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There were, Kim Soleum reflected, only so many things that could still surprise him after everything. At this point, he’d long grown accustomed to the absurdities that accompanied this world.
There were typical statements one would come to expect from a superior: reports to file, briefings to endure, curt acknowledgments of success.
And yet, somehow, Lee Jaheon had managed to outdo his expectations. Again. And not quite in that deus ex machina way that Kim Soleum would have liked.
Kim Soleum stood there for a long moment like an idiot—hands stuffed in his pockets, collar buttoned all the way to his throat, tie perfectly aligned as if the meticulosity of fabric could serve as a substitute for composure.
Lee Jaheon, being Lee Jaheon, didn’t so much as blink at the silence that followed. His calm was the kind that made others question whether he’d ever truly been surprised in his life.
The man had a way of saying this with that crimson-eyed calm that made them sound inevitable, if not necessary. This massage is required for your physical health, Lee Jaheon had intoned—after D-Squad had cleared its most recent Darkness—as if a massage from your superior was a common benefit in the workplace.
Then again, this was Daydream Inc. Nothing ever stayed within the bounds of reason for long.
And, well, Kim Soleum did trust Lee Jaheon. Trusted him against reason, against instinct, in ways that implied either bravery or very poor judgment. He relied on him in ways that didn’t really make quite sense, in ways that edged past the sensible boundaries of confidence for a man—not quite—who was part of an unknown organization.
Lee Jaheon could snap his neck in less than a second; he probably wouldn’t even need to exert himself to do so, and instead of being properly deterred by the thought, Kim Soleum, well, he found it all the more reassuring to be surrounded by.
It was, disturbingly enough, the kind of danger that secured him.
The D-Squad office was modern, but sterile; fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, turning everything a shade too clean. It wasn’t exactly the kind of place one expected to receive a massage, but then again, Kim Soleum had long ago stopped expecting normalcy where Lee Jaheon was concerned.
Kim Soleum arrived as he usually did for work. Lee Jaheon, of course, had something to say about it immediately.
“Take off your shirt,” the man said, like he was issuing an order on the field.
Kim Soleum blinked at him, owlish and incredulous; a half-second where he considered laughing, another where he considered running, and then—resignation, because wasn’t this exactly the kind of absurdity Lee Jaheon excelled at?
“Is this… part of the massage?” he asked, his tone aiming for composure but failing.
“Yes,” Lee Jaheon said, expression flat.
Kim Soleum bit his lip as he slipped the shirt from his shoulders; pale skin revealed inch by inch, goosebumps crawling up in the chill of the office air, a shiver that made him think idly of his own name, Kim Soleum, the sight of his arm as they rippled down his skin; how absurd, how fitting.
He probably looked ridiculous standing there half-naked, but Lee Jaheon didn’t so much as blink. His gaze made it feel less ridiculous and more like some kind of examination.
“Lie down,” Lee Jaheon said.
Kim Soleum hesitated anyway, staring at him for a beat, then gave in and stretched himself out on the mat Lee Jaheon had pulled over. It wasn’t the most luxurious thing, but the texture of it still pressed oddly against his bare chest. A little rough, not scratchy but enough to make him aware of every inch of skin that touched it. He shifted once, shoulders twitching, and realized he was more sensitive than he’d thought.
He pressed his cheek down next, breathing in the faint lemon smell clinging to the fabric. The mat wasn’t cold exactly, but it was firm in a way that reminded him where his body began and ended, all of him pinned neatly under Lee Jaheon’s gaze.
The oil was warm when Lee Jaheon poured it into his palms, almost startling compared to the cold air, and then his hands were on Kim Soleum’s back.
Big, steady, too strong for their own good, but careful.
His palms pressed slow and heavy at the small of his back, kneading with the deliberation of someone who could break bone but chose not to; every pass smoothed tension out of him, every press uncoiled another hidden knot, until Kim Soleum’s breath began to soften, uneven at first, then betraying him with little sighs.
It was blissful; almost embarrassingly so. He wondered, dazed, if this was how Braun felt whenever he lowered himself into the blood-bath, or when the Moonlight Tattooist had given him the mini-spa treatment.
Kim Soleum guiltily thought that perhaps it was a good thing Braun was not here to see this.
First, because it was good to keep Baek Saheon in check by creeping him out with the sight of Braun, alone on the couch, watching an ongoing stream of reality television; second, because Braun himself would have complained endlessly, would have found barbed little phrases to gripe at Lee Jaheon, erasing the tranquility of the present moment.
This, though—this was quiet, peaceful; and Kim Soleum couldn’t bring himself to deny it.
The second splash of oil caught him off guard—a warm trickle against the cool air of the office, sliding down the bare line of his spine like a finger already tracing him open.
Kim Soleum tensed before he could stop himself, then forced the breath out of his chest in one long sigh. Big palms smoothed the oil into his skin; slow, steady strokes that made it impossible not to notice how bare he was, how deliberate each touch felt. The sensation startled him all over again, warmth seeping into pale flesh that hadn’t felt a touch like this in longer than he cared to admit.
Before the endless assignments, before the Darknesses that now devoured his days, Kim Soleum hadn’t made time for this sort of thing; hadn’t thought he needed it. Reading had always been easier, cheaper, simpler. Things like massages had seemed frivolous.
Now, well—
Lee Jaheon’s hands moved with unnerving precision, working into the knots buried in his shoulders, sliding outward across the swell of muscle until Kim Soleum was practically melting against the mat. His cheek pressed into the fabric, sensitive to every rough edge of the weave, grounding him as tension drained away one knot at a time. Each stroke felt clinical, but only at first; the longer it went on, the more personal it became, oil spreading under Lee Jaheon’s fingers, heat replacing chill until Kim Soleum almost ached with how good it felt.
He told himself not to make another sound. It didn’t work. Small sighs kept slipping out, uneven at first, then steadier, betraying him with every pass. He clenched his hands against the mat, embarrassed by how easily he responded.
Lee Jaheon’s strength was impossible to ignore; every movement reminded Kim Soleum that those hands could just as easily crush bone. But they didn’t. They pressed carefully, purposefully, undoing him methodically.
When Lee Jaheon’s fingers slid lower, past the curve of his ribs, Kim Soleum caught his breath. The oil slicked across skin that hadn’t been touched in too long, the temperature contrast sharp enough to make him shiver. Lee Jaheon paused for a moment at his waist, then pressed deliberately along the curve of his spine—one measured push, heavy enough to draw a gasp.
The sound escaped before Kim Soleum could swallow it back.
And then—lower still, fingertips grazed near the small divots of his back. One thumb pressed deliberately into the shallow dimple just above his hip—and his whole body jumped. His face burned against the mat, lips parting around a muffled gasp he hadn’t meant to make.
Above him, Lee Jaheon’s hands stayed steady, slow, unrelenting.
The pressure at the base of his back had been dangerously close to overwhelming—sharp, precise, Lee Jaheon’s thumbs digging in like he had mapped out every weak spot beforehand. After that, though, the rhythm steadied; kneading, smoothing, pressing, all so regular he found his thoughts drifting. His eyes slid half-closed, his head tipping into the cradle of his folded arms. Not asleep, of course, he wasn’t that careless. Just… relaxed. For the first time in a long while.
Then the hands left.
Kim Soleum blinked, jerked upright with the most casual not-at-all-drowsy expression he could manage, warmth fading too fast from his skin where Lee Jaheon had been. He lazed there for a moment, gathering himself, until Lee Jaheon’s voice cut clean through the quiet.
“Take off your pants,” Lee Jaheon stated drolly.
Kim Soleum went very, very still.
He turned his head, slow as if he had all the time in the world, only to see Lee Jaheon standing as usual as always. The man didn’t bother to elaborate. He never did.
Was that… normal? Kim Soleum had never gotten a massage in his life. He vaguely remembered a coworker winning a voucher for a “full-body treatment” once, waving it around in the breakroom like it was a lottery ticket. Maybe this was more commonplace than he thought. Maybe.
And Kim Soleum… well. It had felt good—incredible, actually—his shoulders loosened for the first time in months, the dull ache in his spine dissolved, even the tension behind his eyes gone. Why shouldn’t he indulge? If this was what was considered standard practice, who was he to argue?
Still, he hadn’t exactly woken up this morning expecting to strip in front of his chief. He thought back to his clothes; plain, ordinary boxers. Not even the kind that flattered, just the kind you buy in bulk and certainly didn’t expect anyone else—a colleague, a reptile, anyone—to ever lay eyes on them. Definitely not the kind of thing you’d want immortalized in your boss’s memory.
The oil on his back cooled as he sat up, sending a chill across his skin that only made him more aware of what he was doing. He pushed his pants down anyway, folding them with unnecessary precision before setting them to the side.
When he finally looked up, bracing himself for some hint of judgment, he was greeted only by Lee Jaheon’s impassive face. Not a flicker of amusement, not a raised brow; just that steady crimson gaze, as if the act of someone changing clothes in front of him barely registered at all.
Kim Soleum’s embarrassment eased in spite of himself. Of course it didn’t matter. Their chief had seen worse—he was an alien, for god's sake. What were a pair of plain boxers compared to that? Nothing memorable at all.
Or so he told himself.
“Thank you,” he added belatedly, voice a little too quiet.
Lee Jaheon’s expression didn’t flicker. He simply poured more oil into his hands, stepped forward, and set them against Kim Soleum’s thighs.
It was different now. Earlier he’d been drifting, half-asleep, lulled by the rhythm; but stripped down like this, he was awake in every sense, hyper-conscious of each precise push of Lee Jaheon’s thumbs. His muscles responded before he did, loosening, pliant, betraying how much he needed this. He bit the inside of his cheek to hold back the sounds that tried to escape.
Down, down, ever downward; Lee Jaheon worked his way along the length of his thighs, the oil spreading in gleaming lines, hands dragging heat into muscle with the kind of calm thoroughness you’d expect from someone filing paperwork, not manhandling a half-dressed subordinate. The sensitive hollows behind his knees, the firm drag up the insides of his leg—all of it treated with that same clinical efficiency, as though Lee Jaheon were cataloguing every inch of him. Kim Soleum clenched and unclenched his fists against the mat, useless resistance against how close those hands kept straying, how his boxers shifted slightly each time Lee Jaheon smoothed a line lower.
Kim Soleum gritted his teeth, trying not to react, but his body had other plans; every glide of those broad palms seemed to erase higher brain function until there was nothing left but sensation. His boxers shifted, clinging where they shouldn’t, and god help him—he was actually getting wet. Damp seeping into cotton, sticking, broadcasting his arousal in a way so obvious it may as well have been a neon sign.
What kind of sick joke was this? Was he really that pent up, that touch-starved, that a backrub—no, a workplace-mandated massage—was enough to wring slick out of him? He clenched his fists against the mat, desperate not to squirm, but his hips betrayed him in tiny, shameful twitches; his thighs shivered each time Lee Jaheon’s hands crept higher, as though his body was begging for more even as his brain screamed don’t you dare.
Lee Jaheon—did the man even know what he was doing? Did he even have sexual feelings, or was he just out here dismantling Kim Soleum’s dignity like it was another mission objective? If this was him being clinical, then Kim Soleum was doomed, plain and simple.
The worst part: it felt good. Slick cotton rubbing every time Lee Jaheon’s thumb pressed into the back dimple at his hip, every shift of oil-slicked skin reminding him just how soaked he was. Mortifying, humiliating, a joke he couldn’t laugh at because he was too busy arching into the touch he swore he didn’t want.
His chest pressed harder into the mat, breath going shallow, too conscious of how he must look from above—half-naked, flushed, his skin gleaming with oil under Lee Jaheon’s hands.
Kim Soleum tried to bury his face in the mat, to disappear into silence, but his body was louder than his voice—his thighs restless, his hips betraying him with every shallow roll.
And then—it became too much. A hand grazing too near the waistband, too near the soaked cotton. His voice cracked before he could think better of it, high and panicked and wanting all at once:
“St—stop. Please—stop.”
He hated the sound of it, hated the raw edge of panic and want tangled together; but Lee Jaheon, of course, simply lifted his hands, stepping back as cleanly as if Kim Soleum had flipped a switch, expression unreadable.
Kim Soleum’s face was practically on fire; his body was dripping, actually dripping, over a massage. My god. Was this what pent-up meant? Had he really been so starved of touch that a few passes of oil on his thighs had him leaking through thin cotton like some teenager? He would never live this down. Thank every deity it wasn’t Park Minseong in the room—he would have had to quit Daydream outright, flee the country, perhaps change his name.
But no; it was Lee Jaheon. Alien, implacable, inscrutable Lee Jaheon.
Lee Jaheon tilted his head, hands still hovering in the air as if unwilling to touch anything without permission. “We haven’t finished yet.”
Kim Soleum yelped, an actual yelp, scrambling for dignity with a voice gone high and too fast. “I-it doesn’t matter! I’m all fine now! Completely fine!” His face was red, his ears hotter still, his body very much not fine.
“Is this because of your sexual arousal?” Lee Jaheon asked, as factual as a mission report.
Kim Soleum froze. Stunned. Stammering. Who says that out loud? Did he even know humans didn’t? Or worse—did he know, and just didn’t care? And could he actually tell? Was it written across Kim Soleum’s body that obviously? Or—fuck—could Lee Jaheon smell it?
His pulse hammered; his shame tangled with something darker, hotter, his brain short-circuiting as he did his best to ignore the lurch of heat in his gut at the thought.
Lee Jaheon’s gaze didn’t waver. “Sexual release often makes humans more relaxed and less tense. Do you wish for me to assist you in that?”
Kim Soleum wanted to die. No, worse—he wanted to combust on the spot. Assist him? Who even phrased it like that? And yet—the man had never once let him down, never once twisted trust into leverage. If anyone could hold this ridiculous shame and never breathe a word of it, it was Lee Jaheon.
The fact was this: Kim Soleum felt so needy he felt like he might die; the sheer force of his arousal blindsided him, the rawness of it, the sudden flood of want he hadn’t even realized he’d been starving for. He hadn’t thought about sex in months—hadn’t let himself—but now, with heat crawling through him, with the ache growing sharper each time Lee Jaheon’s hands had pressed down, he realized how badly he missed it, how much he craved the simple, dizzying relief of desire.
But who could he trust, here? The answer was obvious—Lee Jaheon, who had never once let him down, who didn’t even seem to possess the emotional machinery for blackmail, who wouldn’t weaponize this against him because it simply wasn’t in him to do so.
Kim Soleum’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, nerves buzzing; against every instinct screaming no, his mouth stammered out something that sounded suspiciously like assent.
“...O-okay,” he mumbled, face buried in his arms, so hot he thought he might melt through the floor. “If… if you’re really sure.”
Lee Jaheon’s hands had already spread him wide, palms dragging slick oil over the insides of his thighs, and Kim Soleum couldn’t keep still; the mat was damp beneath him from the way he’d been unconsciously grinding against it, hips jerking up in tiny restless arcs, and now every inch of him felt overstrung and painfully awake.
When Lee Jaheon’s palm slid lower, over the edge of his boxers, Kim Soleum sucked in a sharp breath and froze.
Lee Jaheon didn’t hesitate. He tugged the waistband down with the same calm authority he’d used when telling him to take off his shirt. Kim Soleum helped, awkwardly lifting his hips; a motion that felt far too intimate, baring himself in front of the chief like this. The mat was cold under his skin, the oil cooling on his back, but he was flushed everywhere else, burning up.
Humiliation stabbed through him at the sight of how damp the fabric had become, at the thought of Lee Jaheon seeing exactly how wet he was—but the shame only sharpened the ache.
Cool air hit him, then those fingers again, big and precise, tracing their way down. A nail-tip caught lightly in the black curls of his cunt before sliding lower, and Kim Soleum nearly sobbed. Sensitive, far too sensitive from the way he’d rubbed himself raw against the mat, his clit twitching violently when Lee Jaheon’s fingertip skimmed over it.
“Ah—hnngh—” he whined, half into the crook of his arm, thighs jerking open wider without his permission.
Lee Jaheon, of course, said nothing—just pressed a little firmer, thumb circling the swollen nub with maddening steadiness. It was clinical, almost, but devastating in its precision. Kim Soleum thought he might go insane; he was already gushing, slick dripping down his folds, every stroke louder, wetter, hotter. The faintest graze had him clenching around nothing.
“You’re sensitive,” Lee Jaheon observed.
No shit. Kim Soleum pressed his face into his arms, hissing into the fabric, wishing he could disappear and—at the same time—never stop.
When Lee Jaheon’s fingers parted him further, sliding through folds glistening with slick, Kim Soleum nearly came undone right there. The pads of those fingers gathered wetness, spreading it up and down, coating every part of him, before one thick finger pushed inside—slow, inexorable, opening him up. Kim Soleum clenched hard around it, biting down on a cry.
“More,” he gasped, hips rolling down against Lee Jaheon’s hand. “Like that—fuck, yes, exactly like that.”
Lee Jaheon stilled just long enough to look at him, as though waiting for confirmation, before curling his finger again exactly as told, pressing perfectly against that spongy spot that made Kim Soleum’s eyes roll back.
“Good—just like that,” Kim Soleum panted, before he even realized how authoritative he sounded. But it was true: Lee Jaheon was irritatingly literal, maybe incapable of picking up on nuance, but once given direct orders he followed them with terrifying exactness.
Better than the others, Kim Soleum thought deliriously, his coherent thought already unraveling; at least he wouldn’t have to repeat himself.
“Another—inside, please—”
Lee Jaheon obeyed instantly, sliding in a second finger, stretching him, scissoring gently as Kim Soleum keened. Slick poured out of him, squelching between his thighs, coating Lee Jaheon’s hand as he pumped in and out, twisting his wrist so that his thumb never once left Kim Soleum’s clit. It was obscene, how fast it built, how hard his body clenched and bucked, every nerve set alight by Lee Jaheon’s ruthless efficiency.
“Yes—there, keep it there—don’t stop, don’t—” Kim Soleum’s voice broke into a sob as pleasure crashed over him, cunt spasming violently around Lee Jaheon’s fingers. His thighs shook, clamping down on that big hand even as he tried to wriggle away from overstimulation, but Lee Jaheon just held steady, working him through it until he collapsed boneless against the mat, trembling and wet and utterly ruined.
He gasped for air, chest heaving, sweat and oil and slick mingling over his skin. “Fuck,” he whispered hoarsely, clinging to the mat like it might hold him together. “Oh my god—fuck.”
Lee Jaheon, as ever, expression unreadable, simply withdrew his fingers, slick glistening to the knuckle, and waited—as though already anticipating the next order.
Kim Soleum was still trembling, cunt fluttering weakly around nothing when Lee Jaheon pulled his fingers out; slick clung to them, shining, dripping down his palm. Kim Soleum whimpered at the emptiness, shuddering, thighs twitching apart in blatant invitation.
“Was that satisfactory?”
“Yes,” Kim Soleum croaked automatically, breath hitching. “Yes, oh my god, yes—” He swallowed, blinking up at the ceiling, but already guilt was curling sharp inside him. Lee Jaheon hadn’t moved, hadn’t said anything else, and Kim Soleum’s body ached with the awareness that he’d just taken, taken, and given nothing back.
“Um,” he began, voice catching in his throat. “Chief Lizard—did you… I mean, do you…?” He trailed off helplessly, mortified, waving a vague hand in the air like that might convey the words he couldn’t force out, because what exactly was he trying to ask?
The silence stretched long enough that Kim Soleum wanted to crawl into the floor. He finished the thought anyway, words tumbling low and strained. “Did you… want to?”
Lee Jaheon only looked at him, expression unreadable, body perfectly still. The silence stretched thin. For one humiliating instant Kim Soleum thought he’d misstepped horribly, until Lee Jaheon shifted, calmly wiped his hand on the folded towel nearby, and exhaled slowly.
“This was merely me offering assistance to a subordinate,” Lee Jaheon said. “I have no need.”
Kim Soleum choked on a sound that was half-laugh, half-mortification. Wow. Daydream fraternization policies sure are interesting. Is this in the employee handbook? Another crazy thing about this company, honestly.
Lee Jaheon tilted his head slightly, watching him. “Would it make you feel more satisfied through the reciprocation of my own sexual release?”
The slow nodding as he said it only made it worse. Or better. Kim Soleum couldn’t decide.
Kim Soleum’s whole body flushed hot. The words were blunt to the point of violence—cringe-inducing in their literalness—but there was something almost refreshing about it too. None of the veiled innuendos, none of the half-truths he’d grown used to from other men and women. Just… this. Clear communication. Utterly unsexy, which somehow circled back to unbearably sexy.
He squirmed, covering his face with one hand, but nodded anyway. “Um. Yes. I… yeah.”
The word was out of his mouth before he could take it back.
Lee Jaheon didn’t move, which left Kim Soleum with the unbearable problem of initiative.
He stared, cheeks hot, pulse a hammer in his throat. What was he supposed to do—just… reach for him? The idea made his stomach lurch with embarrassment. He’d never been the one to start anything, not really; he preferred to be wanted, coaxed, pulled in. But Lee Jaheon wasn’t coaxing—Lee Jaheon was waiting, impassive, giving him all the space in the world to decide.
Awkward didn’t even begin to cover it. Kim Soleum dragged his gaze up and down, lingered too long at the breadth of shoulders, the hard line of his chest, the sheer alien poise of him. Was he really going to do this? His fingers twitched against the mat.
Fine.
Kim Soleum sat up, heart racing, and reached out, hesitant at first, brushing fingertips against the edge of Lee Jaheon’s shirt. He glanced up once, searching for any flicker of disapproval, any sign to pull back. There was none. The man stood perfectly still, letting himself be touched, as if this too were just another step Kim Soleum had to choose.
So he tugged, awkward, clumsy; his shirt first, awkwardly tugged over broad shoulders, then the rest, each piece folded aside with the same neatness Kim Soleum had used earlier—as if that symmetry might preserve his sanity. And then: skin, hard planes under his palms, warmer than expected, a kind of heat that made Kim Soleum’s fingers linger longer than they should have.
When he reached lower, fumbling, he half-expected something inhuman—scaled, ridged, barbed, something—but what he found made him pause, blinking.
A completely normal dick.
Well—normal was doing a lot of work here. Large, heavy in his hand, nothing like the men he’d known before. He wrapped his fingers around it and still didn’t cover the girth, which made his pulse jump in a way that was absolutely unfair.
Was this some bizarre kind of wish fulfillment? he wondered wildly. Did the people writing up the Dark Exploration Records wiki just… design Employee ‘D’ like this, with a huge-fucking-dick as a treat? Or was this actually alien biology? Either way, it was intimidating, and hot, and his body was too eager to argue with his brain about it.
His grip was clumsy at first, hesitant; Lee Jaheon didn’t flinch, didn’t sigh, didn’t react at all, which only made Kim Soleum more self-conscious. He stroked slowly, thumb brushing the head, slick already beading there. His own breath quickened even though it wasn’t his body being touched.
“Does this please you?” Lee Jaheon asked, voice the same steady calm as before, as though they were discussing a mission parameter.
Kim Soleum bit down on a groan, cheeks burning. “Y-yes. You’re… you’re big.” God, why did he say that out loud?
He avoided Lee Jaheon’s gaze at first; it was easier to focus on the weight in his palm, obscene and gorgeous and terrifying all at once; the way his wrist ached from the stretch, how his fingers couldn’t close fully around it. He stroked clumsily, too shallow at first, then firmer, his breath catching as the size of it became undeniable.
“Do not avert your eyes,” Lee Jaheon said, low, steady; not unkindly.
Kim Soleum’s head jerked up, mouth parting, cheeks hot enough to burn. “You—you’re so—” He cut himself off with a strangled laugh, half-hysterical, half-aroused. “No one else was ever this big.”
A flicker of something passed over Lee Jaheon’s face; curiosity, maybe. “Is this… pleasing to you?”
“Yes,” Kim Soleum blurted, too fast, too desperate. His hand squeezed reflexively, thumb brushing the tip, slick smearing against his knuckles. “Yes, it’s—God, it’s too much. It’s perfect.”
Lee Jaheon’s hand settled on his hip then, steady, guiding; not forceful, but directing him with that same unnerving calm. The implication was clear, undeniable. Kim Soleum froze, heartbeat stuttering so hard he thought it might bruise his ribs.
He swallowed, nodded before he could think better of it. “Yeah. Please.” The words tumbled out high and raw, like begging.
Lee Jaheon stripped away what was left between them, slow and methodical, and positioned himself. Kim Soleum lay back on the mat, pulse hammering, thighs trembling at the anticipation of being opened up, stretched wide around something far larger than he was used to.
The first push stole his breath outright; hot, blunt, pressing past resistance with terrifying inevitability until his body yielded. His nails bit into Lee Jaheon’s shoulders, moans spilling before he realized they’d left his mouth.
“Too much,” he gasped, arching, already undone.
“But tolerable?” Lee Jaheon asked, utterly even, as though he were logging results.
[he nodded, tears]
Every man before had been smaller, forgettable. This—this was unforgettable. Alien or not, it didn’t matter. He wanted it, wanted all of it, wanted to be filled until his thoughts and worries were stripped away. And Lee Jaheon, of course, obliged with the same calm precision he’d shown in everything else, every thrust deliberate, every angle calculated to break him apart.
Kim Soleum’s back arched off the mat, his voice rising embarrassingly high, words spilling without sense—half-pleas, half-curses, gasps broken with laughter he couldn’t stop. He clung to Lee Jaheon as if his life depended on it, dizzy with the stretch, the fullness, the sheer relentlessness of being taken apart.
Lee Jaheon’s pace never faltered; steady, relentless, each thrust as though measured to the exact angle that made Kim Soleum arch and gasp. The precision alone would have been unbearable; paired with the size of him, the fullness, it broke him down with every push. Kim Soleum clung to him, slick thighs trembling, his cunt stretched wide around the intrusion, every stroke dragging against places he hadn’t felt in too long.
And then—Lee Jaheon’s composure cracked; his jaw tightened, his hips pressed harder, deeper, until Kim Soleum thought he might split. The warmth came fast after, sudden pulses that filled him completely, thick and hot inside his cunt. He moaned against Lee Jaheon’s shoulder, nails digging in, overwhelmed by the sensation of being claimed in a way no one else had ever managed; every shudder of Lee Jaheon’s release set him off again, tightening around him reflexively, milking more out of him even as his own body shook.
The sensation of it lingered—heat inside him, impossible to ignore, dripping down already before Lee Jaheon even pulled back. He lay there dazed, breathless, chest heaving against Lee Jaheon’s, drunk on the stretch and the warmth.
It should have been enough. He had already come once before, against Lee Jaheon’s hand, wet and messy and humiliating. He had just been fucked until he was full of someone else’s orgasm. But his body was greedy; the ache in his clit screamed louder now, swollen and desperate for attention, throbbing with every shift of his hips. He squeezed his thighs together, rubbed once against the mat in a furtive grind, then stilled, shame prickling hot.
“I—I’m fine,” he muttered, voice cracked. “You already—helped me once.”
Lee Jaheon looked down at him, impassive, crimson eyes steady. The silence stretched until Kim Soleum thought he might suffocate from it. And then: “Would you like me to assist again?”
The calmness of it—no hesitation, no judgment, simply offered—broke him faster than anything else. He bit his lip, nodded once, then again harder when Lee Jaheon didn’t immediately move. “Yes. Please.”
Lee Jaheon shifted, adjusting so one leg pressed firmly between Kim Soleum’s. Muscle hard, unyielding, exactly the surface he needed. Kim Soleum shivered as he realized what Lee Jaheon was giving him, spreading his thighs wider, grinding his cunt down against it.
The first drag of his clit against Lee Jaheon’s thigh made him gasp, sharp and helpless. He clung tighter, moving again, pressing the swollen nub harder into firm muscle; the sensation was rough, direct, perfect. Slick spread easily, wetting Lee Jaheon’s skin, making the friction smoother but no less intense.
Kim Soleum groaned, rocking against him, every movement sharp with overstimulation; his cunt clenched around Lee Jaheon at the same time, still stuffed full of cum, every shift reminding him of the heat inside him. He was unraveling fast, pleasure stacking mercilessly, the friction on his clit and the fullness inside him combining until he was shaking apart.
“Yes,” he gasped, voice embarrassingly high, words spilling uncontrolled. “Yes, like that—don’t—please, don’t stop—”
“Good,” Lee Jaheon murmured, the same way he might note the success of a mission.
Kim Soleum’s face pressed against his chest, teeth catching on a groan as he rubbed harder, wetter, cunt grinding shamelessly on his leg. It built unbearably fast, every nerve lit, until his body seized up; his orgasm crashed over him in a violent shudder, clit throbbing, slick gushing hot against Lee Jaheon’s skin as he ground it out to the last pulse.
He collapsed after, boneless, trembling, panting against him. His cunt ached from being stretched, his clit pulsed raw, but the relief left him dizzy.
Lee Jaheon, of course, only held him steady, expression calm, unbothered.
—
Kim Soleum told himself he’d sit up in a second, reach for his clothes, at least try to preserve some shred of dignity—but he didn’t. Instead, he stayed draped across Lee Jaheon’s chest, cheek pressed against the solid warmth there, breathing him in.
It wasn’t like holding another man. Lee Jaheon wasn’t soft; his body was firm everywhere, muscle like carved stone, his skin strangely warm in a way that didn’t feel mammalian but steady, reptilian, like a rock heated all day by the sun. Kim Soleum blinked against his skin, disbelieving. Was he… cuddling his boss?
He shifted, arms sliding around Lee Jaheon’s torso, tentative at first. Lee Jaheon didn’t move. Kim Soleum swallowed, then leaned up enough to mutter, “This is cuddling.” His voice was still hoarse from the cries he’d made earlier. “People do this after sex.”
“Cuddling,” Lee Jaheon repeated, flat as ever, as though filing the word away in some mental database. “This is a behavior engaged in after intercourse?”
“Yeah,” Kim Soleum said, huffing despite himself, embarrassed even as he clung tighter. If you weren’t a shitty partner, anyway. “Some of us like… warmth, closeness.” He hesitated, cheeks heating. “You don’t have to if you don’t want. I just thought—” maybe if you’re cold-blooded “—you might like it.”
The admission sat between them, humiliating in its honesty; Kim Soleum’s heart thudded hard in his chest, waiting. But Lee Jaheon shifted instead, a subtle, unmistakable move closer, his arm settling heavy around Kim Soleum’s back, drawing him in with quiet certainty.
—
The dormitory door slid open with its usual groan, and Baek Saheon stepped in, half-distracted, already peeling off his jacket. Some children’s show was playing on the screen—bright colors, chirpy voices, a nauseatingly cheerful theme song.
On the couch sat Braun. Alone. Watching.
For a second Saheon froze, caught by the sight of the doll’s painted eyes fixed on the screen, too wide, too intent. The air shifted; maybe it was the lighting, maybe his imagination, but an aura of displeasure, sharp and suffocating, seemed to coil out of nowhere.
Saheon didn’t wait to test it. He turned on his heel and left, the door sliding shut behind him in record time.
My roommate, he thought as he practically bolted to his room, and his creepy fucking doll.