webwanderer

[webwanderer]

I NEED SAJA BOYS X MALE READER FICS PLS

[webwanderer]

The one with the Scandal

pariring: rockstar! male OC x male reader [profile]

summary: You’re not dating him. You don’t even like him like that. He’s younger. He’s your job. He’s also apparently into fixing your collar, looking at you like you’re his, and letting the entire fanbase run with it. You’re just trying to not get fired. He’s making it really hard.

content warnings: 18+, idol/manager dynamic, bottom male reader, Jiho is younger but he is in control, reader is spiraling professionally but holding it together (barely), scandal via leaked video, yandere tendencies if you squint, oral (reader receiving), Jiho calls the reader Hyung someone is watching. also: subtle HR violations and bad decisions made in very quiet hallways.

word count: 3.1k

White Eclipse’s manager's job description didn’t include “babysit rockstars,” but here you were at 6:47 a.m., standing outside the dorm in socks, trying to get a key card to work while someone inside was blasting what could only be described as sad trap piano.

You didn’t bother knocking. They never heard it anyway.

The door opened a beat later—Jiho, hoodie half-on, eyes still sleepy, holding a toothbrush like it was a weapon.

“Oh,” he said, voice rough. “Thought you were food.”

You blinked. “It’s me.”

He nodded. “Right.”

Then he just… stepped aside to let you in.

No apology. No explanation.

You used to be surprised by things like that. Not anymore. It’d been seven months since you took over as White Eclipse’s full-time manager. Seven months of group chats at 2 a.m., misplaced earrings, broken in-rooms, passive-aggressive silence in makeup chairs. You were barely keeping the group running. You didn’t have energy left for things like normal boundaries.

Jiho wandered back down the hall. You followed, because your job required it. Not to hover, just to check the morning schedule—radio taping, press call, one-on-one interview for Juhwan. Makeup in twenty.

“You slept?” you asked, mostly to check.

Jiho shrugged. “Eventually.”

“Eat something before we go.”

He didn’t answer, which usually meant no.

You sighed, already noting it down in the log.

⋆｡°✩  

The van ride was quiet, except for Doyun humming aggressively off-key to a song no one else liked. You were seated up front, checking your tablet, trying to remember if anyone had confirmed Jiho’s brand outfit for the shoot. You didn’t hear him move until he leaned forward between the seats.

“Hyung,” he said. His breath ghosted the side of your neck, too close.

You didn’t flinch, but your fingers stilled.

“Yes?”

“You left your charger last time.”

He held it out—your USB-C cable, neatly wrapped.

You blinked. “You… kept it?”

He gave a half-shrug. “Figured you’d come back for it eventually.”

Then sat back like nothing happened.

You turned toward the window. The city rolled by in silence. You didn’t say thank you.

You weren’t sure you wanted to know what else he was keeping track of.

⋆｡°✩  

The radio taping was delayed by forty minutes. Not that anyone told you until you were already standing in the green room, watching the stylist re-iron Taeyang’s shirt while Juhwan paced like he was on trial.

You were half-listening to a PD explain the new segment structure when Jiho appeared beside you again—like he always did, like gravity.

He didn’t say anything. Just handed you a bottle of water.

You took it automatically.

A few seconds passed before you glanced over.

“…This isn’t mine,” you said.

“It’s cold,” he replied. “You like it that way.”

You blinked, unsure how to respond to that.

He didn’t stick around for a reaction—just walked back to the couch and sat, legs crossed, earbuds in, expression unreadable as ever. Like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t just said something small and specific enough to stick in your brain like a splinter.

You told yourself it was normal. He probably remembered from a post-schedule snack run. He was observant. That was all.

It didn’t mean anything.

But when the boys were being ushered into the booth, he lingered again.

Waited until the others were out of earshot.

Then said, “You looked tired yesterday.”

Your hand paused on the equipment list.

“…That’s not part of your job description.”

Jiho gave a half-smile. Small. Secret.

“Neither’s remembering your charger.”

You didn’t smile back.

You wanted to.

You didn’t.

⋆｡°✩  

That night, you stayed at the company building longer than you meant to. Not unusual—schedules had to be reshuffled, the stylists were panicking about a delivery delay, and someone had somehow misplaced two of Doyun’s in-ear backups despite the fact that you’d personally labelled them in obnoxiously bold font last week.

By the time you packed your bag, the halls were half-dark and the lights in the vocal practice room were still on.

You almost didn’t look.

You almost walked straight past.

But you didn’t.

Jiho was there. Again.

Seated on the floor, guitar in his lap, hoodie sleeves pushed up. His face was lit only by the screen of his phone, and he looked so relaxed—so out of uniform—that it threw you off for a second.

He didn’t see you right away. But the second you stepped into the room; his fingers stilled on the frets.

He looked up. And didn’t look away.

“…You live here now?” you asked dryly, trying not to let your voice give anything away.

“Only if you do,” he said, which wasn’t funny, but it made your mouth twitch anyway.

You sat on the bench near the wall, just to rest for a minute. Just to breathe.

Jiho shifted slightly, setting his guitar down.

“They let you have solo schedules today?” he asked.

You shook your head. “Temporary probation.”

He hummed. “For what?”

You gave him a look. “You really want me to spell it out?”

“I want to know what they think happened.”

His tone wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t particularly curious, either. Just steady. Like he was testing something.

You didn’t answer.

He stood slowly and crossed the room, not close, not quite, but just enough that the air changed.

“I know what I felt Hyung,” he said.

Your jaw tightened. “You can’t say stuff like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m your manager.”

He smiled, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Not lately.”

That sat in the space between you, heavy and uncomfortable and true.

You stood up, suddenly. Bag over your shoulder. Shoes already pointed toward the door.

Jiho didn’t stop you. Didn’t move. Just said, quiet and sure,

“Then what are you still doing here?”

⋆｡°✩  

You’re already at the studio before the sun finishes rising, two iced Americanos in hand, and neither of them are for you.

The schedule’s stacked—two back-to-back interviews, followed by a commercial shoot, and then a fitting for a brand collab you only got confirmation for at midnight. You don’t even realise you’ve been typing out emails with your neck tilted and your jaw clenched until someone passes behind you and mutters, “Hyung, you’re gonna shatter your teeth.”

It’s Doyun.

You don’t respond. Just hand him one of the coffees and tell him to finish it before makeup.

Jiho’s the last one out of the van when you arrive at the venue. Hoodie up, expression blank, one earbud in. He doesn’t speak until the others have wandered off in different directions. You’re halfway to the front doors, double-checking a logistics note, when he suddenly says behind you, “You forgot your charger... again.”

You stop walking.

“I didn’t.”

He holds it up anyway. Neatly wrapped. Slightly warm, like he kept it in his pocket.

“Don’t leave your stuff around if you don’t want me touching it,” he adds.

It’s not flirtatious. Not playful.

Just a little… too direct.

You take it from him without meeting his eyes.

By the time the day wraps, you’ve been on your feet for nearly eleven hours, you’re starving, and you’ve answered the same three questions from the same sponsor rep three separate times.

You’re in the back hallway finishing a call when the door beside you creaks open.

Jiho again.

Of course.

He doesn’t say anything. Just leans against the wall next to you, close enough that your shoulders almost touch.

“Is there a reason you’ve been following me around like a ghost today?” you ask, keeping your voice flat.

“Maybe.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re not subtle.”

“I’m not trying to be.”

There’s a beat of silence between you.

“You know they’re already watching,” you say quietly. “Even if nothing happens.”

He shrugs. “Then let them.”

You stare straight ahead. If you look at him now, you might say something you can’t take back.

He leaves without another word.

⋆｡°✩  

It starts the next morning, before you’re even fully awake.

Your phone lights up with a buzz sharp enough to break through sleep, and the notification preview makes your blood run cold.

You don’t open it at first. You already know what it is.

You sit up in bed, screen half-lit, and there it is: A video.

Low-res, muted, zoomed in from somewhere behind the practice room window. You, standing in front of Jiho. Him, fixing your collar like he’s done it a hundred times before. You, frozen. Him, looking at you like no one else exists.

It’s only ten seconds. But that’s all it takes.

WHO is that? he looks like STAFF??? That’s the manager hyung. I’ve seen him in airport vids. They’re so domestic, what the hell 😭😭 The way he looks at him, oh my god, he’s SO GONE idc if it’s fake, this is the best ship in K-pop rn

You can’t breathe.

The DMs are already coming in. Three calls from PR. One from someone in legal. Your group chat with the other managers is blowing up, and your name is already trending.

You close the app. Open your notes app. Start typing an apology that no one’s asked for yet.

Then you stop. Because your phone buzzes again.

Jiho.

A single text.

[ come up to the roof.]

You stare at it.

Ignore it.

Then, against your better judgment, you go.

⋆｡°✩  

The rooftop is quieter than you remember.

It’s probably not even technically accessible—some intern left the door propped open during a late-night smoke break once, and now everyone pretends it’s still locked. You used to come up here alone. That was before. Before the video. Before the call from PR. Before your name started appearing in the trending bar.

Now Jiho’s already here, hoodie sleeves bunched up to his elbows, fingers curled around a can of grape soda that’s starting to sweat through the aluminium. He looks like he hasn’t moved in an hour. Like this isn’t the first time he’s sat here, waiting for you.

You shut the door behind you.

He doesn’t turn to look at you immediately. Just nods toward the railing beside him.

You don’t sit.

“You saw it?” you ask.

He hums in response. You’re not sure if that’s a yes or a who hasn’t?

“You’re not panicking.”

He finally turns. There’s no smile. No bite. Just his usual unreadable calm.

“Should I be?”

You almost laugh, sharp and humourless. “This isn’t a joke.”

“I know.”

He tosses the soda can into the nearby bin without looking. Deadcentrer.

You cross your arms. “They’re going to kill this. Quietly. I’m already off the schedule for next week.”

“I noticed.”

You expect a flicker of regret. Frustration. Some trace of guilt.

You get none.

Instead, Jiho steps closer—not aggressive, just deliberate. There’s no camera up here. No PR team. No lighting cues or stylists, or handlers. Just him. Just you.

“They think we’re together,” he says, voice low.

You don’t answer.

“Maybe we should be.”

You look away. “Don’t do this.”

“Do what, Hyung?”

“Say things you can’t take back.”

He’s close enough now that you can feel the warmth from his body—his chest rising slowly, steadily. He doesn’t try to touch you. That would be too easy. Too obvious. Instead, he just stands there like gravity, like inevitability.

“I’ve been waiting for something to break,” he says, quieter now. “I just didn’t think it’d be a ten-second clip.”

You inhale through your nose. Try to stay steady.

“I’m older than you,” you say.

“So?”

“I’m your manager.”

He leans in—not touching, not yet.

“Not today.”

The silence between you hangs, taut and electric.

Then you walk away.

You don’t run.

But you don’t look back.

⋆｡°✩  

You don’t answer his messages after that.

Not because you don’t want to. You just don’t trust yourself to say something that won’t get screenshotted and sent to HR. You spend the rest of the day buried in logistics—flipping through updated schedules, emailing photographers, pretending your phone isn’t buzzing every hour with a new article, a new fan edit, a new speculative thread. You don’t see Jiho for the rest of the day, and you let yourself believe maybe that rooftop conversation didn’t mean anything.

Then he shows up at your apartment.

It’s late—past midnight. You’re wearing an old shirt and mismatched socks, half-asleep, when the intercom buzzes. You think it’s a food delivery at first. You didn’t order anything. But when you answer, all you hear is—

“Hyung— It’s me.”

You don’t open the door right away. You hesitate. Long enough to consider what this will mean if you do.

But when you finally unlock it, he’s standing there. Hoodie off. Cap gone. Just Jiho—his real face, glasses slightly fogged from the night air. He looks calm. Like he’s been here before.

You don’t ask him why he came. You don’t need to.

He steps inside like he’s done it before, like this is normal— hoodie slung over one shoulder, hair pushed back messily from his face. He looks like he belongs here, even though you’ve never invited him in, not really. You tell yourself you’re only letting this happen because you’re exhausted. Because there’s no one else around. Because you’ve already been dragged into the narrative, so what’s one more mistake?

But you know better.

You always have.

You lock the door behind him and turn to find him watching you like he’s memorising something.

“You always leave it open when you’re nervous,” he says.

You blink. “What?”

“The collar. You don’t button the top one. You fidget with it when you’re trying not to look at me.”

You don’t say anything. There’s nothing to say.

Jiho walks past you—through the short hallway, into the living room, casual like he’s heading for the kitchen. He doesn’t. He stops at the edge of the couch and looks back.

“You gonna keep pretending?”

You cross your arms defensively. “Pretending what?”

“That you don’t want me to stay.”

That lands harder than you expect. Not because he’s wrong. But because you’ve been trying so hard to keep that exact thing from showing on your face for weeks.

And maybe you haven’t been as successful as you thought.

When you don’t answer, he turns fully. Walks up to you slowly, deliberately, until the heat from his body reaches your chest and you have nowhere else to go.

He touches the collar of your shirt. Just the fabric. No skin. Yet.

“You should stop wearing this,” he murmurs.

“Why?”

“Because I want to take it off.”

Your breath catches. He hears it. You know he does.

Then, carefully, he undoes the top button. Then the next. You don’t stop him.

“You’re shaking,” he says softly.

You didn’t even realize.

“I—Jiho, this is—”

“Too late.”

He steps forward. Presses his mouth to yours—once, slow and sure. He doesn’t rush it. Doesn’t push. But there’s heat behind it. Control. Like he’s waited long enough, and he’s not going to let you talk your way out of it now.

You kiss him back.

⋆｡°✩  

He leads you to the bedroom without speaking, only touching you where he needs to—your wrist, your hip, the small of your back. You sit on the edge of the bed, and he kneels without hesitation, hands sliding up your thighs, eyes locked on yours.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he tells you. “But you don’t get to lie to me either.”

You nod.

That’s all he needs.

Jiho peels your pants down with practised fingers, pushing them past your hips, then your briefs. You’re already half-hard, pulse thudding like your body’s already a step ahead of your thoughts.

He leans in. Licks a slow stripe up the underside of your cock.

Your hands twitch at your sides. You don’t touch him. Not yet.

He doesn’t look up when he takes you into his mouth. Just sinks down, slow and steady, jaw relaxed like he’s done this a dozen times—maybe not for anyone else, but in his head, you’re sure he’s thought about it. Over and over.

His tongue presses firmly along the base. His lips seal around you, and he moans—soft, like it’s for him, not you. The vibration makes your knees buckle.

He takes his time. Pulls off to suck at the head, just enough to make you gasp. Then down again—deeper, sloppier now, until your cock hits the back of his throat and he still doesn’t stop.

You manage his name. Once. Barely.

His hands grip your thighs, firm and steady, keeping you in place. He sucks you down again and again, never breaking eye contact, never faltering. He wants you to watch. To know exactly how far he’s willing to go.

When you start to lose control—hips stuttering, breath slipping—he only tightens his hold and hums around you again. That pushes you over.

You come with a choked breath, your hand in his hair, every nerve lit up. He doesn’t pull back. Doesn’t spill a drop.

When it’s done, when your heart’s still racing and your fingers are trembling, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand like it’s nothing.

Then he leans in again, not to kiss you, but just to speak.

Voice low. Calm. Possessive.

“Next time,” he murmurs, “you’re going to beg for it.”

⋆｡°✩  

You wake up before your alarm.

The light in your bedroom is pale, soft, barely filtered through your blinds. The air is cool against your skin, your sheets kicked halfway off the bed, your body still aching in that strange, satisfying way. Not sore. Just… used. Thoroughly.

Jiho is still asleep beside you.

His hand is curled against the pillow, palm up, fingers relaxed like he has nothing left to chase. His mouth is parted slightly. His hair’s a mess. One leg is tangled with yours beneath the blanket.

You lie there for a moment, still and quiet.

You don’t know what time he fell asleep. You don’t know if he meant to stay. You don’t even know if he thinks this was a one-time thing or the start of something. You should care.

You do care.

You just don’t know what to do with it yet.

Eventually, you get up. Carefully. Quietly.

You don’t leave the room, just stand near the doorway, shirt half-on, trying to figure out what you’re supposed to feel. It doesn’t feel like a victory. Or relief. It just feels inevitable.

You reach for your phone out of habit. You’ve got two unread messages.

One from your replacement manager, asking if you’re available for a rescheduled meeting later in the week.

And one from an unknown number.

[hope you enjoyed last night. This is just the beginning.]

No context. No name. But your stomach drops anyway.

You read it again.

And again.

Behind you, Jiho shifts in the sheets.

You don’t turn around.

Not yet.

Taglist: @zolass @edensrose @tamias-wrld @ilovesugurugeto69 @planetxella @mazettns @longlivegojo @midnight-138 @literallyrousseau @vimademedoitt @useless-n-clueless @flatl1n3 @hikaurbae @lexkou @razefxylorf @abrielletargaryen @coco-145 @eagleeyedbitch @deathofacupid @gayaristocrat @porcalinecunt @whatsaheartxx @thecringes2000 @sageofspades @g4vcat @itsrandompersonyall @blvdprn @blueemochii @sappychat @onyxxxxqq @axetivev @s1llygo0s3 @crazydirectioner2000-blog @thestarsallowed @honey-valentin3 @academiq @gaozorous-rex-blog @idkmissgurl @sa1ki-deactivated20250510@sooniebby @seomn

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my works as I spend time, and I take genuine effort to do them.

[webwanderer]

Boxer OC idea… yall should watch Knockout the series immediately. Anyway, bottom male reader obvi. Just a little stream of consciousness on how the character works/story. LI means love interest

A popular boxer who known for being a little cocky, telling his opponents that they have to offer something if they lose. He always offers 35,000 dollars, an extra 20,000 if they deliver a knockout in or before the third round if he loses. No one’s been able to get it. While the LI always asks for something he notices the opponent cherishes. Like jewelry, a date with their partner, their car. Anything really.

He never usually keeps them. Uses it for like a week or two and then returns it, not without flaunting it on his Instagram to show it in their faces.

Your older brother is an up and coming boxer who hasn’t lost a fight so far—and has been dreaming (obsessing) over managing to knockout LI. So when at the press conference, a month or so before their scheduled fight, LI asks what your brother will offer when he loses.

Theres tension at the word “when” while your brother is about to offer up his car, not wanting his boyfriend to go on a date with him.

“That’s boring… obviously, that boyfriend of yours is more important.” LI said. The coaches immediately have to hold your brother back just as you manage to slip near your brother’s boyfriend and friend.

LI is about to call on the boyfriend when he notices you. You’re confused as it looks as if he’s recognizing you from somewhere but you’ve never seen him before. He takes in your clothes, noticing the scrubs you’re wearing, similar to the boyfriend.

“I know,” he suddenly said, catching your brother off guard, “he has to be my nurse for six months.”

Your brother hummed, “that’s.. better. Okay. He can do that.”

LI smirked. “You probably should’ve double checked on who I was asking for.” He said, nodding his head towards you. Your brother glanced back and immediately panicked at seeing you.

“Hey—you can’t—!”

“—too late~ you already agreed. Aim for a knockout, buddy.” LI pats your brother on the back before leaving the small stage. He walks over to you and leans down so only you could hear him.

“Can’t wait for our six months, babe~”

Smut ideas: heavily into manhandling you into any position. Constantly touching you and riding up your shirt, even if other people are around.

Semi-blood play, definitely would purposely spread his blood over your face with kisses. Sometimes even biting your lip so you could bleed… blood mixing, he nasty like that.

Pictures. Definitely takes pictures after or during sex, sometimes videos so he can watch them back later for masturbation. Would ask for audios of you masturbating.

Constantly tearing your scrubs open. He starts paying for your scrubs since it’s gotten to a point. The store clerks know you by name now.

First few times he’ll use condoms but quickly wants to do it bare. Into covering you in his cum.

While he’d love claiming and leaving marks on you, he’d encourage you to mark him up to. Most certainly going to show it off in front of your brother to piss him off.

Primal play, degradation. Little bit of feminization, gotta have a scene of reader having to wear a Halloween nurse costume, just gotta. Yall see the vision right?

Tag list: @secretivemessenger @kiiyoooo @star-3214 @cherry-blossoms-187 @tomoeroi @rhetorical-conscience @the-ultimate-librarian @chill-guy-but-cooler @remdayz @tehyunnie @mooncarvers-world @ofclyde @smellwell @castocipher @love-kha1 @ning1e @yuzuukix @m00n-b4b3 @iwishtobeacrow @mello-life25 @anchoredphoenix @bensontrechic

[webwanderer]

world class sin : prologue

sim jaeyun, park sunghoon, park jongseong x male reader.

next chapter : chain reaction.

After the contract is signed, Y/n stops asking why. He just shows up—quiet, pretty, dressed in whatever they hand him. The boys don’t want him there, not really. But the cameras love him. The mirrors follow him. Every rehearsal hurts. Every silence drips with resentment. And still, they keep him. Jay writes like he’s angry. Sunghoon dances like he’s alone. Jake watches him too long. None of them speak it aloud, but the feeling is the same: Y/n wasn’t earned. He was chosen. By the wrong people. For the wrong reasons. And now he’s theirs. Just twenty-three days until debut. Twenty-three days to become a fantasy.

warnings: idol!reader, objectification, industry power dynamics, emotional manipulation, possessiveness, voyeurism, obsessive behavior, gaslighting, celebrity exploitation, toxic relationships, industry elitism, ambiguous morality, dark themes of grief and identity loss, aestheticization of suffering, subtle yandere dynamics, inspired by The Idol and Anora.

please read before continuing:

CONTENT WARNING + Author’s Note World Class Sin is a fictional story. It is not real. The characters portrayed here are fictionalized versions inspired by public figures, but they do not reflect the real personalities, actions, or values of anyone in real life. This story is created purely for fictional storytelling and emotional exploration — nothing in it should be read as truth, reality, or a commentary on real people. This fic is made of dramatized emotions, and heightened dynamics set within a stylized, pressurized version of the global idol industry. Though it explores intensity, control, and desire, it is not intended to reflect what is healthy, safe, or good in real life. This story includes themes that may be emotionally heavy or difficult for some readers — such as emotional manipulation, objectification, isolation, possessiveness, psychological pressure, voyeuristic or obsessive dynamics, and moments where characters are treated as products instead of people. It also includes mature or NSFW scenes that reflect those imbalances — shaped by tension, not tenderness. The characters are morally gray. They are flawed, reckless, and often driven by desire more than compassion. They do things that are not admirable. And while those choices may be compelling in fiction, they are not excuses for real behavior — and they are not meant to romanticize harm. If you’re someone who’s sensitive to themes of control, emotional coercion, unwanted attention, or being dehumanized — please read with care. If at any point something in this story feels too close to home, too sharp, too familiar — you are allowed to stop. You never need to push through discomfort to prove anything. There is no story more important than your peace. You are not someone’s fantasy. You do not have to be ruined to be seen, or hurt to be held. If this story ever makes you feel small, unsafe, or alone — please, please take space. Close the tab. Drink water. Text someone who sees you clearly. Come back only if and when it feels right. And if it never feels right again — that’s okay too. Please don’t force yourself to return. This story does not deserve more of you than you’re able to give. From writer to reader — I care about you. I care about your well-being more than this plot or any fictional moment. You matter more than anything written here. Your softness, your boundaries, and your safety are always worth protecting. Please take care of yourself. You’re never alone in choosing yourself. With care, Luke.

Before the company. Before the cameras. Before the lights wrapped around his skin like a second set of hands and people began calling his silence presence — there was just Y/n.

Y/n, who used to sing under his breath in the backseat of his mother’s car while she drove barefoot, humming along to songs too old for the radio. Who used to dance in the kitchen at night while spaghetti boiled on the stove, barefoot on cheap tile, arms wide like the world couldn’t touch him. He didn’t want fame. He just liked how music felt in his chest — like proof that he existed. Like warmth. And she saw it. His mother. She used to say he was a light. A soft one. The kind that flickered gently in dark places, not to shine, but to keep people from feeling alone. She called him magic. Said if the world saw him the way she did, it would fall in love and never recover.

But the world never got the chance to meet her. She got sick, fast and cruel, like some invisible hand reached down and stole the only thing keeping his life from collapsing in on itself. One day she was folding his laundry and singing about the weather; the next, she was a name on a hospital file he couldn’t afford to print. The grief didn’t break Y/n all at once. It hollowed him. Slowly. Gently. Like a song that fades without ending. He didn’t scream or cry or destroy things. He just… stopped. Stopped talking. Stopped singing. Started disappearing one silent moment at a time.

There were nights he didn’t come home. Mornings he couldn’t remember where he’d been. Rooms he walked into that felt too hot, too cold, too loud. People touched him and he let them, but it didn’t mean anything. He didn’t feel ruined — just distant from his own body. He let strangers speak to him like they knew who he was. Let the world pull at the corners of his clothes, his mouth, his name. He wore her perfume for weeks after she died, just to remember what love smelled like. And eventually, even that faded.

So when a woman with too many rings and too white of a smile called and said she’d known his mother once, said she had a place for him, a stage, a future — Y/n didn’t question it. He didn’t even want it, not really. But he went. Because it was forward. Because it was something. Because standing still was starting to feel like dying.

They flew him to Los Angeles. No audition. No promise. Just a room, a contract, and a group that had already been chosen. A self-producing global project: stylists from Seoul, choreographers from London, a debut stage booked in MCOUNTDOWN before the ink had even dried. Jay, Jake, Sunghoon — three names carved into the industry like sharp things. Boys with scars. Boys with hunger. Boys who had given everything to be here.

And now, they had to stand next to Y/n — the boy who had given nothing but still looked like he’d been born in spotlight.

The executives were obsessed. He was everything they wanted without even trying. A beautiful, damaged blank slate. His trainee period was short — barely weeks. But that didn’t matter. They said he had that thing. The unnamable thing. They called his eyes marketable sadness. Big, glistening, expressive things that looked like he was always about to cry. Like he knew something you didn’t. Like he needed saving. And people wanted to save him. Or ruin him. Or both.

He was pliable. Innocent in all the wrong ways. And when stylists dressed him in sheer shirts and told him not to smile, he didn’t ask why. When vocal trainers told him to whisper his lyrics like they were secrets, he did. When photographers posed his hands limp and his lips parted, he obeyed. There was something in him that had been emptied out. And in its place, the industry poured something else — glossy and broken and dripping with want.

They didn’t see the boy in the kitchen spinning barefoot for no one. They saw the after. The glow of something burned too long. A boy with soft wrists and pretty bones and eyes like bruises. Something not quite alive but still moving.

And Y/n let them have it.

Because it was easier than remembering. Because grief had made him quiet, and now quiet made him desirable. Because being watched felt better than being alone.

Because when you’ve been loved by someone who saw your soul, you’ll spend the rest of your life letting people take your body just to feel something close.

They didn’t meet him on a stage. Or in a practice room. They met him in silence—late afternoon, overhead lights too white, the hallway outside the recording studio carrying the sterile smell of burnt coffee and industrial air freshener. The building always felt like that. Cold, new, over-designed. Like ambition lived in the vents.

Y/n stood alone in the corridor, tucked into a corner like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to take up space. His clothes were plain—company-issued hoodie, soft drawstring pants, shoes too clean. He looked like he’d been dropped there, like someone forgot to tell him what to do next. His hands were tucked in his sleeves, his gaze heavy and uncertain, big glassy eyes scanning the passing staff like he was waiting for someone to explain what his life had become. But no one did. People walked past him like he wasn’t real.

And inside the studio, the boys were waiting.

Jay had been mid-edit, headphones pulled halfway off one ear, track looping back on itself as he adjusted vocal layering. Jake had been at the whiteboard with a pen in his mouth, scribbling fragments of a chorus they hadn’t agreed on. Sunghoon was sitting on the floor, stretching in slow, practiced lines, watching his reflection in the glass.

When the door opened and one of the assistant managers stepped in, clearing their throat with a smile too tight, everything slowed.

“Your new member’s here,” they said. Simple. Blunt. As if it were a schedule change, not a shift in the entire balance of the room.

Jay’s eyes didn’t move from his screen. “What do you mean, new member?” His voice was flat. Controlled. But his fingers paused mid-click.

“CEO’s orders. He’s joining the lineup.”

Jake turned. Sunghoon didn’t blink. None of them said anything, but the silence that followed was louder than any protest.

And then he stepped in.

Y/n, soft-faced, quiet, impossibly still. His presence wasn’t loud, but it was there. It crept into corners. His eyes—those too-bright, too-sad things—flicked from face to face, not with confidence, but with the strange, hollow politeness of someone used to being tolerated, not welcomed. He bowed. Soft. Awkward. Like he wasn’t sure he was doing it right.

Jay’s stare was unreadable. He leaned back in his chair, one eyebrow lifting slightly. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. The tension in his shoulders said enough. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. They had trained for years together—fought, failed, rewritten songs through tears and caffeine and injury. And now this? A stranger in their studio? One they hadn’t trained with, hadn’t chosen?

Sunghoon stood. Slow. Measured. His body moved with dancer’s precision even now, coiled tight beneath the silence. His gaze swept over Y/n once, impersonal. Not curious. Just… calculating. Like he was adjusting choreography in his head to factor in a flaw.

Jake’s lips pressed into a line. He said nothing, but his grip on the whiteboard marker tightened, ink bleeding into the surface behind him like it had nowhere else to go.

And Y/n? Y/n just stood there. Looking at them. Looking past them. Not trying to explain. Not trying to smile. Just standing there with those trembling, ruined eyes like he already knew what they thought. Like he’d heard it before.

The manager gave a quick clap, like the moment needed wrapping. “Alright. I’ll leave you to it. He’s already got housing in your dorm. Training schedule starts tomorrow. Be good to each other.”

The door clicked shut.

And the silence collapsed into something heavier.

Y/n didn’t speak. He didn’t introduce himself again. He just stepped further into the room, slow, hesitant, like the floor might reject him. He moved toward the couch in the corner, sat down too carefully, as if afraid he’d take someone’s spot.

Jay turned back to his laptop. Pressed play. The track looped again.

Jake went back to the board, but didn’t write.

Sunghoon lowered himself to the floor again, more rigid this time.

No one told Y/n where to stand. Where to sit. What to do. No one asked his story. They didn’t need to. They had already decided what kind of person he was.

He was the fourth member now. A piece of a group he hadn’t earned. A replacement for someone they actually cared about.

He didn’t belong.

And in some twisted, brutal way—

That was exactly why they chose him.

The training studio was too bright in the next morning. Too clean. The kind of sterile, high-ceilinged space that didn’t allow mistakes to hide. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors on every wall, polished until they could catch even the faintest flicker of shame. The sound system buzzed faintly overhead. The air reeked of lemon disinfectant and effort.

Y/n was already there when the others arrived.

He’d shown up twenty minutes early, clutching a company-issued water bottle with both hands, like it might anchor him to the floor. He stood near the back wall, away from the mirror, staring at his own reflection like it didn’t quite match up. His hoodie sleeves were bunched at the wrists. His hair was still damp from the rushed shower. His eyes—their usual wounded-glass glaze—were unreadable, a little too wide, like he hadn’t slept.

He didn’t look like a trainee. He looked like someone pretending to be one.

Jay walked in first, earbuds still in, the collar of his jacket loose and unzipped like he’d sprinted from the studio just to be forced into this. He didn’t look at Y/n. Just dropped his bag at the wall and started stretching.

Jake came next, nodding curtly to the trainer stationed near the door, then immediately scanned the room. When his eyes landed on Y/n, something behind them tightened. It wasn’t surprise anymore. It was adjustment. A silent recalibration—how do you move around something you never asked for?

Sunghoon entered last. His expression didn’t change. It never did. He placed his water down carefully, tied his shoelaces like they were performance art, then stood in the center of the room and rolled his shoulders with the mechanical focus of a blade being polished.

“From the top,” the trainer called.

The music started.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t kind. It was the track they’d been preparing for weeks, long before Y/n had been added in. Heavy bass layered over precise percussion, punctuated with vocal stabs and hard cuts in the tempo. It's a song of the French House mixed with drum & bass and dubstep. The choreography was difficult—sharp hits, tight formations, no room to fall behind. It was designed to showcase unity.

Y/n was half a beat behind from the first step.

His movements were rehearsed, yes. Memorized. But not lived in. He danced like a soldier following orders, not like someone who believed in what he was doing. His limbs moved with calculated correctness, but there was no rhythm beneath it. No breath. Just mimicry. Just survival.

Jay didn’t hide his reaction. His eyes flicked up to the mirror mid-verse, caught the staggered rhythm in Y/n’s step, and narrowed. His jaw clenched. He didn’t say anything—but the tension in his arms as he hit his mark spoke volumes.

Sunghoon’s movements were a masterclass in control. Every pop of his shoulder, every step, every lift—clean, exact, devastating. But when they transitioned to group formation and Y/n brushed his side during a cross, Sunghoon’s body tensed. Only for a second. But it was there. A recoil.

Jake kept his eyes forward, lips pressed into a line. He hit every beat—fluid, magnetic—but you could feel it in the way his hands curled too tight on the downbeats, in the way his gaze skipped over Y/n whenever the formation pulled them too close. Not quite anger. Not yet. Just a loaded silence.

Y/n didn’t react.

Even when the trainer paused the track and called out, “Y/n—again. Your timing’s off on the first chorus.”

He only nodded. Stepped back into place. Counted under his breath. Reset his feet. Tried again.

And again.

And again.

By the third hour, the mirrors were fogged at the edges and the floor was streaked with sweat. The room reeked of it now—effort, frustration, resentment stewing under fluorescent light. Y/n’s hoodie was gone, revealing the too-thin tank top underneath, damp at the collar. His cheeks were red from exertion. His arms shook faintly when he raised them. But his expression hadn’t changed. He still looked like someone doing penance.

When they finally broke for water, Jay didn’t sit. He paced, wiping his neck with a towel, the lines between his brows deepening every time he glanced back toward Y/n, who was crouched by the wall, sipping water like it hurt to swallow.

Sunghoon didn’t speak. But his silence wasn’t neutral—it was sharp-edged, purposeful, a presence in the room like a wire stretched too tight. He pulled out his phone, thumb tapping idly, but his reflection in the mirror stayed fixed on the corner Y/n sat in.

Jake stood by the stereo, arms crossed, gaze down.

No one spoke.

Because nothing needed to be said. They were rehearsing for a debut that was supposed to be theirs—just theirs. Built on history. On blood. And now the fourth was here, soft-eyed and silent, fucking up the counts and soaking up the attention.

They weren’t teammates.

Not yet.

Just strangers in matching shoes, breathing the same stale air, waiting to see who would break first.

When the trainer finally called it, the silence that followed was louder than the music had ever been. No celebration. No breath of relief. Just the hollow, collective sound of sweat hitting polished floors and lungs still burning from the last chorus. Y/n stayed where he was, crouched low with his elbows braced on his knees, palms digging into the fabric of his pants. His chest rose and fell slowly. Measured. Controlled. The others didn’t look at him—not directly. They moved around him like he was a piece of faulty equipment no one had figured out how to replace yet.

Jay was the first one out the door.

He didn’t even bother pretending. His towel hit the floor beside his bag, and he stalked out of the studio with his jaw clenched and one hand already scrolling through his contacts like he was ready to start a war. Jake followed. Not as fast, but just as intentional. His water bottle was still full, untouched, swinging loosely at his side like a weapon. And then Sunghoon, calm as ever, but his gaze didn’t lift once—not to the trainer, not to Y/n. Just forward, like if he looked back, the thin thread holding his composure together would snap.

Y/n didn’t ask where they were going.

Didn’t ask if he should follow.

He sat there in the corner of the practice room, arms resting on his knees, hair stuck to his temples in wet strands. His eyes���those wide, silent, glassy things—looked straight ahead but didn’t see anything. They weren’t just tired. They were frayed at the edges, rimmed red, not from tears but from the ache of trying not to cry. It wasn’t the rehearsal that did it. It was everything underneath. The way grief builds like heat beneath the skin. The way loneliness makes your body too heavy. The way every second here felt like punishment for something he didn’t understand.

They hadn’t told him how much this would hurt.

Two floors up, the air felt different. Cooler. Quieter. The executive level of the building was all soundproof glass, imported marble, and lighting that made your skin look better than it actually was. Jay hated it. He hated the way the hallway echoed with silence, the way every piece of furniture was too expensive to sit on. He hated the waiting room outside the CEO’s office with its spotless magazines and staged smiles. But mostly, he hated that they had to come here at all.

He didn’t knock.

The receptionist barely looked up. “He’s finishing a call.”

“We’ll wait,” Jay said, already pacing. His voice was sharp, sure, dangerous. Jake didn’t say anything. He stood beside the window, arms crossed, watching the skyline like it had answers. Sunghoon sat, legs crossed, but his body was pulled taut. Even his stillness was strategic—like his breath could ruin the balance.

When the door finally opened, the CEO didn’t bother with greetings. “I assume this is about the new lineup.”

Jay stepped in first. “You assume right.”

The office was warm. Too warm. Designed to feel comfortable, inviting. But the weight of it pressed against their skin like humidity. Fake comfort. Manufactured trust. The CEO didn’t sit at his desk—he sat across from them, on a lounge chair like they were about to have a casual brainstorm session. That just made Jay angrier.

“We’ve been rehearsing this set for months,” he said. “We built this. The three of us. From scratch. And now there’s someone we’ve never trained with suddenly center in the marketing decks? You didn’t even ask.”

“He’s not center,” the CEO replied smoothly. “He’s presence.”

Jake’s knuckles flexed where his hands were folded. Sunghoon didn’t move.

“Presence doesn’t fix formation,” Jay snapped. “Presence doesn’t cover missed steps. He’s not ready.”

“He doesn’t need to be ready,” the CEO said, calm, like he was explaining something to a child. “He needs to be watched. And he is.”

Jay opened his mouth, then shut it again. There was something terrifying in how confident the man was. Like this had never even been a debate.

“He’s not the strongest dancer,” the CEO continued. “He’s not the best vocalist. But people don’t look away from him. We’ve tested it. Media, marketing, even styling. When he’s in the frame, he is the frame.”

“That’s not what we’re building,” Sunghoon said finally. His voice was low. Even. But the edge in it was impossible to miss. “This isn’t just a group. It’s a system. And he’s not part of it.”

The CEO nodded. Slowly. Like he’d heard that line before.

“And systems evolve. Especially the ones that want to last. You three are the spine. The sound. The foundation. But he’s the face.”

Jake looked away. His jaw twitched.

Jay was already standing. “You should’ve told us. Before it became official.”

“It’s been official since the day he arrived,” the CEO said. “The press release is already drafted. MCountdown is booked. You’re debuting in twenty-three days.”

Silence.

The kind that wasn’t hollow—but final.

Jay stormed out. Jake followed.

Sunghoon lingered for just a second longer.

Then he nodded once, almost imperceptibly. Not agreement. Just acknowledgment.

He understood now.

They were no longer building this group.

They were part of what had been built around someone else.

The door to the CEO’s office shut behind them with a soft click, but the silence it left in its wake was anything but gentle. The hallway stretched before them like a tunnel with no end, polished tile reflecting the muted overhead light, the buzz of fluorescent fixtures matching the hum in Jake’s ears. No one said anything at first. Jay stalked ahead, his shoulders rigid, hands clenched into fists at his sides. Sunghoon followed, his steps slow and even like he was regulating every inch of his body just to keep it from trembling. Jake walked last, still reeling from what had just been said, from the clarity of it — the certainty with which they’d been dismissed, replaced, rearranged around a single, silent newcomer with no past and no proof.

It wasn’t about talent. It never had been.

And that was the part that left a taste in their mouths like rust.

None of them had cried when their old friends were cut. When the lineups changed. When the fifth, sixth, seventh iteration of this group was dissolved and rebuilt again. They knew the rules. Knew how it worked. Survival meant adaptation. But this — this wasn’t survival. This was sabotage dressed up as strategy. They weren’t just making room for Y/n. They were being told that everything they had bled for was secondary now. That their work, their history, their nights spent collapsed in rehearsal rooms and vocal booths didn’t matter as much as the way he looked under soft lighting. The way his eyes stayed wide and sad, like he’d never learned to protect himself. Like the industry could devour him slowly and still leave room for dessert.

Jay stopped in the middle of the corridor, running a hand through his hair like he could scratch the thought from his skull. “He’s not even trying,” he muttered under his breath. “He just stands there. And they act like it’s art.”

Sunghoon didn’t respond. He didn’t have to. The line of his jaw, the quiet rage in the set of his mouth, said more than words. Jake leaned against the wall beside them, arms crossed, staring at the floor like it had betrayed him.

None of them had asked for this. And yet—there it was. That image of Y/n in the studio, barely moving, barely breathing, and still somehow commanding every eye in the room. It was offensive. It was infuriating. And it was undeniable.

The executives had seen it instantly. They hadn’t looked at Y/n and seen potential. They had seen a product already in its final form. A face that could sell out stadiums and perfume ads. A presence that didn’t need to say anything because the silence did all the work. That was the trick — the way his grief softened his features, made his mouth look vulnerable even when closed. The way his eyes stayed glassy, as if carrying a sadness that hadn’t been explained yet, but begged to be understood. They didn’t need him to be perfect. They needed him to be breakable. Beautiful in a way that made people want to ruin him, gently. Slowly. With reverence.

“He’s not even acting,” Jake said suddenly, voice tight. “That’s just how he is.”

Jay glanced at him. Jake wasn’t defending him. That wasn’t what this was. But the words hung in the air like something dangerous.

Because it was true. Y/n wasn’t calculating. He wasn’t pretending to be tragic. He simply was.

And that made it worse.

Because it made people want to keep him. To protect what looked so fragile, even if it wasn’t. Because despite the resentment curling in Jay’s chest, despite the quiet loathing in Sunghoon’s gaze, and the cold irritation in Jake’s bones—none of them wanted anyone else to have him. Not the executives. Not the stylists. Not the audience. He was theirs. He was in their group. Their story. Their songs. He hadn’t earned it, but now that he was here, the idea of someone else taking ownership of him felt like a deeper betrayal.

That wasn’t love. It wasn’t even care. It was possessiveness in its most twisted, quiet form. The kind that festers when something soft is placed in a room full of people who’ve only ever survived by being hard.

“He’s gonna ruin this for us,” Jay said flatly, starting to walk again.

But Jake didn’t move. And Sunghoon lingered.

Because ruin wasn’t always fire and blood. Sometimes, it looked like a boy with eyes full of grief and hands that didn’t know what to hold onto. Sometimes it looked like innocence laced with something sensual — not on purpose, but in the way people wanted to project their filth onto something clean. Y/n had become that. Not even a person anymore. A screen.

And maybe that was the real reason they couldn’t stand him.

Because he made everyone want things they weren’t allowed to want.

They walked without speaking.

The street was mostly empty, the kind of late where everything felt quiet in the wrong way—like the city was holding its breath. The sidewalk stretched ahead in long strips of shadow and light, blinking from the neon buzz of 24-hour storefronts and the muted glow of passing cars. Jay’s steps were fast, agitated. Sunghoon moved more slowly, deliberate, his body carrying itself with the kind of practiced calm that only barely masked unrest. Jake followed behind, not dragging his feet, but not really pushing forward either. Just… moving. Like the floor might vanish if he stood still too long.

They were still full of what had happened upstairs.

The way the CEO hadn’t blinked when he said it. He’s not the center. He’s the frame. Like they were props now, scaffolding around something else. Like the years they had poured into this — the ruined knees, the vocal strain, the callouses, the panic, the loneliness — were just context for a face with the right kind of silence behind it.

It was insulting.

And worse — it was working.

Jay had known a thousand boys more talented than Y/n. He could name five off the top of his head who were better dancers, better singers, better alive in front of a camera. And yet none of them made the room shift like Y/n did. That haunted stillness. The eyes that looked too open to be safe. A softness that wasn’t weakness — just absence. Like someone had carved out the center of him and left the shell behind, and somehow that was beautiful. The stylists whispered about it. The executives didn’t even try to hide their obsession. They were already shaping him into the kind of icon people whispered about, idolized, wanted to break just to see what kind of sound he’d make when he fell.

Sunghoon hated it.

Not Y/n, exactly. Not yet. But the imbalance. The way the system bent around him. He wasn’t supposed to be part of their equation. The three of them had been trained together like a machine — interlocking, precise. They’d shared blood, floors, years of fighting. They knew each other’s timing better than their own. And now this… soft thing had been dropped in the middle of it all like a piece of furniture no one remembered ordering.

And yet — even Sunghoon had caught himself watching him. Noticing the strange angles of his silence. The way he held tension in his throat but not his shoulders. The way his lips stayed slightly parted, always, like he was trying to breathe in something he’d never been taught how to take.

It made you want to reach for him.

Or shake him.

Or both.

Jake didn’t even want to admit what it made him feel. There was something about the way Y/n existed that made people confused about what they were looking at. He wasn’t performing, but it still felt like he was always on display. Like the air folded around him differently. Jake had been around stars before — people who knew how to command a room. But Y/n was the opposite. He did nothing. He shrank. And somehow, that was worse. Because people filled the space around him with their own desire.

And it wasn’t just them. It was everyone. The marketing team. The vocal coach. Even the interns whispered when he walked past.

They didn’t look at Y/n like a person.

They looked at him like a suggestion.

And maybe that was the worst part. Jake couldn’t stop seeing it either.

It wasn’t sympathy. They didn’t feel sorry for him. They were too angry for that. But they also didn’t want anyone else to get too close. Didn’t want to see him styled in a way they hadn’t approved. Didn’t want to hear a stranger talk about his eyes like they meant something. He was theirs now, whether they liked it or not. Their problem. Their weak link. Their… whatever he was. No one else got to decide how far he’d fall. If anyone was going to cut him down, it would be one of them.

The dorm loomed ahead — bland building, dim lights, the shape of routine glowing behind the curtains. It looked the same as always. But nothing inside felt stable anymore.

Jay didn’t stop walking until the front door clicked open.

Jake’s fingers hovered near the code box, even though he already knew the numbers. Sunghoon stood beside him, eyes flicking up toward the dark window above the kitchen. No movement. No sound.

Inside, Y/n was probably on the couch again. Or in the corner of the bedroom with his knees tucked up, headphones in, expression blank. Or maybe asleep with the light on, not dreaming. Just suspended.

They stood outside for a moment longer than they needed to.

No one said it.

But something had changed.

And none of them knew what it meant that the boy they hated most — the boy they had every reason to resent — was already starting to feel like something they owned.

There was no word for it — what he made them feel. Not jealousy, not fascination, not pity. It was something heavier, messier. Something they couldn’t talk about without sounding sick. And maybe that was why none of them spoke as they entered the building, shoes thudding softly against the tile, the hallway narrowing toward their unit like the tension between their ribs. Jay was the first one to disappear into the kitchen, pretending to check the fridge, like he wasn’t picturing the way one of the stylists had leaned too close to Y/n during fittings, adjusting the hem of his shirt like she was dressing a doll she wanted to bite. It had made Jay want to throw something. And he didn’t know why.

He’d seen idols before. Had stood in the wings while others were stylized into stardom — molded, exploited, made desirable. But Y/n wasn’t molded. He just existed. And it enraged Jay, how easily the staff folded around him. How everyone treated him like something breakable but beautiful enough to be worth it. Jay didn’t want to touch him. Not really. But sometimes, in the silence after rehearsal, he imagined what it would feel like to shake him. To crack the quiet out of his body just to see what was underneath. Was it real? That dazed innocence? That polished fragility? Or was he just acting like everyone else?

In the living room, Jake paused by the door to the shared bathroom, eyes flicking toward the dim light under Y/n’s room. Still no sound. Still no presence. Jake had spent years building himself into someone who could perform what people wanted — a good trainee, a good idol, a lyricist who knew how to turn emotion into sellable lines. But Y/n didn’t write anything. Didn’t offer opinions. Didn’t even flinch when people spoke about him like he wasn’t in the room. It made Jake feel insane. And worse — it made him curious. Because every time the PR team mentioned Y/n’s face — those eyes, that mouth, the melancholy soft enough to brand — Jake caught himself imagining it too. The way his lashes curved wetly when he was tired. The way his lips looked when he was breathing too hard after a failed take. It wasn’t even attraction. It was obsession with the idea of him. The way you want to figure out a locked door just because you’re not allowed behind it.

Sunghoon didn’t follow them in right away. He stood in the stairwell a moment longer, hand braced against the wall, replaying the moment in the CEO’s office when one of the assistants had said, “He’s the kind of face people fight over.” Sunghoon had laughed — just once — too bitterly, too sharp. He hated how right it was. How every staff member treated Y/n like a prize and a burden in one. How they cooed over his bone structure, his posture, his silence, as if it were something trained. As if it hadn’t come from being emptied out. But even Sunghoon, in the stillness of his own mind, had started to imagine it too — the way Y/n’s body moved when he wasn’t performing, the twitch in his shoulder when someone startled him, the way his voice broke on certain syllables like he didn’t know how to ask for comfort. It wasn’t sexual, not exactly. It was something worse. Wanting to own the shape of his ruin before someone else made a mess of it.

They didn’t like him. They didn’t trust him. But they couldn’t stop watching him. And that was the problem — not just the threat he posed, but the way he unsettled something deep in each of them.

Not as a person.

But as a question.

A symbol.

A story waiting to be owned by someone.

And God forbid that someone wasn’t them.

note: hi, it’s luke. if you made it this far — welcome, and thank you for reading. this prologue is just the beginning of what world class sin is going to be. a small taste of something heavier. i’ve had this concept sitting with me for a while now, and writing it has felt like peeling back something slow, sharp, and a little too intimate. the themes are layered — obsession, grief, beauty, control — and that’s exactly where this story lives. in the spaces between what’s seen and what’s endured. there’s more coming soon, and things will only get deeper. the emotions, the tension, the unraveling — it’s all just starting. and if you’ve been peeking around the blog, you might’ve already caught a little spoiler floating around. hehe. thank you for being here with me. and while you’re here, make sure you’re also being kind to yourself. drink some water, rest your eyes, and go easy on your heart when you need to. more soon, luke :)

[webwanderer]

Weddings

Fanart (gone horribly long) for this fic !!

"Till was going to propose on the night that the Lyrid meteor showers would be at their most visible. 

Ivan passed away two days before that.

The ring. Till managed to shakily pull himself up to his workbench, his hand roughly grasping at the drawer to wrench it open. The small velvet box was both a balm and a searing pain in his hands, and as he opened it, he couldn’t stop the sob from escaping his throat.

Such a beautiful ring would never find its home on the finger of the only person in the world who could outshine it."

[webwanderer]

A PERFECT MISUNDERSTANDING

PAIRING: Sim Jaeyun x M!Reader

GENRE: Smut, Angst, Fluff

HASHTAGS: #boyxboy #bottommalereader #teacher'spetxstudentleader

SUMMARY: Your supposedly enemy showed you a picture of your conversation with your friends and you had to make an excuse. Fast. But you would never have known that things will escalate quickly.

Your class beadle, Sim Jaeyun or preferrably Jake, as per what everyone calls him, has his phone up in front of your face with a screenshot of your chat messages with your supposed friends last night flashing on his phone's screen. You are so definitely letting them pay for selling you out. "Well? What do you have to say for yourself?" His Australian accent rings throughout the walls of the classroom.

Right. You forgot you are talking to him. The ways how you wanted to murder your friends made you all caught up in your head.

You look at him with a faux smile, laughing gently. "You must have gotten the wrong person," you start while you continue to sweep the floor in hopes that it will distract Jake from whatever he is trying to get out of this. "I would never talk that way about you," you added, but Jake is not convinced. He knows about all of the things you tell everyone behind his back. The lies you spread, the stories you make—well, he knows about all of them.

He raises a brow, adjusting the glasses he has propped up by the bridge of his nose. He retracts his hand and zoomed in on a specific message that will definitely put you into a hot seat. "I hope you're not lying, Mr. L/N, because if I'm not mistaken, this is you on the profile picture and your friends are certainly referring to the person as 'Y/N'," Jake said and your actions come to an instant halt.

You look back towards him, before dropping the broom and the dust pan to the floor as you immediately make your way back to Jake, grabbing his phone. You read all the messages and sure enough you do see another screenshot of your friends calling your name multiple times in chat. "This little imbeciles..." you muttered, more to yourself than to Jake, but he still heard it.

Jake folds his arms in front of his chest, looking straight at you as though it would suck the right answer out of you. Lucky for him, it is working, because you are running out of any excuses to throw at him.

Why can't you just tell him the truth, you might ask? Well, you are a student leader, the class president at that and one of the top lister in the cream of the crop. It would definitely hurt your ego if you tell him his accusations towards you is correct, he still is, but you just can't admit that.

A student leader should be a great example, upholding the reverency of a good role model to lead and guide your people to manifest their full potential in their skills and abilities, not talk behind their back because you dislike them. That's certainly unlawful.

But, in this case, you have denied that law you purposely put upon yourself and risk the consequence of tarnishing your image for such a petty behavior.

In context, you have always been jealous of Jake and his relationship towards each of your teachers. It seems that he makes it look so easy to establish a unique student and teacher relationship. He is easily approachable and has natural leadership skills, especially when having to work with a team or group. It's almost as though he's an automated switch that whichever group he lands on he instantly becomes the leader.

Teachers, professors, higher-ups, students—they all look up to Jake and expect of his good nature and the way he is people-oriented and loves to let students feel they are welcome.

Everyone who knows Jake like that about him. His personality is surely the cherry on top of his good-looking face. It makes him the perfect role student that everyone must follow. He even got quite the attention from other schools. He's almost like a celebrity.

And you? You dislike that. You despise that. You should be the one seen as a good leader. YOU are the class president of your section after all and he's just a stupid, good for nothing, useless teacher's pet and if you admit the truth, that would be disastrous.

After thinking, you reduced your choice to two and it's either you admit he's right about his assumptions and tell him the truth why you did that or still lie about it and protect your image as the perfect leader. In the end, after thoroughly thinking, the latter would be the best possible choice to save yourself from embarrassment.

You let out a sigh, your shoulders slumped before handing Jake his phone back, all the while pretending to be dejected, like you have been betrayed. You keep your head down to try and provoke the impression of looking really pitiful.

Jake knits his brows at your sudden behavioral change. 'Is he on period? Or something?' he thinks to himself.

"Alright, fine, I'll tell you everything you need to know," you tell him, raising your head softly to look at his beady eyes that look like marbles with the way they shine. "But, I just have to let you know that this is all just a misunderstanding, because... I... because.." you start to beat around the bush to make your plan look more convincing and it seems to be working because Jake is anticipating your response.

"Because what? Spit it out, L/N. I don't have all day," he spits out with impatience lingering in his voice. He notice your movements become more restricted, counted as though you are being watched.

You gulp down a huge lump forming in your throat—still an act—then, you look up at him and told him, "Because I like you, Jaeyun. I did for a long time now," you said, but Jake remained still, expressionless. This isn't the answer he is looking for. "I'm mad because you give your attention to everyone else, but me. So, I kept on making ways on how to get your attention, so I—"

"If you like me so much, why don't you suck me?"

Upon that, you can practically hear glass shatter in your ears as though the very fabric of reality got broken into tiny little shards. "E-Excuse me?" you let out in pure disbelief, an off-putting, forced smile eteched onto your face.

You see Jake smirk at you, now suddenly so timid under his gaze. "You said you like me? You want my attention? Suck my cock," he repeats with a much stronger tone, his smirk turning into a wicked smile, taking the situation into his own advantage. Does he do this to everyone else who has a crush on him?

Your eyes locked into his hazel brown orbs, before you awkwardly laugh while patting his shoulder, your movements almost like it's stuttering. "Very funny, Jaeyun. Haha. We still have to finish cleaning," you say, still feeling off about Jake. "I said, I like you, not I want to fuck you."

Jake's brows knit harder if it is still even possible, still looking deeply into your soul through your eyes. It feels like you have ran straight into his trap with the way his eyes stuck to you because the moment you looked away, not even a second after, Jake locks you into place with his arms.

Your eyes move up to see Jake whose eyes are literal in feral, similar to how a predator would intimidate his prey before it devours it. Jake's attention never left you, now stuck in between him and a table desk. He looks really angry. Why is he making such a big deal out of this? Is it something you said? Besides, he's being irrational right now, so you don't understand why he has to act this way towards you and it makes you dislike any of this even more.

"Look, Jaeyun. Please, I don't have time for this," you told him, putting a hand on his chest out of pure instinct to suggest that Jake should keep a good distance from you, but Jake isn't planning to back down, not even a tad bit when he moves a little closer to you. You have to think of something and quick. You can't blow your cover right now. So, you take in a deep breathe, preparing yourself with what you are about to say next. "Being all sexually involved with you will not measure how much I like you." your words slides past your mouth smoothly like water. Almost too natural. Too real.

Jake looks at you before he mutters something under his breathe and moves away from you, his back now turned against you as he plants his hand on his mouth. You look at him very confused, but at least the problem has been averted, but the way he's acting like he's holding something back makes your brows meet at the center of your forehead.

He's clearly trying to say something. It's like he's keeping a lion in tame while trapped behind a cage. "Hey, Jaeyun... you alright?" You ask him feeling a little bit concern for the foot taller male. "You can, uh, just pretend that I never said anything," you tell him while feigning a sad expression.

You are opting to get back on track with the room chores, but Jaeyun stood very still in place like he's frozen in place and it's starting to scare you. "Jaeyun?" You call his name, making a bee line towards him. You put a hand on his shoulder and you hear his words in a small, whisper-like voice.

"...me," he starts. He said something before that, you are sure, but you didn't hear him the first time, so you cautiously leaned in closer to him. He takes the initiative to move nearer, his warm breathe hitting the skin of your neck. "Help me, please," he says, a little louder now. Only do you notice that he is slightly crouching over when you see his arm holding on to his stomach.

And that's when it happens. That's when you see the sharp outline of his bulge in his pants, the obvious tent stirring something inside you as you quickly look away, pushing Jake away from you with one shove. "What the fuck?!" is the only thing you can muster to say as Jake sweats profusely in front of you. "You... you weird dumb shit! You got hard over a fucking confession?!"

Jake turns his head towards you, eyes furrowed. "Because it's you." His voice is gentle and the threatening tone he had minutes ago, vanishing completely. It happens too often that you might start to think that this kid has different personalities.

It took you some time to process his words, blinking for just a minute or so, silence engulfing the both of you before, "...WHAT?!" You yelled at him, disliking what he's implying. "Look, Jake. Okay, I'll tell you the the truth. I don't like you and that picture, it's all true. That was me!" you point towards yourself, in hopes that whatever is going inside Jake's head will fortunately turn your fate around, but it's like your own words are feeding him even more when another smirk appears and you hear a low chuckle.

Your hand start to grab whatever is the nearest thing you can take and it was a board eraser. You throw it at him with so much force, but Jake manages to easily dodge it. "Y-You must be insane!" You yelled.

He takes a few steps towards, slowly. He is using his whole presence as means of intimidating you more, to make a way for you to falter. You can only look at him even as he drew closer to you. He scoffs at you. "It doesn't matter because I already knew you were lying the moment you said you liked me," Jake says as your face distorts into an expression that went all 'This bitch is crazy'.

“I got turned on when you looked into my eyes, Y/N,” he said, voice low and smooth, like honey with a sharp bite.

You blinked, your mouth parting slightly. “What the hell did you just say?”

His tongue darted out to wet his lips, cocky as ever—but behind that glint in his eye was something more dangerous. Desperate. “Please, hyung,” he murmured, stepping closer. “Just help me this one time. After that, I won’t bother you anymore. I swear.”

You narrowed your eyes, stepping back just enough to keep him at bay. “You think I’m that easy to get?” you scoffed, crossing your arms. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Hyung…” he drawled, dragging the word out like a weapon, eyes big, lashes fluttering with practiced innocence. “Please.”

“Jaeyun,” you warned, heart thudding traitorously in your chest. You knew that tone—he was trying to melt you down, and you hated that it was working.

He took another step forward, close enough now that you could smell the faint hint of his cologne—crisp and clean with something dark underneath.

“I said no,” you repeated, standing your ground.

His bottom lip jutted out slightly. “Pretty please?”

Your defenses cracked. Just a little.

“Do you always beg like this to get what you want?” you asked bitterly, eyeing him.

“No,” he said, voice dropping to a whisper. “Only when it’s you.”

Your brain short-circuited. And for a second—just one—you actually imagined him meaning it.

You huffed, dragging a hand down your face. “God, you’re such a manipulative little—”

“—adorable guy who really needs your help,” he interrupted with a sly grin.

You opened your mouth to argue. Closed it. Opened it again.

“…ALRIGHT, ALRIGHT!” you snapped finally, throwing your hands in the air.

Jaeyun lit up like the damn sun, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“But just this once,” you warned, jabbing a finger at his chest. “You don’t get to pull this stunt again.”

“Sure, sure,” he said, grabbing your hand before you could pull it away. His grip was warm, grounding—and a little too firm for your liking.

Jake howls loudly at the sight below him. His hands are tightly interlocked with your H/C locks, as he ravaged your throat with his ferocious thrusts, completely forgetting the fact that you have never done this before and your first time. So, every time his tip hit the back of your throat, it jerks tears into your eyes. "Ah, fuck! FUCK, YES! SWALLOW MY COCK!" Jake groans with his head pushed back.

You hear noises from above you as he continues to abuse your untrained throat, you tap his thigh three times as he suggests you do if you want him to stop, but all that always goes down the gutter. You moan out at the way Jake denies your signal and endlessly rocks his hips into your mouth.

Jake has the upperhand here and he's the one taking control of the situation, so the second you gave him a tap the third time. He rolls his eyes and angrily pulls out, purposely throwing your head back as you fall to the floor turning you into coughing fits. "Fuck you," you rasp out, wiping your mouth. "I told you to slow down, asshole!" You yell at him, but Jake remains unfazed.

"Please?" Jake

"Why should I listen to you?" Jake said, while he grabs his massive cock and starts to stroke it in a slow, sensual manner as if seducing you into submission; to succumb to his countless need for pleasure. "Besides, if we have only this one time, why not make the most of it?" Jake adds, which horrifies you at how casual that came from his mouth.

You glare at him in anger and weakly stand up. "You're such a disgusting creature, Jaeyun. The worst one there is," you say with such wrath laced in your voice. You opt to just take your bag and get out, but Jake takes you by the arm and looks at you with big doe eyes and it scares you how fast this man changes in just a snap of a finger. "Let go of me," you tell him.

"I'm really orry, Y/N. Please, I promise I'll take it easy on you. Just give me this one time," he begs you like it's some kind of take it or leave it chance, which in his case, it is, but it's not that big of a deal. With a face like his, he can grab all the boys and girls he likes if he wants to.

You let out an annoyed groan. "No, Jaeyun." Your voice sounds harsh and certain. You don't want to get involved in any of this guy's shenanigans.

You feel his grip on you start to get loose. You look at him with brows still meeting at the center and he has the most pitiful look on his face that it almost completely fools you. You know this man enough to know that this is just a trick. A trap he likes to set and lure people into falling into it.

And once you fall, you won't stop. It's like an endless abyss, you don't stop falling.

But, if there's one thing you've heard from others, is that he's completely mastered the arts of manipulation and trickery, because the moment he hangs his head low and lets go of your wrist, you're compelled to comfort him, like you've done something wrong. "J-Just... be gentle, you dumb fuck," you tell him and the guy just lights up almost immediately.

He gives you a one sided smile and taps his lap, gesturing for you to sit on it. You gulp loudly considering that his cock is still standing tall in its full glory in front of you. "Come here, angel. I promise not to hurt you," he says, his voice leaving no space for any malice nor threat. Only gentleness and genuine care.

Your head snaps up towards him when the new found nickname falls from his lips. Angel? When did your name become 'Angel' and when did Jake start calling you that? Is he trying to manipulate your head again? Because if that is his plan, it's working out way too well for him.

You can feel your heart beat so loudly in your chest that you feat it's going to pop out at any time now. You look away from him and cross your arms. “Don’t call me that,” you mutter, barely audible, your voice wrapped in a sheepish plea.

Jaeyun leans forward, elbow resting on the desk behind him. “Don’t call you what?” he asks, smirking slightly, like he knows exactly what he did.

You stare at the floor, cheeks hot. “That nickname. It makes me feel—tiny.”

He grins. “You are tiny.”

You scowl, smacking his shoulder lightly, but he catches your wrist mid-air, fingers gently wrapping around it. “But you’re cute when you're mad,” he adds, softly.

Your heart stumbles again, and you hate how easily he disarms you.

Without thinking too much, you move closer, placing your small hands gently on his shoulders. He doesn't move. His expression falters for a second, as if he wasn't expecting that.

You take a shaky breath. “I swear, if someone walks in right now…”

“I’ll take the blame,” he says simply, looking up at you.

You shoot him a glare. “You’ll die first.”

He chuckles, and then you lower yourself onto his lap, knees on either side of his thighs. His breath catches, and you hear it—just for a second. His hands hover in the air before settling gently on your waist, hesitant, warm.

Jake whispers something in your ear, but the warmth of his breath makes you focus only on what he is doing to you. You don't even know if you're thinking right now, because everything blurred into nothing and all you know is that Jake has you on his lap, with his lips and tongue scattering hickeys all over your neck.

Your poor pink pucker is begging for the bigger male to stop while Jake only handles you like you are some type of light material that he can use to satisfy his own need for pleasure. He is so drunk in euphoria that he doesn't even notice the voices incoming, drawing ever so close as his thrusts don't die down.

"J-Jake... people..AH!" You let out a moan of pure bliss as Jake endlessly hits that sweet bundle of nerves inside your gummy walls that always seem to remember to send an electrifying sensation over your body down to your untouched cock, but overstimulated with how much Jake isn't giving his rough handling with you a break.

The taller male's sweat trickles down your back, wet imprints on his white uniform visible around his chest. "No, can do, slut," he grits out, putting all his strength into his thrusts that only gets deeper and deeper every passing time. Instinctively, it is starting to get too hit for the male, he starts to unbutton his polo with one hand. Then, a wild idea moves past his mind before he leans in closer, his hard abdomen coming in contact with your back that's littered with love bites and hickeys. "Say... how about you make me cum before they get here, that wouldn't be so hard, would it? Especially with how you take my cock so well, I might just be nearing my chase," he whispers darkly into your ear, his voice an octave deeper than usual.

He's already got you so fucked up in the head that you can't even form coherent words anymore. Your pride? Gone. Ego? Down the drain. Your dislike towards him? Still there, but apparently his sex drive is driving you crazy enough to even forget you ever hate the man who has his dick buried deep within your walls.

Jake buries his face onto the crook of your neck, taking in your sweet natural scent that he will never want to get rid of. Your scent makes his cock twitch inside you, before a sharp pain course through you making you moan out in both shock and bliss, when he dug his teeth into your neck. Crimson red liquid seeped out from it while Jake sucks it all up like it's his usual choice of drink.

Then, you whimper out in exhaustion, feeling as though you have already been used up of everything; stripped off of your very own dignity. You start to dig your nails into the wooden edge of the table as pleasure overwhelms your whole body, all the while Jake is already pinning you down the desk with his own weight on you, his abdomen pressed against your back as he continues to paint the already broken canvas that you are with marks that will for sure leave his imprint on you.

Soon enough, you hear again the same voices, gruff and the other one tiny, all speaking at once. You feel yourself start to get anxious again, but all is lost the moment Jake snakes his hands toward yours as he loosen your grip on the table and intertwine your fingers together. "Don't hold on to it too tight. We don't want any of your nails to get broken, do we?" You absentmindedly nod at his words, as a smirk appears on his face. The expression of success knowing he's wrapped you around his finger now.

But, then the voices only got closer, your anxiety getting the best of you as you let go of Jake's hand tap him from behind you. "Jake, please... nnnahh, stop for a... minute," you try to warn him about the incoming danger, but he doesn't listen to you, instead he only starts to buck his hips forward even harder; rougher as though he's trying to chase a deadline while your eyes rolled to the back of your head.

"I will, but you have to make me cum first, yeah? You'll do that for me, right?" his question is always rhetoric, leaving you no choice, but to comply with his wants and needs as you let yourself just get completely used like a sex toy, your mind getting a little hazy.

He straightens up, the weight on you is now gone, but his thrusts do not falter and you're only left with the pleasure. No more thinking of other things, your rational thinking vanishing like dust in the wind. "Fuck," he drags on with gritted teeth. "I'm about to cum, slut and I'm gonna pour it all inside you," he groans out, his hold on your hips getting tighter. It will leave bruises for sure.

"Yes, yes! Jake give me your cum, I'll be your personal masturbator from now on! Use me all you fucking want! AH!" The words only drove Jake into hysterical, just when you are starting to think he couldn't go any faster, he does and it's driving your cock into madness as you cum again untouched.

"What a slut," he chuckles. "Cumming from just behind, now you've completely turned this ass into a real pussy, huh? And it's all..." he huffs, that same feeling of recoil in his stomach begging for some type of way to get out, "..for me!" He groans out, as he takes you by the arm and pulls you close to him. One arm hugs your chest, while the other has his hand covering your eyes, the back of your neck resting on his shoulder.

You hold on to his arm for dear life out of instinct, as you feel yourself get completely broken, tongue rolling out of your mouth, panting heavily while chains of needy moans move past your throat. Your body bounces at the same rhythm as Jake, the latter only screwing your abused hole with all his lower body strength.

You could feel him swell inside you and your senses are telling you that he's about to cum. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," he repeats the same word over and over again like it's his favorite mantra. Together, the voices are now only a few distance away while Jake drills his huge cock deeper, harder, even more needy inside you. "Get pregnant, I'll get you pregnant, Y/N. You're mine, Y/N. My Y/N," he says like your name is the only drug in this world that will make him calm down, before he gives you one last thrust, burying his cock deep within your walls as ropes of white semen fluid decorates your insides.

"He told me that I wasn't enough, like can you fucking believe that?!" Sunoo says with overdramatic gestures, while Sunghoon only laughs at him. "God, the audacity of this guy," he added before he steps inside the last classroom in the hallway and catches an unexpected sight in front of him.

You are completely all dressed up in a uniform that's almost a whole size bigger than you that you're practically drowning in it, while you rest your head on top of Jake's lap who looks up at the two newcomers and puts a finger on his lips. "Stay quiet. He had a really rough day, today," he said with the most genuine smile Sunoo and Sunghoon had ever seen.

tags: @acidangel-fromasia @seulaidn @king-of-kistune @s1llygo0s3

[webwanderer]

electric fueled adefemi akinola ( cyberpunk oc ) x racer ! bttm ftm reader

ⓘ a bit more dialogue heavy than I'd want it to be, implied you've been hooking up, unprofessional doctor / medical play(?) , he uses his vibrating fingers , use of pussy and cunt like once or twice

The city of dreams they called it. Nothing short of a dream when you're seeing holograms reach out to you, and people on the streets with metal and wires embedded into their skin. Adefemi was no stranger to it, having one fully cyberware arm himself.

Day and night he ran this little shop, favored by racers who badly beat up their rides on those hellish courses—only the best of the best could make it through without missing at least a bolt or more. People drove their vehicles in and out, scratched and dented for him to fix with a price.

Though, he had one recurring customer he'd always slip in a discount, for whatever reason he could find.

“'Nother crash?” Adefemi chuckled as he saw you duck under the roller, and push your bike towards him.

You'd come almost everytime he was about to switch that open sign closed, everytime the sun lowered it's harsh rays past the horizon and just barely seeping through the cracks of those high rise buildings. Nonetheless, Adefemi had his shop on the outskirts of the city, so there was nothing but desert and maybe a few gas stations out front. It was far enough that the sun could come through without the disturbance of the buildings.

“Yeah,” he hears you sigh, walking out from behind his workbench as he takes a good look at the state of your bike. All battered and bruised like you'd deliberately swung a bat at it just for an excuse to see him again—or so he'd hope you did.

He ran one metallic finger over the flat surface of your bike, running over the jagged edges of metal from concrete slashes. It seemed like you really had a tough time this race.

“I could probably fix her up in a few days,” He concluded, pulling away from the bike as he rose to a stand from his previous squatting position. He glanced down at your back and then back to you, taking that damned face of yours.

“Say, you came here few weeks ago didn't 'cha?” Adefemi tucked one arm under another as he tilted his head slightly to the left, his metal arm glinting in the low light of the shop. “If you just wanted an excuse to see me, just walk in,” he shrugged, his dark eyebrows raising with the rise of his shoulders.

“Before I get to work, any metal needin' fixing for you?” One thing he liked about you was how human you were. You strayed away from bulky cyberware sticking mainly to little enhancements, never anything flashy like a metal spine or a chrome leg. It made Adefemi think of you less like a metal zombie.

“Maybe just a routine check-up will do.” It didn't hurt to get checked up occasionally seeing that you pretty much neglect your metal needs. You didn't have anything flashy enough to constantly take care of, which was good in a way.

Adefemi nods, hand on his hip as he juts his thumb behind him, pointing to the medical recliner chair hidden behind the plastic translucent curtains. It was very much like a medical setting, one you'd find in a hospital if it wasn't so worn out and stacked with metal parts and whatnot.

You climb onto the chair, laying awkwardly down on it. The fabric of the chair sticks to your bare skin as you adjust your position on it to get comfortable.

Adefemi comes in shortly, pulling those plastic curtains around the two of you as if there were people to see—there wasn't. But it undoubtedly sets the "doctor" mood.

He's wearing one blue glove on his hand with flesh and bones while he disinfects his metal one. They're a sort of silicone material for his fingers, but his palm and the rest are full metal. But it always changes, everytime you come Adefemi always has a new set of fingers like he switches them out based on preference.

“Just a regular check-up aye?” He leans on the side of the recliner with one forearm along it before pushing himself off of it to grab a few tools. “How's your eyesight? I could enhance your night vision if that suits your fancy.”

Night vision. Crucial for races in the dark, especially when those other sadistic assholes always push to ride in the night. You were never one to be into that sensory depravation stuff when it comes to races, preferred to know when you're about to hit the curb and total yourself and your bike.

“I'll take that as a yes,” Adefemi doesn't need a verbal confirmation from you, he just knows from that look in your face “This might sting or feel a bit weird but if you need—one—nice, warm hand to hold onto, I can take off my glove.” What a charm.

You almost consider his proposal when the tweezers come dangerously close to your eye; he's already done the necessary calibrating and loosening screws to ease the process but you can never get used to having your eye plucked out of your head.

It's jarring feeling yourself lose vision in just a second, all you could do is hear Adefemi walk around with his heavy boots against stone cold floors. He's talking—which is a relief—about anything just to reassure you that he's still there and he hasn't disappeared.

Your fingers twitch a little when he's slotting your eye back into its socket; a few blinks and everything seems just a tad bit sharper, clearer.

“What a big boy,” He's praising you, but in the way a mother would do to her son, which only slightly offended you, “Didn't need me to hold your hand, so brave.”

His chest puffs out every time he laughs and he's ruffling your hair before moving on. You see his eyes flicker a gentle blue as he scans your whole body in what you guess for any signs of injury. It was common that you'd get at least a few scratches or cuts from your races.

He pauses after seeing a particularly nasty gash running from your hip bone down to your inner thigh. You must've taken quite the fall to get something like that, to have a gash all the way from the side of your hip to your thigh.

“Nasty,” he grimaces, almost as if visualising how you got it. “I gotta get a little close n' personal, hope that's alright,” He raises his palms, holding his hands up in surrender and to show his peace.

He's unbuttoning your pants and sliding it under your legs, folding it neatly and placing it on the table beside him. You can tell he's been raised well, folds your clothes efficiently and neatly, makes you wonder if he's the type of person to have his closets and drawers all tidy like that.

He pushes the bottom of your underwear up to see a little more of that marred skin. He takes a good look at it before grabbing a cotton ball and gently dabbed it along the cut. There were some awkward moments were he had to blindly apply the medication to the gash that was covered by your clothing. The cotton ball was coated in some sort of antiseptic which inevitably stung, and before you could squirm or start kicking him in the face out of pain, Adefemi uses his cold, metal hand to hold you down by your thigh.

“Don't go thrashing your legs like a madman, you'll hurt yourself more than me,” His voice is lazy, almost tired but still has a playful lilt to it. His hand eventually travels to your lower stomach, and he applies a gentle heat to his hand to soothe you—an enhancement he gave himself.

It's a new one, since you've never seen him use it before but it's nice, like a heat pack resting on your tummy.

“New enhancement?” You ask, and momentarily the stinging pain is forgotten.

“Yeah, you like it? I got a few others too,” His eyes are trained on your wound but his mind is focused on your words. A true multi-tasker. He lifts his head to reach for some bandages, before he looks back up at you.

“I'm gonna take off the uh—rest just so I can bandage you properly,” He's sliding down your underwear extremely slowly, giving you enough time to back out and tell him to stop if you ever got uncomfortable. He slides it down your legs and off from your feet, placing it on top of your folded jeans.

He lifts your thigh up just enough for him to roll the bandage under and over the flesh. Both his hands are on you, one metal hand gently cupping the side of your thigh while the other secures the white bandages over your wound. You're staring at his face, gazing at the way his eyes always seem to flicker to one specific spot. It makes you concious to say the least, but you'd trust him with your whole body.

Adefemi seems to notice your darting eyes and he sighs with a small smile, shaking his head as he looks up at you.

“Gettin' nervous are we?” He drawls, his voice a low rumble as if etched with a lack of sleep—or too much, “We can check that up too, If you're up for it.”

You can't bring yourself to say no, it's been awhile since you've really been able to spend time with your good ol' mechanic in that way. Though you're not entirely sure if he genuinely means to check or if he's inviting you to do something else.

“Y'know dysfunction is gettin' real common lately.”

Right.

“Can't hurt to treat it early, can it?”

Right.

You slowly nod, tilting your head to the side mostly out of embarrassment. He's so slow in his movements, gently brushing his fingertips along your folds, using two fingers to push them apart in a V shape. Its a strange feeling, cold metal on the warmest part of your body, it makes you twitch. Adefemi stays in that position, just staring at your flesh, taking note of whatever he's observing.

“Looks good, I'll run a few tests alright?” You know what he's implying with that, and he's taking it a step further by flexing his metallic hand “We can test my new features while we're at it.”

He shifts to stay beside you rather than at your legs, one hand leaning over the table beside your recliner with a pen between his fingers while his other hand rests low on your pelvis.

“At anytime you feel any pain or uncomfort, let me know,” He's using that fake tone of his to make himself sound a little more like a real doctor. More than the back alley mechanic he is.

He's careful with his movements as he slips a finger over your slit, the base of his finger brushes against your clit as he dips the tip into your opening. He hears you gasp a little and you can faintly hear a small chuckle to himself, followed by the scribbles of pen on paper.

He's so slowly rubbing his finger in and out, ensuring everytime he pulls his finger out, he digs the ball of his palm against that sweet nub. The mechanical heat from the rest of his metallic hand on your lower stomach doesn't help either; its almost soothing despite how agonisingly gentle and lazy he's being with you.

Adefemi glances back down at you before speaking, “Don't freak out, yeah? I ain't here to hurt you. It's just a little buzz—it'll feel good in a sec'.”

You feel a soft vibration from his finger, like a slow massage gun. He lets you adjust, getting all your squirms and soft whimpers as you restrain your back from arching up into his hand.

He slots another finger in—his ring finger alongside with his middle—firmly warming his fingers deep within your tight walls before upping the intensity. He arches his hand up from its resting position along your body, pressing his thumb against your clit. Adefemi rubs it in deep circles, observing the way you rake your fingers against his poor chair and hike your knees up to half-assedly alleviate the overwhelming sensation.

“You enjoying yourself?” He snorts at the tremble of your eyelashes and the whines bubbling in your throat, “Feels good don't it? Got it just for seein' pretty boys like you come all unwrapped.”

He pulls his soaked fingers from your cunt, rubbing your aching pussy like a gentle caress before delving his fingers back inside. You would've thought the soft scribbling in the background would drive you insane but its hard to think about what pisses you off more than what pleasures you.

“You gonna come pretty boy?” He teases slowly, the drowsiness of his tone was pretty much hypnotising—the things this man could do with his voice alone. His lazy chuckles were a product of seeing your pre-cum spray out from the frequency of the vibrations his hand was giving off, and the desperate raise of your hips to meet his fingers.

“Hmm... ain't that right?”

He writes down something for one last time before he places the pen down, turning his full attention to you. His free full flesh hand comes down on your head, stroking along the direction your hair sprouts from the crown of your head.

Adefemi's gentle head caresses have a great difference to his other hand. He's taken the responsibility to get you across the edge, curling his fingers agaisnt your sweet spot as he starts thrusting his fingers. It makes an obscene plap noise each time he pounds his thick, metal fingers into you.

With the hand so delicately stroking your hair, he grips it enough to manipulate the angle of your head, tilting it back so he can better hear all those noises spill from your mouth.

As your legs shake and your eyes squeeze shut, Adefemi hums softly, watching as you soak his recliner with the evidence of your orgasm. He works you through the after-high tuning down the vibrations and focusing on making it feel comfortable.

“Better than I thought,” He notes, sliding his fingers out before walking over to the sink to wash his hands. He glances back at you, legs shut and your head tilted back as your chest rises and falls from your breaths.

“Nothin' to worry about,” he swivels back around, grabbing your underwear as he wipes your bottom half with a warm cloth, slipping the fabric over your ankles, up your thighs and around your hips.

He reaches over and grabs your pants, helping you put them back on and even doing up your buttons for you.

“Next time though, if you just wanna see me, you don't hafta' crash your bike over it.”

[webwanderer]

Trouble Double in Paradise - Part one

Soft Dom Top SAN & Dom Top BM x Sub Reader (3,600 Words) Reader Speaking = Orange BM Speaking = Blue San Speaking = Pink

List of the fun stuff: Double penetration, Tag Teaming, Spit Roasting, Throat fucking, Rough/Hard sex, Phone sex, Praise/Degrading, Caught, Manhandling, Size Difference, Dumbification, Oral Fixation, fingering, Overwhelming pleasure used as interrogation, Reader very often gets called "puppy", "puppyboy" "pup" etc, Not really Petplay though, Slight Humiliation (mostly in the form of degrading), Bad cop BM Good cop SAN dynamic, Passionate kissing (San & BM Make out)

The bedroom was dimly lit, the only source of light being your phone screen as it was resting on your pillow next to you. Your hand was wrapped around your aching cock, slick and pulsing in your hand as San’s voice purred through the speaker again. His tone was rich, sexy, fucking addicting. the kind of voice that could get you all hot and bothered in just a few words.

“Bet you’re so fucking hard right now, huh?” he spoke, the sound of his own slick-wet strokes clearly audible, “All worked up ‘cause of me? Sucha good boy… letting me get you all stupid with just my voice.”

A shiver ran down your spine, your hips bucking up into you fist instinctively as his words settled into your head making you dizzy. “San-” you gasped, his name breaking off into a moan as you squeezed the base of your cock, trying to hold off your orgasm just a little longer.

San let out a deep chuckle, the sound sending a fresh wave of arousal coursing through you. “Oh, baby… you sound so fucking pretty. You gonna cum for me? Gonna make a mess all over yourself?” His breath was hastening, you could tell he was close too. “Wish I could see you… all fucked out and needy. Come over next time baby.. please, I’ll have you on your knees for me, begging for my cock like the desperate little boy you are.”

You whined, head falling back against the pillow, your were on the verge of breaking. The world outside of this moment was completely forgotten to your dumb mind, drowned out by the filth spilling from San’s mouth and the feeling of an orgasm quickly building.

But just then...

The sound of the footsteps quickly climbing up the stairs.

Your breath stopped, panic shooting through you as you scrambled to end the call. SHIT wrong button, you had only muted yourself and It was too late to try hang up now. The door flew open. There stood Matthew your giant 6 foot 1 boyfriend built like a beast and panting like one, leaning up against the doorframe with a genuine look of concern on his face. "Jesus baby, are you ok? i heard some weird noises coming from-" "Fuck puppy did you cum already?" The phone screen lit up as san cooed his little praise.

BM knew exactly who you were talking to the moment he heard that voice.

“What the fuck. Are you fucking kidding me?" BM’s voice was sharp. Your heart dropped, you were burning with shame as you scrambled around the bed trying to gather your clothes.

BM just stood there, but by god, even stood motionless you could tell he was fucking livid.

In that moment a heap of emotions came rushing to him possessiveness, jealousy, and also... the unshakable need to remind you exactly who you belonged to.

He stepped forward, jaw clenched tight as his gaze flickered to the phone still on the bed, San’s name was still glowing on the screen.

BM’s lips curled into a smirk, there seemed to be some kind of humor in it for him, like it was some kinda game, a prank you were playing. “So that’s how you wanna play, huh?” he said, stepping closer, his hands already working at his belt. “You wanna get off to someone else’s voice? Wanna act like I’m not the one who's name you scream every night huh? fuckin 'puppy'?! is that the shit you're into now?”

Your pulse pounded in your ears, your mind scrambling for an excuse, anything to defuse the situation.

BM didn’t give you the chance. He yanked you forward, flipping you onto your stomach with ease. He kicked his jeans off, the sound of his metallic belt hitting the floor making your heart race/

He then shoved you right down onto your stomach, his large hands gripping your hips to keep you in place. one of BM's hands shot next to your head, grabbing the phone, he hung up.

BM proceeded by throwing the phone to the side and sliding his fingers in-between your parted lips, pressing them down on your tongue. “That’s it,” he murmured, watching your mouth eagerly suck and coat them in slick warmth. “Such a fucking slut, always so desperate to have something in your mouth, huh?” He pulled them free with a wet pop.

You felt his wet fingers trailing down your spine until they were right above your hole. His touch was torturously teasing as he traced the rim before pushing a finger inside, he was so fucking slow and deliberate. You gasped, hips jerking at the intrusion, but BM held you down with his free hand, keeping you still.

“Look at you, already so fucking open for me,” he muttered, curling his finger just right, pressing against that sweet spot inside you “Did he have you touching yourself like this? Stuffing yourself full of your own fingers, wishing it was his cock?”

Your face burned, but BM didn’t stop. A second finger joined the first, stretching you, scissoring inside as he hummed in approval. “Bet you let him say all sorts of nasty shit to you, didn’t you?”

You whined, trying to bury your face in the sheets, but BM wasn’t having it. His hand moved to your hip, landing a sharp slap against your ass that made you jolt. “Answer me.”

“Y- yes,” you stammered, voice muffled. “He… he talks dirty.”

BM’s fingers twisted inside you, making your back arch. “Yeah? What does he say?”

You hesitated, your face and chest turning red, but the way BM was working you open had you too fucked-out already to think straight. Every push of his fingers against your prostate made your walls clench around them, made your mouth part in another pathetic breathless little whimper. You couldn't hold back.

“H-he calls me pretty,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

BM hummed, fingers pressing deeper, slower. “Yeah? What else?”

Your thighs trembled. “Tells me I sound good for him…”

BM clicked his tongue, unimpressed. “That’s all?”

Your breath stuttered. Your mind was hazy, but BM wasn’t going to let you get away with obvious half-truths. His fingers curled inside you again, grinding against that sweet spot until you were fucking losing it. Your back was arched, hips pushing back instinctively.

“Fuck- okay! He- ah- he tells me to beg for him.”

BM’s hand landed sharply against your ass again, making you yelp. “C'mon, Beg for what baby? What do you say to him?”

Your tongue darted out to wet your lips, your throat dry from panting. “I… I beg for him to let me cum to his voice,” you confessed “To let me choke on him when we meet"

BM groaned at that, his cock twitching against your thigh. But he wasn’t satisfied. He wanted more.

“What else?” he pressed, fingers pumping faster, making you shake beneath him.

Your stomach clenched. You were feeling intense shame, but your body kept betraying you, tightening around BM’s fingers, practically begging him for more. “He- he makes me touch myself while calling me names,” you admitted, biting down on your lip. “Tells me I’m his needy little thing, his filthy fucktoy, his perfect hole.”

BM exhaled harshly through his nose. “Jesus,” he muttered, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. His fingers slowed, teasing now, and it only made your desperation worse.

“And?” he prompted.

You swallowed, eyes fluttering shut. “He makes me spit on my cock, Tells me to fuck my fist like it’s his dick I'm stroking.. to hump my pillow like a stupid, desperate slut. Makes me send him videos- fuck- makes me edge myself ‘til I’m crying.”

BM paused and then let out chuckle, fingers still inside you. His free hand moved up to tangle in your hair, yanking your head back just enough for his lips to graze your ear.

“That so?” he murmured. “And did you listen, 'puppy'?

A whimper spilled from your lips before you could stop it. BM smirked.

“Yeah,” he found this very ammusing. “You did, didn’t you?”

BM added a third finger with no warning. You gasped, your body tensing at the added stretch, but he didn’t let up. “You like begging, huh? Is that why you sound so needy right now? Want him to fuck you so bad you’ll say anything he wants?”

You bit your lip again, nodding frantically. BM withdrew his fingers slowly, making you whimper at the sudden emptiness.

“Call him back.”

Your brows furrowed. “W- what?”

“Call. Him. Back,” he repeated, voice authoritative. “Let him hear how you sound when you're actually fucked”

Your fingers trembled as you reached for the phone, unlocking it with a swipe. The moment you hit the call button, BM’s hands were on you, spreading you open as he lined himself up. The dial tone rang once- twice

Then San picked up.

“Missed me already, baby?” His voice was smug as usual “What happened earlier handsome? You just hung up on me and-.” His voice faltered, suddenly registering the muffled sounds in the background- the heavy breathing, the slick, obscene noises, the sharp gasp that escaped your lips as BM sank into you in one deep, claiming thrust.

A beat of silence.

“…Shit”

BM smirked, grabbing the phone off of you bed and pressing it to his own ear, his other hand gripping your waist as he dragged his cock out, only to slam back in, knocking the breath from your lungs.

“C’mon over, Sannie,” BM rasped, voice thick with amusement. “This is your chance. I wanna show you how you really pleasure a lil’ slut.” He pulled your hips back roughly, angling his thrusts so perfectly that your moans became outright pornographic.

BM also started to let out over-the-top moans as he started rolling his hips deeper, watching you fall apart in his hands. “Better- ah- be quick, though- fuck-,” he added, voice purposefully stuttered with low, heavy groaning. “He might already be fucked-out by the time you get here.”

San’s breath was harsh on the other end of the line, it didn’t take long for him to speak. His voice dropped low “You really think I’m gonna let you have all the fun?” “Keep him nice and warmed up for me- I’m on my way.”

BM was pleased, tossing he phone onto the bed. His grip on your waist tightened as he picked up the pace, each deep thrust sending sparks up your spine. “You hear that, baby? You’re in for a long night.”

Time blurred after that. Your body trembled under BM’s relentless pace, the room filled with the sound of his balls and crotch slapping against your ass over and over. Your own breathless whimpers mixing with his low groans.

You were already beyond being on the edge, you were practically teetering on exhaustion by now, when the bedroom door slammed open.

San stood in the doorway, chest rising and falling rapidly, eyes locked onto you- flushed, wrecked, struggling to hold yourself up under BM’s weight. His tongue darted out to wet his lips. “Shit…”

BM slowed just enough to glance over his shoulder. His look was practically a challenge. “Took you long enough.” He pulled out, flipping you onto your back with ease. “C’mon then, let’s see what you got.”

San wasted no time. He was on you in seconds, his touch was so different from BM’s- it really was soothing where BM's felt punishing, His fingers traced over your burning skin, his lips pressing soft, teasing kisses along your neck and jaw. “You doing okay, baby?” he murmured, brushing sweaty strands of hair from your face.

Before you could answer, BM scoffed. “Oh, don’t go all soft on him now. He likes it rough, don’t you, puppy boy?” His hand wrapped around your throat, tilting your head up until you had no choice but to meet his gaze.

BM let out a sharp laugh as he caught your cock twitching against your stomach in the corner of his eye. Both of the men started glancing down just in time to see your tip drool, a fresh little puddle forming. “Oh, fuck- did you just leak all over yourself from that?”

His grip on your throat tightened, just enough to make your breath stutter. “Jesus. That’s all it takes? One little nickname and you’re already making a mess?” His tone mocking eyes flicking between your flushed face and your twitching cock.

San smirked, blood rushing to his now semi-hard cock. “It's his magic word”

BM’s lips curled into a devilish grin as he looked down at you, completely and utterly submissive beneath him. “That right, pup?” He dragged the words out slowly, purposefully, watching as another bead of pre-cum welled at the tip of your cock. He let out a dramatic scoff, his head shaking side to side. “Pathetic. Fucking pathetic.”

San, whistled lowly. “Damn, baby. You really do love it, huh? All it takes is one little ‘puppy boy’ and you start leaking like a desperate bitch in heat. I mean I knew it got you all hot over the phone but I never realized it actually drove you this crazy” He cocked his head at BM, stupidly giggling like a teenage girl. “This is the best shit I’ve ever seen.”

BM clicked his tongue, fingers moving around your jaw, adjusting you gaze up to san who was still towering over you. “Go on, pup,” he cooed mockingly, thumbing at your spit-slick lips. "Thank San for teaching me that new word”

San climbed off you and sat back onto the mattress, spreading his legs in that cocky, confident way that made your stomach flip. He didn’t say a word- just gave you a knowing look, tilting his chin ever so slightly. Fuck.

“C’mon, baby.” His voice was all smooth and innocent. Coaxing you over. “Show me how much you appreciate me.”

Your hand trembled, reaching for the waistband of his sweats. Slowly, carefully, you peeled them down, eyes fluttering at the way his cock twitched, slapping against his abs- it was so thick, already glistening at the tip. You swallowed, hands ghosting up his thighs, taking in every inch of his beautiful, sculpted body.

“Fuck… you’re so perfect,” you murmured, voice still barely above a whisper as you dipped your head down, placing soft kisses along the sharp cut of his hip bone.

San hummed in approval, his fingers threading gently through your hair, encouraging you. But just as you started trailing your lips lower, savoring the feeling of his warm skin under your tongue-

SMACK.

A sharp slap landed on your ass, jolting you forward.

“None of that slow teasin' shit,” BM’s voice was a low and commanding. “You know damn well how to worship a cock properly. Get to it.”

You gasped, blinking up at San in wide-eyed desperation. He shot BM a glare, fingers tightening in your hair protectively. “Hyung-seriously?”

BM only scoffed again, he was now standing next to the bed, just right behind you “What? You know I’m the one in charge here.” His eyes flicked down to you “And he knows better than to make me wait.”

San rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, he sighed, bringing his gaze back down to you. “Ignore him, baby- you're doing such a good-”

BM cut him off with a laugh. “Like hell he will.”

You decided to not take your chances getting your already sore, red, ass getting slapped again, but just as your lips wrapped around the head of San’s cock something caught you by surprise..

BM had moved closer and he had now reached for San, grabbing the back of his neck and yanking him in, crushing their lips together in a rough, dizzying kiss.

San let out a muffled noise of surprise- half protest, half pleasure- but BM didn’t give him a chance to react. His tongue forced its way into San’s mouth, claiming him.

It was fucking filthy.

The way BM groaned into San's mouth, the way San’s moans spilled right against BM’s tounge, they were kissing like they were starving for each other.

The sight almost made you cum on the spot. You whined around San’s cock, the vibrations making him shudder. His fingers tightened in your hair as he melted into the kiss.

San suddenly gasped for breath as BM pulled back. His lips were slick with saliva, His chest rose and fell in heavy pants as he hovered over San- eyes half-lidded. It was clear he wasn't gonna wait long before diving back in

“Fuck,” BM murmured, “You don't understand how long I've been waiting to do that shi-"

San was already leaking, his hips jerking up involuntarily, pushing his cock deeper into your mouth. He let out a breathless, shaky laugh looking up at BM. “Shit… that was so fucking hot,” he muttered, his head falling tilting back. His fingers twitched in your hair, hips jerking up involuntarily as you swallowed him deeper.

BM smirked, his thumb swiping over San’s spit-slick lips. “Yeah? Would’ve done it a hell of a lot sooner if I knew you were a fuckin' fag too.” His voice was low, teasing, but there was certainly a rough edge to it.

San's lips parted like he was about to fire something back, but BM didn’t give him the chance- he was already diving back in.

And just like that, San was caught between the both of you, Every mouth was busy with one another's- San’s cock filling your throat while BM devoured his mouth, both of them completely lost in each other.

You instantly started leaking another wave of pre-cum. The way BM spoke to San. Fuck. You half-wished it was you, while thinking you had half forgotten you were meant to be 'thanking' San and you'd just been hovering your head over his aching cock for quite a while.

BM barely notices at first, too lost in the messy heat of San’s mouth, but then he opens his eyes and sees you sitting there like a little fucking idiot staring at them like you’re waiting for permission or something.

He pulls away from sans lips and quickly shoves the hand that was originally on san's jaw into your hair overtaking where San had been lightly holding you. He grips your hair, fingers tight at the roots, yanking you forward. The force drives you straight down. You instinctually open your mouth right before San’s cock was slamming into your throat in one brutal motion.

San moans like a filthy fuckin whore, the sound so desperate that bm even let out a little "fuck-" BM was getting achingly hard but don't get it twisted, his focus was all on you now-

One thing about BM is that he certainly doesn’t let up. He keeps his grip tight in your hair, starts using your head like a fleshlight on San’s cock, dragging you up only to push you right back down. He watches with a big fucking cocky smile on his face as San’s face twists, his lips parting in helpless gasps, his hands shaking on the matress where they held him up.

“See, you just can't hold back,” BM murmurs again, clearly amused by sans reaction to your throat. “He’s made for this.”He forces you down again to really punctuate his point.

San is spilling broken moans and then... his fingers finally grip your skull replacing BM's. San's big hands are now guiding you into a slow, steady rhythm. “Fuck, just like that, baby. That mouth- goddamn.”

BM, still looming beside you two had developed an absolutely shit eating grin watching you struggle to take all of San’s length. “Cmon now, bet you could go deeper then that,” his hand pressing against the back of your head. your throat clenching around San’s tip.

San let out a sharp hiss, his thighs tensing beneath you. “Fuck, Matt- I”

“What? don’t like seeing him like this?” "Getting his throat stretched out on your cock?”

San groaned, head falling back, his jaw clenching as he tried to keep control. “Nah, I fucking love it,” he muttered, breathless, his abs flexing as you swallowed around him again.

BM leaned in, whispering into San's ear. “Then let’s see how much he can really take.”

BM’s grip tightened on the back of your head, forcing you down right into San's clean shaven crotch, stuffing your mouth full of his now throbbing cock.

The sudden stretch had you gagging, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, but BM didn't give a fuck. He held you there, making you take it, making you feel every inch pulsing down your throat.

San cursed under his breath, his thighs trembling. His hands fisted in the sheets, his restraint barely hanging on. “Jesus Christ,” he groaned, voice wrecked. “He’s gonna make me- fuck.”

BM laughed, “Yeah? You gonna cum for him already?” He grinned, pressing a kiss to San’s neck. “Go on then. Give him his reward.”

San didn’t need to be told twice. His hips snapped up, his breath stuttering as he finally let go, spilling wave after wave of hot sticky cum down your throat with loud filthy broken moans to boot. His fingers trembled in your hair, his whole body going tense as pleasure crashed through him.

You swallowed around him, throat working while being coated, taking and swallowing every drop off cum he gave you. When he finally eased you off, you gasped for breath, lips slick, eyes glassy.

BM looked down at you, his thumb swiping up the mess on your chin and pushing it back in you mouth. "Shiii baby- you did a good job"

PART 2/CONTINUATION COMING SOON

[webwanderer]

HEAT OF THE MOMENT - CHEONGSAN

pairing: lee cheong-san x ftm reader

synopsis: The real infection here is horniness pt.2

content warnings: 18+, public sex, zombies, very little angst at the start, cheong-san eats reader out.

word count: 1.4k

The rooftop was colder than you expected. Maybe it was the breeze, maybe it was the fear, or maybe it was just the fact that you were watching Lee Cheong-san’s heart get ripped out of his chest without a single zombie in sight.

“I’m sorry, Cheong-san,” On-jo said, her voice barely above a whisper.

You didn’t need to hear more. The way his shoulders tensed, the barely-there quiver in his breath—it was obvious.

You weren’t jealous. You had never been jealous. You were just angry. Angry because Cheong-san had spent so much time putting On-jo first, saving her, loving her, and now here he was, getting nothing back.

On-jo turned away like that was the end of it.

Cheong-san didn’t move.

"Cheong-san," you called, just loud enough for him to hear. His head lifted slightly, his expression guarded.

He didn’t need to say anything. You just nodded toward the far side of the rooftop, away from prying eyes. He hesitated before following you.

"You good?" you asked once the two of you were alone.

Cheong-san scoffed, running a hand through his hair. "Do I look good?"

You looked him over. He looked wrecked—not just from the apocalypse, but from that rejection. His eyes were unfocused, his jaw clenched tight like he was fighting himself just to keep standing.

"No," you admitted. "You look like shit."

"Great. Thanks."

You shrugged. "I'm not gonna sugarcoat it. But also, On-jo doesn't know what the hell she's missing."

Cheong-san exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "I don’t need a pep talk, okay? Just—" He sighed. "I need to get out of my own head."

You knew what he meant.

"You can take it out on me," you murmured.

His gaze snapped to yours.

You took a step closer, testing the waters. "You're all wound up, and it's not like we have much time left anyway." You tilted your head, watching the way his lips parted slightly at your words. "Might as well do something that feels good."

A pause.

Then, something in Cheong-san snapped.

His mouth crashed against yours, all heat and frustration. It was messy, uncoordinated, desperate—like he needed to drown out everything else with you. His hands grabbed at your hoodie, pulling you in until you could feel how fast his heart was beating.

You let him take what he needed, fingers threading through his hair, tugging slightly just to hear him gasp against your lips. He pushed you back until your spine hit the cold rooftop railing, his hands bracing against it on either side of you.

"Tell me to stop," he muttered, his breath hot against your lips.

You grinned, tilting your chin up. "Why would I do that?"

A low curse left his mouth before he kissed you again, deeper this time. It was filthy—the way his tongue slid against yours, the way his hands curled into the fabric of your clothes like he needed to ground himself with you.

Cheong-san’s mouth was hot against your skin, his lips trailing downward with a purpose you didn’t quite understand yet. Your hands stayed tangled in his hair, gripping slightly as he pressed kisses lower, across your stomach, making your breath hitch.

Then he knelt, hands sliding to your thighs, parting them with slow, deliberate pressure. You felt the shift in the air, the way his breath ghosted over you, how focused he was.

Your fingers twitched in his hair. "Cheong-san, what are you—?"

A sharp gasp cut off your words as his mouth met your folds.

It was warm. Soft. His tongue flicked out, slow and testing, like he was figuring out exactly what made you react. And, oh, you reacted. Your hips jerked slightly, unprepared for the sensation, a sharp inhale escaping your lips.

Cheong-san huffed a laugh against you, his grip tightening to hold you still. "Relax," he murmured, voice thick, amused. "Trust me."

Trust? That was hard when your heart was slamming against your ribs, your body alight with something you’d never felt before. You were trying to process—trying to understand—but then he did it again, this time with more pressure, and suddenly, nothing else mattered.

A whimper slipped out before you could stop it.

Cheong-san groaned, low and satisfied, like that was exactly what he wanted to hear. He adjusted his grip, fingers digging into your thighs as he really started working—his tongue tracing slow, teasing patterns against your clit, his lips pressing just right. The wet heat of his mouth sent a shock through every inch of you, and you barely managed to stifle the desperate sound bubbling up.

Your head fell back, fingers clenching in his hair, legs threatening to close around his head from the sheer intensity of it. But Cheong-san held you firm, his movements becoming more precise, more deliberate. Like he was discovering a whole new way to ruin you.

"You’re—" Your voice broke off into a breathy gasp as he sucked lightly, sending sparks straight up your spine. "Cheong-san, what—fuck—"

Another low groan from him, this time more needy, like he was getting just as much out of this as you were. The vibrations made your whole body jolt.

Your thighs trembled against his hold, heat coiling tighter and tighter inside you, something building fast. Your breath came in short, shaky gasps, body arching into him despite yourself.

Cheong-san felt it, heard it, and leaned into it—his tongue moving in slow, deliberate circles, mouth dragging across every sensitive inch of you until—

Everything snapped.

Your body tensed, a sharp cry slipping past your lips before you could stop it. The heat, the pressure, and the overwhelming pleasure all crashed over you at once, leaving your mind blank, and your body shaking.

Cheong-san didn’t stop. He eased you through it, his hands steady on your thighs, his tongue still working on your cunt—gentler now, soothing, until the aftershocks had passed and you were nothing but a wrecked mess beneath him.

Only then did he pull back, his lips swollen, cheeks flushed, pupils blown wide as he stared up at you with something bordering on starved. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, breathing heavily.

"You taste so good," he murmured, his voice hoarse, wrecked.

Your chest was still heaving, your limbs feeling boneless as you tried to process what the fuck just happened. You met his gaze, dazed, completely spent.

"...Jesus Christ, Cheong-san."

A slow, cocky grin spread across his face, and before you could fully catch your breath, he was already moving back up, pressing his lips to yours, pulling you back into him like he was far from finished.

You barely registered the sound of something scraping against the building’s edge.

Then, a guttural voice cut through the haze.

"WHAT THE FUCK?!"

You and Cheong-san jolted apart just in time to see Yoon Gwi-nam’s face—half-bloodied, half-deranged—peeking over the ledge as he scaled the school building.

He stared at you both like he had just walked in on his own parents.

A strangled, horrified noise left his mouth, and in his sheer disgust, he lost his grip.

The last thing you saw was his expression twisting in absolute horror before he plummeted back down.

Silence.

"...Did you just kill him by eating me out?"

He blinked, looking back at you. His lips were swollen, his hair was still a mess from your fingers, and he was clearly still too dazed to function properly. "I—" He exhaled. "I think I did."

That was it. You lost it.

You doubled over, shoulders shaking with laughter. "Holy shit. Holy shit."

Cheong-san ran a hand down his face, half in disbelief, half in secondhand embarrassment. "Goddammit," he muttered. "Gwi-nam of all people had to see that? If he survives this fall, he's gonna be even more insufferable."

You wiped a tear from your eye, finally managing to catch your breath. "If he survives, I feel like he’s gonna need therapy more than revenge."

Cheong-san groaned, leaning back against the railing. "I can't believe my first time got witnessed by that greasy bastard."

You grinned, reaching up to fix his ruffled hair. "Hey, at least it was memorable."

"Too memorable," he muttered.

Before you could respond, a voice rang out from behind you.

"Cheong-san?"

You both froze.

Slowly—painfully slowly—you turned your head.

Standing in the doorway, eyes wide and horrified, were Cheong-san’s best friend, Lee Su-hyeok, and the absolute last person you wanted to be here right now—Nam On-jo.

Your pants were still crumpled around the floor, your lower half free from any cover.

Oh, shit.

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my works as I spend time and I take genuine effort to do them.

[webwanderer]

BTW I SWEAR WE'RE REALLY GONNA SEE HIM IN ALNST EPISODE 10.

Round 3, then 6, then???

[webwanderer]

BTW I SWEAR WE'RE REALLY GONNA SEE HIM IN ALNST EPISODE 10.

Round 3, then 6, then???

[webwanderer]

Litc ended. I'm killing myself 💀

[webwanderer]

Litc ended. I'm killing myself 💀

[webwanderer]

Litc ended. I'm killing myself 💀

[webwanderer]

𝐈'𝐦 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐚 𝐛𝐨𝐲✨

𝒋𝒖𝒏𝒆. he/him. xxii. artist. sarcastic.

pisces. music fanatic. foodie. sweet yet sour.

procrastinator, but definitely working on it.

[ currently obsessed with gwendolyn tennyson! ]

RULES! minors dni / nsfw / 18+ REQUESTS! open

WARNINGS!

I do not write and condone racism, sexism, homophobia, abuse, bullying, harassment, rape or incest. The world is already riddle with hate and problems, so please keep it cute and classy or you will be blocked.

Secondly, I write bottom male reader only, there's no top male reader! There's no female reader either, sorry, but I'm strictly dickly. This doesn't mean I have anything against female reader, I’m just representing for the community that has such lack of male centric readers.

Thirdly, most of my works will be NSFW, so anyone under the age of 18: THIS BLOG ISN'T FOR YOU! I will definitely remove any under 18 because you need to stop being grown.

Other than that welcome to Dreamer’s World!

WORKS!

• SUNDAY MORNINGS ( JASON TODD )

• UNSPOKEN TRUTHS ( DICK GRAYSON )

• RISKY DECISIONS ( OLIVER QUEEN )

• FEELINGS ( DICK GRAYSON )

• HIS HOME ( CLARK KENT )

• HIS HEART ( CLARK KENT )

• THORN IN HIS SIDE ( TIM DRAKE )

• THE BOY WHO BROKE CHAINS ( CONNER KENT )

• BOUND BY DARKNESS, ANCHORED BY LOVE ( JON KENT )

• A MUCH NEEDED BREAK ( TOM HOLLAND )

• ALL YOURS ( DEREK HALE )

• CRAZY, STUPID, LOVE ( DEAN WINCHESTER )

• SECRET ADMIRER ( HAL JORDAN )

• HEALING TOUCH ( BRUCE WAYNE )

• CLUMSY CONFESSIONS ( STILES STILINSKI )

SERIES!

• HI, NEIGHBOR ( JASON TODD )

— ONE. TWO. THREE. FOUR. END.

• INSUFFERABLE ( DAMIAN WAYNE )

— ONE. TWO.

• HIS AWAKENING ( NATE JACOBS )

— ONE. TWO. THREE.

reposts, replies and likes are appreciated.

[webwanderer]

Me checking on one of my beloved ao3 fics that hasn't been updated since 2017

[webwanderer]

WEIGE SPOILERS

During the part where Luka kisses the poster (which is probably when they were teens and hyuna just disappeared after losing her round), i stopped to look at the room and there is a beige structure on the right. It reminds me so much of that place we see in ROUND 3 where Luka holds the hand of a deceased person (probably someone who lost against him in alien stage). I don't know what that place might be. Maybe it's Luka's owner is keeping it as a sort of trophy-cementary, where he keeps the corpse of everyone Luka has defeated, knowing how proud of a owner he is?

Also, is someone able to tell what written in alien language (which is just a very intricated font in english) in the frame where hyuna drinks on the sofa and there's a text with arrows on it?

Also, in the moder AU, Ivan is holding a piece of paper which seems a love letter written in korean, but I can't tell what's written.