sincerelyneo

[sincerelyneo]

cursing the daylight | l.hc

“you got me calling at all times”

📀now playing: daylight by harry styles

❯ summary: Long-distance relationships suck. Hyuck spends his days wishing time would hurry up just so he can talk to you all night. But hey—at least he gets to have filthy phone sex with you once a week. Imagination is good for the brain.

❯ pairings: haechan x fem!reader

❯ genre: established relationship, smut

❯ words: 3.5k

❯ tags: 18+ minors dni, phone sex, male/female masturbation, explicit and descriptive sexual fantasies, dirty talk, slight fluff, pet names, literally just hyuck coaxing you through orgasm

The worst thing about Hyuck’s job—besides the long hours and occasional nagging from choreographers—is that for a quarter of the year, he has to do long-distance with you. He hates it. Viscerally. 

If he could quit and retire tomorrow, he would. No questions. He could afford to, actually. But you work just as much—if not more—across time zones, on red-eye flights, covering countless cities. You love it. You're brilliant at it. And he’d never dare ask you to slow down.

You wouldn’t let him, anyway. You don’t rely on men. Not even him. So that’s another twenty-five per cent of your relationship, spent apart.

And during that fifty per cent—the half of your lives lived out of sync—he used to get one call a day. That was the routine. No matter how tired, how loud the rehearsal room or late the flight, there’d be one call. A tether.

But now, after years of this—missed connections, dropped signals, and love stretched thin across continents and telephone wires—it’s more like one call a week. A text a day, if he’s lucky.

It has him wishing the days away. Counting down to night, or early morning, or whatever brief sliver of time you can spare. Just to hear your voice.

He thinks the boys are starting to resent him for it. The way he lingers by his phone like it’s stuck to him. The way he drags his feet when they try to pull him out to explore the cities they’ve landed in on tour—because God forbid he’s up on some rooftop taking thirst traps of Renjun for Instagram when your name finally lights up his screen.

Like right now—they’re all out at some fancy restaurant Chenle hasn’t shut up about since they landed. Mood lighting, velvet seats, overpriced wine. And he’s here. In his hotel bed, phone on his chest, staring at the ceiling. Waiting for the clock to hit 8 p.m. his time. Because that’s the time you scheduled.

And he doesn’t mind. Not even slightly.

He scrolls through his camera roll while he waits, thumb moving slow, as he takes in each pixel. A blurry photo of you in his hoodie, making a dumb face at him from across his kitchen counter. A candid you didn’t know he took, where you're reading with your legs tangled in his, sunlight streaking across your face. A video—his favourite—where you’re laughing so hard you snort, and then immediately hide your face in his chest, mortified.

God, he loves you. Like, embarrassingly so.

He thinks about the other fifty per cent of this relationship—the part where you’re home, or he is, or maybe neither of you are, but you’re in the same place at the same time, and that’s all that matters. The mornings when your cold feet find him under the covers. The way you hum when you’re brushing your teeth. How you started putting honey in your coffee because he does, even though you once called it disgusting. 

The way you kiss him. 

He is helpless. Hopeless. So gone for you, it’s borderline pathetic.

So much so, he doesn’t notice the clock turn 8:01. Doesn’t register your name lighting up the screen because he’s too engrossed in the memories he misses making. Still—his thumb moves. Manages to answer before the last ring finishes curling through the room.

“Hey, baby,” he mumbles, voice all honey and static from his end of the line.

On your end, you sound wrecked. Tired and stretched thin, as you sigh out a soft: “Hi.”

His brows knit together instantly. “You okay? You sound tired, baby. What time is it there?”

“It’s midnight,” you murmur. “Long day. But I didn’t want to sleep.”

He exhales through his nose, rubs a hand down his chest. Guilt blooms in his ribcage like rot. “You didn’t stay up for me, did you? Babe, I would’ve waited. I could’ve waited until tomorrow.”

And he means it. He’d wait forever if you asked him to. He still will. He’ll bury the ache, pretend the distance isn’t currently crushing him nightly, just for you to get a few more hours of rest if you want. Because hearing you sound like this—exhausted and frayed—hurts him more than going without you ever could.

But then you hum. “No. I just... I couldn’t sleep without speaking to you.”

His breath catches. He shifts on the bed, rolling fully onto his back, heart racing in that stupid, boyish way it always does when you say shit like that. When you remind him, he’s not the only one losing sleep because of the other.

“Seriously, baby,” he says, voice dipped now. “Is everything okay? What’s going on in that head of yours? Why can’t you sleep?”

There’s a pause. A heartbeat.

“I’ve just had a lot on my mind.” You say on barely a breath. “I’ve missed you. Missed us.”

He closes his eyes, head tilted back into the pillows, because fuck—he’s missed you too.

He swallows hard. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

And suddenly the distance feels unbearable. Because he can’t crawl through the phone. Can’t cup your jaw in his hand and kiss you until the missing parts stop hurting. All he can do is listen. And wait. And want you.

“I’ve missed you too,” he offers.

You shake your head where it rests on the pillow—not that he can see, but he hears it. Hears it in the tiny, frustrated whimper you let slip.

“No,” you breathe, voice all silky. He’s certain that if he were there beside you, you’d have that bratty pout on your lips he loves. “I’ve missed you. Missed you, Hyuckie.”

Hyuckie.

God help him.

He knows that voice. Knows what that nickname means when it spills out like that, sweet and drawn and ruined.

You only call him that when you’re horny and want something. When your skin is hot and your thoughts are messy and your legs won’t stay still under the sheets. He can tell you’re turned on right now. Your voice is dipping into that breathless, desperate place—and fuck, it lights him up.

He shifts slightly, letting his free hand drift lower, just over the waistband of his sweats, eyes fluttering shut. Because he can feel it now. The arousal. The irritation. Because now he’s hard and there’s too much distance between the two of you for him to have you beneath him. 

He misses the way you sound when you fall apart for him. Misses your little gasps, the way your breath catches when he tells you how pretty or naughty you are. He misses your noises. Your pouty mouth. Your wet eyes. Your pussy. All of you.

“I want you right now, Hyuckie,” you whisper. “I’m wet and needy and I miss you and I can’t sleep.”

Fuck.

His jaw clenches. His stomach twists. There’s a growl of something primal at the back of his throat before he exhales slowly. He keeps his head pressed to the pillows, eyes burning holes into the ceiling, the grip on his phone tightening.

“Mmm. That sounds awful, baby,” he says, voice low and thick with sleep. The kind of thick that drips. “You want me to help you take care of it?”

“Mhm,” you hum, all soft and breathy and a little whiny—just the way he likes you. “Only if you’re not too tired?”

His lips twitch at the edges. His sweet, delusional girl—like he wouldn’t peel his eyelids open with toothpicks if it meant he got even the tiniest, fleeting sliver of hearing you get yourself off. Helping you get yourself off. He wants nothing more.

“Don’t be silly, baby. I’d do anything for you.” A pause. “Tell me what you’re wearing.”

“A t-shirt,” you murmur, and he can hear the smile curling around your mouth. “Your t-shirt.”

He groans. “Yeah? What else?”

You go quiet. Barely a pause, but it’s enough to drive him crazy. He needs to know.

“Nothing else,” you say finally. “Told you I was wet and needy.”

His eyes screw shut. Like tightly. Like he’s in pain. “Y/N,” he says, all breathless and wrecked, “put me on video now.”

“I can’t.” You sound almost apologetic. Almost. “My co-worker’s asleep across the room. We have to be quiet. I just want your voice in my ear. Want you to talk me through it.”

He laughs. Sort of. It’s more like a broken sound clawing its way out of his throat. “Jesus fuck, baby. You’re so desperate, you’re getting off to my voice with someone in the room?”

Another beat.

“You’re so fucking naughty,” he says. He’s not even teasing anymore—just undone. Horny and helpless. “Are you in bed right now?”

“Mhm.”

“Door locked?”

“Mm-hmm.” That tiny, swallowed breath feels loud in his ear. “I wish you were here with me,” you whisper.

“Me too, baby. You have no fucking idea,” he groans, rolling to his side, pressing the phone tighter to his ear like it’ll somehow pull you closer. “Now put those pretty little fingers on our pussy and pretend they’re mine.”

You make this low, humming noise in your throat—halfway between shy and shameless—and it goes straight to his spine.

“Slide your hand down,” he commands. “Open your legs. Slip your fingers between them—nice and slow.

Hyuck waits. Listens for your obedience. It's torture—the good kind, the kind that drags across his nerves and settles somewhere low and unbearable on his skin. All he gets are the faint sounds: rustling sheets, a breath you don’t mean to let go of. He imagines it all. Has to. Because he can’t see you. Can’t touch you.

So instead, he reaches down and touches himself. Palm dragging along his length, over his sweatpants, gentle and testing. He’s hard already. Of course he is.

Then—you breathe in. And he knows. Yeah. You’re doing it too.

“Remind me how wet you are right now?” 

You whimper. “Dripping.”

“Fuck. Good girl,” he murmurs, stroking himself over the fabric. “Now rub slow circles over your clit. Just how you like it. Let it feel good, baby. Let it feel like me.”

You moan softly—entirely for him. Because you know he loves it. And he does. Loves it so much it actually hurts.

“You sound so pretty, Y/N. Keep doing that.”

“Are you touching yourself, too?”

Hyuck glances down, finding his cock already bulging beneath his sweats—obvious, obscene. He’s solid. Already leaking. He’s allowed himself the tease, sure. But not the payoff. Not yet. Because you called. Because you needed him.  He wants this to be about you. Always about you.

“Would you be disappointed if I said no?”

“Yes,” you breathe. “Touch yourself with me, Hyuck. Please.

He chuckles as he pushes his sweatpants down, hips lifting off the bed to free himself. His cock springs forward, flushed and heavy, already twitching in his hand.

“Trust me, babe,” he groans, giving himself one slow stroke. “There’s not a world where you’d have to beg me to get off with you.”

You laugh, this soft little thing on the other end of the line. 

He strokes his cock in one long slide. Palm moving up and down his shaft, slow and mean. The head’s already swollen, veins angry and raised, leaking just from the sound of your voice. From the image of you on the other end, legs spread, fingers between them, thinking about him.

“Goddamn,” he mutters, breath catching. “I wish I were there right now.”

“And what would you do if you were?” you ask. 

He smirks. “Do you really want to do this?” he murmurs. “Last I checked, you’ve got company. You sure you want my mouth?”

“Yes. Always want your mouth,” you breathe. “Don’t be shy, Hyuckie—I know how awfully good you are at making me cum over the phone. I know it’s been a while with our schedules. Do you still remember how?”

His chest tightens at that. At the way you say it. The way you test him.

You’re grinning, probably—he can see it. Can feel it. You’re definitely lying there smug and sweet, knowing exactly what you’re doing. Knowing you’ve lit a match of a challenge beneath him. Knowing the minute he caves and starts painting a picture of all the filthy things running through his mind, he won’t be able to stop. 

“Do I remember how,” he echoes, but it’s not a question. It’s a scoff. He’s laughing low, under his breath. He pumps himself again—firmer this time, chasing the pressure, the heat, you. “Are you still touching yourself, Y/N?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” A pause. “You wanna know what I’d do if I were there right now?”

“Please tell me, Hyuck.”

“If I were there,” he murmurs, eyes flitting shut as he pictures it, “I’d rest behind you, wrap an arm around your waist, and pull you back against my chest. I’d let you feel how hard my cock is for you, while it slides against your perfect ass—let you grind on it a little. Tease us both a bit.”

You let out another whimper that he wants to bottle. Frame. Tattoo on his fucking brain.

“Then I’d replace your fingers with mine. And I’d make you look down between your legs—make you watch what my hands can do to you. How well I know your body.”

“Hyuck…”

“I’d rub tight little circles on your clit,” he says, voice dropping, “just like you’re doing right now. You’re doing that, right?”

“Yes,” you whisper. “Exactly like that.”

“I’d play with you just like I always do. Get you right to the edge and then tip you over it. Make you cum on my fingers, over and over, until I’m ready to throw you on your back and devour you. Bury my face between your thighs and taste you.”

Your breath quickens. “You’re obsessed with giving head.”

“No, baby,” he groans. “I’m obsessed with giving you head. I fucking love eating your pussy. Only you.”

You moan. “Fuck.”

Hyuck feels his muscles coiling at the sound of you cursing, a delicious heat licking under his skin. His pace on his cock moves faster, grip tightening, chasing the edge of the fantasy he’s playing out in his head. 

“I’d suck on your clit until you were twitching—until you were begging me to stop. And then I’d pin your legs to the mattress and make you cum again. Tongue deep. Slow and filthy. And while your pussy was still cumming, I’d slide my fingers inside you. Just so I could feel how insanely tight you’d be when I finally gave you my cock.”

“Hyuck, I need you inside me again.”

His jaw clenches. His whole body stills for half a second, then he’s fucking into his hand with a curse.

“Yeah?” he grits out.

You whimper. “I wish you were fucking me right now. Miss your cock so much.”

Running a hand over his shaft, Hyuck grips his cock so tight it’s almost brutal. “Keep rubbing your pussy, baby. Pretend your fingers are mine.”

“I wish they were,” you breathe.

And God, he wishes that too.

His hips move in rhythm, meeting his fist like he’s fucking you, not air.

“I’d open your legs even wider,” he pants, “and slowly climb over you. So slow, you’d feel me every fucking where.”

“Mmhmm,” you breathe, already gone.

“It’s been so long since I got to touch you, baby,” he groans. “Missed your legs wrapped around me. You feel like fucking heaven under me.”

Your breathing is quick, short, and shaky. “Miss having you close, Hyuck. Need to touch you. Feel you. Haven’t had you inside me in so long.”

“I know,” he grits. “Fuck.”

His hand jerks himself faster now, rougher. Desperate. Chest heaving. 

“I think about it all the time. Think about you all the time. My pretty fucking girl.”

“I need to cum so badly, Hyuck.”

“Fuck, baby. Me too. You have no idea.”

“Then do it,” you whisper. 

His eyes screw shut. And suddenly he’s there—sees you in his mind, back arched, legs spread, that swollen, perfect pussy slick and ready just for him. He’s hanging by a fucking thread.

“I’d suck on your neck,” he growls. “I’d kiss you so deep, my tongue slips into your mouth, and you taste yourself. See how this pretty cunt tastes like honey. My favourite. I’m fucking addicted to you, Y/N.”

“Hyuck,” you exhale. “I’m so close.”

“I’d slide my cock over your clit, slow,” he pants. “I’d make sure I was covered in you, your pussy would be so wet I’d be soaked. And while you squirmed underneath me, begging me to just hurry up and fuck you, I’d purposefully draw it out. Torture you with it. Make you understand how fucking painful it is to want something and not have it because we’re always miles apart.”

You cry out, completely undone. “Fuck, Hyuck. I’m sorry. I want it. I want you.”

A smirk ticks on his lips.

“So fucking predictable,” he muses, chuckling. “And then—when you’re desperate, like right now—I’d press the head of my cock right against you and just slide inside your perfect fucking body.”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Yes. Please. I want it.”

His hand works in quick, short strokes now, no patience left in him. Just need.

“And you’d be warm. So wet. So fucking tight. Like always. Like you were made for me.” His voice breaks a little. “You take me so well, baby. Don’t you?”

“Mhm,” you breathe.

“I’d fuck you deep,” he says. “I’d fuck you into the fucking mattress while holding your hand. Because I love you. I love you so much, Y/N.”

“Love you too, Hyuck,” you whisper. And he feels it. In his chest. Down his spine. Straight to his cock.

“Are you going to cum for me, baby?”

You whimper, unable to fill your lungs with air. And that tells him everything he needs to know. That you’re right fucking there.

“Be a good girl and cum for me, Y/N. Please. I need it. You’re doing so good. You always do so good for me. If you cum, I’ll cum. You know that, right?”

“I want you to cum inside me,” you beg, voice crumbling. “Please, Hyuck. Please.”

“Fuck—”

Your moans tear through the line—small, breathless cries of his name like it’s the only word left in your vocabulary. And then he hears it: the raw, unfiltered sound of you falling apart mixed with the sound of you rustling against the mattress. It pushes him over the fucking edge.

He cums with a curse and your name in his mouth, body curling in on itself. It's blinding. Like being ripped open and put back together in the same second. In his mind, he sees it—the way you’d pull him deeper, thighs trembling, your fingers sinking into his back as he cums inside you. Your body soft, sated, spent, whispering quiet ‘love yous’.

His orgasm drags out—messy and hot and so much—painting his abdomen in thick streaks of cum. He pants, eyes squeezed shut, chest heaving. From your end of the phone, you breathe in. Shaky. Like your lungs have finally remembered how to work. He mirrors you. Completely fucking wrecked.

“Christ, baby,” he breathes, running a forearm across his forehead.

You giggle. “That was fun.”

He glances down at the thick mess on his stomach and groans. “I’m covered.”

You laugh again. Then, quieter, “I miss you, Hyuck.”

His eyes flutter closed again. “I miss you more.” 

“You might not have to feel that way for long. My boss is thinking of offering me a permanent base back home in the new year.”

If this were Hyuck a year ago, he would’ve beamed. Would’ve already filed to terminate his own contract. But two years into this long-distance purgatory, he knows better than to let hope bite too hard.

You’re always almost coming home. Always nearly unpacking for good. Always close. But then the deal falls through. A paper doesn’t sign. A higher-up changes their mind. And he’s left again—wide awake at four in the morning, staring at the ceiling, waiting for a phone call from you, wherever you are in the world that week. 

He stands from the bed, takes his naked, spent body to the sink, and wets a washcloth, wiping himself off with one hand while keeping the phone pressed to his ear with the other. He makes his voice sound light.

“That’s great news, babe,” he says. “Are you feeling better now?”

He hears the smile in your voice before you even answer. “You know I am. Maybe I’ll actually sleep now.”

Chuckling, he tugs his sweatpants back up and collapses onto the mattress. But the thought of hanging up makes his throat close.

He wants more. Always wants more. Wants to fall asleep to the sound of you breathing. Wants to wake up with the call still going. Wants your voice, your snores, your silence. Wants the illusion of closeness, even if it's just a tiny echo through the speaker.

“I don’t want you to sleep,” he blurts out, too fast. “I mean, if you’re not too tired, obviously. Do you want to stay on the phone for a while?”

You giggle. “Of course I do. As much as I love having phone sex with you,” you tease, “I do actually like talking to you, you know. Boyfriend.”

He smiles, big and stupid, and tosses the comforter over himself again. He switches to speaker, sets the phone beside his head on the pillow, and settles beside it like you’re next to him in bed again. 

“Good,” he says. “Now tell me all about this long day you’ve had, baby.”

[sincerelyneo]

girl wdym ur writing angst again 🫣if u hit us with another cheating trope I wont be able to take it😣😖

hahahha no cheating trope here anon. i think i traumatised myself when writing death by a thousand cuts lmao 😭 but still i can’t promise that what i’m currently writing will be completely pain free…

[sincerelyneo]

look, i know it’s summer and the vibes are supposed to be fun and good…but i am cooking up some more angst 🤠 (i’m not sorry)

[sincerelyneo]

I giggled a bit at the “well - you’re boy” comment hehe

y/n is so valid because like… mark’s literally a boy. a man. it should be his responsibility to be doing the asking out!!! 🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄

[sincerelyneo]

Gawd the fwb/avoidant trope always gets to me 😮‍💨😵‍💫🫠 plsss n the way he got jealous n possessive over her 🙏🙏🙏

me 🤝 writing fics where they’re both so hopelessly in love they can’t eat, sleep, or think without obsessing over each other—but instead of having healthy communication, they just spiral in their overwhelming feelings and end up acting all possessive and territorial.

[sincerelyneo]

Bro r we like on the same effing wave length cuz first the “everyone wants him that was my crime” and the “they try to romance me but u got the nasty” is my literal jam 😱🤯😲

we have impeccable music taste i think friend 😁

[sincerelyneo]

love me like you | l.mk

“they try to romance me, but you got that nasty and that’s what i want”

💿now playing: love me like you by little mix

❯ summary: Fucking the campus fuckboy was supposed to be simple—only curiosity, nothing more. But now he’s everywhere: in your head, in your thoughts, on your date—wait! Is that him leaning against the bar whilst you're out trying to get over him? Of course it is.

❯ pairings: mark x fem!reader

❯ genre: fuck buddies to lovers, smut

❯ words: 7.8k

❯ tags: 18+ minors dni!, angst, arguments, jealousy, possessiveness, making out, confessions, nipple play, slight begging, blow job, unprotected sex, marking, slight hair pulling, swearing, pet names, reader uses she/her pronouns, literally just poor communication until it's not poor anymore idk

The first time you decided to fuck Mark Lee, it was—for lack of a better term—a social experiment. Simply science. He was the campus hotshot (the alleged sex god everyone had either fantasised about or had), and you were just the curious girl in a slutty nurse costume who caught him at the right moment during a Halloween party. Plus, you were horny. 

It was supposed to be a one-night, no-strings investigation. Except you’re not a scientist, and he’s not a variable. He’s... Mark Lee. The—now verified—campus sex god with a perfect smile, but the newly discovered emotional availability of a locked door. And yet, you decided to let the fucking keep happening. Again. And again. And again. 

The whole thing feels like a mistake now. Not because he’s bad in bed—if he were, this would all be easier—but because he isn’t. He’s stupidly good. And the thing about sleeping with someone like that is: the sex ruins you for anyone else forever. And that’s your whole thesis. The sex had ruined you. The way he looked at you ruined you. The way he said “good girl” while pushing you down on his cock irreparably ruined you.

So, you ended it. Three weeks ago. Because it started to feel cruel that he wouldn’t give you more. That he never even offered. Like he was holding all the power in this weird fuck buddy dynamic and was just watching you dangle to see how long you’d hang on.

Apparently, not long enough to impact his life the same way he had yours, because he didn’t protest. Not that you gave him anything to protest with—you’re not the type to let boys in on the location of your heart, much less its navigation system. Pride’s a stubborn thing. He just looked at you with those unreadable eyes, shrugged, and said, “Cool.”

And so now, you’re here.

Sitting in a restaurant across from a guy you think is named Chenle—he’s nice. Sweet in the way puppies and jelly babies are sweet. You’re trying to give him a chance. More for yourself than for him, because he seems like he could maybe be good for you. Also, he’s an upgrade from Yeonjun, who talked about his money for twenty-four consecutive minutes last week.

But all you can think about is how Chenle’s voice is soft. Too polite. It doesn’t sound like it would ever say anything filthy. Doesn’t sound like Mark whispering “just like that” in your ear while you fall apart for the fourth—or probably fifth—time in a night. 

You press your thighs together. Sip your wine. Try not to think about that. Or him. 

“Did you drive here?” Chenle asks. 

You clear your throat then, blinking yourself back into the room. “No...no. I walked. My dorm’s pretty close.”

He nods, gently. “Well, I could give you a ride back, if you want?”

Do you want him to take you home? Do you want to let him kiss you in the hallway and pretend you’re not thinking of someone else the entire time? Do you want to fuck this guy on the first date? Will you enjoy it?…Probably not.

“There’s really no need,” you say, brushing his offer off with a wave of your hand. “It’s not far.”

He nods. “Of course. No pressure.” 

He’s so... agreeable. You hate that for some reason. There’s no edge. No challenge.

Chenle starts talking about the dessert menu—something about cookie dough being his guilty pleasure. You try to smile, you want to seem present, but you don’t actually care. If you did, you’d probably argue. Tell him he doesn’t need to feel guilty about liking a universally adored dessert. That guilt should be reserved for real sins. The kind that keep you up at night. The kind involving dirty flashbacks of Mark’s hand gripping your throat while he dragged his mouth down your collarbone—stop it!

“God, I’m really glad we did this. You’re easy to talk to,” Chenle grins at you across the table.

You blink at him. He’s been talking at you, not to you. Still, you take another sip. “That’s nice of you.”

“You know, I don’t go on dates much,” he admits. “I’m kinda surprised you said yes to this, actually.”

That gets your attention. You glance up. “Why?”

“I dunno. You just seem… cooler than me,” he shrugs casually. “And, everyone kind of thought you and Mark Lee were together together.”

Your stomach does a weird, involuntary flip. “What!?”

He gives a half-laugh. “Did you think the two of you were discreet or something?”

“I—well—” you stammer, throat suddenly dry.

“Relax,” he says, laughing again. “There’s a lot of talk when the campus fuckboy stops going to parties, and no one’s heard a new sex story about him since Halloween. You know, when he was last seen walking you home.”

Your face heats. People were talking about the two of you? He hadn’t been seen with anyone else? You never asked him for anything. Not clarity, not commitment, not to stay. You didn’t want to give him the opportunity to say no. But now—knowing he didn’t—knowing he hasn’t—

It makes your stomach ache. You’re not sure whether it’s longing or relief.

You cough lightly, trying to buy space. “We… weren’t serious. Mark Lee doesn’t do serious.”

Chenle nods, face softening like he’s just put his foot in something. “Sorry—I didn’t mean to upset you—”

“I’m not upset,” you cut in. “It’s just… I don’t think he’ll be together together with anyone. Boys like that never are.”

He laughs, softer now. “Well, I guess I should be glad he’s one of those boys. Helped me match with you.”

You nod, trying to arrange your face into something pleasant. “Mm, I guess.”

It’s not Chenle’s fault. He’s really sweet. He’s really trying. He really thinks this is going somewhere. He doesn’t know you’re somewhere else entirely. He doesn’t know you still wonder if Mark still keeps your earrings in his nightstand. That some part of you hopes he does.

Then, the restaurant door opens, and everything inside you goes very, very still. Your skin prickles like it’s being watched. Branded. And when your eyes flick toward the bar, you find the exact reason why.

Mark fucking Lee.

Wearing that same leather jacket—the one you once threw on after he fucked you senseless on the floor of his dorm, your bare legs freezing against the tiles while he went to shower and didn’t ask you to stay. You gave it back the day you ended things.

Your mouth goes dry, an unbearable knot forming in your stomach.

He’s leaning back against the bar now, elbows splayed like he owns the fucking room. Head tilted, scanning the crowd like he’s bored with everyone in it—until he finds you. Then there’s a twitch of recognition behind his eyes. A curl at the corner of his mouth that might be a smirk, might be a snarl…like he already knew you’d be here.

Your jaw tenses. Because now that he’s here, those memories, those flashbacks of you melting the last time he called you honey with a hand between your legs, pound in your head that much more.

Chenle says something. You don’t hear it. You hear him—Mark—everywhere. The ghosts of his voice echoing in your skull. The phantom press of his fingers on your thighs. That last night—three weeks ago—when you finally said it out loud: This doesn’t work for me anymore. Which wasn’t the truth. The truth was: Please tell me I’m wrong. Please don’t let this be it. Please pick me.

But he just shrugged.

Like you hadn’t just handed him a lifeline. Like you weren’t standing in the middle of his room with your heart bleeding, waiting for him to give you something. Anything.

All he gave you was: “Cool.”

Your lip twitches. You hate him. It’s not enough that he ruined your sex life—no. He has to ruin your rebound, too, just by existing in the same fucking room.

You blink back into the present, back to the table, to Chenle—who’s still talking. Still smiling. Still blissfully unaware that you’ve just had a full-blown emotional spiral in the span of thirty seconds.

He reaches across the table, fingers brushing yours in that gentle, careful way good boys do. And you flinch. It’s slight. But it’s there. And it’s enough. Because Mark sees it. Of course he fucking does. And that stupid, smug, ruin-you smile of his curves just a little deeper. Like he’s winning.

You want to scream. Or slap him. Or maybe fuck him—right here, right now—just to purge it from your bloodstream. Like he’s a fever you can sweat out. (He’s not. He never will be. You know that. You hate that.) You want to grab Chenle’s face and kiss him until your mouth forgets the sound it makes when Mark tells you you’re good.

“You know what? I will take you up on that ride.”

You say that louder than necessary—loud enough that it startles even you. 

Chenle looks up, startled. He blinks, caught somewhere between surprised and mildly confused. “Oh—yeah? Okay. Cool. Totally. Yeah.” He laughs a little under his breath, flustered now, already half-standing. “Let me just grab our coats.”

You nod, forcing a smile that probably looks more like a grimace. You don’t know what you’re doing. You just know you want Mark to see. You want him to see you choosing someone else. Even if it’s not a real choice.

Chenle disappears to pay and grab your coats. You barely stand yourself before Mark slides into his now-vacant chair across from you.

You don't look at him.

Not yet.

You won't give him that.

But you can feel the heat of him from across the table. That static charge in the air when he’s too close. Always too fucking close. And then—so casual it’s insulting—his voice:

“Cute.”

You look at him. 

“Sorry?” you say, syrupy-sweet, but there’s a layer of poison underneath. “Did you say something?”

He smiles. “I said it’s cute. Watching you try so hard to prove you’re over me.”

Your chest tightens. “Who said I ever wanted you?”

“Well,” he gestures vaguely in the direction Chenle left. “It’s pretty clear you don’t want that guy.”

“Oh yeah?” You arch a brow. “And how exactly would you know what I want?”

“You flinched, Y/N.”

You bristle. Immediately.

“I did not.”

“You did.”

“I just…” You hesitate. Eyes flicking to the bar, where Chenle is still standing with the host, sweet and harmless and catastrophically wrong for you. The kind of boy who pays the bill. The kind of boy who thinks liking cookie dough is a sin. The kind of boy who would never fuck you against a wall without checking twice if you’re okay.

Sweet. Safe. Decent. And that’s the problem, isn’t it?

“I didn’t expect his touch,” you finish, quieter now. “That’s all.”

Mark hums. Low. Entirely unconvinced. Like he’s humouring you.

So you keep digging. You can’t help it.

“That doesn’t mean I don’t want him.”

His smile twitches, eyes dragging over you. “He’s not your type.”

You straighten. “I don’t have a type.”

“Sure you do,” he says like this is a conversation about wine preferences, not people. “You like bad. You like trouble. You like messy, and loud, and… complicated.”

He leans in a little, voice dipping.

“You like dirty. And nasty. And bad.”

Your mouth opens—closes—then opens again.

There’s heat blooming up your neck, across your chest, and you’re not sure if it’s rage or shame or arousal or all three at once.

“And is that supposed to be you, is it?”

Mark grins—wide, infuriating. A smirk that’s been haunting your sleep for weeks. “Woah,” he says, all mock-surprise. “Who said anything about me?”

You hate him. You actually fucking hate him. Because he knows exactly what he’s doing. 

“You still think about me, honey?”

“No,” you snap, too quickly. “That’s not what I meant.”

Mark tilts his head, all faux confusion and infuriating calm. His brow quirks like you’ve just said something profoundly stupid.

“It’s not?”

Your jaw tightens. “No.”

His grin sharpens. All wolf, no boy. “So… you don’t think about me at all?”

You cross your arms. Shift in your seat, like maybe if you move far enough away from him you’ll be able to compose yourself. (You won’t.) Because your body is already answering for you. Loudly. The press of your thighs beneath the table. The heat climbing up your neck. That familiar, horrible pulse between your legs that remembers him.

You bite the inside of your cheek. Hard. “You really think you’re that special? Think I can’t help but think about you?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugs, “Am I? Do you?”

God. He’s so—so smug. So obnoxious. So annoyingly beautiful in that fucking jacket, smelling like he always does. You can’t stand him. And you can’t stop looking at his mouth.

You shift again. This time to put space between you, but it feels more like an admission. And Mark sees it. He sees everything. He sees you.

“Why do you care?” You ask. 

He blinks. “What?”

You lean in now. Eyes narrowed. “Why are you even here? Why do you care if I flinched? If I’m into him or not? What difference does it make to you, huh?”

Mark watches you. No smirk now. No grin.

You keep going, blood hot under your skin.

“Are you jealous?”

“Yes.”

You stare at him, like maybe you misheard. Like maybe he said, guess or bless or chess. Because there’s no way this boy—this fuck boy—this emotionally unavailable, perennially half-interested, commitment-phobic boy—is jealous. Of anyone. About you.

“You’re…?” you stammer, blinking at him like he’s grown a second head. “You’re jealous?

"Yes," he says again. "I think the thought of a man that isn’t me touching you is revolting, actually. So I suppose that would qualify as jealousy. Though I can’t say it’s an emotion I’m particularly familiar with."

You stare at him. And you want to scoff. Want to roll your eyes. Want to claw your way out of the ache that suddenly balloons in your chest. 

“Well.” You force the word out, brittlely. “You have no right to be.”

He tilts his head slightly, studying you like you’ve just said something objectively false.

“I’m not yours,” you add.

“I know,” he grits out. “You made that very clear.”

“I made that clear?” you echo.

He nods once. “You ended it. Not me.”

He’s right. You did. But the thing is—you didn’t end it because you didn’t want him. You ended it because it felt safer to walk away first than wait for him to do it.

"So—" you start, eyes narrowed now. "You never wanted to label it."

It sounds juvenile. Petulant. But it’s the only rebuttal you can give that won’t tear your chest open and spill everything you’ve been trying to keep inside.

“Neither did you,” he throws back.

You scoff. “Yeah, well—you’re a boy.”

He raises an eyebrow. “That’s not very feminist of you, Y/N.”

Your cheeks flush. The humiliation is instant and hot and you hate that he’s right. 

“Don’t lecture me about feminism,” you mutter. “We were fucking for three months, Mark. Three months. And you never once asked me out. Never once asked me to be your girlfriend. What was I supposed to do with that?”

He studies you then. “You never asked me to be your boyfriend either.”

You laugh—harsh, humourless. “That’s what you got from that? Really? You’re deflecting.”

“And you’re avoidant,” he shoots back, eyes dark. “You run before anyone gets the chance to walk away from you.”

“Okay, fine,” you say, arms folding across your chest. “I guess that makes us both as bad as each other then, doesn’t it?”

He looks away then at the table. His jaw clenches, and when he speaks again, it’s like the words hurt coming out. 

“So this is what you want, huh? You want some guy to wine and dine you? Woo you? Call you pretty and ask you to be his girlfriend over overpriced pasta?”

You blink. “Doesn’t everyone?”

He looks up at you then, eyes glassy, burning. “I don’t know, Y/N. I don’t know. If I knew, you wouldn’t be on another date right now with some fucking loser.”

You don’t say anything. 

“I’m trying,” he says, and his voice breaks just enough to make your stomach twist. “I’m trying to understand you. I’m trying to be better at this, whatever this is. I’ve never had a girlfriend before, Y/N. And the only person I’ve wanted to figure it out with is you. And I’m fucking it all up.”

There’s a vulnerability in his voice that you’ve never heard before. And you don’t know what to do with it. You don’t know how to hold it. So you flounder.

You do that thing you always do—say nothing. Hope silence will cushion the ache. Avoid. 

You can feel your pulse in your neck. Your fingertips. Behind your eyes. And then you feel guilty. Because you see Chenle.

He’s walking toward the table, calm and unsuspecting. You bite your lip, which makes Mark turn, following your gaze. His entire posture changes. His shoulders tense, and when he looks back at you, his eyes are already narrowed. Already knowing. Already hurt.

“You want him to take you home,” he says, voice deep, barely controlled. “But you want me to fuck you against the door when you get there.”

Your stomach drops. Your mouth parts, no words forming. Because—he’s not wrong. He’s so right it makes you nervous.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” he whispers.

But you can’t.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” he repeats. “Say the words and I’ll walk away from this table right now.”

No words come. Because he’s not wrong. And you’re a coward. And that’s when Chenle reaches the table. There’s a silence. An awkward one. Chenle’s eyes bounce from you to Mark, to the space between your bodies. He slows, smile faltering.  

“Hey,” he says casually, but there’s a flicker behind his eyes. Suspicion. Caution. “Everything alright?”

“Perfect,” Mark says, with a nod. “We were just catching up.

Chenle doesn’t answer immediately. He glances between you both, clocking the flush in your cheeks, the tension in your shoulders, the fact that Mark still hasn’t looked away from you.

“You’re in my chair,” he says to Mark.

His tone is even. But there's something unmistakably clipped about it. A quiet edge beneath the civility. Mark doesn’t move. Instead, he leans back slightly, his smirk lazy, but his eyes—his eyes are still locked on you, and they’re anything but.

“I figured you wouldn’t mind,” he says. “Y/N didn’t.”

And it’s so deliberate. The way he doesn’t break eye contact. The way he doesn’t even glance at Chenle. Like he’s reminding you—not him—exactly who was here first.

You feel the air shift between them. A low crackle. Men.

You force a tight smile. “It’s fine. We were just leaving anyway—”

“I can take you home,” Mark cuts in smoothly, already sitting up straighter. “It’s on the way, if I remember right.”

You freeze.

Chenle’s head turns slowly toward Mark, expression unreadable now. You can practically feel the tension curdling in your chest.

“No need,” Chenle rebukes. “I’ve got it covered.”

Mark tilts his head. “Wasn’t talking to you.”

Chenle’s gaze flicks to you. His jaw ticks once. “Y/N?”

You look back at him—heart in your throat, guilt crowding your chest, shame curling beneath your skin. Because all you can hear is Mark’s voice echoing back to you—’You want him to take you home. But you want me to fuck you against the door when you get there.’

And the worst part? He’s right.

Mark leans back in the chair—his chair now, apparently—ankle casually resting on one knee like he’s lounging in his own living room, not hijacking your date. Then, with a slow glance at Chenle, he says:

“I’d be doing you a favour, you know, man?”

Chenle grimaces. “Sorry?”

Mark shrugs—one of those lazy, lopsided shrugs.“Her dorm. It’s kind of a maze if you don’t know the layout. Messy.”

You nearly choke on your own tongue.

Chenle frowns, confused but not stupid. “I think I can figure it out.”

Mark hums, tapping a lazy rhythm against the table with his fingers. “Sure. If you’re into wasting time fiddling with that broken lock she refuses to get fixed. Doesn’t like confrontation with the landlord.”

You shoot him a look—what the fuck are you doing—but he just flashes you that lazy half-smile. 

Chenle’s jaw ticks. “Funny. I don’t remember you being her RA.”

Mark leans forward slightly, elbows on knees, grin widening. “Nah, not an RA. Just… familiar.”

You open your mouth—ready to shut it all down, to say Mark, stop, before I kill you—but he gets there first. Again.

“You still in that shared suite?” he asks you, breezily, like Chenle isn’t three feet away with clenched fists and murder in his eyes.

“Mark,” you warn.

But he’s on a roll now, chin in hand, eyes glittering with something dangerous. “God, your old roommate—Miyeon, right? Absolute nightmare. Likes to hex the men that come in and out the dorm that one. Beware, buddy.”

Chenle turns to you. Slowly.  “I thought you two weren’t serious.”

You swallow, throat dry. “It wasn’t—it was just…a while ago.”

Mark exhales a short laugh. Cold. Pleased. “‘A while ago.’ Sure. Guess we’re playing the modesty card tonight.”

“Mark.” 

He finally looks at you, and it’s obvious. The smirk is for Chenle, but the stare is all for you. 

“I’m just offering some information and being helpful,” he says. “Friendly, even.”

Chenle lets out a bitter breath. “Yeah. Nothing screams friendly quite like pissing all over your territory and peacocking how much you know her just because you’re jealous.”

Mark bristles—jaw tight, lips pressing into something cold and dangerous. “Jealous?” he spits. “You think she’s yours?”

“Well, she’s certainly not yours.”

You’ve had enough. “She is right here, you absolute morons.”

They’re squaring up for part two of whatever testosterone-fueled dick swinging contest this is. But before they can hurl more barbed words across the table, you snap—louder than you meant to, trembling slightly under the exhaustion that’s settled in your bones. 

“Chenle. It’s fine.”

He turns to you, brows pinched. 

“He’s right,” you continue quietly. “He lives near my dorm. It’s not far. I’ll just…” You hesitate. Swallow. “I’ll call you.”

Chenle stares at you. Then past you. Then at Mark. And back to you again. 

There’s a pause, and you see the moment it sinks in. Watch it bloom across his face that you’re not coming home with him. That whatever this evening was for him—the promise of something, or at least the pretence—it ends here. Under the dim glow of restaurant lighting, with your ex-situationship getting a front row seat. 

You’re doing to him exactly what you say you hate. That thing—how people pretend they’re just “figuring themselves out” when really, they’re just emotionally unavailable. You’re no better. Equally emotionally preoccupied. 

He exhales, quiet, like he’s swallowing everything he wants to say. Then he nods. Just once. “Okay.”

And it hurts. How polite he is. How gentle. How he gives you the grace you don’t deserve. You’re an asshole.

“Goodnight, Y/N,” he says softly. Then he turns—just like that, without so much as a glance back.

You don’t move until the door shuts behind him. The silence between you and Mark hums like a live wire. You equally don’t dare look at him.

“Y/N.”

Your jaw clenches. “Don’t.”

“What?”

“Don’t let me turn around and see you gloating like you just won something right now.”

He leans in closer. Not touching, but close enough that your skin buzzes. “You think this is about winning?”

You finally turn to him, eyes hot. “Isn’t it always, with you?”

His face hardens. But not cruelly. Just… like he hates that you think that. “No,” he says. “Not with you.”

And maybe he’s telling the truth. Maybe he even believes it. But you don’t. Not fully. Not yet. Because you’ve been circling this boy for far too long. You know him too well, you think.

“I hurt him,” you whisper. “He didn’t deserve that.”

Mark’s face softens—just barely. “I know.”

You shake your head. “And you… You made it worse. You wanted to make it worse.”

He doesn’t deny it. And it infuriates you. How arrogant he is. How demanding. How you let him be like that with you. You shove your chair back, the legs dragging against the tile with a wince-inducing screech.

“You’re walking me home now,” you say flatly. “Since you scared off my date.”

Technically—that’s not true. It was you. You were the one who let Chenle go. The one who didn’t fight for him. But it’s easier to blame Mark. Easier to be angry than it is to be honest. Because the truth? You’re frustrated. Frustrated that no one can live up to your expectations the way he does. That no one can love you, ruin you, ruin for you—like this boy beside you.

You walk out of the restaurant together without speaking, without touching. The air is cold, but the silence is colder. It isn’t until you’re halfway down the block, your heels clicking against pavement, that he speaks again.

“Were you gonna let him up tonight if he walked you home?”

You laugh. A dry, bitter sound that tastes like blood in the back of your throat. Because—really? Who the fuck does he think he is? Where does he get the audacity?

“Does it matter?”

He stops walking.

“No… I guess it doesn’t.”

You scoff, shaking your head. Your hands are fists at your sides and your throat feels tight. “I can’t believe you have the nerve to ruin my date and then ask me shit like that.”

“I didn’t ruin anything,” he mutters. “He left. That’s on him.”

“No,” you snap, taking a step toward him. “He left because of you. Because you sat there and made it unbearable for him to stay.”

He squares his shoulders, eyes flashing. “Well, if I scared him off so easy, maybe he doesn’t deserve you. Because so long as I’m here, Y/N—”  His voice cracks a little. “I’m not fucking going away.”

You want so desperately for that to be true.  But it isn’t.

“You went away, Mark,” you say, shaking your head. “You let me leave. You watched me walk out of your room, out of your life, and you didn’t stop me. Not until I showed up with someone else.”

“And you didn’t ask me to stay either,” he fires back, voice rising. “You told me it didn’t work for you anymore—you ended it. I was trying to fucking respect that. I was trying to give you space because I don’t know how to do this.”

His chest heaves. “But I can’t shut my mouth anymore. I can’t sit back and pretend I don’t care. I do. I care so much.”

That floundering feeling claws its way back up your throat. Bitter and breathless. You shake your head because it’s the only thing you can do—because if you speak, you’ll unravel. 

“You don’t mean that.”

He exhales sharply, rubs his jaw like he’s trying to hold himself together. “I don’t mean that?” he echoes. “How do you think I knew to show up here tonight?” 

He takes a step closer. 

“Haechan saw you with that guy and told me to do something about it. Because apparently, I can’t shut up about you. Because I keep talking about you like you’re mine. Because I keep bringing everything—every fucking thing in my life—back to you.”

He steps closer, and his eyes—God, his eyes. They’re wide and glassy and burning like they could swallow you whole.

“I’ve told you, Y/N. I’m trying,” he says, voice breaking. “I want to try. I want to figure this out. With you. Even if I don’t know how.”

You swallow hard, throat burning.

“There’s not a single corner of my mind where you don’t exist,” he breathes. “You’re everywhere. I lay in bed thinking about you. I wake up thinking about you.” He exhales. “I can’t stop thinking about how much I want you.”

He pauses, looks down, and when he speaks again, it’s quieter. 

“I fucked up by not fighting for you. I know that. I should’ve said something—done something. But you didn’t fight for me either.” His voice cracks then, just slightly, and it’s that splintered sound that guts you. “You just… left,” he murmurs. “ One day, we were okay—or I thought we were. And the next, we weren’t.”

You bite your lip, eyes flickering away from his. “I didn’t want to be one of those girls who thinks she can fix you,” you whisper. “Who thinks she can tame you”

Mark looks at you like you’ve just slapped him. And maybe you have. With the truth. 

He scoffs. Dry. “Right. Because God forbid you be one of those girls. Better to be the one who ghosts before you get ghosted.”

You flinch. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” he fires back. “You walked out. You didn’t even give me a chance.”

“Because you didn’t ask for one!” you shout. “You didn’t want one!”

“You don’t know what I wanted!” His voice breaks against the pavement, and he’s breathing hard now, jaw tight, eyes on fire. “You never asked.”

You step back, arms crossed like a shield you know won’t help. “I shouldn’t have had to. If you wanted me, you should’ve said it.”

“What do you think I’m doing right now?!” He snaps.

You don’t answer, and he stares at you. “Look, I’m not good at this, Y/N,” he says finally, voice low and breaking. “I don’t do feelings. I don’t do relationships. I don’t do… this.”

“Yeah,” you sneer. “Believe me—I noticed.”

“I don’t know how to be soft with people,” he explains. “But you kept me in this box—this neat little no-strings, no-questions, no-expectations box—and now you’re pissed that I didn’t crawl out of it? I didn’t know how to crawl out of it.”

Your silence says everything.

He laughs again, but this time it’s desperate. Fractured. “God, you’re such a hypocrite.”

“And you’re a coward,” you spit. “You wanted me, and you knew I wanted more, and you let me starve for it.”

His mouth opens. Then closes. And then he just says it.

“I didn’t think I deserved you.”

Your eyes narrow then, “And what exactly did I deserve?”

His jaw tightens, throat working around the words. “You deserve that guy,” he says, eventually. “That—Chenle guy. Because he’s sweet and he’ll be good for you. He’ll definitely romance you and probably never upset you.”

He runs a hand through his hair, pacing frantically like he’s furious with himself.

You nod, slowly. “He is,” you say.

And it stops him dead. His eyes find yours, his jaw grinding tight now. He steps in then. Close. Too close. You can feel the heat of his breath. The anger. The hurt. It radiates off him like steam.

“You were gonna let him kiss you tonight, weren’t you?”

You lift your chin. “Maybe.”

He breathes hard through his nose. “Say it again.”

“Maybe.”

And then it’s all a blur.

His hands—on your face. On your jaw. In your hair. Everywhere, just like his thoughts. His mouth crashes into yours like he’s angry at it. Like he can’t hear another word of you not understanding him. 

It’s not sweet. Mark doesn’t do sweet, and he thinks that’s his problem. It’s not. You like the rough, the breathless, the unpracticed. Because it’s raw, so goddamn real you almost gasp from the first brush of lips alone.

Your back hits the brick wall of your dorm building with a thud, but you don’t flinch. You dare him. You dare him to kiss you like that again. And he does. Because this is what you want, what you crave, what Chenle could never give you.

“You were really gonna let him do this?” he mutters against your lips, voice wrecked and so far gone it makes your knees buckle. “Let him touch you like this?”

Your fingers fist into the fabric of his shirt, tight, like if you don’t hold on to him you might float away with how light-headed he’s making you feel.

“And if I was?” you breathe, lips brushing his like it hurts to pull away.

He growls—actually growls—like the question wounds him. “I’d have to kill him,” he replies, forehead pressed to yours.“Because it’s supposed to be me.”

He kisses you again, and it’s all teeth and tongue. He’s not just kissing you—he’s devouring you. You moan into it—he loses it. Presses you closer like there’s still space left to close because maybe, if he touches you deeply enough, desperately enough, he can get any other man out of your mind. 

Little does he know, he’s already done that. Already claimed that part of your soul.

You don’t remember walking. Only hands and mouths.The way his lips refuse to leave yours even as you fumble toward the entrance to the elevator, backs hitting walls, breaths stolen, half-sentences, broken kisses because neither of you knows how to stop.

You mash the elevator button with a shaky hand, his mouth still locked. His fingers grip your waist like he’s warning you—this is it. This is us. No one else.

You kiss him harder. 

The elevator dings. And then it’s more fumbling, more hunger, more bruised lips. His hands drag up under your shirt like he can’t wait another second; he’s willing to risk the openness. By the time the doors slide open on your floor, you’re breathless. Dizzy. Unsteady in that good way—like your legs don’t quite know whether to run or wrap around him.

He practically drags you out, laughing under his breath, but it’s not joyful. It’s all sexy and sinful.

You fumble the key into the lock, only for it to stick, like it always does. You curse. He takes it from your hand.

“Move,” he mutters. 

One twist, a shoulder shove, and it opens with a groan of old hinges. And once you’re inside, he lets the door slam shut. He picks you up like you weigh nothing—like carrying you is a problem he’s craved having—and drops you onto the bed without so much as a sigh.

He crawls over you, lips never leaving your skin—your jaw, your neck, your collarbone—dragging his teeth across all the places he knows will make you gasp. And God, he knows. But so do you.

You arch into him, spine bending like you’re offering yourself up, hands threading into his hair, tugging—just enough to draw that sound from the back of his throat. That low, ragged groan that makes you feel drunk. Drenched in him. 

“Why were you on a date with him,” he mutters, voice hot against your chest, “if you’d still let me touch you like this, honey?” His words scrape across your skin sharper than his teeth. “Tell me why.”

Your breath catches.

“Tell me why you picked this shirt,” he demands, eyes narrowing, fingers slipping under the hem, “When you know it’s my favourite?”

He tugs it higher, off, discarded without thought. His voice is nothing but gravel and desperation. “Talk to me. Please,” he says, eyes locked on yours. “You know where I stand. Where do you?”

His hand moves then—palming over your bra like he’s coaxing you into honesty. His eyes are fully blown, pupils swallowing the brown colour as he watches you squirm beneath his touch. He’s pleading—but there’s nothing sweet or pathetic about it.

He massages you through the fabric, purposefully. Like a punishment. Because he knows you’ll want more—knows you’ll need more—and he won’t give it to you. Not yet. Not until you break. Not until you tell him the truth.

You whine—quiet, high, broken—hips twitching beneath him, fingers clawing at his shoulders. But he waits. Certain that you’ll give in. And he’s right.

“Mark,” you whisper. 

He doesn’t move faster. Just that teasing hovering. A steady pressure through the lace of your bra, keeping you right on the edge. 

“I wanted you,” you gasp. “Okay?”

His hand stills, just for a second. Your eyes close. You can’t look at him when you say it.

“I wanted you to be my boyfriend. I wanted you in every way other than the sex.”

He doesn’t speak. So you keep going—because it’s pouring out now, unfiltered. (And also because his fingers are dangerously close to tugging on your nipple, and you’ve never wanted anything more, but that’s beside the point. Mostly.)

“But I was scared. Because you didn’t want that, and I thought if I asked—if I even hinted—you’d pull away. That you’d leave. I didn’t want you in some small, fractured way anymore.”

He rewards you for the honesty, hand finally slipping beneath the bra, fingers splaying over bare skin, and you gasp—the sound swallowed by his mouth, like he needs to consume that too. Everything you give, he takes.

His eyes darken—if that’s even possible. “And what about now?”

You pant, slightly dazed. “What about now?”

“I’m ninety per cent sure I’m about to fuck you,” he says, like it’s a fact. “And you just told me you don’t want me in that small, fractured way anymore.” His mouth brushes yours. “So what?” he murmurs. “You asking me to be your boyfriend?”

Arrogant little shit. 

Your lips part, something between a laugh and a moan slipping out. “Are you asking me to be your girlfriend?”

“Yes,” He says without hesitation. Then his voice drops. “But I need you to know—you never look at that fucking guy you saw tonight again if you agree.” He leans in close—so close his words practically melt onto your skin. “You’re not calling him, you’re deleting his number,” he continues.“I’ve never done this boyfriend thing before, but I’m pretty sure possessiveness might come with the territory with me, honey.”

You don’t even have time to respond before he pulls the bra down completely and mouths at your nipple—hot and open and starved—and suddenly, your legs aren’t entirely working anymore.

Your hands tangle in his hair, helpless as you gasp, “That a promise?”

He pulls back slowly—cruelly. Mouth slick with his own spit. His thumb drags over your nipple, then sweeps lower, tracing the curve of your breast. His eyes drop with it, flare with something feral.

“I don’t know,” he says, and the smirk on his face is borderline obscene. “You tell me.”

You follow his gaze down—see the red mark he’s left blooming across your chest, flushed and raw, bruising like something claimed.

He looks proud. Smug. Like he’s never had the right to label you before—and now he has. So he will. Your breath shudders. Because you’re not used to being looked at like that.

“I don’t know,” he says again, dragging the pad of his thumb across your breast with a sinister slowness. “You tell me, girlfriend.”

The last word is practically a purr. Dipped in arrogance. Dipped in possession.

It should make you roll your eyes, but it doesn’t. It makes you throb, because equally, you wanted him. You knew he was your number one, and now you’re his.

You lurch up, catch his jaw in your hand and kiss him—really kiss him—this open-mouthed, almost wild thing. Messy and biting and so deserved. He groans, deep in his chest, and it’s the best sound you’ve ever heard.

“You’re such a cocky bastard,” you mutter against his lips.

“I am,” he agrees, without shame. “But I’m your cocky bastard.”

Your giggle breaks somewhere between his mouth—cut off by the way he’s rolling his hips against you, gentle and ruinous, fully clothed but pressing right where you need him like he’s been cataloguing your reactions for months. (He has.)

“Say it,” he murmurs, mouth now at your jaw, your throat, your shoulder. Nipping. “Say I’m your boyfriend.”

“Mark,” you whine, hips shifting for a lick of friction. 

“Say it,” he growls again, just under his breath. “Say it or I stop.”

“You’re my boyfriend.”

And then he’s kissing you again—harder now. Hands back on your body, feeling, exploring. 

“I think I’m addicted to you,” he says when he finally unclasps your bra. 

But the second it’s off, the second you’re bare and trembling beneath him, something shifts. Because he’s still fully clothed. Still composed. Still smug. Still in control. And you suddenly feel far too naked for someone who just gave him your truth.

So you push at his chest.

He stares, surprised—but you don’t falter. You shove him again, harder, and this time he lands flat on his back, propped against the headboard as you paw at the hem of his t-shirt.

“Honey—” he starts, but you’re already climbing over him, straddling his hips like you were built to belong there.

“You’ve had your fun, turnabout’s fair play, boyfriend,” you say. 

And oh, that word—boyfriend—it does something to him. Makes him groan like you said something filthier. Makes his eyes roll back like he’s seconds away from losing it.

You roll your hips over his bulge and he bucks beneath you—cursing, breath stuttering, jaw clenched against the sound he almost makes.

“God, you’re a menace,” he grits out.

You smile sweetly. Tilt your head. Pretend to consider it.

“No,” you whisper, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of his jeans. “I’m yours. Remember?”

He groans—loud. Borderline helpless. And it only fuels you.

“You’ve been driving me crazy for months, Mark,” you murmur, lips skimming down his chest. Your teeth drag gently across his ribs, just as slow, just as possessive. “Walking around all emotionally unavailable and unfairly hot. Do you know what that does to a girl?”

“I can imagine,” he chokes out, shivering when you kiss just above his waistband. “I did feel the same way.”

“Guess I was emotionally unavailable too, huh?”

Then your mouth hovers over the button of his jeans.

He stops breathing.

“Want me to make it up to you?”

He lets out a laugh—sort of. More of a stunned breath and a whispered curse. A sound that says:  you’re going to be the death of me. But it dies on his lips when you pop the button open, tugging his jeans down enough to free him—hard and twitching in his boxers.

You wrap your hand around him. His whole body locks. Jaw tight. Eyes shut. Fingers twitching at his sides like he doesn’t know whether to touch you or simply enjoy this.

“I hate how good you are at this,” he mutters.

You smirk, lips ghosting over the head of his cock.

“I’ve barely touched you.”

“Then be a good girl and fucking touch me,” he breathes, “Please.”

You smile against him, then take him into your mouth, just the tip at first—light suction, teasing tongue—and his hands finally move. One grips the edge of the pillow behind him like it’s the only thing anchoring him to this planet. The other hovers near your hair before tangling in it.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he rasps.

You hum around him in agreement. Then take him deeper.

You hollow your cheeks, pull back slightly, then sink again, your tongue tracing that sensitive underside as you do. His grip tightens in your hair—not rough, never rough—but desperate. Like he’s hanging on for dear life.

“Fuck, baby—” he gasps. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

You pull off just enough to glance up at him, lips slick, pupils blown, and smile like a girl who knows exactly what she’s doing. “Only fair.”

He laughs, but it’s breathless. Shaky. “You’re evil.”

“Says Mr Possessiveness comes with the territory,” you pump him slowly with your hand, tongue flicking the tip again like you're trying to drive him insane. “Besides…you love it.”

“I really fucking do.”

You take him back into your mouth, deeper this time until you’ve got him lifting his hips of their own accord—until he’s barely holding himself back. His breath stutters. His head thuds against the headboard. You can feel him trying to restrain himself, trying to stay composed, but he's long past that point.

“Okay—okay, stop, honey,” he groans, voice cracking as he tugs gently at your hair. “If you don’t stop, I’m gonna—”

You lift your head just enough to speak, mouth hovering over him. “You want to cum in my mouth, Mark?”

His eyes roll back. His hand flies to his face like it’ll hide the sheer, visceral reaction to hearing you say that. “Jesus Christ.”

“That’s not a no.”

He opens his mouth to reply, to give you some smartass comment—but all that comes out is a sound. A broken, needy, sound that makes your legs clamp together. 

“I do,” he pants, voice wrecked. “I really fucking do, honey.”

His hand curves around your jaw, eyes locking on yours with a look so desperate, so full of want, it knocks the breath from your lungs.

“But the first time I cum with you as my girlfriend,” he says. “I want to be inside you. Please.”

And it’s not just the plea that gets you.

It’s the need in it. Like this isn’t just sex for him—because it was at one point and now he’s done with that. He needs you wholly. 

You blink down at him, chest tight. And for a moment, neither of you moves.

Then you kiss him. You kiss him like you’re trying to burn this moment into his skin—into yours. Your hands dive into his hair, his wrap around your waist, pulling you flush against him as he groans into your mouth.

You grind against him and he bucks, helpless, barely holding on.

“Take it off,” he demands, fumbling at the waistband of your underwear. “Take everything off.”

You do. Slowly. Keeping your eyes on him the whole time. Watching the way his breath hitches, the way his pupils darken as you climb back into his lap, skin against skin now.

You reach between you, guiding him to the entrance of your dripping cunt, and his whole body tenses. 

“You ready?” you whisper, fingers threading through his.

He nods. Then shakes his head. Then groans. “God, please.”

So you sink down onto him. Inch by inch. Stretching, gasping, clinging to his shoulders as he fills you completely. And when you're finally seated in his lap, skin pressed to skin, heart to heart—he looks at you like he's never seen anything more beautiful.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You feel—God. You feel like mine.”

You kiss him again. Slow this time. Deep. Meaningful.

Because you are his. And for once, he knows it. You know it. And no one—not a single soul on this planet—but this man could ever love you like this. Love you right. 

Nobody loves you like him. 

Nobody fucks you like him. 

[sincerelyneo]

just wanted to say i reread mad at you and why u kinda the modern shakespeare? like omg.

thank you thank you 😁it’s the philosophy degree and the english literature a-level

[sincerelyneo]

how do y’all write previews—like how many words should they be—because i’ve been cooking up a mark lee fic for like three weeks but haven’t had the motivation to finish it?

[sincerelyneo]

Show me ruined me

i’m not sorry 😁😁😁😁jeno having a filthy mouth will always be pushed on this blog

[sincerelyneo]

I love headpusher jwi😮‍💨 the right amount of rough but still caring. Love ur fics as always!

omg tysm!! so glad you see the vision about jisung and that we’re on the same wave length 😁

[sincerelyneo]

“slut!” | l.jn

“everyone wants him that was my crime”

💿now playing: “slut!” by taylor swift

❯ summary: Jeno’s always been yours. You were the one too scared to be his, actually. But not anymore. Not tonight. Not now that you’ve decided being called a slut might be worth it, so long as it means they know he’s yours.

❯ pairings: idol!jeno x fem!reader

❯ genre: established relationship, smut, idol!au

❯ words: 3.5k

❯ tags: 18+ minors dni!, mentions of online hate, secret relationship, insecurities, mentions of alcohol, possessiveness, fingering, oral sex, unprotected sex, pull out method (unreliable!), dirty talk, reader uses she/her pronouns, swearing, literally just jeno being a 'gentleman' in a world of boys.

No matter how many times Jeno tries to deny or convince himself otherwise, you can tell—he hates being in a secret relationship. He hates being your secret. And who could blame him? No one wants to feel like they’re being hidden by the one person who’s supposed to love, cherish and adore them completely. 

But that’s just the thing. You’re not the only person who loves Lee Jeno.

Not when he’s up there on stage, night after night, basking in the roar of thousands who love him too. He’s adored by strangers, worshipped by fans, and wanted by everyone.

And yet—he chose you. He still chooses you.

He kisses you in elevator corners when it’s just the two of you, and pulls you into janitor closets like you’re back in high school. He makes little gestures on camera only you would catch—a tilt of his head, a thumb brushing his lip, a tap over his heart. As if to say still yours, still here, still love you. And you bask in it all. 

You know—despite his options and his fame—he loves you. Only you. There’s never been a doubt. Not when you still remember the endless months he spent pining after you like a love-sick puppy. Back when you told him you couldn’t give him more. That he’d only be wasting his time by pursuing you. 

He didn’t care. 

Maybe that’s why he agreed to this mess in the first place. The secrecy. The ache. Because for him, having you—even as a secret—was enough. He’d take you in pieces if that’s all you could offer. He’d take you quietly, behind closed doors. Because all he ever really wanted, was you. 

But you see the cracks now.

The way he deflates every time you say no to dinner in public. How his fingers twitch when you pull your hand away before anyone sees. How he stares a little too long at your unadorned ring finger after offering you a matching one. And the last one—the most recent wound—you saw it in his eyes when you turned down the invite to the award show.

He thought you’d come. Thought that maybe since Mark had started bringing his new girlfriend to events, you’d be ready too.

But you weren’t.

Truthfully, Mark’s girlfriend had only made things worse. Not her personally, but seeing the thousands of comments attacking her made you upset. You weren’t sure you were strong enough to survive that kind of hate if you were in her position.

What upset you more, though, was overhearing Jeno with Hyuck last week.

“I really wanted her there, man. But I know the cameras would freak her out. I just… I hate that she has to stay away. She deserves to be there with me, you know? Without feeling like everyone is going to tear her apart.”

Hyuck said something back but you can’t even remember what. Your heart was beating too loud to process everything properly. The only thing you remember is how tired Jeno sounded. How frustrated. And worse, hurt. Because of you. Because of this.

You hated that he had to hide those feelings. 

And that’s why you’re sitting in front of your vanity on the night of the award show, debating which shade of red lipstick would look best with your outfit. The dress—long, silk, red—is the one you’ve avoided for months. Too bold. Too bright. Too seen. But you slipped into it anyway.

It’s a reckless plan. You know that. It could blow up in your face. Go viral in the worst way. But still—you made the decision. Tonight, you’re done hiding. Tonight, you’re done keeping him a secret. Tonight, you’ll step into the spotlight for him. Because you love him. And more importantly, because he deserves it.

“Baby… can you help me with my tie?”

Jeno’s voice filters in from the hallway, slightly distracted, but then he sees you. 

His mouth parts, and his entire body goes still. His eyes drag over you quickly as if he doesn’t trust them. Then he starts blinking rapidly like he’s trying to make sure he’s not hallucinating.

“You—” he starts, but the word breaks in half. He clears his throat. “You look…”

You glance at his reflection in the mirror. He’s red and flustered. Completely undone. The tie he needed help with is now tangled between his fingers.

“Wow,” he finishes.

A slow smile touches your mouth. “Wow, huh?”

He lets out a breathy laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Wow.”

He takes a hesitant step closer. Then another. Like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he moves too quickly. And truthfully? You might. You’re still half a breath away from backing out, clinging to this idea by a thread. 

But then he’s standing behind you. His gaze catches yours in the mirror as he runs a soothing hand up and down your arm. 

“You look a little…overdressed for a night in, baby.”

You hold his eyes. “That’s because I’m not planning on staying in,” you whisper. “Not tonight.”

“Wait—does this mean…?” His voice falters, and his hand stops on your skin the exact moment it hits him. The realisation softens the edges of his face, but it also brings something more cautious. “You’re—are you sure?”

You turn to face him.

He looks gorgeous, of course—hair perfectly tousled, dress shirt still half-buttoned, tie crumpled in one hand. But his eyes give him away. That’s his tell. He’s nervous. Not for himself. For you.

You nod, then you rise to your feet. Jeno doesn’t hesitate. He wraps his arms around your waist, hands sliding down to your lower back, anchoring you there. 

“I mean it,” he says, barely above a whisper. “If this is because of me, or because you think I need some kind of grand gesture—don’t. I don’t want you to do this unless you want to. I don’t want you walking into that room and regretting it five minutes later. I don’t want you overwhelmed or scared or…” He swallows, hard. “I don’t want you to end up resenting me.”

His voice cracks a little on that last part.

You could cry. 

Because this is the boy you fell for. Not the one on stage. Just the boy who would’ve waited forever to be claimed if that’s what it took. Just your Jeno. The boy who compromises first, always. The boy who puts your wants before his own—every time.

“I’m not doing it for you,” you say. “Well, not just for you. I’m doing it because I want to. I’m tired of hiding. I love you. And I want to be seen with you.”

“Fuck,” he curses. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You laugh—and it’s the kind of laugh that makes your eyes sting, because it feels like relief, like safety, like everything might actually be worth it if it means he’s the one standing beside you.

He pulls back just enough to look at you. To really look at you.

“You’re sure, baby?” he asks again, but this time softer. Just to be certain. Just to make extra sure.

You nod again, firmer now. “I’m sure.”

And that’s it. The switch flips.

Because now that he knows—really knows—you’re in this with him, he changes. The nervousness melts away. The sweet, steady boyfriend evaporates and in his place is his other side. The menace. The flirt. The boy madly, stupidly in love. 

His eyes drop to your dress. He whistles, low.

“You know, I’m not entirely sure I want anyone else seeing you like this,” he says, one hand trailing down the bare skin of your back. “I mean—fuck, baby. Look at you. You’re unreal.”

You snort. “I thought you wanted people to see me.”

“I do,” he hums. “But I think your first public outing as mine should involve an I love my boyfriend t-shirt. Preferably with my face on it.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re already smiling. “Right. Because I’m the one causing competition in this relationship.”

“You are.”

He grins and spins you slowly so you’re facing the mirror again. His chin rests on your shoulder, and his hands roam a little—just enough to make you squirm. 

“I’m serious, babe. I’m gonna have to walk three steps behind you tonight,” he says, eyes fixed on your reflection. “Otherwise I’m gonna end up in a fight.”

“Jeno—”

“No, really. One guy breathes in your direction, I’ll knock him out.”

You shake your head and scoff. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m very serious,” he doubles down. “You’re gonna break the internet. You’re gonna have guys in your comment section and DMs—fucking gross.” He winces, eyes squeezing shut like the thought physically pains him.

You laugh. “Welcome to my world.”

“Christ, baby, how do you do it?” he groans, head tipping back dramatically. 

You glance at him in the mirror, raising a brow. “You’re such a drama queen.”

He kisses your shoulder. Then your neck. Then behind your ear. 

“Yeah, well,” he murmurs. “You’re worth the drama.”

And you know that he means it. Because that’s exactly how you feel about him. At least, you do tonight.

You’re still giggling when Jeno unlocks the door to your apartment, one arm curled tightly under your legs, the other around your back. The hallway spins slightly, or maybe that’s just you—hazy from all the champagne you and Mark’s girlfriend downed while your boyfriend and his bandmate were on stage accepting an award.

The night was good. Really fucking good. Jeno looked at you with so much pride—like having you there, dressed up and laughing beside him, was somehow better than any trophy he won that night. Claiming you in public had lit something in him that his career could never give him. 

“I’m not drunk,” you whine into his neck, breath warm on his skin. “My feet just hurt.”

“Oh yeah?” he says, “That why you nearly fell face first getting into the cab?”

“No,” you huff, pouting. “You try walking in these heels and staying balanced all night.”

“I told you to wear the other shoes before we left,” he mutters, whilst grinning. “But nooo, someone was determined to look sexy tonight.”

He’s right, that was your goal, but still, you hum anyway. “You liked it.”

“Damn right I did.”

The door clicks shut behind him then, and he kicks his shoes off, still holding you like you weigh nothing. He sets you down gently on the edge of the couch, his hands lingering a second longer than necessary on your waist.

“I’ll get you some water,” he says, brushing a kiss against your hairline. “And maybe some painkillers, yeah?”

You nod and he disappears into the bathroom. Sighing, you let your head fall back against the cushion. Your ears are still ringing faintly from the music and cheering. But you feel… lighter. Like something that had been pressing down on your chest finally cracked open and let you breathe. And it has. Because tonight, you were his—and it wasn’t a hidden secret.

You touched him. Kissed him. Supported him. Loved him. Out loud.

Your fingers itch on that thought. You reach for your phone, just to check. Are they talking about it? About you? About—

“Hey.”

Jeno’s voice. 

You freeze, phone halfway unlocked.

“Put it down,” he says softly, stepping into view. He’s changed—his shirt half untucked. He’s undone the top few buttons, disregard his tie, and rolled up his sleeves to reveal the veins running along his forearm. 

Your eyes meet his.

“Why?” you frown.

“You know why,” he says, walking over. “You were so fucking brave tonight, and I’m so proud of you, but I’m not letting those vultures who don’t even know your name upset this—upset you—not tonight.”

He plucks the phone from your hand and sets it down without looking away. Then he drops to his knees in front of you.

Rough palms skim up your thighs slowly. You’re still in that dress, red silk with the slit high enough to tempt his restraint. His hands slide higher, until he’s parting your legs with firm fingers, settling between them like he belongs there.

Because he does.

“We can check it tomorrow if you still want to, baby,” he offers, mouth ghosting over your knee. “But right now? Focus on me. Focus on us. Please?”

You chew your bottom lip, a full-body shiver following the path of his rough palms as they trace the length of your upper leg. God, you love looking at him like this—down on his knees, eyes wide and soft but still dark. That familiar, dangerous sweetness on his face—the kind that makes it impossible to say no to him.

So, you just nod a quiet: “Okay.”

“Good,” he grins, a little wicked now. “Because I just spent an entire night trying not to touch you,” he says hoarsely. “And I fucking love this dress on you, baby.” 

“I picked it with you—”

“Take it off.”

Your lips part of their own accord because you don’t think you’ve ever heard his voice drop like that. It has your fingers fumbling to the clasp behind your back, trembling as you unhook it. Jeno watches like you’re putting on a show just for him. You don't think you’ve ever seen his eyes so heated before either. 

The silk slips from your shoulders, pooling at your waist. And then he’s there—his big hands covering yours, helping you peel it the rest of the way down like he’s unwrapping a gift.

He looks at you in pure awe—like it’s the first time he’s seen every bare inch of your skin, even though it’s not. 

“No fucking underwear, baby?” he asks, thumbs pressing into the soft dips of your waist. “You looked this fucking good all night with nothing on underneath?”

You blink, breath catching.

“I was irritated before,” his jaw tenses. “But now I think I’m mad.”

“Irritated?” you echo.

“Yeah,” he huffs a breath, eyes flicking over your tits straight to your parted lips. “I had to sit there and watch you. Watch you laugh, drink, make every person in that room fall in love with you. And the whole time, you were like this wet and bare—and I didn’t even know.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks—and between your legs.

“I should’ve pulled you into a bathroom stall and made you cum on my fingers just so you’d stop smiling at everyone else.”

Your thighs press together involuntarily. The heat between them is molten now.

“Well,” you whisper, eyes locked on his, “you don’t have to watch anymore.”

He kisses you then and it’s greedy. He’s been holding back for hours, but now, you’re his again—just his—so he doesn’t want to be gentle anymore. He doesn’t have to be.

He pulls you up from the couch, hands sliding down to grab your ass as he walks you backward toward the bedroom, lips styling looked onto yours like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

You tug at his shirt, and he shrugs it off without a second thought.

“Lie down,” he commands softly once you reach the bed.

You obey, spine sinking into the mattress, hair fanning across the pillow as your chest rises and falls rapidly. Jeno climbs over you, one arm braced beside your head, the other slowly moving down the curve of your waist until he’s back to his favourite place—between your legs.

He kisses the inside of your knee first. Then your thigh. Then higher. All without breaking eye contact.

“You’ve been dripping like this all night?” he breathes, lips fanning the skin just above your pubic bone.

You nod as a whine escapes you because of how slowly he’s moving. He’s taking his time, and it’s excruciating considering how much you need him already.

“Use your words, baby.”

“Yes,” you pant. “Been wet all night.”

He lets out a low whistle, then leans in closer, blowing soft air against your bare slit. It’s torturous. Delicious. Cruel.

“Fuck, baby,” he coos, eyes locked on your cunt. “This looks like it aches. What’s got you so worked up, hmm?”

“You, Jeno,” you whimper. “Always you. Please.”

He smirks then. A real, filthy grin. “Good.”

He doesn’t move right away. Just watches. Watches the way your thighs twitch. The way your chest rises faster. The way your lips part like you’re about to beg again. 

He likes that. The anticipation. The way you’re already wrecked and he hasn’t even touched you properly. Then finally—finally—his mouth is on you.

It’s slow at first. A single, open-mouthed kiss to your clit, so gentle you barely feel it. Then he sucks. Hard. Tongue flicking over you in the most heavenly way because he knows your body better than you do.

You gasp, hips lifting—but his hands are already there, pinning you down to the mattress with a strength that makes your toes curl.

“Don’t run from me,” he hums against you. “Take it, pretty girl. You deserve it.”

You whimper his name, one hand fisting the sheets, the other reaching down to bury in his hair to tug at the ends whilst he devours you. And when he adds a finger—slips it inside without warning while his tongue flicks fast and precise against your clit—you arch off the bed completely, moaning so loudly it echoes.

“That’s it,” he groans, curling it just right. “So fucking hot.”

You clench around him, and he grins against your skin. Telling you—demanding you—to let go. Which you do, with a cry and a shudder. He doesn’t stop licking until you’re shaking, until you’re whining his name in that breathless, broken way that makes his cock throb behind his zipper.

You’re not even sure how long you’ve been moaning his name before he eventually pulls back and reaches for his belt. You reach for him and he catches your hand, pressing a kiss to your knuckles as you help him free his cock from the layers of fabric. 

Then he lines himself up, bare, and sinks into you with a groan that rips straight from his chest. The sound alone sends another shudder through you.

His head falls forward until his forehead rests against yours as he anchors your hip. His breath fans hot across your lips, leaving delicate pecks as he eases into you carefully. 

“Fuck,” he gasps, the curse trembling. “You feel so good. So fucking good, baby.”

And then—he moves. He fucking moves. Deep and steady. Claiming. 

His mouth hovers near yours. Catching each gasp, each moan, each quiet, desperate, whispered plea of his name from your lips. He wants everything. He wants it all. 

He pulls out slow, just to taunt, and then thrusts back in harder and you groan, your nails digging into his shoulders.

“That’s it,” he says, gritting his teeth. “You like being full of me, don’t you?”

You nod, breathless. “Yes—fuck—yes, Jeno.”

“Been thinking about this all fucking night,” he breathes against your lips. “About getting that fucking dress off you. About making you squirm. Hearing you make all those pretty little noises for me. Taking everything I give you like such a good fucking girl.”

You clench again at his words, and he feels it. 

“Fuck, baby—already close again?” he smirks, biting softly at your jaw. “You’re so fucking easy for me. So wet. So perfect.”

You moan, your legs tightening around his waist. 

“Say it,” he growls, voice cracking now as his thrusts pick up pace. “Say who you’re perfect for. Who this sweet little body was made to take.”

“You,” you cry out, head falling back. “Fuck, it’s only ever you.”

“Damn right,” he grits, snapping his hips harder. “And now the whole world knows, don’t they? And now I get to show everyone who’s got me wrapped around her fucking finger.”

You whine, nails dragging down his back as your body starts to seize again, overwhelmed by the force of him, by his words. He hisses then, and you know he’s just as close as you. 

“Be good for me, baby. Cum on my cock—show me how fucking mine you are.”

Your pussy pulses around him, mouth opening in a loud moan as pleasure rips through you and you can do nothing but clutch at his bare back. The lines of nail marks reddening.  

“Fuck—there you go,” he groans. “That’s it, baby. That’s my girl.”

His own hips stutter, rhythm breaking to a languid pace as he chases his own orgasm. He buries his face in your neck, teeth scraping just enough to nip and suck and leave his favourite kind of purple marks. 

“You’re gonna make me cum,” he snarls against your skin. “Fuck—you feel too good—I can’t—”

He pulls out fast, and you whimper at the sudden emptiness. But your mind doesn’t have enough time to process that ache because your eyes lock with his—dilated and heavy-lidded—and you forget to breathe.

His hand wraps around his cock, pumping hard, fast. Just a few strokes before he’s spilling all over your stomach, jaw clenched, your name a growl on his tongue.

The sight alone makes your thighs tremble all over again—because he looks so fucking beautiful like this. Chest heaving, skin slick with sweat, eyes half-lidded and burning only for you. You don’t even care about the mess he’s made on your skin—because tonight, he wasn’t just your secret. He was yours. Publicly. 

And you’re both okay with paying that price. 

[sincerelyneo]

Headpusher jwi 😮‍💨

it’s an agenda i need everyone who writes for him to start accepting 🙂‍↕️

[sincerelyneo]

i literally GASPED… when y/n read the text messages in death by a thousand cuts… omg…that was insane. SO HEARTBREAKING… i’m literally speechless.

i don’t condone cheating too but i totally get y/n’s pov because you really just can’t cut out someone you love (especially someone you know basically your whole life???) and you’re really just stuck between loving & hating them and you really wrote it so well wtf 💔 stop writing angst please you’re about to make everyone cry

hahahahah you’re actually not the first person to tell me to stop writing angst 😭 and to be fair, I usually write the dreamies as pathetically down bad, obsessed, love sick men, so i get the shock. but at the time, i was reading the addicted series so i was fully in my feels 😞

i don’t have an ex (and i’d like to keep it that way), but i’ve been with my boyfriend since we were 15 and whenever i read anything angsty, i can’t help but think about us breaking up and the idea of not speaking to him, not seeing him, and becoming complete strangers and it freaks me the fuck out. honestly, i think cheating is the only way that man would ever get rid of me lol.

[sincerelyneo]

i’m the one | p.js

“she want a boy that pull her hair and hold the door for her”

💿now playing: i’m the one by dj khaled, chance the rapper

❯ summary: Everyone knows your boyfriend Jisung is the perfect gentleman—sweet, caring, and always polite. But you know better. That soft mouth he uses for innocent kisses is secretly filthy. Those gentle hands that guide you through crowded rooms prefer to be wrapped around your throat. And that shy act he does is just that—an act. Because Jisung doesn’t just like control—he needs it.

❯ pairings: jisung x fem!reader

❯ genre: established relationship, just filth, smut

❯ words: 1.7k

❯ tags: 18+ minors dni, lots of dirty talk, hair pulling, slight degradation kink, rough blow job, mention of breath play, mirror kink, fingering, no plot just porn, reader uses her/her pronouns, me pushing the dom!jisung agenda yet again 🤫

an: this was lowkey inspired by that scene from euphoria where maddy says, “you’re telling me ethan ripped your clothes off and fucked the shit out of you?” very jisung coded in my head lol. it's always the shy, quiet ones. 🤠

Your favourite thing about Jisung is his mouth—those pretty pink lips he licks when he’s nervous, the ones he always presses to your cheek before leaving for work. The same lips that are currently praising you, telling you how much of a good girl you’re being in that low, breathy voice whilst he fucks two thick, calloused fingers in and out of your dripping pussy.

"Keep your fucking eyes open," he rasps gruffly, fingers working faster, deeper. "I like watching you watch me make you cum—wanna make me happy, don’t you baby?"

And you nod, breath hitching, because of course you do. You want to make him happy the same way he always makes you happy. The same way he makes everyone happy. Because that’s just who Jisung is—kind, generous, so blatantly giving.

So of course he slips a third finger inside you without any warning, groaning when your lashes flutter from the stretch. His cock twitches at the sight too.

Your second favourite thing about Jisung is that no one else knows him like this. No one would believe you, either. Sweet, soft Jisung—whose ears flush pink at compliments, who always walks on the outside of the sidewalk with you on the street, who opens every door for you like a perfect gentleman—is the same man who needs absolute control when he fucks.

You still remember it—months ago, just before Renjun’s birthday, when the boys were teasing him for being so innocent. And you’d just smiled, biting your tongue, keeping yor mouth shut. Because Jisung isn’t innocent at all. He just saves all his sins for you. 

Like right now.

He’s sitting behind you on his bed, legs spread wide, letting you slot perfectly between them. He’s managed to get you completely naked whilst he’s still fully clothed. Your bare back pressed tight to his chest.

His fingers are buried deep in your cunt, pumping steadily, relentlessly, while his other hand wraps around your throat—thumb pressing just enough to test your breath. His grip keeps your gaze locked on that mirror he insists stays pointed at the end of the bed.

Because his favourite thing: watching you, watch him, ruin you.

“Such a pretty little slut, aren’t you, baby?” he coos, voice deceptively soft as his fingers work faster, wetter, filthier—lewd sounds echoing in the room just how he likes.“Three fucking fingers… so greedy.”

“Bet you’d let me fit a fourth,” he grins, lips grazing your ear as he curls his fingers just right, pressing deep against your g-spot. “Wouldn’t you, baby? Let me stretch this tight little pussy open just because I said so, huh?”

You moan, head tipping back against his shoulder as your chest rises in uneven breaths. The hand he has around your throat tightens in that delicious way he knows you love. Not just to test your breath—but to take it too. Because he knows, you’re just as sinful and deprived as he is.

“Look at you,” he groans, eyes locked on your reflection. “Dripping down my fingers, mouth open, eyes all wet. All I’m doing is fingering you and you’re a fucking mess.”

“Jisung—please,” you whimper, squirming in his lap, desperate for more—more friction, more pressure, more of him. But all he does is chuckle, slow and cruel and so, so smug.

You squirm harder against him, but he only shifts his thighs beneath you, locking you in place.

“Tsk,” he hums. “Always so needy.”

You gasp when his fingers curl again, hitting that spot that makes your thighs jerk. He doesn’t slow down—he wants it messy. Wants you incoherent.

“You like being used like this, don’t you?” he murmurs. “You like being my perfect little fucktoy. All mine to play with.”

He pulls his fingers out of you slowly, admiring your slick stretching between them. Then, he presses them to your lips.

“Open,” he demands.

You do—instantly—greedily sucking them into your mouth because this isn’t the first time he’s asked you to do this. It’s his second favourite thing. And that’s when he groans, low and deep, cock straining in his jeans behind you.

“Fuck,” he hisses, eyes dark in the mirror. “You’re so fucking hot when you’re ready to take whatever I give you.”

He pulls his soaked fingers from your mouth with a wet pop, then lets them trail down your sternum, your stomach, back to where your pussy is dripping for him again. His thumb instantly finds your clit as his fingers thrust back inside of you. You feel it building in your spine, your legs twitching. 

“You gonna cum just from my fingers, baby?” he purrs. “Gonna make a mess all over yourself for me because I asked you to?”

You nod again, wild now, tears slipping down your cheeks—not from pain, but because it’s too much. Too much and still not enough.

“Then be a good girl and do it,” he orders, fingers curling wickedly. “Cum for me like the little fuckdoll you are.”

He lets you come down slowly. His fingers stay buried inside you, still working, coaxing every last tremble from your wrecked body. And once your moans taper off into soft, breathless whimpers, he finally withdraws his hand. You whine at the loss, cunt throbbing and wet.

“You did so well, baby,” he whispers, lips brushing your temple. “So good for me.”

He presses a soft kiss to your cheek—too sweet for what he just did to you, but you remember, he still is that sweet boy. Even when he’s making you cum like nobody else can. 

His eyes darken, and it has you moving before he even says a word. You know exactly what he wants now, what you want to do to him—you’re just that in tune with each other—sliding down off the bed to your knees. 

Your fingers fumble with the button of his jeans until you free him from his briefs—his cock flushed and hard, thick and long and leaking from watching you come undone on his fingers.

“Eyes on me when you open that pretty mouth, baby,” Jisung says, and as you glance up through your lashes, he grips a fistful of your hair at the base of your skull. 

You wrap your lips around his tip, tongue flicking over the slit, and he groans low in his chest, head tipping back briefly before locking eyes with you again.

“Fuck, Y/N, don’t make me work for it,” he breathes, tightening his grip and giving your head a small tug forward. 

You take him deeper, hand stroking the base as your lips work around him, spit already dripping down your chin. He hisses, hips twitching as your tongue flattens along the underside of his cock. His grip tightens in your hair, and he bucks up just a little. And then he pulls.

Not just a tug—he fists your hair tight and drags your head down, forcing his cock deeper until your nose is flush against his pelvis and your throat clenches around him.

“Fucking take it,” he grits, groaning as your eyes well with tears, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth. “God, you look so fucking good like this. All mine.”

You gag, and he finally lets you pull back, strings of saliva connecting your lips to his cock as you gasp for breath—but he doesn’t let go. He keeps your hair tight in his fist, tugging again, guiding your pace.

“Fuck you’re so beautiful, baby,” he pants. “Down on your knees with that mouth ruined from sucking me off.”

You moan around him at that—your hands now digging into his thighs for balance as he fucks into your mouth with slow, devastating thrusts. Each time you take him deeper, he gives your hair another sharp pull, tilting your head back just enough to watch your lips stretch around him, then forcing you down again until you choke.

“That’s it,” he rasps. “Messy fucking mouth drooling all over my cock. Don’t stop, baby, don’t you dare stop.”

You hum, desperate to please, and the vibrations push him over the edge.

With a guttural groan, he jerks your head down one last time, holding you there as he spills down your throat, cock twitching between your lips. He moans your name, and you swallow every last drop, throat working around him as tears finally slip down your cheeks.

He doesn’t release your hair right away—just strokes the strands with one hand, cradling the back of your skull almost tenderly now.

When he finally lets go, you collapse forward against his thigh, panting—your mouth swollen with your spit and his cum smeared across your lips. He smiles, fucked-out and breathless, brushing your hair back with gentle fingers.

“My perfect girl,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your forehead like you’re still the most innocent thing in the world. “You still with me?”

“Mhm,” you nod slowly. 

He tilts your chin up, eyes searching. “I didn’t hurt you, did I, baby?”

“No,” you murmur. “Not at all.”

His expression softens even more, something suspiciously like guilt flickering behind his eyes. He carefully tucks a damp strand of hair behind your ear. “You gotta tell me if it’s ever too much, alright? I get carried away sometimes. You’re just so… perfect.”

You nuzzle into his hand instinctively, and he pulls you up from the floor, settling you into his lap. You straddle his thighs, face tucked into the curve of his neck. His arms wrap around your waist, a soothing thumb tracing down your spine.

“I’m okay, Ji,” you murmur against his throat. “I promise. I liked it. I love how you get with me. I like being the person who gets to know you like that.”

He exhales through his nose, holding you tighter. “I just need to know you feel safe. I never want to go too far.”

“You never do.”

Jisung presses a kiss to your jaw, then another to your shoulder. “You’re so good for me,” he breathes. “Let me clean you up, okay?”

And there he is—that sweet boy, back like he wasn’t the one who just ruined you like a complete slut. Now he’s kneeling beside you, treating you like something fragile. He wipes between your legs with smooth hands, whispering soft apologies even though you begged for every second of his ruin. His touch is featherlight now—soothing the marks on your throat, brushing hair back from your flushed face, kissing your temple.

And that’s your third favourite thing about Jisung: how he can completely break you apart and then put you back together again.

A complete gentleman. 

[sincerelyneo]

Th driving instructor Jaemin fic. Ah. What a dream if he was mine. I have a test next tuesday ...

oh my gosh i’m only just seeing this now, so sorry :(( 🙈but i’m wishing you the best of luck anon!!

[sincerelyneo]

ugly crying because what the fuck

on another hand. the writing was beautiful. so much emotions it actually made me feel like i was her. always loved your writing so now im on my way to read so high school for a healing because again what the fuck just happened 😭😭

i’m sorry for making you and everybody else ugly cry buddy🤠 (thank u for the compliment too <3)

i tend to keep things super soft and fluffy on my account so everyone is echoing that “what the fuck was that!?” sentiment in my replies and inbox right now lmao.

i was feeling silly x