butterfly he was.

But then, something unexpected happened. Instead of handing the roses to Mingyu—like Wonwoo had braced himself for—you turned directly to him.

"These are for you," you said softly, holding out three perfectly bloomed roses.

Wonwoo froze, his eyes flicking between the roses and your face like he couldn't believe what was happening. Slowly, hesitantly, he reached out to take them, his fingers brushing against yours for the briefest moment.

He thought that would be the end of it, but then you grabbed a Polaroid camera from the table and grinned up at him. "Come here. Let's take a picture."

"A—A picture?" His voice cracked, and he could feel Mingyu silently laughing at him, but he didn't care. His entire world had narrowed to just you and that camera in your hands.

Before he could process what was happening, you grabbed his arm and pulled him closer, positioning him just beside you. The proximity was almost too much—your perfume, the warmth of your hand on his arm, the way you were so effortlessly close.

"Smile!" you said cheerfully, leaning slightly toward him as you held up the camera.

Wonwoo tried. He really did. But the second the camera clicked, all he could feel was the way his breath hitched, his heart racing as if it wanted to escape his chest.

When you handed him the freshly printed Polaroid, your smile softened. "A little keepsake," you said, like it was the most normal thing in the world to turn him into a blushing mess.

Wonwoo stared at the picture in his hands, the image of the two of you together making his chest tighten. You looked radiant, as always, while he... well, he looked like someone who was trying desperately not to pass out.

"Thanks," he managed to mumble, clutching the photo and the roses like they were the most precious things he'd ever owned.

As Mingyu dragged him away a few moments later, laughing about how he'd looked like a deer in headlights, Wonwoo couldn't stop glancing at the picture.

Maybe he was a loser. Maybe he didn't have a chance. But for a brief moment, it felt like he was the luckiest guy in the world.

Wonwoo froze in his tracks, the sound of your voice ringing in his ears like the opening notes of his favorite song. He wasn't even sure why he stopped—it wasn't like he hadn't heard you talk before. But this time, there was something different. Something that pulled him in before he could even process it.

And then the words hit him.

"I thought Wonwoo was like the type who would be dominant."

He blinked. His brain short-circuited. What?

You said his name. You were talking about him. And not just in a passing, "Oh, that guy in my class" kind of way. This was... something else.

Wonwoo wanted to walk away. He really did. He wasn't the type to eavesdrop, especially on something so clearly private. But his feet refused to move, like they were rooted to the spot. His heart was beating so loudly he was sure you could hear it from where you were.

"So? You're like, obsessed with the guy. Ask him out already."

That voice—your friend's, probably—snapped him out of his trance. But only for a second, because then the full weight of the sentence hit him like a truck.

Obsessed?

No. No way. There was no way you—the girl who practically lit up every room you walked into, the girl he could barely string two words together around—liked him. That was impossible. He must've misheard.

"Yeah, but, what if he doesn't like me?" Your voice was quieter now, a little unsure. "He sounds... well, I guess, uncomfy around me?"

Wonwoo's heart sank. Uncomfortable? No, that wasn't right. That wasn't even close. If anything, you made him feel so many things that his brain just shut down when you were near. He regretted every awkward pause, every stuttered word, every time he'd avoided your gaze because he thought it'd be too obvious how much he liked you.

"I dunno," your friend replied casually. "Better find out."

Wonwoo barely had time to process those words before he heard footsteps—yours and your friend's—approaching. His body went into panic mode, adrenaline coursing through his veins as he forced himself to move, walking a little faster and trying not to look like a total weirdo.

But his mind? It was chaos.

You liked him.

Or at least, that's what it sounded like. But could he trust what he'd overheard? What if he'd misunderstood? What if it was some kind of cruel joke?

And yet, as he made his way down the hallway, heart pounding in his chest, one thought drowned out all the others:

I need to talk to her.

Wonwoo didn't know how he ended up back at the festival booth with Mingyu. His legs had carried him here automatically, but his mind? His mind was still replaying your words on a loop.

"What if he doesn't like me?" "He sounds... uncomfy around me."

The guilt was eating him alive. Was that what he'd made you feel? Uncomfortable? Because if you knew how many times he'd stayed up at night thinking about you, if you knew how much he wanted to talk to you but just couldn't seem to get his stupid, nervous self together, you'd know it wasn't you. It was him.

"Dude, you okay?" Mingyu's voice cut through his thoughts like a slap to the face.

Wonwoo blinked, realizing he'd been gripping the edge of the table so hard his knuckles were white. He quickly loosened his hold, shaking his head. "I'm fine."

"You sure?" Mingyu squinted, suspicious. "You look like you've just seen a ghost. Or maybe you've finally realized how insanely hot Y/N is. Honestly, about time—"

"I don't need your commentary, Mingyu," Wonwoo muttered, his cheeks turning crimson at the mention of your name. He couldn't deal with Mingyu's teasing right now, not when his heart was already doing acrobatics.

"Alright, alright," Mingyu said with a laugh, throwing his hands up in surrender. "But if you're crushing on her—"

"Mingyu, stop."

Unfortunately, Mingyu didn't stop. If anything, the grin on his face widened. "Look, Y/N's literally over there. If you have something to say, just go say it. You're so tense, it's giving me secondhand stress."

Wonwoo followed Mingyu's gaze, and sure enough, there you were, standing by your booth, chatting with a group of students. You looked... radiant. Even in the middle of a crowded, noisy festival, you stood out like a beacon, your smile brighter than all the string lights strung across the campus.

And then, like fate—or maybe just the universe playing tricks on him—you turned your head. Your eyes locked onto his.

Wonwoo froze.

You didn't. Instead, you smiled. That same smile that made him forget how to breathe. And to his absolute horror, you started walking toward him.

Oh no. Oh no, no, no.

"Hey, Wonwoo!" Your voice was warm, light, the same voice that had just a few minutes ago said... those things.

He swallowed hard, forcing himself to stay rooted to the spot even though every instinct screamed at him to bolt. "H-Hey," he stammered, cursing himself for the way his voice cracked.

You tilted your head, holding a clipboard in one hand. "Can I ask you a favor?"

Wonwoo blinked. "A favor?"

"Yeah." You stepped closer, and he swore he could smell your perfume again—the same scent that had completely ruined him in the elevator earlier. "I need someone to help me carry some of the booth supplies to the storage room after the festival. You seem pretty strong. Think you could help me out?"

Strong? Him? Wonwoo felt like he was going to combust.

"Uh, yeah," he managed to say, though it came out more like a squeak. "Sure. I can do that."

Your smile widened, and if he thought his heart couldn't race any faster, he was wrong. "Great! You're the best, Wonwoo."

The best? Him? He wanted to laugh—bitterly, nervously, something—but he didn't. Instead, he just nodded like a fool, watching as you handed him the clipboard.

"I'll come find you when it's time, okay?" you said, your tone so casual, so sweet, like this was no big deal. Like you didn't even realize what you were doing to him.

And then you were gone, back to your booth, leaving Wonwoo standing there clutching the clipboard like it was a lifeline.

"Dude," Mingyu said, clapping him on the back. "You're so in. Don't mess this up."

Wonwoo didn't reply. How could he, when his brain was still screaming one thing over and over?

You liked him. You really liked him.

And now, he had to figure out how to not be a complete loser long enough to tell you he liked you too.

The moment you pulled Wonwoo into the storage room, he swore his brain short-circuited. It was just the two of you in this small, dimly lit space, surrounded by forgotten boxes and leftover props from past festivals. His heart pounded so loudly he was sure you could hear it.

"Alright," you said, scanning the shelves for something. "I just need to find these last few things, and we're done."

But he was done. Done for. The way you tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear, the subtle sway of your body as you moved—it all felt so deliberate, so... seductive. His eyes trailed down your frame without meaning to, lingering on your pleated skirt and the soft curve of your waist.

"It's getting kinda hot in here, don't you think, Wonwoo?"

The sound of his name rolling off your lips—soft, teasing, and just a little too intentional—sent a shiver down his spine. He didn't know if the heat you mentioned was literal or if you'd turned the temperature in the room up just by existing.

"Uh... yeah," he stammered, tugging at his collar like some kind of cliché. God, pull yourself together.

You turned to look at him, that same damn smile on your lips, and stepped closer, the soft click of your shoes on the floor echoing in the quiet room. "You've been awfully quiet, you know. I was starting to think you didn't want to help me after all."

"N-no, I—" He choked on his words as you closed the distance, your eyes locking onto his.

"You know," you said, tilting your head, "I kind of like this side of you. Quiet. Nervous. It's... cute."

Wonwoo's brain went haywire. Cute? Did you just call him cute?

Before he could even process that, you reached up, your fingers brushing against the side of his face as you adjusted his glasses. "But you don't always have to be so shy, you know. I wouldn't bite. Unless..."

His breath hitched as your voice dropped to a whisper. "You want me to."

And that was it. The last thread of his self-control snapped.

In a move that shocked even himself, Wonwoo grabbed your wrist, his grip firm but not harsh. His other hand slid to your waist, pulling you closer until there was barely any space left between your bodies.

"You think I'm shy?" he asked, his voice low, surprising even himself with the confidence that came out of nowhere.

Your eyes widened slightly, but the smirk that followed was enough to make his knees weak. "Aren't you?"

"Not right now," he murmured, and before he could lose his nerve, he leaned down, capturing your lips in a kiss that was all pent-up desire and raw, messy emotion.

You froze for a split second before melting into him, your hands gripping the front of his shirt as you kissed him back, matching his intensity.

It was everything Wonwoo had dreamed about during countless sleepless nights, and yet, it was so much more. The way your lips moved against his, the quiet little sound you made in the back of your throat, the way your body pressed against his like you were made to fit together—it was overwhelming in the best way.

Somewhere in the haze of it all, your back hit the shelf, and a box toppled to the floor with a loud thud, but neither of you cared.

"Wonwoo," you gasped against his lips, your voice breathy and filled with something that made him shiver. "I—"

He didn't let you finish, his lips trailing down to your neck, his hands roaming up and down your sides, trying to memorize every curve and dip of your body.

"God, you're driving me insane," he murmured, his words muffled against your skin. "Do you even know what you do to me?"

Your laugh was soft, teasing, and entirely too addictive. "Maybe. But you're not as much of a loser as I thought."

That made him pause, just for a moment, pulling back to look at you with a mix of disbelief and amusement. "You thought I was a loser?"

You grinned, reaching up to run your fingers through his hair. "Not anymore."

Whatever shred of composure he had left was gone. He crashed his lips against yours again, and this time, there was no hesitation, no second-guessing, just pure, unfiltered want.

Wonwoo froze for a moment, his breath hitching as you ground yourself against him, your movements slow, deliberate, and absolutely maddening. His head was spinning, and it was like something inside him snapped. He wasn't going to hold back anymore.

He grabbed your hips roughly, pressing you firmly against the shelf, his lips ghosting over your ear as his voice dropped an octave. "You really like testing me, don't you?"

Your breath caught, and before you could reply, his mouth was on yours again, demanding, relentless, leaving no room for anything but him. His teeth caught your bottom lip, pulling it gently before he let it go, smirking when he saw your dazed expression.

"Look at you," he murmured, his hands sliding up to cup your waist as you clung to him. "Acting all innocent, but you're nothing more than a needy little slut, aren't you?"

The word sent a jolt through you, heat pooling low in your stomach as you met his gaze, half-lidded and full of fire. "Wonwoo..."

"Say it," he growled, his fingers digging into your hips as he pressed himself harder against you. "Say you like it when I take control."

You hesitated, your pride battling with the undeniable heat coursing through you, but when his lips trailed down your neck, leaving open-mouthed kisses that made your knees weak, you couldn't help but gasp out, "I like it."

"Good girl," he murmured against your skin, his tone dark and dripping with approval. His hands moved to your blouse, his fingers deftly undoing the buttons one by one, exposing the soft curves of your body.

"You're so desperate for me, aren't you?" he teased, his lips brushing against your collarbone. "I see the way you look at me—don't think I haven't noticed."

You let out a soft whimper as his hands slid under your skirt, gripping your thighs with a possessiveness that made your heart race.

"Wonwoo, please," you whispered, barely able to think straight with the way he was touching you, his hands, his mouth, his everything overwhelming your senses.

"Please what?" he asked, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes. His gaze was intense, burning with a mix of hunger and control. "Use your words."

You bit your lip, your cheeks flushing as you struggled to find the words, but when his hand slid higher, you couldn't hold back. "Please... f- fuck me."

His smirk widened, and he leaned in, his voice a low, dangerous whisper. "That's what I thought."

He didn't hold back after that, his hands and mouth everywhere, leaving you breathless and entirely at his mercy. The shy, hesitant Wonwoo you thought you knew was gone, replaced by someone who knew exactly what he wanted—and wasn't afraid to take it.

And you? You didn't stand a chance.

Wonwoo felt the pool of wetness of your cunt through the fabric of your underwear. He pulled it aside before inserting two fingers in you. "You're already wet with just a few kisses?"

You gasped, moaned at the feeling of his long, lean fingers entering you in and out slowly but roughly. He already found that spongy spot that made you almost lose your balance. Luckily, his other hand kept you in place. "You're fucking unbelievable."

Your moans filled the room as he edges you through the feeling of his fingers in you. It wasn't long before he has you cumming on his hand, squirting. "W- Wonwoo.." You whimpered, gasping like crazy.

He held you before pulling his fingers out, smirking before sucking on his damped fingers. Before you could say anything, he kissed you, intentionally wanting for you to taste yourself.

Your head was spinning, but you knew you wanted more. So you held the bulge from his pants, his cock hard and long. You dropped to your knees as you hastily try to take his pants off.

Wonwoo could just smirk as he looks at you with a mix of awe and smugness. Who knew you'd be like this to him?

You pulled his pants and underwear down and his cock sprung. It was big, too big for you to handle. But you didn't think of anything else, just Wonwoo.

You opened your mouth, held his cock with both of your hands before stroking it as you lick the tip of his cock. You put him in and you had him grunting, grabbing a bunch of your hair as he helps you bob your head over his cock. "F- Fuck, you're good at this."

He loved the warmth of your mouth too much, he almost felt like he was cumming. Your tongue swirled over his cock as your hands humped his dick, and that was it, he cummed in your mouth.

It was hot, and you swallowed the most you can and a little spilling over your lips.

He carries you up, and you wanted to beg him to just fuck you right there. Your inner thighs were glistening by the wetness your pussy was making.

"P- please help me..." You whimpered as Wonwoo's lips bit the skin of your neck. He smirked before aligning himself in between your thighs, cock meeting the entrance of your soaked cunt.

"You're hopeless," Wonwoo replied, before grabbing your thigh, raising it over his waist and finally enters you fully.

Wonwoo grunts, your moans like a melody to his ears. He started roughly. It was making you lose your mind. He knew how to position himself to make things a hundred times better.

He thrusted so roughly you felt like you were about to pass out. His name came out from your lips, like a praise.

"You're amazing," Wonwoo says as his hips snaps back and forth. The sounds in the small room sounded too unholy. Too lustful. Skin-to-skin slapping each other with each squelch and pounding.

Your walls were swallowing his cock. Wonwoo held your back, his other hand still carrying your thigh as he uses it to pull you even closer so he can thrust easier.

"You're so fucking tight," Wonwoo growled, his voice low and strained as his hips snapped relentlessly into yours. The pleasure was overwhelming, his cock filling you perfectly with every thrust. Your body arched against him, your nails digging into his back as he continued to hit that perfect spot that made you see stars.

Your moans grew louder, unfiltered and raw, each one driving Wonwoo closer to the edge. He leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear. "Look at you," he murmured, his tone dripping with condescension. "Begging for me like a needy little slut. You wanted this, didn't you?"

You whimpered, unable to form a coherent reply as he continued to pound into you, his hand sliding from your thigh to your waist, gripping you tightly to keep you exactly where he wanted you. The new angle made you cry out, your walls clenching around him in response.

"You're taking me so well," he praised, his voice husky. "God, you feel so fucking good." His lips found your neck again, leaving marks that you knew you'd see later, but in that moment, you didn't care.

Your hands slid up to his hair, tugging at the dark strands as you moaned his name like it was the only word you knew. Wonwoo groaned at the sensation, his thrusts becoming even rougher, more desperate.

"You're mine," he growled, his hand moving to grip your chin, tilting your face up to meet his intense gaze. "Say it. Say you're mine."

"I'm yours," you gasped, the words spilling out without hesitation. "I'm yours, Wonwoo."

A dark smirk spread across his lips as he claimed your mouth in a bruising kiss, his hips never faltering. The room was filled with the sound of your moans, his grunts, and the obscene slap of skin against skin. It was intoxicating, overwhelming, and everything you never knew you needed.

Your body trembled as you felt the knot in your stomach tighten, the pleasure building to an unbearable peak. Wonwoo could feel it too, the way your walls fluttered around him, and he growled in approval.

"Come for me," he demanded, his voice rough and commanding. "I want to feel you fall apart on my cock."

The combination of his words, his touch, and the relentless pace of his thrusts sent you over the edge, your climax washing over you like a tidal wave. Your walls clenched tightly around him, and the sensation was enough to push Wonwoo to his limit.

"Fuck," he groaned, his movements becoming erratic as he chased his own release. With a final, deep thrust, he buried himself inside you, his body shuddering as he spilled into you, his grip on your waist tightening as he rode out his high.

The two of you stayed like that for a moment, the only sound in the room your heavy breaths as you both came down from the intensity of what had just happened. Wonwoo leaned his forehead against yours, his dark eyes searching yours as a small, satisfied smirk played on his lips.

"Still think I'm a loser?" he teased, his voice low and slightly breathless.

You couldn't help but laugh softly, your cheeks flushed. "No," you whispered, pulling him down for another kiss.

The rest of the world ceased to exist. It was just you and him, tangled together in the dim storage room, your laughter and gasps filling the space.

For once, Wonwoo didn't feel like a loser to you. He felt like the luckiest guy in the world.

Wonwoo finally pulled back, his lips brushing your forehead softly—a stark contrast to the firestorm that had just taken place. His hands stayed on your waist, steadying you as you struggled to catch your breath. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence heavy with the weight of what just happened.

"Um..." you finally murmured, your voice still breathy, and his gaze flicked to yours. "That was... unexpected."

Wonwoo chuckled lowly, the sound reverberating through his chest. "Yeah, no kidding."

You both shared a small, sheepish laugh, the tension melting ever so slightly as reality began to settle in. But before you could even begin to overthink what had just transpired, Wonwoo brushed a stray strand of hair from your face, his touch lingering a little longer than necessary.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice softer now, his concern evident in his tone.

You nodded, the corners of your lips lifting into a small smile. "More than okay. That was..." You trailed off, biting your lip as heat rushed to your cheeks. "Let's just say you've got nothing to worry about in the loser department."

Wonwoo snorted, shaking his head, but the flush creeping up his neck betrayed his confidence. "Yeah, well, don't go spreading that around. I've got a reputation to maintain."

"Oh, trust me," you teased, poking his chest playfully. "Your secret's safe with me."

As the two of you began to straighten yourselves out—fixing clothes, smoothing hair, and trying not to look too disheveled—Wonwoo found himself stealing glances at you, the glow of your post-climactic state making you look even more radiant.

When you caught him staring, you raised an eyebrow, smirking. "What? Regretting it already?"

His eyes widened, and he shook his head vehemently. "No! God, no." He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. "Just... wondering how the hell I got so lucky."

Your heart fluttered at his words, but you played it cool, rolling your eyes with a grin. "Guess you're not such a loser after all."

Before either of you could say more, a loud knock at the storage room door startled you both, followed by Mingyu's unmistakable voice. "Hey! Wonwoo? You in there? We need those props ASAP!"

Your eyes widened, and Wonwoo groaned, his head falling back as he muttered under his breath, "Perfect timing, as always."

You quickly gathered the remaining items, trying not to giggle as Wonwoo shot you an exasperated look. "Guess we'll have to finish this conversation later," you whispered, brushing past him on your way to the door.

But before you could open it, Wonwoo grabbed your wrist, pulling you back gently. "Wait," he said, his voice low.

You turned to face him, your breath catching as his dark eyes bore into yours. "Can I see you later? I mean, outside of this," he gestured vaguely to the props and the chaos outside. "Like... for real?"

Your lips curved into a soft smile, and you nodded. "Yeah, I'd like that."

Fast-forward a few days later...

The awkwardness between you and Wonwoo didn't last long—not after he made it a point to text you later that night, asking if you'd gotten home safely. That small gesture opened the door to something more, and over the next few days, the two of you found yourselves gravitating toward each other more and more.

From stolen glances in the hallways to whispered conversations during class breaks, it became clear that whatever spark had ignited in that storage room wasn't going to fizzle out anytime soon.

Wonwoo surprised you with his wit and dry humor, and you loved how his quiet confidence contrasted with your own lively personality. He'd walk you to your booth during the festival, lingering just long enough to make your heart race before retreating to his usual spot with Mingyu.

But the best moments were the ones you shared when no one else was around—like the late-night coffee runs where he'd listen intently as you rambled about your latest project, or the times he'd let his guard down and tell you about his favorite video games and why he loved them.

One evening, as the festival wound down, you found yourselves sitting on the steps of an empty amphitheater, the cool night air wrapping around you like a blanket. Wonwoo handed you his hoodie when he noticed you shivering, his fingers brushing yours in the process.

"Thanks," you said softly, pulling it over your head and inhaling the faint scent of him that clung to the fabric.

"You look better in it than I do," he murmured, his gaze fixed on you in a way that made your cheeks heat up.

You nudged him playfully, breaking the moment with a laugh. "Careful, Jeon Wonwoo. You're starting to sound like a total simp."

He smirked, leaning back on his elbows. "Maybe I am."

Your laughter died down as you looked at him, the vulnerability in his expression making your heart swell. "For what it's worth," you said, your voice barely above a whisper, "I like this version of you—the one who's confident enough to go after what he wants."

Wonwoo's lips curved into a small smile, and he reached for your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. "And for what it's worth," he replied, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, "I'm really glad you think so."

You didn't expect to end up in Wonwoo's apartment after the festival. Well, maybe you did—it wasn't like he hadn't been hinting at it all evening. But still, sitting on his couch in his slightly-too-big hoodie (the same one he let you borrow earlier), surrounded by shelves lined with games and a setup that screamed gamer aesthetic, you couldn't help but smile to yourself.

"What's so funny?" Wonwoo asked, glancing at you from where he was setting up his console. His glasses perched on his nose made him look ridiculously adorable, and you couldn't stop staring.

"Nothing," you replied with a sly grin. "Just thinking how your apartment is exactly what I imagined—complete with the snacks and random figurines everywhere."

He rolled his eyes but smirked anyway. "Yeah? And what did you expect, a penthouse?"

"No," you teased. "Maybe something with fewer RGB lights."

He scoffed. "Hate on my lights all you want, but you're the one about to lose at Mario Kart."

You raised an eyebrow, leaning back into the couch. "Oh, you think so? I'll have you know I'm a beast at this game."

Wonwoo chuckled, handing you a controller. "We'll see about that."

It started innocently enough—both of you yelling at the screen, throwing blue shells, and arguing over whether or not banana peels were strategically placed. But then the stakes got higher.

"If I win this round," you said, your competitive streak showing, "you owe me dinner next time."

Wonwoo smirked, leaning closer to you. "And if I win?"

You tilted your head, pretending to think. "Fine. You get to pick the next game we play. But I'm warning you, I'm not going easy on you."

He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. "Alright, deal."

The game started, and for the first few laps, you held the lead, much to Wonwoo's frustration. "No way. How are you this good?" he muttered, his fingers flying over the controller.

"Skill, baby," you replied, sticking your tongue out at him.

But then, in the final stretch, he managed to throw a red shell at you, sending your character spinning out of control just before the finish line. Wonwoo's triumphant laugh filled the room as his character crossed first.

"No way!" you yelled, throwing your controller onto the couch. "You cheated!"

"Cheating? That's just strategy," he replied smugly, leaning back and crossing his arms like he owned the place.

You huffed, crossing your arms. "Fine. What's your pick for the next game, loser?"

But instead of answering, Wonwoo leaned closer, his smirk softening into something more genuine. "I think I've got something better in mind," he murmured.

Before you could react, he closed the distance between you, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was somehow both soft and desperate. Your surprise melted into eagerness as you kissed him back, your hands reaching up to tug at the hoodie he was wearing.

"Wonwoo..." you breathed as he pulled back, his eyes dark and hooded.

"You said I'm a loser," he muttered, his voice low as he pushed you gently against the couch. "But if I'm a loser, I'm your loser."

You let out a soft laugh, but it quickly turned into a gasp as his lips found your neck, his hands wandering under the hem of your borrowed hoodie.

"You're really full of yourself tonight, huh?" you teased, your fingers sliding up the back of his shirt, nails grazing his skin.

Wonwoo smirked against your skin, his teeth nipping at your collarbone. "What can I say? Winning feels good."

Your banter dissolved into something much steamier as he pulled the hoodie over your head, his hands roaming your body with newfound confidence. His touch was deliberate, teasing, and so much more dominant than you expected from him.

"You talk too much," he murmured, his voice rough, as he captured your lips again, his hands gripping your thighs to pull you onto his lap.

"Make me stop," you challenged, a teasing smile playing on your lips.

Wonwoo growled softly, his hands sliding under your shorts as he pressed his forehead against yours. "Oh, I will."

The room was filled with sounds of teasing as the two of you made out, kissing, giggling.

And from there, any semblance of restraint between you two disappeared. The games forgotten, the only sounds filling the room were soft gasps, hushed whispers, and the occasional murmur of each other's names.

It changed when Mingyu texted Wonwoo to play league with him.

You didn't think this is where the night would go—sitting on Wonwoo's lap, his cock buried deep inside you, while his hands moved deftly over his keyboard and mouse. The glow from his monitor illuminated the room in a way that made the scene feel even more illicit, like you shouldn't be here, doing this, but neither of you cared.

"Stay still," Wonwoo murmured, his voice low but commanding, the same tone he'd used earlier when he coaxed you into this position.

You swallowed hard, your hands gripping the edges of his desk to keep yourself steady. Every slight movement sent a shiver through your body, and you bit your lip, trying to stay quiet.

Wonwoo's focus was split—one part on the game playing out in front of him, the other on the way your walls clenched around him every time he moved slightly. His mic was on, and his teammates' voices filled the headset, unaware of the situation he was in.

"Wonwoo, you good?" Mingyu's voice crackled through his headphones. "You're quiet tonight."

Wonwoo chuckled softly, his voice steady despite the way his hands had momentarily gripped your waist to still you when you squirmed. "Yeah, I'm good. Just focusing."

Focusing? That was a lie. How could he focus when you were here, squirming on his lap, your breath hitching every time he adjusted in his chair?

"Stop moving," he muttered, his voice low enough that only you could hear. "Unless you want them to hear you."

You glared at him, but your resolve crumbled when his hand slid up your thigh, squeezing it lightly. It was a warning, and you knew better than to test him right now.

"Wonwoo, watch the top lane!" one of his teammates shouted, bringing him back to the game.

"I'm on it," he replied smoothly, his fingers moving with precision as he skillfully navigated the game. His calmness was infuriating, especially when you were struggling to keep your composure.

Every time his hips shifted, even slightly, it sent sparks through your body. He knew it too, the smirk on his lips giving him away.

You bit down on your lip to stifle a whimper when he adjusted his position again, the movement causing him to press even deeper inside you.

"Something wrong?" he whispered, his lips brushing against your ear. "You look like you're struggling."

You wanted to snap back, but you couldn't trust yourself to speak without making a sound that would give away what was happening.

Instead, you clenched around him intentionally, earning a soft grunt from him.

"Careful," he warned, his voice dropping to that commanding tone that made your stomach flip. "Don't start something you can't finish."

You wanted to test him, but the sound of Mingyu's voice pulled you back to reality.

"Wonwoo, you're carrying this game, man!"

He laughed softly, the sound vibrating through you. "What can I say? I'm just that good."

You rolled your eyes at his confidence, but you couldn't deny that watching him play with such ease was undeniably attractive. His focus, his skill, the way his hands moved—it all had you feeling more heated than you already were.

When the game ended, and the victory screen flashed on the monitor, Wonwoo finally leaned back in his chair, his hands resting on your hips.

"Guess I'm a winner after all," he teased, his voice low and smug.

You turned to glare at him, but before you could say anything, he shifted his hips, drawing a gasp from you that you quickly stifled with your hand.

"Careful," he murmured, his lips brushing against your neck. "We wouldn't want them to hear, would we?"

"God, you're insufferable," you muttered, your voice barely above a whisper.

He chuckled, his hands tightening on your hips. "And yet, here you are."

Wonwoo's breath hitched as you shifted slightly on his lap, your walls squeezing him involuntarily. His hands gripped your waist tighter, the control he was trying so hard to maintain beginning to falter.

"Careful," he rasped, his voice low and strained, his forehead pressing against yours. "You don't want to push your luck."

You tilted your head innocently, even as a sly smile spread across your lips. "What's wrong? I thought you were supposed to be 'dominant,' Mr. Pro Gamer."

His jaw clenched at your teasing, and the veins in his neck became more pronounced. The challenge in your tone, coupled with the sensation of your warmth around him, was driving him insane.

"You're playing with fire," he growled, his fingers digging into your hips as he tried to steady you—but it only made you grind against him slightly.

"Am I?" you whispered, leaning closer, your lips brushing against his ear. "Because it seems like I'm the one in control right now."

That was it. The last straw. Wonwoo's patience snapped.

His hands slid down to your thighs, gripping them firmly as he lifted you slightly, only to slam you back down onto his length, making you gasp. "You really don't know when to stop, do you?"

The sudden force made you cling to his shoulders, your fingers digging into his skin as a moan slipped past your lips. "W-Wonwoo—"

"Shh," he cut you off, his voice commanding as he kissed along your jaw, biting softly before moving to your neck. "Be quiet. You wouldn't want my teammates to hear how desperate you sound, would you?"

Your breath caught as his words sank in, but before you could respond, he lifted you again, this time at a torturously slow pace, making you feel every inch of him as he lowered you back down.

The friction was unbearable, your body trembling as he set a rhythm that was deliberate and punishingly slow, as if he was determined to prove a point. His lips ghosted over the shell of your ear, his voice dripping with smugness. "Look at you... so cocky earlier, but now you're nothing but a messy little thing in my lap."

"Wonwoo, please," you whimpered, the slow pace driving you to the brink of insanity.

"Please what?" he taunted, his movements halting completely as he held you in place, his length buried deep inside you. "You want something, you're gonna have to say it."

You bit your lip, refusing to give in to his game. But when he flexed his hips ever so slightly, sending a jolt of pleasure through your body, you broke. "Please... I need you to move."

His lips curled into a smirk, and he raised an eyebrow. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

Without warning, he snapped his hips upward, a sharp thrust that made you cry out. He didn't give you a chance to recover as he set a relentless pace, his hands guiding your movements as he worked you over his length.

The lewd sounds of skin slapping against skin filled the room, accompanied by the muffled noises you tried desperately to suppress. Wonwoo's name fell from your lips like a mantra, each syllable laced with desperation and need.

"You're so tight," he groaned, his head falling back as he tried to keep himself from completely unraveling. "Fuck, you feel so good."

The heat pooling in your stomach was reaching its peak, and you could tell from the way Wonwoo's thrusts were becoming more erratic that he was close too.

"Wonwoo, I—I'm gonna—"

"Me too," he grunted, his grip on you tightening as he buried himself as deep as he could, his movements becoming sloppier. "Come for me, baby. I wanna feel you."

With one final thrust, the coil inside you snapped, sending waves of pleasure crashing through your body. Your walls clenched around him, drawing a guttural moan from his throat as he followed you over the edge, his release spilling into you in hot spurts.

The two of you stayed like that for a moment, your bodies trembling and pressed together as you caught your breath. Wonwoo's forehead rested against yours, his chest heaving as he let out a breathless laugh.

"Still think I'm a loser?" he teased, his voice hoarse but playful.

You smiled weakly, brushing a strand of hair from his face. "Maybe a little... but you're my loser."

His grin widened, and he pressed a soft kiss to your lips, the tenderness of the gesture a stark contrast to what had just transpired. "I'll take it."

And as you nestled against him, the warmth of his arms around you, you couldn't help but think that being with him like this felt exactly right.

Wonwoo gently leaned back in his chair, his arms still wrapped securely around you as he tried to catch his breath. His lips brushed over your temple, a soft chuckle escaping him. "You really do know how to distract me, huh?"

You giggled, nuzzling into his neck, still feeling the aftershocks of what just happened. "Distract? Please. You're the one who can't keep his hands to himself."

He raised an eyebrow at you, amusement sparkling in his eyes. "Says the one who begged me to move."

Your face flushed at his teasing, and you smacked his shoulder lightly. "Shut up, Wonwoo."

He just laughed, the sound deep and warm, before finally shifting under you. The sudden movement made you gasp softly, and your eyes widened as you realized he was still very much inside you.

"Wonwoo..." you whispered, the heat rising to your cheeks.

He smirked at your reaction, his hands resting on your waist as he adjusted you in his lap. "What? You're comfortable, aren't you?"

"I—" You bit your lip, your gaze darting away from his. You couldn't deny it; there was something intoxicating about the feeling of being so close to him, of him still filling you completely.

"Good," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave as his fingers traced slow circles on your bare thighs. "Because I'm not letting you go just yet."

Your heart skipped a beat at his words, and before you could protest, he reached over to his desk, grabbing his headphones and slipping them over his ears.

"Wait, what are you doing?" you asked, your voice a mix of curiosity and disbelief.

He turned to his computer, the familiar sound of a game loading up filling the air. "I've got a match in five minutes," he said casually, as if you weren't still perched on his lap, his cock nestled snugly inside you.

Your jaw dropped. "Wonwoo, are you serious right now?"

He glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Dead serious. But don't worry..." He adjusted his microphone, the green light signaling that it was on. "You just have to sit there and be quiet. Think you can manage that, baby?"

You stared at him, torn between disbelief and amusement. The audacity.

"Wonwoo," you hissed, your voice low to avoid being picked up by his mic. "You can't just—"

"Shh," he interrupted, pressing a quick kiss to your lips before turning his attention back to the screen. "Game's starting. Be a good girl for me, okay?"

The heat in your cheeks intensified, and you squirmed slightly in his lap, only to freeze when you felt him twitch inside you. His grip on your hips tightened, and he shot you a warning look.

"Careful," he murmured, his voice low enough that only you could hear. "Unless you want everyone to know exactly what we're doing right now."

Your eyes widened, and you swallowed hard, forcing yourself to stay still as he started his game. The sound of his teammates' voices filled the room, and you could hear Wonwoo's calm, composed replies as he coordinated their strategy.

Meanwhile, you were doing everything in your power to keep your breathing steady, your hands gripping his shoulders for support. The sensation of him still inside you was overwhelming, every slight movement or shift making you hyper-aware of just how intimate this was.

But what drove you even crazier was how unfazed he seemed, his focus completely on the game as if nothing was out of the ordinary. His calm demeanor, his steady voice—it was infuriatingly attractive.

Every now and then, his hand would leave the keyboard to rest on your thigh, his fingers brushing against your skin in a way that sent shivers down your spine. It was as if he was reminding you who was in control, even in the middle of a match.

You bit your lip, trying to suppress the soft whimper that threatened to escape when he shifted slightly in his chair, the movement sending a jolt of pleasure through you.

"Wonwoo..." you whispered, your voice barely audible.

He glanced at you, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear. "I said be quiet, baby. Or do you want them to hear how good I make you feel?"

Your breath hitched, and you shook your head quickly, your cheeks burning.

He smirked, pressing a kiss to your temple before returning his attention to the game. "That's my girl."

As the match continued, you couldn't help but marvel at how effortlessly he played, his movements precise and skillful. But no matter how focused he seemed, you knew you were still on his mind.

It was in the way his hand would tighten on your thigh whenever you shifted, in the way his lips would twitch into a smirk whenever he felt you clench around him.

And when the game finally ended, his team celebrating their victory, Wonwoo leaned back in his chair, his hands settling on your waist as he looked at you with a satisfied grin.

"See? Told you I could multitask," he teased, his voice low and smug.

You rolled your eyes, though you couldn't help the smile that tugged at your lips. "You're insufferable."

He chuckled, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "But you love it."

And as his hands began to roam again, you realized that the night was far from over.

Earlier, during Mario Kart

What you didn’t know, of course, was that Wonwoo had let you win. He’d spent most of the race holding back, deliberately missing items and slowing down just enough to let you get ahead. Watching you gloat about your supposed victory had been worth every second.

“Did you really think you’d win that easily?” he’d asked, his smirk betraying the truth.

But he didn’t mind letting you have the spotlight. For now, at least.

a/n: hope y'all enjoyed :]] feel free to send some reqs ilyall

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mostlysignssomeportents · 8 months ago

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You should be using an RSS reader

On OCTOBER 23 at 7PM, I'll be in DECATUR, GEORGIA, presenting my novel THE BEZZLE at EAGLE EYE BOOKS.

No matter how hard we all wish it were otherwise, the sad fact is that there aren't really individual solutions to systemic problems. For example: your personal diligence in recycling will have no meaningful impact on the climate emergency.

I get it. People write to me all the time, they say, "What can I change about my life to fight enshittification, or, at the very least, to reduce the amount of enshittification that I, personally, experience?"

It's frustrating, but my general answer is, "Join a movement. Get involved with a union, with EFF, with the FSF. Tell your Congressional candidate to defend Lina Khan from billionaire Dem donors who want her fired. Do something systemic."

There's very little you can do as a consumer. You're not going to shop your way out of monopoly capitalism. Now that Amazon has destroyed most of the brick-and-mortar and digital stores out of business, boycotting Amazon often just means doing without. The collective action problem of leaving Twitter or Facebook is so insurmountable that you end up stuck there, with a bunch of people you love and rely on, who all love each other, all hate the platform, but can't agree on a day and time to leave or a destination to leave for and so end up stuck there.

I've been experiencing some challenging stuff in my personal life lately and yesterday, I just found myself unable to deal with my usual podcast fare so I tuned into the videos from the very last XOXO, in search of uplifting fare:

https://www.youtube.com/@xoxofest

I found it. Talks by Dan Olson, Cabel Sasser, Ed Yong and many others, especially Molly White:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MTaeVVAvk-c

Molly's talk was so, so good, but when I got to her call to action, I found myself pulling a bit of a face:

But the platforms do not exist without the people, and there are a lot more of us than there are of them. The platforms have installed themselves in a position of power, but they are also vulnerable…

Are the platforms really that vulnerable? The collective action problem is so hard, the switching costs are so high – maybe the fact that "there's a lot more of us than there are of them" is a bug, not a feature. The more of us there are, the thornier our collective action problem and the higher the switching costs, after all.

And then I had a realization: the conduit through which I experience Molly's excellent work is totally enshittification-proof, and the more I use it, the easier it is for everyone to be less enshittified.

This conduit is anti-lock-in, it works for nearly the whole internet. It is surveillance-resistant, far more accessible than the web or any mobile app interface. It is my secret super-power.

It's RSS.

RSS (one of those ancient internet acronyms with multiple definitions, including, but not limited to, "Really Simple Syndication") is an invisible, automatic way for internet-connected systems to public "feeds." For example, rather than reloading the Wired homepage every day and trying to figure out which stories are new (their layout makes this very hard to do!), you can just sign up for Wired's RSS feed, and use an RSS reader to monitor the site and preview new stories the moment they're published. Wired pushes about 600 words from each article into that feed, stripped of the usual stuff that makes Wired nearly impossible to read: no 20-second delay subscription pop-up, text in a font and size of your choosing. You can follow Wired's feed without any cookies, and Wired gets no information about which of its stories you read. Wired doesn't even get to know that you're monitoring its feed.

I don't mean to pick on Wired here. This goes for every news source I follow – from CNN to the New York Times. But RSS isn't just good for the news! It's good for everything. Your friends' blogs? Every blogging platform emits an RSS feed by default. You can follow every one of them in your reader.

Not just blogs. Do you follow a bunch of substackers or other newsletters? They've all got RSS feeds. You can read those newsletters without ever registering in the analytics of the platforms that host them. The text shows up in black and white (not the sadistic, 8-point, 80% grey-on-white type these things all default to). It is always delivered, without any risk of your email provider misclassifying an update as spam:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/10/10/dead-letters/

Did you know that, by default, your email sends information to mailing list platforms about your reading activity? The platform gets to know if you opened the message, and often how far along you've read in it. On top of that, they get all the private information your browser or app leaks about you, including your location. This is unbelievably gross, and you get to bypass all of it, just by reading in RSS.

Are your friends too pithy for a newsletter, preferring to quip on social media? Unfortunately, it's pretty hard to get an RSS feed from Insta/FB/Twitter, but all those new ones that have popped up? They all have feeds. You can follow any Mastodon account (which means you can follow any Threads account) via RSS. Same for Bluesky. That also goes for older platforms, like Tumblr and Medium. There's RSS for Hacker News, and there's a sub-feed for the comments on every story. You can get RSS feeds for the Fedex, UPS and USPS parcels you're awaiting, too.

Your local politician's website probably has an RSS feed. Ditto your state and national reps. There's an RSS feed for each federal agency (the FCC has a great blog!).

Your RSS reader lets you put all these feeds into folders if you want. You can even create automatic folders, based on keywords, or even things like "infrequently updated sites" (I follow a bunch of people via RSS who only update a couple times per year – cough, Danny O'Brien, cough – and never miss a post).

Your RSS reader doesn't (necessarily) have an algorithm. By default, you'll get everything as it appears, in reverse-chronological order.

Does that remind you of anything? Right: this is how social media used to work, before it was enshittified. You can single-handedly disenshittify your experience of virtually the entire web, just by switching to RSS, traveling back in time to the days when Facebook and Twitter were more interested in showing you the things you asked to see, rather than the ads and boosted content someone else would pay to cram into your eyeballs.

Now, you sign up to so many feeds that you're feeling overwhelmed and you want an algorithm to prioritize posts – or recommend content. Lots of RSS readers have some kind of algorithm and recommendation system (I use News, which offers both, though I don't use them – I like the glorious higgeldy-piggeldy of the undifferentiated firehose feed).

But you control the algorithm, you control the recommendations. And if a new RSS reader pops up with an algorithm you're dying to try, you can export all the feeds you follow with a single click, which will generate an OPML file. Then, with one click, you can import that OPML file into any other RSS reader in existence and all your feeds will be seamlessly migrated there. You can delete your old account, or you can even use different readers for different purposes.

You can access RSS in a browser or in an app on your phone (most RSS readers have an app), and they'll sync up, so a story you mark to read later on your phone will be waiting for you the next time you load up your reader in a browser tab, and you won't see the same stories twice (unless you want to, in which case you can mark them as unread).

RSS basically works like social media should work. Using RSS is a chance to visit a utopian future in which the platforms have no power, and all power is vested in publishers, who get to decide what to publish, and in readers, who have total control over what they read and how, without leaking any personal information through the simple act of reading.

And here's the best part: every time you use RSS, you bring that world closer into being! The collective action problem that the publishers and friends and politicians and businesses you care about is caused by the fact that everyone they want to reach is on a platform, so if they leave the platform, they'll lose that community. But the more people who use RSS to follow them, the less they'll depend on the platform.

Unlike those largely useless, performative boycotts of widely used platforms, switching to RSS doesn't require that you give anything up. Not only does switching to RSS let you continue to follow all the newsletters, webpages and social media accounts you're following now, it makes doing so better: more private, more accessible, and less enshittified.

Switching to RSS lets you experience just the good parts of the enshitternet, but that experience is delivered in manner that the new, good internet we're all dying for.

My own newsletter is delivered in fulltext via RSS. If you're reading this as a Mastodon or Twitter thread, on Tumblr or on Medium, or via email, you can get it by RSS instead:

https://pluralistic.net/feed/

Don't worry about which RSS reader you start with. It literally doesn't matter. Remember, you can switch readers with two clicks and take all the feeds you've subscribed to with you! If you want a recommendation, I have nothing but praise for Newsblur, which I've been paying $2/month for since 2011 (!):

https://newsblur.com/

Subscribing to feeds is super-easy, too: the links for RSS feeds are invisibly embedded in web-pages. Just paste the URL of a web-page into your RSS reader's "add feed" box and it'll automagically figure out where the feed lives and add it to your subscriptions.

It's still true that the new, good internet will require a movement to overcome the collective action problems and the legal barriers to disenshittifying things. Almost nothing you do as an individual is going to make a difference.

But using RSS will! Using RSS to follow the stuff that matters to you will have an immediate, profoundly beneficial impact on your own digital life – and it will appreciably, irreversibly nudge the whole internet towards a better state.

Tor Books as just published two new, free LITTLE BROTHER stories: VIGILANT, about creepy surveillance in distance education; and SPILL, about oil pipelines and indigenous landback.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/10/16/keep-it-really-simple-stupid/#read-receipts-are-you-kidding-me-seriously-fuck-that-noise

#pluralistic #rss #xml #standards #disenshittification #big tech #surveillance #accessibility

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yukkiji · 11 days ago

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soft reset

when your boyfriend kenma starts burning out from the pressure of developing his new game, you decide to help him unwind—in your own intimate way—even if it means slipping under his desk while he's live on stream.

haikyuu masterlist. leave a little stardust on my ko-fi

starring. kozume kenma x fem!reader

genre: fluff, romance, smut, timeskip!kenma

wc: 6.8k

warning: 18+ mdni., smut. nsfw. unprotected sex. cunnilingus. oral sex (receiving and giving), praise kink, softdom!kenma, established relationship, domestic setting, multiple orgasms, spanking

life with kenma is quiet, but never boring.

you live together in a cozy house just outside the city—a place that still smells faintly of new paint and the sage candle you always forget to blow out. the air inside is always warm, like a weighted blanket, buzzing gently with the soft hum of kenma’s pc behind his office door. a hoodie of his is usually hanging over a chair. a half-empty boba cup sits on a coaster with some game dev scribbles tucked underneath. takeout boxes come and go like visitors.

the two of you have routines. but they’re soft around the edges. comfortable. familiar. easy.

kenma is currently neck-deep in his new game. that means longer hours at his desk, occasional grunts of frustration, and a more muted tone than usual, even when he's lying beside you at night, staring at the ceiling with tired golden eyes.

you know he won't ask for help—not out loud. but he’s been letting you test his builds lately, and that’s as much of an invitation as you’re going to get.

so, you start leaving sticky notes.

little ones. bright neon colors in your handwriting, dotting the edges of his monitor, nestled between his controller stands, sometimes slipped into the folds of his hoodie sleeves.

“your dialogue coding is getting better. that one npc made me snort my tea.”

“new soundtrack = chef’s kiss.”

“i’m not saying i’d die for this side quest, but i’m not not saying it.”

“this game’s so good it’s criminal.”

and the one you left last night, placed just under his mouse pad:

“if this game gets any hotter, i might need a cooldown in your lap.”

you honestly didn’t expect a reaction. kenma has always been unreadable when he wants to be. sometimes he blushes when you flirt; sometimes he just blinks like you’ve asked him to solve a riddle in an alien language.

but today…

today feels different.

it starts when you pad quietly into his gaming room, the soft plush of your socks muffling each step against the hardwood floor. his camera’s on—you can see the tiny green led above his monitor, the live preview window tucked in the corner of the screen showing his face in soft lighting, blurred slightly by the filter he uses to keep things pretty and distant.

he’s been streaming for over two hours. his posture is wrong for the game he’s playing—something peaceful, a cozy farming sim—but his shoulders are locked tight, his jaw set. he moves with precision, with rhythm, but no ease. his voice, smooth and low, dances easily enough through chat interaction, but you know the tone beneath it. it’s the one he gets when he’s on autopilot. pushing through. running on fumes.

you slowly kneeled in front of him, careful to stay just out of frame. the glow of the monitor painted soft light across your face, flickering gently as the game carried on without you.

"baby… what are you doing?" kenma mouthed the words more than he spoke them, barely moving his lips, careful not to let his mic catch anything. his eyes flicked from the screen to you, then quickly back again, as if looking too long might give him away.

you didn’t answer—just tilted your head slightly, giving him that innocent look he knew far too well. the kind that meant you weren’t planning on being innocent for long.

your fingers found the waistband of his sweatpants, thumbs sliding under the soft fabric. his breath caught. and then, slowly, deliberately, you began to undo the drawstrings.

he froze.

it was subtle—just a tiny shift in his posture, a barely-there twitch in his jaw, but you saw it. felt it. the effort it took for him not to react.

he knew exactly what you were doing.

and you knew exactly how long it would take before he cracked.

his voice returned, quieter now, strained in that barely-audible way that told you he was trying to stay composed, for the sake of the stream. "you’re serious?"

you looked up at him through your lashes, lips curving just slightly. then you eased the sweatpants down a little further.

his hand hovered near the mic toggle. his other gripped the edge of the desk. every inch of him was still as his eyes flicked once to the small camera light—still on.

still live.

and you were still kneeling.

a single muscle jumped in his jaw. his voice, when it came again, was barely more than breath.

“…you’re gonna get me killed.”

but he didn’t stop you.

not even close.

“don’t mind me, babe. just keep doing your thing,” you murmured, voice low and syrup-sweet as your hand curled around him.

he was already half-hard, the heat of him pulsing against your palm before you’d even started moving. the weight, the way his breath hitched the second your fingers tightened just slightly—it made you smile.

kenma’s jaw clenched. he adjusted slightly in his chair, posture stiff, trying to maintain some illusion of composure for the camera still trained on him. his hand hadn’t left the mouse, but his movements were no longer precise. the clicks were slower, more hesitant.

you dragged your hand down the length of him, then back up in a steady stroke, just enough to make his thighs twitch beneath you.

kenma went back to his stream, while you were still stroking him. an awkwardness in his tone is slightly masked by forced calm, but you can hear the subtle waver underneath whenever he answers. his sentences come slower, his usual ease fractured by the way your fingers keep working him—slow, deliberate, mercilessly patient.

he jolts—just slightly—when your mouth wraps around him without warning, his thighs tensing beneath your touch. a sharp, almost imperceptible inhale hitches in his chest, caught just behind his mic. he covers it with a fake cough, hand flying to the mute button for a beat too long.

his knuckles go white on the armrest as you sink lower, tongue dragging slow and warm along the underside of him.

you feel his hips twitch, his composure slipping one thin layer at a time.

still muted, he glances down at you, eyes wide and dark. his voice, when he unmutes, is pitched lower—slightly breathless, just shy of unsteady.

“yeah… no, i’m good,” he says to chat, smiling faintly at his screen. “just got distracted.”

you hum around him in answer. he stiffens.

the sound you make—low, deliberate—sends a shiver down his spine, and kenma’s hips twitch in response. his hand drifts from the mouse to clutch the edge of the desk, fingers curling tight like he needs something to anchor him, to keep him from slipping completely.

you love the way he feels—how he fits, how he reacts. whether he's buried in your mouth or pressed deep inside you, it's the same electrifying heat that spreads low and slow in your core. just the taste of him, the weight of him, has your body aching with want.

without even thinking, you shift in place, your hips instinctively pressing down against nothing, chasing friction. you're getting wet—need pooling and pulsing as the tension climbs. it's maddening, being this close to him and not filled.

kenma’s breathing has gone uneven, jaw tight, and his eyes are locked straight ahead—focused on the screen but seeing none of it. you start to move in a rhythm now, deliberate and steady, each glide of your mouth carefully controlled, paced with purpose.

he’s trembling under the surface, the kind of restraint that looks calm to everyone else but you. you can feel it—how close he is, how he’s trying to hold himself together for just another second.

but he won’t last long.

one of his hands slips off the keyboard, hovering for a moment before it finds your hair. his fingers thread through it slowly, almost reverently, as if grounding himself in the feel of you. the stream rolls on—his voice tight and frayed around the edges—but everything else has narrowed down to this: the warmth of your mouth, the steady rhythm, the helpless tension building in his gut.

you hum around him, a soft sound of encouragement, and the vibration shoots up his spine. his grip in your hair tightens involuntarily—not harsh, but needy. his thighs shift beneath you, restless.

he tries to speak, something about the game, maybe even a reply to chat, but it stutters on his tongue and fades out. his control is thinning, unraveling with each second you stay wrapped around him.

and you—completely in control, completely calm—can feel it. the way his breathing's gone shallow, how his hand trembles against your scalp. he’s close. you know it. and you’re not planning to let up.

not until he breaks.

his fingers tremble at the nape of your neck. he’s trying—genuinely trying—to keep his voice level, to play it off like everything’s fine. but the words on stream have started to taper off. a long pause. then another. his hand, still buried in your hair, gives a telling tug.

“mm… guys, i think i’m gonna… cut it here.”

he clears his throat, swallowing thickly, like he’s trying to shake the edge from his voice. “sorry. my head’s… kinda killing me all of a sudden. think i’m coming down with something.”

his chat floods with concern. hearts. quick wishes to rest. he mutters a soft thank you, already moving to shut everything down—mic muted, camera off. the second the screen fades to black, his whole body slumps back into the chair with a sharp, quiet exhale.

“you’re evil,” he breathes, looking down at you with glassy eyes, skin flushed. his voice is low now—just for you. a hoarse mix of disbelief and want. “you know that, right?”

you glance up at him through your lashes, your hand still wrapped around him, moving with slow, deliberate strokes. the corners of your mouth curve in a teasing smile.

“why’d you end the stream?” you murmur, your voice low, warm with mischief. “i kind of wanted to see you lose it while still on cam.”

kenma lets out a breath that’s half a laugh, half a groan—caught somewhere between amusement and restraint. his hand finds your hair again, fingers threading through gently at first, then tugging with more purpose as his hips shift forward, searching for more of your warmth.

“you’re impossible,” he mutters under his breath, voice thick, a little frayed around the edges.

but he doesn’t ask you to stop.

his head tips back, lips parting in a quiet gasp as the pleasure crests higher. his thighs tense beneath your hands, and his voice drops to a breathy whisper. “i’m close… baby, i’m gonna—”

his hips twitch, and then he’s spilling into your mouth with a quiet, broken moan. you hold him there gently, letting him ride it out, not moving too fast—just letting him feel.

when you pull back, you tilt your head up slightly, mouth still open in teasing defiance. his flushed face darkens even more as his gaze locks onto you, both stunned and aroused.

“swallow for me,” he murmurs, voice low and thick.

you do, slowly, deliberately, and when you’re done, he leans forward without hesitation, pulling you up from the floor. his lips meet yours in a kiss that’s not rushed, but deep and hungry, full of something that feels heavier than just desire.

his hands frame your face, thumbs brushing gently along your cheeks like you’re something he never wants to forget — like memorizing the feeling of you is as important as breathing.

the room feels warmer now, like the hum of his pc and the muted glow from the led lights have become part of the quiet spell between you. his fingers wander lower, slipping beneath the edge of your silk nightgown, slow and searching. when he realizes you’re not wearing anything underneath, he pauses — amber eyes meeting yours, amused and hungry all at once.

“no panties, baby?” he murmurs, voice low and threaded with affection, like he already knows the answer but loves hearing you admit it.

you only smile, your hands slipping under the hem of his hoodie to feel the warmth of his skin. "didn’t think i’d need them."

he huffs a laugh — barely — before leaning in and kissing you again, deeper this time. like he's grounding himself in the taste of you, the smell of your hair, the soft drag of silk against his fingertips.

“you’re trouble,” he whispers against your lips.

“only for you.”

kenma doesn’t say anything right away. he just smiles — that quiet, crooked kind of smile that never quite reaches anyone else but you — and settles you down in his chair, pulling you gently back against his chest. the leather is cool beneath your thighs, but all you feel is the warmth of him, the way his body fits so naturally around yours.

he parts your legs with care, resting each over the wide arms of the chair. the position leaves you open, vulnerable — but never unsafe. not with him. you can feel him against you, firm and unrelenting, pressing right where you’re already aching. a soft, involuntary roll of your hips has you grinding against him for friction.

but kenma’s hand catches your thigh, firm and grounding.

“no teasing, baby,” he murmurs, mouth close to your ear. “you already had your fun.”

you pout, making a small sound of protest, but he only chuckles — that low, lazy laugh that always sends a shiver down your spine. his fingers trail along your thigh, slow and feather-light as he lifts the hem of your nightgown. his breath hitches when he sees you — already wet, already waiting.

“no panties…” he says again, quieter this time. “you knew exactly what you were doing.”

his fingertips trace the inside of your thigh, close enough to tease, not close enough to satisfy. you shift your hips again, just slightly — needy. he smirks against your neck.

“patience,” he says, voice warm but commanding. “i’ll take care of you.”

and with that, his hand slides lower, purposeful now.

his fingers finally find you — warm, slick, and already pulsing with need. he hums quietly against your neck, the sound low and appreciative, almost reverent.

“already this wet for me,” he murmurs, dragging his fingers through the heat of you, slow and deliberate. “just from touching me?”

you nod, breath catching as his fingers circle with maddening precision. his other hand is on your waist, keeping you still against him, even though your hips keep twitching forward on instinct, chasing more.

“kenma,” you whisper, reaching for his wrist.

but he doesn’t let you take control.

“uh-uh,” he breathes against the shell of your ear, pressing a kiss there. “you get to feel, not lead.”

his fingers press in slowly — one first, then another — curling just right. you gasp, arching slightly, your body responding instantly. he watches over your shoulder, eyes dark, jaw tight.

“look at you,” he murmurs, voice threading between fondness and possessiveness. “falling apart already and i’ve barely started.”

you’re trembling now, his fingers working a slow, patient rhythm while he keeps you spread for him, your legs draped over the arms of his chair. he’s everywhere — behind you, inside you, breathing you in like you’re something sacred. the chair creaks quietly beneath you both, the only sound aside from your breath, your whimpers, and the quiet, wet sounds of him loving you.

“i want to hear you,” he says suddenly, his voice quiet but firm. “let me hear how much you want me.”

you can barely manage words — only broken sounds that dissolve into moans when he brushes that one spot inside you just right. your head drops back onto his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut.

and he smiles.

“good girl.”

then, without warning, his fingers begin to move faster — deliberate, controlled, but unrelenting. the sudden shift makes your breath hitch, and your body tenses in his lap, the pleasure sharp and overwhelming.

one of your hands flies to his arm, nails digging in for something to anchor yourself with. the other reaches up, guiding his free hand to your chest, needing more of him — everywhere, all at once.

kenma gets the message. his palm slips under the silk fabric, fingers brushing over your breast before squeezing softly, teasing your nipple between his fingers. at the same time, he keeps his pace below, dragging you closer and closer to the edge with maddening precision.

his lips find your neck, pressing kisses that grow slower, deeper — lingering on the sensitive spots that make your toes curl.

“you’re so responsive tonight,” he murmurs, voice thick with heat, his breath fanning over your skin. “you feel everything, don’t you?”

you can’t answer — your mouth is open, but all that escapes are soft gasps and whimpers, your head rolling to the side to give him more access. every nerve feels like it’s on fire, and the coil low in your belly tightens with each stroke of his fingers, each pull of his lips.

he groans low against your throat. “you’re close, aren’t you?”

you nod, a shiver running through you.

“then let go for me,” he whispers, pressing his fingers deeper, right where you need him. “come for me.”

that’s all it takes.

your body tightens around his touch as the pleasure crests — hot, overwhelming — and then it crashes over you in waves. you tremble in his arms, breath catching, fingers digging into his as you fall apart, his name slipping from your lips again and again like a prayer.

kenma holds you through it, still stroking you gently, soothing the aftershocks while murmuring soft praises into your ear.

“just like that,” he breathes. “that’s my girl.”

your legs feel like they're made of air when you try to stand, muscles still trembling from the high. kenma’s arms wrap around your waist in an instant, steadying you. he keeps you close, grounding you.

his fingers, still glistening with your release, lift between you. without breaking eye contact, he brings them to his lips and licks them clean — slow, deliberate, savoring. the heat in his gaze doesn’t waver.

you feel your core clench again at the sight. it’s almost unfair, how effortlessly he can unravel you.

kenma leans in, lips brushing yours in a kiss that’s all tongue and tenderness, low heat simmering between you. when he pulls back, his voice is soft but firm.

“come on,” he says, nudging your nose with his. “let’s take this to the bedroom.”

kenma lifts you up easily, his arms strong and secure beneath your thighs as you instinctively wrap yourself around him. your nightgown falls around your waist, forgotten, as he carries you through the soft-lit hallway, every step purposeful.

his lips press against your shoulder, your collarbone, anywhere he can reach as you cling to him. the steady thump of his heart beneath your chest only makes you more aware of your own racing pulse.

when you reach the bedroom, he lowers you gently onto the bed like you’re something precious. his eyes sweep over you—soft, but hungry.

“you look too good like this,” he murmurs, crawling over you slowly, deliberately. “i don’t think i’ll last long.”

kenma’s lips trail over your skin, soft and deliberate—your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your chest. he doesn’t rush. every kiss feels like he’s memorizing you, savoring the way your body responds beneath him.

he took his time at your chest, his lips wrapping around one nipple, sucking softly while his fingers toyed with the other—gently rolling, massaging, giving each the attention it deserved.

"kenma…" you whined, breath hitching, “stop teasing.”

he only chuckled against your skin, the vibration making you shiver. “but you’re so easy to tease,” he murmured, eyes glinting with mischief as he met your gaze.

his lips moved to your other nipple, lavishing it with the same slow, careful attention. you tangled your fingers in his hair, gripping just enough to make him moan softly against you—the sound vibrating through your chest and straight down your spine.

kenma’s kisses trailed lower, slow and unhurried, like he wanted to memorize every inch of you with his mouth. from your chest, he pressed kisses down your stomach, pausing every now and then to nip lightly at the sensitive skin. you gasped, your fingers still threaded in his hair as his warmth moved further down.

when he finally settled between your thighs, he looked up at you—eyes heavy, lips slightly parted. his hands slid along your hips, holding you gently, as though grounding himself before diving in.

“just relax for me,” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin.

kenma took his time, kissing a slow path down your body, his touch reverent like you were something rare—something he didn’t want to rush. you felt his fingers trail along your thigh before he settled between them, spreading you open with care.

he looked up once, catching your gaze. “let me take care of you,” he said softly, and then he was leaning in, his mouth finding you with practiced ease.

kenma always made it feel like more than just pleasure—like devotion. every stroke of his tongue was deliberate, slow at first, savoring. he groaned quietly as he tasted you, his hands firm on your hips to keep you steady as your legs threatened to tremble.

he was greedy for it—your sounds, your reactions, the way you gripped the sheets and whispered his name like it was the only word you knew. you could feel him hum against you, the vibration deep, coaxing even more out of you.

you arched into him, breath hitching. “kenma—”

he didn’t stop, didn’t even slow down. his mouth moved in perfect rhythm, chasing your release like it was the only thing that mattered.

your fingers tangled in his hair, your hips instinctively moving against his mouth as pleasure surged through you in waves. kenma held you firmly, not letting up, coaxing every last bit of your release with lips and tongue as though he could memorize your taste, your sounds, the way your body responded to him.

your thighs trembled around his shoulders, your chest heaving with every breath. “kenma… i—” your voice broke on the edge of another cry.

he pulled back only when he was sure you’d ridden the high completely, his lips and chin glistening, eyes dark and half-lidded with hunger. he kissed the inside of your thigh before finally looking up at you with a lazy, satisfied smile.

“still with me?” he asked, his voice low and teasing, brushing his knuckles along your thigh as if he wasn’t already driving you wild.

you could barely nod, your body loose and warm. “barely,” you whispered, your voice hoarse and filled with a kind of awe.

kenma crawled up your body, kissing along your skin again, slower now, as if grounding you.

he kissed your lips, soft but insistent, letting you taste yourself on him. “you drive me insane,” he murmured, his forehead resting against yours.

then you felt him, hard and ready, pressing against your thigh.

“think you can take a little more?” he asked, eyes locked on yours.

your answer was a breathless nod, your fingers already reaching for him.

kenma peeled off the hoodie he was wearing, the soft fabric sliding off his shoulders. years of volleyball had carved subtle definition into his frame — lean muscle, toned arms, a strength that never flaunted itself but was always there, just beneath the surface.

your eyes followed the motion, drinking in the sight of him. he wasn’t showy about his body — he never had been — but the quiet confidence in the way he moved was more than enough to make your pulse race.

catching your gaze, kenma gave a faint smirk, lowering himself between your legs again. “you’re staring,” he murmured, brushing a hand over your side. his touch was warm, grounding, full of intent.

“can you blame me?” you replied softly, pulling him closer until his chest was pressed against yours.

his forehead rested against yours for a moment as he breathed you in. “i just want to make you feel good,” he whispered.

then, with slow, deliberate movement, he shifted, positioning himself against you. one hand cupped your jaw while the other guided himself to your entrance.

“ready?” he asked, voice low, careful — not because he doubted you, but because he always wanted to be sure.

kenma guides himself slowly, carefully, and when his tip finally meets your warmth, your breath catches — a soft gasp slipping from your lips.

he stills for a second, eyes flicking up to meet yours, searching for any hesitation. but you only nod, your fingers tightening around his arms, urging him closer.

he presses forward with aching slowness, every inch a stretch that makes your back arch and your lips part. the moment is thick with heat, but also something unspoken — trust, connection, the quiet reverence in the way he touches you like you’re something sacred.

“you feel… incredible,” he murmurs, voice barely audible as he sinks in deeper. his forehead falls to your shoulder, his breath shuddering against your skin.

you wrap your legs around his waist, drawing him closer, and he responds with a deep groan — the sound low, restrained. he gives you a moment to adjust, holding you close, grounding both of you in the shared intensity.

then, his hips move — slow, deliberate — drawing a moan from your throat as your body melts beneath his. he rocks into you with care, but every movement is full of intent, of need. his hands find yours, fingers weaving together, grounding you both as he sets a rhythm that sends warmth coiling deep in your belly.

“just like that,” he breathes into your ear. “i’ve got you.”

your gasp melted into a sigh as kenma held you close, his forehead resting against yours. his movements were slow at first, careful, as if memorizing every part of you. he kissed your temple, then your cheek, his hands cradling your waist with a gentleness that made your chest ache.

“you feel so good,” he whispered, his voice barely audible but thick with emotion.

you could only hold onto him, nails digging lightly into his back, grounding yourself in the moment. the world felt small — just you, him, and the warmth blooming between you.

kenma looked at you then, eyes dark but soft. “tell me if it’s too much,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

you shook your head, breathless. “don’t stop.”

he smiled, something quiet and tender. and he didn’t. his rhythm deepened, steady and certain, every touch saying what words couldn’t. you weren’t just connected — you were intertwined.

kenma’s pace stayed measured, like he was savoring every second, every soft sound that left your lips. his hand found yours and laced your fingers together, grounding you further as your bodies moved in sync — a quiet rhythm built on trust and closeness.

you felt your body react to him instinctively — the way his movements reached that perfect rhythm, the way his voice wrapped around you like warmth. kenma's breath hitched when he felt the way your body tightened around him, and he slowed just enough to press a kiss to your temple.

"you're close, aren't you?" he murmured, his voice low and breathless. "i can feel it."

you nodded, your fingers curling against his back as you buried your face in the crook of his neck, breath trembling against his skin. he held you tighter — not to control, but to keep you grounded, tethered to him.

“words, baby,” he murmured, voice rough near your ear. “need to hear you.”

“ugh… yes, kenma. please,” you breathed, the desperation in your voice making his heart stutter.

he smiled, lips brushing yours in a soft, lingering kiss. “that’s my girl.”

one of his hands slipped between you, fingers finding your clit with practiced ease. he began to rub slow, deliberate circles, coaxing you closer with every motion — his rhythm unrelenting, but full of care. you gasped into his mouth, your thighs tightening around his hips as your body began to tremble under the wave building inside you.

“just like that,” he whispered, his forehead pressed to yours. “you’re doing so well for me.”

your body trembled beneath him, every nerve alight as he continued to move with you — slow, intentional, like he didn’t want to miss a single reaction you gave him. his fingers remained on your skin, drawing soft circles, guiding you closer and closer.

“almost there, baby?” he whispered against your ear, his voice a low, soothing hum.

you nodded again, eyes fluttering shut as the wave built. kenma leaned in, kissing the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your jaw — like he was trying to hold you together even as he helped you fall apart.

and when the release finally came, it was warm and overwhelming — your name caught in his throat, your body arching into his as he held you through it. his fingers didn’t stop until he felt you pulse around him, clenching tightly. that was all it took.

with a low, strained groan, kenma followed, hips stuttering as he pressed deeper. the warmth of his release filled you almost instantly, making you gasp at the sensation. he buried his face against your neck, breath heavy, arms trembling slightly as he held onto you like he never wanted to let go.

the room was quiet save for the sound of your mingled breathing — hearts still racing, skin flushed and sticky with heat.

kenma didn’t speak right away. he just kissed your shoulder softly, then pulled back enough to look at you, his gaze half-lidded but tender.

“we’re not done yet, baby,” he murmured, voice low and teasing.

his hands trailed down your sides with purpose, and before you could catch your breath, he gently guided you to turn, his touch both reassuring and firm. now you were on your knees, the sheets cool beneath your skin and his presence warm behind you.

you felt him press close, his hands exploring slowly, as if memorizing every inch of you all over again. a quiet moan escaped your lips as he leaned forward, his breath hot against your shoulder.

“still doing okay?” he asked, a hint of playfulness tucked beneath the concern in his voice.

you nodded, breathless, already anticipating what was next.

kenma’s body was warm against yours, his touch steady and slow as he guided your hips just right. you could feel the pressure of him behind you, the way he teased at your entrance with deliberate, featherlight motion — a silent promise that made your breath hitch.

he leaned over you, lips brushing your ear. “you feel too good,” he whispered, voice rough and reverent.

your hands gripped the sheets, knuckles pale, as he finally moved with more intent — slow at first, savoring every moment, every sound you made. the connection between you sparked anew, heady and overwhelming, and all you could do was let yourself feel it — every pulse, every shiver, every breath you took together.

when he finally entered you again, your body reacted instantly — a sharp gasp, a moan torn from your lips, your muscles trembling under the weight of overstimulation. every nerve felt alive, your skin tingling where his hands steadied your hips.

“still with me?” he murmured, his voice low and strained, pressed right behind your ear.

you nodded, eyes fluttering shut, overwhelmed by the intensity but craving more of it — more of him. each slow, deliberate movement pushed you closer to the edge again, your breath hitching with every deep thrust.

kenma’s fingers stayed locked with yours, his grip tight — not just for you, but for himself too. the room was filled with the rhythm of your connection: the sound of skin meeting skin, breathy moans tangled with soft groans, the kind of music only two people completely lost in each other could make.

his pace never faltered, steady and deep, every movement hitting that spot that made you shudder. you could feel how close he was again — the way his breath hitched, the subtle tremble in his hold, the quiet curse he let slip against your shoulder.

“you feel so good,” he whispered, voice hoarse, like he was holding on by a thread.

he kissed along your back, each press of his lips sending a ripple of shivers through you. the contrast of his tenderness against the intensity of his rhythm made everything feel more heightened, more intimate — like he was trying to show you, with every breath and every touch, just how deeply he felt it too.

“you’re doing so good for me,” he murmured against your skin, voice low and ragged.

your body responded instinctively, leaning into every word, every motion. the sensation built again — not just the physical, but the emotional weight of it all. it was consuming, a shared fire pulling you both closer to the edge, tethered by more than just touch.

his arm curled securely around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer, while his other hand slid up to your chest, fingers splaying gently over your heartbeat. your back pressed flush against his bare chest, the heat of his skin matching yours, slick and electric with every movement.

kenma’s pace quickened, each motion purposeful, building upon the tension already thick between you. you could feel his breath against your ear — staggered, heavy, and desperate — matching the rhythm he set.

“you feel so good,” he whispered, voice low and breathless, as if the words were pulled straight from his core. “so perfect.”

every inch of you was alive beneath his touch. the way he held you — like you were something precious and irreplaceable — only deepened the intensity between you, making the pleasure that much harder to hold back.

he turned your face gently toward his, capturing your lips in a deep, breath-stealing kiss. it was messy, uncoordinated with urgency, lips parting between panting breaths and soft moans. his hand slid lower, finding that sensitive spot between your thighs, fingers moving in slow, deliberate circles that made your body twitch beneath him.

the other hand cupped your chest, thumb brushing over your skin with just enough pressure to make you gasp into his mouth. the sensations layered — the heat, the closeness, the way he murmured your name between kisses — until you could barely tell where your body ended and his began.

"kenma, can i please come?" you whimpered against his lips, your voice trembling with need.

"go on, baby," he murmured, brushing his lips against your cheek. "you deserve it."

with those words, everything unraveled. your fourth release crashed over you like a wave — intense and consuming. your body tensed and trembled in his arms, a breathless cry leaving your lips as he held you through it, never letting go.

kenma followed moments after, his release finding you again, warm and deep, leaving you feeling full and overwhelmed in the best way. the shared intensity lingered between you, breath mingling, bodies pressed tightly together.

he pressed soft, lingering kisses to your neck and shoulder, his lips barely parting between quiet, reverent praises — like every word was just for you.

kenma gently laid you down on the bed, his touch never leaving you. his hands moved slowly over your sides, massaging tenderly, easing the lingering tremble in your muscles. he leaned in, brushing soft kisses along your shoulder, your neck, your jaw — each one slow and purposeful.

between kisses, you heard the low murmur of his voice, barely more than a breath against your skin.

"mine," he whispered, possessive but gentle. "good girl."

kenma stayed close, his chest pressed to your back, breath still warm against your shoulder. the room had gone quiet now, save for the soft hum of your shared breaths and the distant ticking of the clock on the wall. his fingers moved slowly along your side, not with intent — just comfort, like he needed to feel you to know this was real.

you let out a small, content sigh, burying your face into the crook of his neck, where your warmth and his seemed to melt together. “you’re quieter than usual,” you whispered, your voice soft and sleepy.

he made a quiet sound, almost like a laugh. “just thinking,” he murmured, pressing a slow kiss to your temple. “you… really helped.”

you pulled back just enough to look up at him, eyes still heavy with exhaustion but full of quiet affection. “helped how?”

his thumb gently brushed your cheek as he looked at you. “i don’t know. everything’s loud lately — in my head. work. people. expectations. but when i’m here with you, it’s like the volume just… shuts off.”

your heart tugged at that, at how vulnerable his voice had gotten, at how carefully he let you see the pieces of himself he kept hidden from the rest of the world.

you leaned in, kissed his collarbone softly, then nuzzled against his skin. “i like it when you're like this,” you said quietly. “soft. real.”

kenma rested his chin lightly on the top of your head. “i’m always real with you,” he murmured. “even if i don’t know how to say everything out loud… you hear me anyway.”

the room stilled again, but this time the silence felt intentional — sacred, even. like nothing more needed to be said.

his hand slipped beneath the covers, coming to rest over your stomach, fingers splaying protectively. he pulled you a little closer, the warmth of him pressed fully along your spine. “you’re mine,” he murmured again, half-asleep but still clear. “always.”

you felt your heart flutter, soothed more than you expected by the quiet claim. your body, still tender and spent, finally began to relax completely. you let your hand reach back to rest over his, lacing your fingers gently with his own.

“did i destress you already?” you teased, voice thick with exhaustion and something sweeter.

kenma chuckled softly against your shoulder. “you did more than that,” he said, kissing the back of your neck again. “you brought me back.”

your eyes slipped shut at that, a slow smile curling on your lips. his hand didn’t leave yours, and the gentle rise and fall of his chest against your back began to lull you both toward sleep. the air was warm, his body even warmer, and for the first time in days — maybe weeks — your mind wasn’t racing. there was just him, and the steady rhythm of the two of you breathing together.

“i love you,” you whispered into the quiet, not even sure if he was still fully awake.

but he heard you.

“i love you too,” he murmured back, softer than anything, but real.

and in that warmth, tangled together beneath the covers, you both drifted — slowly, peacefully — into sleep.

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smutmind · 8 days ago

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A Hot face i haven´t seen arround here is Heejin

Her being from a small company makes her fit perfectly in "how she pays" so it would be great, Thanks!

The Clickbait ft. Heejin

I hope you're okay with using your ask for me to post this story. It's kinda related to your theme I just added some flare.

The room was quiet except for the soft hum of your monitor and the lazy whir of the ceiling fan.

It started like any other late night—just scrolling, not really looking for anything, just curious. Click after click, preview after preview. Same bodies. Same moans. Same bored expressions. And then you saw it.

Thumbnail: a girl on her knees, ponytail high, licking her lips.

You paused.

Your breath hitched. You clicked.

And there she was. Heejin.

Same dimple in her cheek. Same pouty lips. That tiny mole under her left eye.

You leaned in, pulse drumming in your ears. The video buffer was irrelevant; the shock hit instantly.

Heejin. Your Heejin. The girl you sat next to in third grade. The one you shared gummy bears with during breaks. The one you defended during that awful winter field trip when she fell and skinned her knee. The one who wore the sky-blue scrunchie you gave her for a year straight.

You remembered the curve of her laugh, the way her eyes disappeared when she grinned. You remembered borrowing her pencil in science class, your fingers brushing too long. The aching innocence of being fifteen and not knowing how to say: I like you. I want to hold your hand. I want to be the boy who gets to kiss you first.

She moved away before your final year of high school. You never confessed. Just watched her go.

And now, years later, she was on your screen. Grown. Gorgeous. Completely, stunningly naked.

The scene began. She wore white thigh highs and a baby-pink crop top, kneeling on a hotel bed. Her voice was still soft, slightly breathy, just like it used to be.

"Hi," she said to the camera, smiling sweetly. "I’m Heejin. Be nice to me. It’s my first time."

The camera man chuckled behind the lens. "You're a pretty one. Can you show us a little more?"

Heejin giggled nervously, a shy glance at the floor. "Like this?" She tugged the crop top slowly over her head, revealing a pair of soft, perky breasts. She kept her arms wrapped under them, almost modestly. Her cheeks flushed.

"Good girl," the voice said. "Let’s see all of you."

A second figure stepped into frame. Older. Taller. Broad shoulders and salt-and-pepper stubble. He smiled, hand resting gently on her back.

"Don’t worry, sweetheart," he murmured. "Just follow my lead."

She looked up at him, uncertain but trusting. “You’ll be gentle, right?”

He leaned in, whispered something that made her giggle, then kissed her bare shoulder.

The camera caught it all—the way she trembled slightly, the way her fingers toyed with the waistband of her panties. Her innocence wasn't fake. She really was new.

He guided her hands down. She peeled her panties slowly, uncertainly, revealing herself with a hesitance that wasn’t performative—it was real. Her breath came shallow. Her knees pressed together even as she exposed herself.

"You’re beautiful," the man said softly. "Just relax. Let me help."

He touched her thigh, trailing up gently. She flinched, then steadied, nodding slowly. The camera didn’t rush. It lingered, capturing every inch of her growing trust, the way her lips parted, the way her body shifted in response.

Then his fingers found her.

Soft, slow circles that made her shiver. Her eyes fluttered. She gasped—quiet, surprised. Her hips shifted without her meaning to.

He murmured something too low for the mic to catch, and she nodded, legs parting just a little more. Her hands gripped the sheets. Her chest rose and fell fast.

She looked straight at the camera once. Not shy—open. Real.

And then she moaned.

You leaned back, dazed, haunted by the face you used to know. And now couldn’t forget.

Your chest was tight. Fingers hovered above the keyboard for a full minute before you exhaled, leaned back, and opened a new window. Social media. You typed her name.

There she was.

Same face. Same dimple. Same soft smile. But no trace of the girl from the video.

Her Instagram was curated—sunlit beaches, passport stamps, matcha lattes in Kyoto, wide-eyed selfies from Paris. No stage names, no hints of adult work. Just Heejin, looking like the kind of woman who’d figured her life out.

You scrolled, heart thudding. A post from last week: her on a cliffside hike, grinning into the wind. Caption: Climbing feels like remembering who I am.

You weren’t sure what you were hoping to find. An alias? A confession? A link in bio? There was nothing.

And then your thumb paused on a photo of her in a café. Her hair tied up, a book in one hand, a crooked smile aimed at someone across the table. You remembered that smile. You remembered wishing she’d aim it at you.

You hit Message.

Typed.

Deleted.

Typed again.

Hey. It’s been a long time. Don’t know if you remember me…

Backspaced the whole thing.

You stared at the blinking cursor. Then your fingers moved on their own.

Heejin. It’s me. From school. I saw you... — you hesitated — I saw something that reminded me of you. Just wanted to say hi.

Sent.

You stared at your screen, heart pounding. You didn’t expect a reply.

But you left the tab open anyway.

Three weeks passed.

Nothing.

You told yourself you didn’t care. Closed the tab. Reopened it. Checked again.

And then one night—just as you were about to shut down for bed—your phone buzzed.

A message.

Hey... I’ve been meaning to write back. Things got kind of crazy. I’m back in town for a few days. Would love to see you.

Heejin.

Just reading her name made your stomach tighten. You read the message again. And again.

Would love to see you.

You stared at the blinking cursor. All over again.

She met you at the arcade wearing a cream-colored crop hoodie and black jeans that looked painted on—just tight enough to press the memory of her hips into your brain. Her hair was in a high ponytail, and the first thing she did was hug you, tight, warm, lingering.

"God, I missed this," she said, pulling back just enough for her chest to brush yours.

You swallowed. "The arcade?"

She winked. "Being around someone who doesn’t expect me to put on a show."

You laughed, caught off guard. She wasn’t performing. She was still Heejin, the same mischievous, too-honest-for-her-own-good girl you’d crushed on in school.

She grabbed your wrist and pulled you toward the air hockey table. "Let’s go. You owe me a rematch from, like, tenth grade."

You took your place across from her, hands awkward on the paddle. She bent slightly to set the puck, her crop hoodie lifting just a breath. You looked away.

The game began. You both played harder than necessary. She was good—fast, focused. Laughing too loudly at every point scored.

Between rounds, she stretched her arms overhead, groaning like she'd run a marathon. "Ugh. My back is killing me. I need someone with strong hands. You volunteerin', or what?"

The words hit wrong. Too familiar. Your body remembered where it had heard them before. From your screen. From her debut.

But her face stayed playful. Naïve, even.

You couldn’t ask. You wouldn’t. So you just played the next round and lost again.

After a few more games and too many cheap sodas, you ended up on the same ratty bench by the change machine. She stretched out beside you, one leg tucked under the other.

"So," she said, tapping her cup, "how’s your life? Still into tech stuff? You always had that nerdy genius vibe."

You smiled. "Freelancing, mostly. Flexible hours."

"Mmm," she said, biting her straw. "That sounds nice."

You nodded, but your thoughts were screaming. You wanted to ask. You wanted to say: I saw it. I saw you. But you didn’t.

Instead, you cleared your throat and said, “Why don’t I cook you dinner tomorrow?”

She blinked, surprised. Then her lips curled into a grin. “Are you trying to seduce me with pasta?”

You shrugged. “Depends how good your palate is. I’m a bit of a kitchen snob now.”

She leaned back, mock-suspicious. “I remember your cafeteria tray in ninth grade. This better be a glow-up.”

The next evening, she came over just after seven. She wore a casual green dress, cinched at the waist, with sleeves pushed up to her elbows. It was soft, unassuming—until she sat down and the neckline shifted just slightly lower than necessary. You pretended not to notice. She pretended not to notice you noticing.

You made aglio e olio from scratch, roasted vegetables with sea salt and thyme. She stole cherry tomatoes from the cutting board while you stirred.

“Okay,” she said, chewing. “You’re forgiven for every cold pizza slice you ever inhaled in homeroom.”

You both ate at the kitchen counter, plates between you, wine glasses sweating under dim light. She laughed more here. Softer. Her guard seemed to slip with every bite.

After dinner, you stood at the sink rinsing plates. She leaned in beside you, closer than she needed to be.

"Should I dry?" she asked, brushing her arm against yours. "Or should I just stand here and look hot?"

You froze, the plate half-tilted in your hand.

She smirked. "Kidding. Unless you like a little help with your... chores."

It was too much.

You set the plate down and turned, voice low. “Heejin, I saw it.”

She blinked. “Saw what?”

You met her eyes. “The video. Your first scene. I didn’t mean to—I was just... it came up.”

She stepped back slowly, all the teasing gone. “Oh.”

“Heejin, I didn’t want to bring it up like this, but I couldn’t sit here pretending.”

Her arms folded across her stomach. “So this dinner was what? A farewell tour? See me once in person and then disappear like it didn’t happen?”

“No. No, that’s not what this is.”

Her voice wavered, sharp with hurt. “You think I’m disgusting.”

You stepped toward her. “No. I think you were hurting, and you never told me.”

She hesitated. Her lips parted like she might deny it—but then, she dropped into the nearest chair, hands on her lap.

“I never thought you’d find out,” she whispered. “Most people never make the connection.”

You stayed quiet, letting her talk.

“I was in a K-pop group. Briefly. Small company. Training since high school. Thought it was my shot. We did two singles, then they ran out of money. Shelved us. Stopped paying. Still held our contracts.”

She stared at her hands.

“We weren’t allowed to leave. Couldn’t work elsewhere. Couldn’t sue. I had no savings. And when I begged them to release me, they offered... an alternative.”

Your heart dropped. “They sold you.”

Her laugh was dry. “Not in chains. But close enough. They owned the footage. Changed the name. Sent me to a ‘modeling’ agency that just so happened to be tied to a porn label.”

She looked up. Her face was pale, but her voice was steady.

“I let them touch me on camera. Told myself it was just acting. But it wasn’t. It was real hands. Real bodies. Real bruises. And every time I broke a little more inside. But I smiled. Because I owed them. Because I signed my name.”

You moved slowly, kneeling in front of her. “I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that. You didn’t owe anyone your body.”

Her eyes were glassy, but she didn’t cry.

“I didn’t want you to see that version of me,” she said. “The one who faked orgasms and swallowed shame for a paycheck.”

You nodded. “I get it. But that’s not all you are.”

She didn’t answer at first. Her hand lingered in yours, fingers gently tightening like she wasn’t sure she was allowed.

Then she spoke. "I used to like you. Back then. High school. I thought maybe you'd ask me out after midterms. You didn’t."

You blinked. "You liked me?"

She smiled faintly. "You were sweet. Not like the others. You used to bring extra pencils for everyone, but you always made sure I got the ones without bite marks. I noticed."

You let out a soft laugh. “I had no idea.”

“That’s the thing,” she said, brushing her thumb over your knuckles. “You were part of my innocence. A time before... all this. When things were soft and slow and didn’t hurt yet.”

She exhaled, eyes distant. "I came to see you because I missed that. I wanted to remember who I was before I turned into someone I barely recognize. And being around you... it's the only thing that makes me feel like I’m still her. Even a little."

You looked at her, really looked. And you saw it—the girl behind the camera lights, behind the soft moans and glossy lips. The one who used to pass notes in class. The one who was scared but smiling anyway.

You squeezed her hand. “Then let’s hold on to her. Just for tonight.”

She gave you a small, grateful nod. “Just for tonight.”

It started with a kiss—gentle, slow, mouths barely moving. A tentative search for warmth.

Her lips brushed yours once, then again, and you felt the weight she carried begin to fall away with each exhale. You kissed like the moment was fragile, like it could shatter under pressure.

She climbed into your lap, straddling you with her knees tucked beside your hips, her dress still flowing down around your legs. Face to face. Her arms wrapped around your neck. You held her waist.

“I missed this,” she whispered against your mouth.

“What?”

“Feeling safe.”

You kissed again, deeper this time. Her body pressed into yours. The room grew warmer.

Then she took your hand and slid it under her shirt, guiding it to the softness beneath her bra. Skin to skin. Her breath caught, but she didn’t stop you.

You paused, looking up. “Do you want to...?”

She didn’t flinch. She didn’t tease. Her voice was barely a whisper, raw and trembling. “Remind me what it felt like to be touched without expectation.”

And with that, you kissed her once more—soft, deliberate, as your hand gently explored the shape of her, anchoring yourself to this real, present version of Heejin.

The silence between you pulsed with need, taut and intimate. Her breath fanned your jaw as she straddled you, still dressed, her fingers exploring your shoulders with slow, curious pressure. You traced the line of her spine under her shirt until she shifted in your lap, kissing you like the space between you had always been hers to close.

Her lips parted as she deepened the kiss, drawing you in with soft, savoring motions. The pace was unhurried, almost reverent. Her hands threaded into your hair, pulling just enough to make you feel wanted, hers. You cupped her face in both palms, stroking her cheek with your thumb as her mouth moved against yours.

She broke the kiss only to whisper, "Can I feel more of you?"

You answered by sliding your hands under the hem of her dress, tracing up the backs of her thighs, the curve of her hips. Her skin was warm, electric. You leaned in to kiss along her jaw, then down to the soft place beneath her ear. She shivered in your arms.

Her fingers tugged at the hem of your shirt. You raised your arms to help her peel it off. She tossed it aside and ran her hands across your chest, fingers splaying like she wanted to map your whole torso. Then she pressed a slow kiss to your collarbone.

You pulled her closer, until her chest was flush with yours. Through the fabric, you could feel the quickening of her heartbeat. Your lips found her neck again, then lower, until you kissed the swell above her bra. She gasped softly and arched into you.

She reached behind herself and slid the zipper of her dress down, peeling it away inch by inch, never breaking eye contact. You helped her out of it gently, reverently. She sat before you in her bra and panties, glowing in the low light.

You ran your fingertips along her bare waist, then bent to kiss her shoulder. Her breathing grew shallow as your lips traveled to the inside of her arm, then back to her chest. She held your face in her hands, kissed you long and deep.

“I want this to feel good,” she whispered. “All of it.”

You looked her in the eye. “Then let’s take our time.”

Heejin smiled—slow, sure, like she already knew the next hour by heart. She pushed you back against the pillows, her dark hair brushing your thighs as she moved down. Her lips trailed a final kiss over your navel before she dipped lower, her breath hot, deliberate.

Her hand curled around you, a featherlight grip that tightened with a steady rhythm. Then her mouth—warm, wet, impossibly soft—took you in. Inch by inch, she drew you deep, letting you feel every slick glide of her tongue, every flutter of her throat.

You exhaled sharp, hips flexing on instinct. “Fuck—Heejin.”

She moaned low around you, the vibration sending a pulse through your spine. Her fingers dug lightly into your hips, holding you in place. She set a slow pace, lips stretched tight, tongue circling the crown before sliding down again. Each stroke deeper. Each pause longer.

She looked up once, eyes glassy and wide. You caught the challenge in them—don’t come yet—and bit the inside of your cheek to hold the line. Her mouth was heaven, but it was her control that wrecked you. She knew exactly when to let her spit dribble, when to swallow you whole, when to pull back and tease you with the tip of her tongue.

Your fingers found her hair. Not to push—just to feel the movement, the weight of her. She let you touch, let you watch her work, but she never gave up the rhythm.

“You’re so fucking good at this,” you managed.

She pulled back with a wet pop, lips flushed and shining. “Then don’t waste it.”

And she took you again, deeper this time, hands now stroking your thighs, coaxing them open like she owned every nerve under your skin.

Then she stopped.

Pulled off slowly, breath catching at the edge of her lips. She crawled up your body, kissing her way up your ribs, your chest, until her face hovered above yours. Her thighs straddled you, slick heat brushing your length, but she didn’t lower herself yet.

“I used to fake every sound,” she murmured. “Moans, gasps, even the way I arched my back. All of it—designed for someone else's camera.”

You brushed her hair back. “This isn’t for anyone else.”

Her breath hitched. “I know.” She leaned down and kissed you—messy, needy, with her whole mouth. “You made me forget that part of my life even existed.”

She rose just enough to line herself up, then sank down—slow, controlled, inch by inch until you were all the way inside her. Her lips parted on a gasp, raw and unpracticed. “God,” she whispered, forehead pressing against yours, “this… this feels like it matters.”

You ran your hands over her back, fingers tracing the arch of her spine. “Because it does.”

She started to move—gentle rolls of her hips, no rhythm for the camera, no forced angles. Just motion built on feel. Skin on skin. Her breath warm in your ear.

“This is how I’ve always wanted to fuck,” she said, voice cracking just enough to show the truth in it. “No stage lights. No fake orgasm countdowns. Just… skin and heat and being seen.”

You held her waist, thumbs brushing the sweat gathering beneath her ribs. “Then let me see all of you.”

She rocked slower, deeper, eyes locked on yours. Her breasts pressed to your chest, her thighs trembling slightly with effort. Each glide filled with a quiet need.

“I never came like this,” she whispered. “Not once in front of the camera. But I feel close with you… just from how you look at me.”

You kissed her throat, tasting the salt there. “You’re not a fantasy. You’re fucking real.”

She laughed—soft, shaky, full of feeling. “That’s the most pornographic thing you could say.”

You laughed too, breathless. She tightened her thighs and moved again, this time with purpose. “And you…” she murmured, biting your lower lip gently, “you don’t fuck like a man trying to prove something. You just… want me.”

“I do.” Your hands slid over her ass, guiding her motion. “All of you.”

Her rhythm slowed again, becoming more of a grind, her clit pressed flush against you. She kissed you between every sentence now, like she was making up for all the times she hadn’t been allowed to.

And between kisses, she whispered, “Don’t stop seeing me like this. I don’t ever want to go back.”

Her rhythm grew erratic—more grind than thrust now, her body moving on instinct, driven by sensation. Your grip tightened at her hips, not to control her, just to anchor yourself as the heat in your spine surged toward breaking.

You groaned into her neck. “I’m close.”

She pulled back to look you in the eye. Sweat clung to her upper lip, her mascara half-smudged. “Finish inside me.”

You hesitated—barely a heartbeat.

“I’m safe,” she whispered, voice urgent and raw. “I want to feel it. I want it real.”

Her eyes brimmed with something beyond lust. A desperate kind of need.

“Purify my cunt,” she said, biting down on the word, like it tasted both shameful and holy. “Fill me. I want your cum inside me. Not on me. Not for show. In me.”

That was the last thread of control gone. You thrust up into her, hands holding her there, deep, as the climax ripped through you. You stayed buried in her, hips twitching, breath fractured. She pressed down to take every pulse, every drop.

She moaned with the weight of it—eyes fluttering closed, mouth parted.

Then she leaned down and kissed you hard. No build-up. No pretense. Just lips crushed to yours, teeth, tongue, hunger.

And when she pulled away, she was crying.

Silent at first. Then full sobs, shoulders trembling against your chest.

You held her, still inside her, not moving. Her tears soaked the side of your neck.

“I’m going back,” she said, choking the words out. “Next week. I signed the shoot already.”

Your hands stilled on her back.

She pressed her forehead to your collarbone. “I needed tonight to be mine. Just mine. Not theirs.”

You didn’t say anything. Just pulled the blanket up around her, wrapped her tighter.

She whispered, “Promise you won’t remember me for the videos.”

You kissed the top of her head. “I’ll remember you for this.”

She exhaled hard, like she was trying to hold her body together.

The two of you stayed there, tangled and still, your cum slowly seeping from her, warmth fading against the sheets.

The sheets beside you were cold when you woke.

You sat up slowly, the morning light already spilling in through the blinds. Her scent still lingered—faint coconut shampoo, sweat, sex—but the space she filled was gone. No bag near the door. No coffee brewing in the kitchen. Just silence, and a folded note on the pillow.

Thank you for letting me feel human again. Don’t look for me. Please.

No signature. Just the curve of her handwriting, sharp and sure.

You read it twice. Then again. The ache set in slow, like blood returning to a limb after too long asleep.

You tried her number. Straight to voicemail.

Instagram? Gone.

Twitter? Deleted.

No trace. Like she never existed outside last night.

You sat on the edge of the bed, phone still in your hand, heart beating too loud in your ears. The silence stretched around you until even the hum of the fridge felt too loud.

It wasn’t until a few days later that you saw it.

Her name—well, her stage name—popped up in your feed. A trending title on the front page of the site she’d begged you not to remember her for.

"My Childhood Sweetheart"

There she was, in perfect light. Hair curled. Skin glossy. Eyes dead behind the smile.

Your stomach turned. Not at the act—porn never did that to you—but at the performance. The words you’d whispered in the dark echoed back in warped parody. A line she’d stolen from the night before now scripted on her lips.

You watched ten seconds. Maybe less.

She moaned too early. Arched too perfectly. Called someone baby with the exact same tone she’d used when she’d cried in your arms.

You closed the window.

And sat there, blinking hard, the silence louder than ever.

Your heart didn’t break all at once. It sank—like a weight had been tied to it in the night and dropped somewhere deep.

She was gone.

And this time, it was permanent.

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