hello kitty seob đââŹđ€
I'd rather be in outer space đž

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Cosmic Funnies
Cosimo Galluzzi

JBB: An Artblog!

titsay
Acquired Stardust
todays bird
đȘŒ

â
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
Not today Justin

Product Placement
RMH

pixel skylines
cherry valley forever
Jules of Nature
$LAYYYTER
styofa doing anything
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@burlesquerade
hello kitty seob đââŹđ€
whoâs in ur pfp and why is it ur bias wrecker
hey so wtf is this kim jongseob
holy fucking armssssss
does he know iâm insane
exciting entry in the "what genre is mcr" debate. he said be a faggot!!!!! (blender 2005)
updated my profile for the first time in a year jesus christ heyyy
we dont want a noise complaint, now do we?
ââ semi public gunil hard thought. indent format. smut .á
thinking about gunil keeping you quiet while he fucks you because the rest of the band is in the room next door. you just couldnât wait any longer for him could you? impatient thing.
thinking about his grip on your wrist to the wall with one hand while the other curls over your mouth so tight you can barely breathe, pinning any sound you could make to the back of your throat before you could even conceive the idea of letting out a moan.
thinking about how you were the one who whispered his name ever so desperately first, eyes wide and needy, knowing damn well the rest of the band was just one wall away. how he had no chance of denying your pleas when you looked at him like that.
thinking about the way he stays relaxed and composed even now, fucking you slow and deep like this is disciplineânot desire. like heâs teaching you a lesson.
thinking about how he barely makes a sound, just breathes a little heavier through his nose, while youâre falling apart against him trying not to cry. âwell if i can do it princess, then so can you,â heâd taunt when your tears would brim.
thinking about his fingers earlier, three of them inside you, precise and merciless, curling with poised control until you were rutting incessantly on his wrist.
thinking about how he looked at you then, eyebrows lifted and smirking delicately like he was waiting for you to admit what you truly are.
thinking about his voiceâlow, deliberate, straight to the pointâwhen he muttered, âif you cum from just this, youâll get on your knees and thank me.â
thinking about the way your body jolts every time thereâs a sound from the next roomâboisterous laughter, muffled footsteps, obnoxious chair scrapingâand the way his hand tightens on your mouth like a warning.
thinking about him leaning in and saying, âyou really want them to hear how good you get fucked? how good you take me?â with that twinge of amusement in his voice. the way he says it, it seems like a warning, but the way his eyes stare through you, it seems more like a promise.
thinking about the way he tilts your chin up just when your knees start to give out, eyes locked on yours like he wants to see every second of your ruin.
thinking about the soft, cruel way he says, âlook at me. not the wall. not the floor. me.â
thinking about how the moment you finally let a sound slipâa choked moan into his palmâhe grins, slow and knowing, and says, âguess weâll see if they notice now.â
thinking about how he hopes they notice.
still new to xdh writing but this was so funđ lmk if u want more đ
i luurrve using this kind of format so iâll probably end up doing stuff like this for other my fandoms too
the catalogue
taglist (join here): @burlesquerade @makeitworse @petersasteria @gdinthehouseee @aizshallnotbefound @floofeh-purpi @ldydeath @wcnderlnds @ttturnitup @breakmeoff @sherrayyyyy @ricecake9999 @leni111 @scream-queen-25 @spiritualgirly444 @fairyprincesslvr21 @loonybunny1 @uuchii @sherxoo @m-325 @slut4junho @galgal-egg @queenofdumbfuckery @lezleeferuson-120 @loveloveloveloverrrr @cherr-y-eji @jinniesgirl @cozypaint @madebybec @allaboutsan @skzbyemmy @skyearby @leeknowsimpstay @lomllino @starlostjisung @xitsjeonglix @nightshadeblooming @btch8008s @professionalcaratdeobi @hanjisrockstar @pochacco-baby @kissesmellow21 @simpqueen2025 @monmonniee
i never really did
pairing: junhan x reader wc: 1.9k. summary: you and junhan are longtime rivals, always clashing in the studioâ until one late-night period to catch up on a partner task stretches too long and the tension finally snaps. tags: eventual smut. soft dom junhan. enemies to lovers. college au.
here damn @burlesquerade
the room smells like dust and varnishâstrings, wood, that faint metallic hum of instruments not yet played. itâs too early for this. the campusâ studio is cold, sterile, with flickering fluorescent lights that buzz just slightly louder than junhanâs presence in the corner.
heâs already there when you walk in. headphones on. work book open. he does not look up when you enter.
you drop your bag with just enough force to make a point. âyou could at least pretend you hate this as much as i do.â
his pencil halts mid-stroke.
âi do,â he replies quietly, without inflection. âi just donât complain about everything, unlike you.â
you scowl. âthatâs not noble. thatâs boring.â
finally, he glances over. no smirk. no frown. just that unreadable calm that somehow manages to feel smug anyway.
your professor paired the two of you together for this semesterâs songwriting project. you are chaos and impulse. he is vigilence and silence. oil and water, pretty much. and yetâ every time he plays something, you find yourself listening too long. every time you add a line, he hums it under his breath like it got stuck in his head.
neither of you say it, but the tension between your styles makes something real.
you perch across from him, arms crossed. âso what, weâre just doing verse one today?â
he shrugs. ânot sure, we can do as much as possible if you have a melody that actually works this time.â
you narrow your eyes, but pull out your notebook. âat least i bring ideas.â
he does not argue. he just plugs in his guitar to the nearby amp, testing the strings gently, the quiet riff curling between you like smoke. his fingers are elegant, precise, and you catch yourself staring.
you look away first.
and you feel it againâthat strange heat in your chest, not quite anger. not quite admiration.
something dangerous. something inevitable.
you try not to look at his hands again.
it feels stupid, really, the way your chest tightens every time his fingers slide up the fretboard. there is nothing special about it. just movement. just sound. but the notes linger in the room longer than they should, and his gaze flicks toward you like he knows.
you clear your throat and drop your eyes back to the page. âwe need to include a bridge, the brief says,â you say, more to the paper youâre reading than to him.
he replies with nothing at first. the silence stretches, frays, tugs at the edge of your nerves. then, quietly, he strums something softer. it is slower than the verse he was playing previously. hesitant, almost shy. and pretty in a way that makes your stomach flip.
you glance up. âis that new?â
he nods. his eyes train on his pick, he doesnât look at you. âmade it last night.â
you want to ask if he wrote it thinking of this song. of this project.
of you.
but that would mean admitting you care more than you pretend to.
and you would rather drop out entirely than do that.
instead, you hum along, trying to catch the rhythm. your voice wavers a little, but he doesnât flinch. just adjusts the chord progression to match you.
for a moment, his presence feels easy.
strange, absolutely.
but easy.
and then he speaks.
âyou always rush the high notes.â
you blink. âand you always write in a key thatâs too low.â
âi like the way it sounds,â he murmurs.
âyeah?â you challenge, tilting your head. âor you just like making things harder for me.â
he looks at you then, properly. his gaze is steady, unreadable, but not cold. his voice is softer than you expect when he replies.
âyou always handle it. i know you can.â
your breath catches. not because of what he says, but how he says it. low. certain. a quiet admission that slips under your skin before you can build your next defense.
and then, like nothing happened, he goes back to playing. like he did not just disarm you with such simple words.
you watch his profile in the studio light. something shifts in you.
and god, he is so beautiful when he thinks youâre not looking.
not everything that starts as rivalry necessarily has to stay that wayâŠ. right?
the hours slip by in fragments. verse, pause. pre-chorus, silence. bridge, stillness. your voices loop the same melody until it becomes muscle memory, until you forget whose line came first. the sky outside bruises purple, and still, neither of you have a desire to leave.
your phone buzzes. a text, to which you ignored. you glance at the time. too late to be just practice.
you both are sitting closer together on the studioâs couch now. not closer much by much, per-se, but just by a subtle shift. his knees angled toward yours, his arm brushing against the notebook you abandoned somewhere between lyric drafts. he does not touch you. not quite. but every time his fingers strum another chord, you feel the vibration in your bones.
you tilt your head, watch him. his hair falls into his eyes and he does not push it back. his mouth is set in concentration, lips parted slightly as he hums the bridge you wrote earlier. it sounds better in his voice.
âtry it with the harmony,â you murmur.
he glances at you, then plays the first few notes again. this time, your voice joins his, softer than usual. for once, you are not trying to one-up him.
you are just⊠letting whatever happens happen.
and whatever does happen.
your eyes meet when the last note fades. you are both quiet, like if anyone speaks, the spell will snap.
his gaze drops to your mouth for half a second. you feel it like a lightning strike.
âwhat?â you whisper, breath catching.
he shakes his head. not a no. not quite. more like a silent war behind his eyes. his fingers flex around the neck of the guitar. ânothing.â
but it is something.
itâs the way the air tilts between you. the way your knees brush again, this time on purpose. the way he exhales, slow and shallow, and his eyes do not leave yours.
âyouâre doing it again,â you murmur.
his voice is low. hoarse. âdoing what?â
"looking at me like that."
he does not deny it. does not move away.
âlike what?â
âyou donât look like someone who hates me,â you add, quieter now.
âmaybe i never did,â he confesses. he said it so quiet, so gentle.
and thatâthatâis what breaks it.
you lean in before you mean to. he meets you halfway. his hand cups the back of your neck, tentative at first, like he is still unsure. but your lips find his like they have always known the way. soft, then harder. slow, then hungrier.
he quickly moves the guitar off his lap and lays it to the floor without breaking away. once itâs situated, he moves you to straddle him.
you kiss him like youâre falling apart.
he kisses back like heâs there to collect the pieces.
and for once, thereâs no noise between you. just breath. just skin. just this.
his kiss deepens until it swallows youâ slow and hot, all breath and tension and long-held want finally breaking loose. the guitar lies forgotten on the floor, notebooks scattered, and the only thing you can feel is himâ his hands on your hips, his mouth trailing warmth down your throat.
youâre still straddling his lap, his back pressed against the creaking leather of the studio couch. it smells like dust and old songs. it smells like him.
âdo you want to keep going?â he asks, low against your neck.
you nod your head instantly. âplease donât stop.â
his breath shudders. âokay. okay, come here.â
his hands slip under your shirt again, slow and sure this time, sliding it up and over your head. he takes a second to look at youâ eyes heavy, reverent, like he is seeing you for the first time and memorising every detail.
âyouâre soââ he swallows. âwow, youâre unreal.â
you kiss him before he can get shy with it. his fingers curl around your waist, thumbs brushing up your spine. when you shift against him, your hips press to hisâ friction blooming hard and dizzying.
he groans into your mouth, hands guiding you into a slow grind. âthatâs it,â he murmurs. âkeep moving like that.â
you roll against him again and he sucks in a breathâ sharp, shaky. his self-control is unreal, and still he gives it all to you. still, heâs holding you like youâre something sacred.
âcan i taste you?â he asks, barely a whisper. âhere?â
you nod. breathless. dazed. and he lays you back across the couch.
he lowers himself slowly, kissing down your stomach, your thighs, until you are squirming under his mouth. the room is dead silent except for the subtle creak of vinyl and the soft, wet sound of his tongue lapping into youâslow, unhurried, like he is playing your body by ear.
you moanâ quiet at first, then louder when his fingers slip in, curling in time with his tongue.
âjunâgodââ
âiâve got you,â he breathes against you. âlet go for me.â
you doâ shaking, thighs clenching around his shoulders, breath coming in gasps as your orgasm crashes over you, sharp and messy.
he groans softly, still licking you through it, still holding your hips down with gentle strength.
when he finally comes up, mouth glistening, eyes dark, you are barely holding yourself upright.
âstill with me?â he asks, brushing his thumb over your lip.
âyes,â you pant. âneed you inside me.â
his jaw tightens. he kisses you againâ messy, deepâ and you fumble for his jeans. he helps, tugging them down just enough, and pulls a condom from his walletâhands trembling.
âyou sure?â he asks one more time.
âyes. fuck. please.â
he lines himself up, slow and careful, easing in with a low groan that sounds like itâs been waiting in his chest for weeks.
you cry outâ full, stretched, perfect. he stills, breath caught.
âyou feelââ he chokes on the words. âso so good.â
he starts to move, slow and deep, one hand braced behind your head, the other wrapped around your thigh. the couch shifts beneath you with every thrust, the quiet rhythm echoing in the otherwise still room.
he leans close, panting against your neck. âwanted this for so long,â he murmurs. âwanted you.â
you cling to him, nails digging into his back. âjun, iâmââ
âyeah?â he whispers, you feel his lips curl to a smirk against your skim. âcome for me again. let me feel it.â
you doâ your whole body tightening, pulling him in deeper as you fall apart for him a second time.
his orgasm follows after you fast, hips stuttering, moaning your name into your mouth as he spills into the condom, fingers gripping you like he never wants to let go.
the silence afterward is soft. buzzing. sacred.
you lie tangled on the couch, half-naked and still catching your breath.
he brushes your hair back, presses a kiss to your temple.
âweâre still in the studio,â you mumble, dazed.
he huffs a quiet laugh, burying his face in your neck. âno oneâs coming in. they know i book it late.â
âyou planned this?â
âi hoped this would happen eventually,â he murmurs. âbut no. not like this.â
you glance up. âregret it?â
his eyes meet yours, gentle and warm. ânot for a second.â
outside, the sky is black and the building is quiet.
inside, youâre finally still.
and he is still holding you. like he means to keep doing it. always.
this is my first xdh work so if its bad donât tell me im newgen to this fandomđ«©đ
shout out to jay for helping me ily
emmie wrote a junhan fic for me ohhh sheâs getting it tonight
already had it
pairing: han jisung x reader tags: drabble. implied friends to lovers. slightly suggestive. part of the emmieverse specialâsee here
âokay, iâm gonna teach you the basics,â jisung begins, settling onto the floor with his guitar already in hand, his back against the couch and knees bent. âdonât laugh if i look cool doing it.â
âyou never look cool,â you shoot back, grinning as you sink down beside him and pluck a random pick from the floor like it belongs to you.
he gasps like you slapped him. âbetrayal. and here i was gonna be gentle.â
âyou? gentle? please,â you tease, nudging your knee against his. âjust teach me the damn instrument."
âfine,â he huffs, dramatically clearing his throat and passing the guitar to you. âe minor. your first trial. put your fingers here⊠and hereâyeah, close. not quite.â
he leans in, body warm beside you, one hand guiding your fingers, the other braced on the floor just behind you. the scent of his shampoo curls into your senses, subtle and clean, and the soft scratch of his voice sends a slow ripple through your spine.
you pretend not to notice. pretend your fingers are not trembling just a little as they press down on the strings.
âlike this?â you ask softly, your attention more on the guitar neck than your words.
he hums, the sound low, thoughtful. âalmost. your wristâs a little tense.â
âyouâre a little tense,â you mumble, cheeks hot.
he laughs and flicks his hand in a gesture that tells you to shift forward, to not lean the couch. once you obey, he moves to sit behind your back. now he has one leg on either side of you, chest pressed to your back, and the body of the guitar still across your lap. his arms wrap around your sides, hands finding yours again.
it is just easier this way. more efficient. thatâs all.
thereâs no ulterior motive. no way.
ârelax your handâno, like this,â he murmurs, fixing your grip with practiced ease. his chest brushes your back with each breath he takes. his words kiss the side of your face.
you swallow hard. how will you focus like this?
âyouâre not listening,â he utters, close enough that his voice hums through you instead of around you. âis it that hard to focus when iâm near you?â
your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. because it is true. because you have been in love with him forever and right now, he is everywhere.
âyouâre just⊠distracting,â you mutter.
he stills behind you for one long second. thenâ
âoh?â
you can hear the smirk thatâs curling on his lips before he leans in, chin nearly on your shoulder, his voice dipping lower.
âyou always act like this when i get close,â he teases, voice like velvet. âwhyâs that, huh?â
âi donât.â
âyou do.â
you can feel his eyes on you. can feel the way his hands have stopped fixing the chord, fingers resting lightly over yours like they belong there.
âyou got a crush on me or something?â
you freeze. youâre being so obvious right now.
he laughs, breath warm on your cheek. âyou do!â
âshut up,â you whisper, but it is weak. breathless.
âyou knowâŠâ he comments, slipping the guitar gently from your lap. âif you wanted my attention, you didnât have to pretend to suck at guitar.â
using your waist as an anchor, he shifts around so that heâs in front of you now. legs still bracketing yours. face too close.
âyou already had it.â
and when he tilts your chin up with two fingers, slow and deliberate, all you can do is lean in.
this ones for my hot and sexy daddy thank u@burlesquerade
taglist (ask to be added here): @burlesquerade @makeitworse @petersasteria @gdinthehouseee @aizshallnotbefound @floofeh-purpi @ldydeath @wcnderlnds @ttturnitup @breakmeoff @sherrayyyyy @ricecake9999 @leni111 @scream-queen-25 @spiritualgirly444 @fairyprincesslvr21 @loonybunny1 @uuchii @sherxoo @m-325 @slut4junho
seeing skz live in 15 days han jisung u better run
jay x jisung âĄ
‷ attieâs 400 event !
rubbing my hands together like a fly
curly haired junhan my beloved
writing for stray kids soon
iâm gonna cream
what's a little ink?
pairing: han jisung x reader
word count: 7.3k
summary: you wanted the upper hand. you came for a tattoo. you also came for him. and somehow you ended up in his hoodie, eating his eggs, and wondering how a bet turned into this stupid, soft thing you just canât resist wanting
tags: tattoo artist au, friends to lovers, fluff and smut. porn with plot. sweet, sappy, and gross romance. enjoy
requested by @burlesquerade hope u like it honey
It all started with a simple, completely ridiculous bet. You and Han had been hanging out for hours, as you often did, swapping old stories and making fun of each otherâs quirky habits. Laughter echoed around the cozy living room, the kind of laughter that was easy and natural, the way it always was when the two of you were together.
"Okay," Han said, a sly grin spreading across his face. He leaned forward, eyes glinting with that playful spark you knew all too well. "If you can beat me at this stupid game one more time, I will get you whatever you want as a prize."
You raised an eyebrow, already suspecting he might be setting you up for something ridiculous. "Whatever I want? Really?"
"Yep. No holds barred. You name it, and itâs yours," Han assured you, his tone full of confident mischief. "But if I winâŠ" He paused for dramatic effect, leaning in so close you could feel the heat of his breath on your cheek. âYou have to let me tattoo you.â
You snorted, shaking your head. âTattoo me? Really? Thatâs your big gamble?â
Hanâs smile grew wider. âIâm a tattoo artist, remember? It's a fair trade. I think youâre too scared to let me do it.â
You couldnât help the laugh that escaped your lips, your fingers tapping idly on your cup. âScared? Please. Iâm not scared of a tattoo.â
His eyes narrowed, a challenge sparking in their depths. âOh, so now youâre saying you can handle it? Alright then. Youâre on. But we both know Iâm going to win.â
You gave him a playful smirk. âBig talk for someone who has no idea what theyâre up against.â
The game you were playingâa mix of cards, trivia, and guessing gamesâwas silly, and it didnât take long for the competition to become heated. But, much to your surprise, you did win. By a narrow margin, of course, but a win was a win.
Hanâs mouth dropped open in disbelief, and you had to bite your lip to stop yourself from gloating too much. You had been expecting him to be smug, but now, as the reality of the situation sank in, you saw a flicker of something else cross his features.
âAlright, alright,â he muttered, trying to hide his grin. âYou won. So what do you want?â
You leaned back in the chair, considering your options. There were so many things you could ask forâsomething extravagant, maybeâbut you had been thinking about this for a while. Han had been inking people for years now, and you had always wondered what it would feel like to have him work on you.
So, you decided to go for it.
âI want a tattoo,â you said with a straight face, barely able to hide the excitement in your voice.
He blinked at you. âWait⊠youâre serious?â
âTotally,â you answered, your grin impossible to hide. âYouâre going to ink me, Han. And you canât back out.â
He stared at you for a long moment, as if trying to make sure you werenât joking, but then the challenge returned in his eyes.
âWell, if I have to do this, I get to choose where,â he said, his tone slightly mischievous. âNo complaints, okay?â
You snorted, rolling your eyes. âFine. As long as I get to decide what the design is, Iâll leave the location to you.â
Han smirked and held out his hand. âDeal.â
The text from Han came just before noon.
âHope youâre not chickening out. Studio at 3. Wear something loose. ;)â
You stared at your phone longer than you meant to, heat crawling up your neck. Chickening out? Hardly. But that stupid winking face was another story. He always knew how to push just the right buttonsâjust enough to make your pulse quicken, just enough to stir things that should probably stay buried.
Still, you showed up. Of course you did.
His studio was tucked into a quiet side street downtown, its glass windows fogged slightly from the early spring chill. You had been here beforeâcountless times, reallyâbut never like this. Never with your skin on the line. Never with your heart threatening to beat out of your chest for reasons that had very little to do with ink or needles.
The soft chime above the door rang as you stepped in. Han was already inside, hunched over a sketchpad, his brows knitted in concentration. A pencil twirled between his fingers as he tapped it against his lower lip, eyes flicking to you the moment you walked in.
And just like that, the air shifted.
He smiled, slow and crooked. âYou came. Iâm impressed.â
âYou told me to. I donât exactly think that counts as bravery,â you replied, trying to play it cool, even though you were already peeling off your jacket, already catching the way his eyes flicked to your collarbone with something unreadable.
Han rose from his chair, brushing his fingers through his soft brown hair. âI sketched some ideas. Wanna see?â
You nodded, joining him by the desk where several sheets were spread out. The designs were delicateâsubtle, intricate things, clearly drawn with you in mind. One of them caught your eye: a minimalist crescent moon nestled inside a trail of tiny stars, the lines fine and whisper-soft.
âI like this one,â you murmured, fingers brushing the paper.
âI thought you might.â His voice had dropped a bit. He was watching you closely, as if your reaction meant something more than approval. âItâs gentle. Quiet. But it lingers.â
You swallowed.
âIâve decided where to put it,â he added after a beat, stepping closer.
âOh?â you asked, lifting an eyebrow. âDo I get a hint?â
Han smiled, tilting his head just slightly as his eyes traveledâunapologeticallyâover your exposed shoulder, down the dip of your neck. âUpper shoulder. Right where it curves into your neck. Here.â He reached out, fingers grazing the exact spot, the barest ghost of a touch. âItâs a place you never see, but everyone else does. Intimate. Subtle. Kind of like the moon.â
You froze. It was a good ideaâtoo good, actually. Because now, your body was responding to more than just nerves. The closeness. The delicacy in his voice. The way his fingertips lingered, resting there a heartbeat longer than necessary.
âI trust you,â you whispered, hoping it would ground you.
Han met your gaze. For once, he looked serious. âThen lie down for me.â
The chair was cold at first, the studio quiet but for the low murmur of music and the faint clatter of his tools. You lay on your side, hair pulled up and shirt slightly off one shoulder, baring the space where he would work. The air kissed your skin, but it was Hanâs presenceâhis warmthâthat you felt most acutely.
He cleaned the area with methodical care, the scent of alcohol and antiseptic somehow comforting. But it was the way his hand curved around your shoulder, the way his thumb brushed the nape of your neck, that made you hyper aware of every inch of yourself.
âYou okay?â he asked softly.
âMhmm.â
âTell me if it hurts too much.â
You chose not to tell him that it already didâbut not because of the needle.
As the machine buzzed to life, the first kiss of ink stung. You flinched, just slightly, and felt his other hand firm on your back in response. Steadying. Anchoring.
He worked in slow, precise strokes, the pressure rhythmic, hypnotic. But each time his fingers brushed your skin, each time his breath tickled your shoulder from how close he leanedâit lit something warm and aching inside you.
His voice broke through the quiet after a while, low and slightly hoarse. âYouâre really still. Most people twitch like hell when itâs here.â
You exhaled, barely moving. âI think I just⊠donât want to mess you up.â
âYou couldnât,â he murmured. And for a second, the machine paused. His hand stayed, resting lightly over the fresh lines. âYouâre kind of perfect like this.â
Your breath caught.
You didnât dare move. Didnât dare ask what he meant. But in the pause between one stroke and the next, the silence pulsedâthick with something fragile, something not quite spoken yet.
He resumed working, but something had changed. His touches had always been skilled, steady, but now there was a new kind of deliberateness in the way his fingers slid across your skinâslower, more lingering, more aware. The buzz of the machine became background noise to the static dancing along your spine.
Your breath came shallow and controlled, each exhale purposeful, but no amount of focus could erase the way heat pooled low in your belly each time he adjusted your position, each time he leaned in just close enough that his breath grazed the shell of your ear.
"Youâre warm," he said suddenly, voice barely audible over the low thrum of music.
You tilted your head, cheek brushing the leather of the chair. âIs that your way of saying Iâm sweating too much?â
A quiet laugh. "No." He wiped the spot gently, fingers spread wide against your upper back. âJust saying... your skin feels alive.â
You bit the inside of your cheek, willing yourself not to shiver.
He paused to dip the needle again, but his other hand stayed pressed against youâthumb dragging absently along the edge of your spine. And then, as though the words slipped free without permission, he added, âItâs kind of driving me crazy.â
The machine stilled. Your eyes snapped open.
âWhat?â
Han blinked, as if he had not meant to say it aloud. But the corner of his mouth lifted anyway, a half-smile that was equal parts sheepish and satisfied. âNothing. Just... hard to stay focused when youâre under my hands like this.â
Your pulse spiked. âYouâre the one who insisted on choosing the placement.â
âMaybe I wanted an excuse to touch you like this. To drive you crazyâ
The air between you crackled. He was close nowâtoo close. His hand still rested against your skin, fingers slightly curled as if resisting the urge to grip tighter. You felt it in your bones: the shift from friendly banter to something heavier. Something hungry.
The tattoo needle remained idle, forgotten for the moment.
Your voice came soft, but steady. âAre you always this... handsy when youâre working?â
He leaned in slowly, slowly, until his mouth hovered just behind your ear. âOnly when the canvas makes it impossible not to be.â
Your breath caught. You could feel the heat of him, the deliberate pause before he moved againânot toward his tools, but toward you. His hand slid from your shoulder, knuckles brushing the side of your throat in a line so featherlight it made your skin pebble.
Your voice was barely above a whisper. âYou said you wanted to drive me crazy, too.â
âIs it working?â he murmured.
You closed your eyes, exhaling. âI think you already know the answer.â
Han chuckled under his breath, but there was a tightness in itâlike restraint stretched thin. Still, he didnât kiss you. Didnât push further. Instead, he pressed a hand to your waist and guided you gently back into place, the spell not broken, only deferred.
âI should finish,â he said, almost hoarse.
You nodded, breathless. âYeah. Finish.â
But every second after that was charged. Every brush of his hand, every hum of the machine, every stolen glance when you dared to peek up at himâall of it thrummed with the knowledge that something had shifted. And neither of you could pretend it hadnât.
You lost track of time. Moments bled into minutes, drawn out by the quiet rhythm of his work and the unspoken weight between you.
By the time he shut off the machine, your body felt like it had become a tuning forkâtight with tension, humming with everything unsaid.
âThatâs it, you're done,â Han said quietly, voice thick.
He reached for a clean cloth, gently dabbing the inked area. The sting had dulled into a soft ache, but the way his hand moved over your skinâslow, deliberate, reverentâwas what left you breathless.
He lingered there, thumb brushing just above the fresh lines. âYou did good. Barely moved.â
You shifted onto your elbows slightly, twisting to catch his face. âIs that praise, or are you just surprised I didnât faint?â
His gaze met yours. For a second, he said nothing. Then, a smile tugged at his lipsâbut it didnât quite reach his eyes.
âYouâre a lot tougher than you let on.â
You sat up, pulling the collar of your shirt gently over one shoulder. âMaybe you just bring it out of me.â
Han stood there, still holding the cloth, still watching you with that unreadable expression. The tension between you was no longer subtle. It stretched between your bodies like a wire, thin and tight, vibrating with things neither of you had said out loud.
You looked away first.
âLet me pay you,â you said, reaching for your bag.
âDonât,â he interrupted. âThis wasnât about that.â
Your fingers froze on the strap. You turned slowly. âThen what was it about?â
He hesitated, jaw tight. The weight in his gaze softened for a beatâsomething bare flickering through, like he wanted to say everything but chose instead to say:
âI wanted something of mine on you.â
The words landed in your chest like a drop of ink in waterâsinking, blooming.
You didnât respond right away. The silence folded around you again, but it was thick, pulsing, the air saturated with all the ways you almost touched.
Finally, you smiled, small but real. âWell... now youâve got it.â
He laughed under his breath, but it was quieter this time. A little more careful. âYeah. Guess I do.â
You moved toward the mirror, pulling your shirt slightly aside to see the finished piece that now lay protected by second skin. The crescent moon curved delicately against your skin, soft as a secret, sharp as a wish you hadnât meant to speak aloud.
It was beautiful. It was everything you could have asked for.
You caught Han watching your reflectionâeyes fixed not just on the ink, but the shape of you, the moment of you. Like he had never really allowed himself to look until now.
And still... he did nothing. And neither did you.
Just two bodies, standing too close, tied together by a single piece of ink and a silence that spoke louder than anything else.
You turned from the mirror, fingers brushing down the edge of your collar one last time. The skin was still tender beneath your touch, but not as tender as the weight in your chest.
âI should go,â you said, voice a little too light. A little too careful.
Han nodded once, but he did not move from where he stood. âRight. Itâs late.â
You moved toward the door, bag slung over your shoulder, shoes forgotten under the bench. The silence followed you like smokeâslow and curling and hard to breathe through. You could feel his eyes on your back.
But just as your hand touched the knob, you paused.
ââŠIâm not usually like this.â
The words escaped before you could catch them.
Hanâs voice came from behind you, lower now. âLike what?â
You didnât turn to face him. âThis affected.â
A beat.
Then: âMe neither.â
You turned then. Slowly. He was closer than heâd been a moment ago. Still not touching. Still not reaching.
But close.
The streetlights from outside filtered through the frosted windows, casting soft shadows over his faceâhis expression was unreadable again, but his eyes were not. They were dark and warm and searching. Like he wanted to speak with his hands instead of his mouth.
âI should walk you out,â he offered.
âI donât needââ
âI know.â A pause. Then, his voice was gentler, âLet me anyway.â
You nodded.
He opened the door, and the cool air of the hallway hit your skin like a shockâlike stepping out of a dream. The clack of your shoes echoed softly as you both walked, side by side, neither of you speaking.
You reached the door to the street. The city breathed on the other side. Stillness clung to the space between you like fog.
âHey,â Han called, just as you stepped onto the threshold. His voice pulled you back. âWait.â
You turned, heart stuttering.
He was standing close again. Too close. The kind of close that felt deliberate. His hand hovered near your waist, fingers flexing once, like he was debating whether to touch you again.
He didnât.
Instead, his voice dropped. âIf I kiss you right now⊠would that mess things up?â
Your breath hitched.
The world held its breath with you.
You let the silence stretch. Let the ache of it crawl up your spine. And then you saidâquietly, honestly:
âI think not kissing me might mess things up more.â
And stillâstillâhe did not kiss you. He only looked at you like he wanted to memorize the moment, the space between your mouths, the way you had just told him everything without saying it outright.
He smiled, slow and heavy with intent. âThen maybe Iâll wait until it really ruins me.â
Your throat went dry.
âNight,â he murmured, stepping back.
And just like that, the door closed between you.
But your heart stayed in his hands.
It was past midnight when your phone lit up.
"You still awake?"
You stared at the screen, thumb hovering, heart already answering before you could.
"i never really went to sleep"
Three dots appeared, then vanished. Then again.
"Me neither"
A beat of no incoming messages passed, then:
"I'm keeping myself up thinking about earlier''
Your breath caught.
"the tattoo?"
"Not exactly.."
You didn't respond right away. You didnât have to. The air in your room had changedâthicker, tighter, like his voice might pour from the cracks in the wall's paint if you leaned in close enough.
And then the screen lit up againâthis time, a call, to which you answeredânot after panicking for a few seconds, of course.
ââŠHey.â You whispered into the microphone.
His voice was low, rough from too many unsent words. âYou looked good tonight.â
You swallowed the simmering embarrassment down. âYou saw a lot of skin.â
âNot the part I meant.â
A silence stretched. Not awkwardâintimate. It curled through the receiver like warm breath against your neck.
âCome by tomorrow,â he said finally. âI need to check your tattoo.â
âYou just want to touch me again.â
âI'm not gonna sit here and lie to you by saying I didn't love every second of touching you. Come by tomorrow, please?â
Your skin flared at the bluntness. There was no smirk in his tone. No teasing this time. Just heat. Quiet and real.
You whispered, âOkay.â
The next day, you were back at his studio.
You told yourself it was just for aftercare, but the second you walked in, saw the way he looked up at youâeyes dark and steadyâyou knew you were both done pretending.
âShirt,â he said softly, gesturing to the seat.
You sat. You peeled the fabric from your shoulder, the same stretch of skin that had sparked the night before and haunted his thoughts since. His hands were gloved, but his touch still felt like bare electricity.
He leaned in, inspecting the ink, but the space between you crackled. âLooks good,â he murmured. âYouâll heal fast.â
âSo I can go?â you teased, voice thinner than usual.
He gave you no answer. Just peeled off the gloves, tossed them aside, and placed his bare hand against your backâpalm flat, warm. Possessive.
âYou came back,â he said. âThatâs what I wanted.â
You turned your head, letting your cheek rest against your shoulder, watching him. âI did as I was told, Han. So what now?â
Han stepped around to face you. He reached up and touched your chin, tilting your face to his. The air between you shrank to nothing.
âNow I kiss you.â
And this time, he did.
His mouth was warm, unhurried, like he was tasting something he had waited weeks to touch. His fingers cradled your jaw, and you melted into it, into him, into the truth that had been aching beneath your skin for days.
He pulled back, just an inch.
âStill messing things up?â he asked, breath brushing your lips.
You smiled. âOnly in the best way.â
The kiss tasted like every moment that came before itâcharged, aching, sweet with restraint. His mouth moved against yours like a secret unraveling, like he had memorized the shape of your lips before ever daring to touch them.
You leaned into him, fingers curling into his shirt, pulling him closer like instinct. Like gravity. Han followed the movement without hesitation, one hand sliding around your waist, the other brushing the side of your neckâsoft, reverent, as if you might vanish if he held you too tightly.
When he pulled back, just enough to breathe, your foreheads touched. Your eyes stayed closed.
âYou have no idea what youâve been doing to me,â he whispered.
You opened your eyes. âThen show me.â
The words cracked something open between you. Quickly, he sat beside you on the tattoo bed and pulled you onto his lap.
He kissed you againâdeeper now, his hands no longer tentative. One slid under your shirt, fingers warm against the small of your back, the other braced at your hip like he needed the anchor. You shifted in his lap, and before you realized you had even moved, he groaned low in his throat at the feel of you straddling him, bodies pressed with no space between.
Still, he slowed. Just for a breath.
âYou okay?â he asked, voice rough.
You nodded, nose brushing his. âMore than.â
His lips returned to the bare side of your throatâsoft at first, then with the scrape of teeth. Your hands threaded into his hair as you tilted your head for him, shivering when he dragged his mouth down the slope of your shoulder.
âHan,â you breathed.
He stilled for a moment, forehead pressed against your skin.
âIâve wanted this,â he said. âBut not just this.â
You stilled, heart thudding.
âI want every version of you,â he continued. âThe fire, the softness, the silence. I want the way you look at me when I'm not looking. I want the way you talk like you are not afraid but touch like youâre terrified.â
You exhaled, chest caving. âYou noticed everything?"
âI tried not to.â
He leaned back to meet your gaze. His hands moved with more intent now, but still gentleâstill you-first. His thumbs traced the curve of your hips beneath your shirt, and you shivered under the slow build of it.
And then, still holding your waist, he laid you back against the padded benchâcarefully, gracefullyâlike you were something rare. Like he had dreamed of this exact moment in the quiet between days.
Your shirt came off slowly, inch by inch. His hands explored like a map he was finally allowed to touch. Every kiss was a promise: I will not rush this. I will learn you inch by inch. I will memorize every sigh.
When his mouth found yours again, the kiss burned hotterâteeth clashing gently, breath shared. You tugged at his shirt, and he pulled it over his head in one clean motion, your hands already seeking skin, already desperate to feel.
Still, even in the heat, he slowed now and thenâtraced your ribs with a single finger, kissed the inside of your wrist. Whispers scattered between kisses.
âI want you,â he said. âBut I also want you.â
You arched into him, fingertips splayed across his back, heart wide open. âYou have me.â
The second his shirt hit the floor, your hands were on himâtracing the taut muscle beneath warm skin, nails catching just enough to make him hiss. His mouth was back on yours before you could take your next breath, more forceful now, more needy. Tongue sliding against yours with a hunger that made your spine arch and your legs tighten around his hips.
Han groaned when he felt itâyour thighs drawing him in like a vice, like you already knew exactly how this would end.
âFuck,â he murmured against your mouth. âYou feel too good.â
âYou havenât even felt me yet,â you whispered back.
His eyes darkened.
He pulled you up in one fluid motion, strong hands gripping your thighs as he laid you down atop the workbench, your back pressed against cool wood, your skin burning beneath his palms.
He kissed down your throat, not slow anymore. Messy, greedy, open-mouthed kisses that left your pulse stuttering. He bit lightly at the curve where your shoulder met your neck, and you gaspedâhead tipping back, legs spreading instinctively, begging for more contact, more friction, more.
His hands slipped beneath the band of your pants, thumbs dragging over the sensitive skin at your hips.
âThese need to come off,â he growled, voice thick with want. âRight fucking now.â
You lifted your hips to help, letting him tug them down along with your underwear in one swift motion. The heat in his gaze when he looked at youâall of youâbare on his table, flushed and panting, legs spread for him like it was the most natural thing in the worldâ
It made your stomach flip, made your core throb.
âYouâre gorgeous,â he said, like he was angry about it. âSo fucking pretty and wet already, and I havenât even touched you properly.â
âThen do it,â you whispered. âTouch me.â
And he did.
One hand pressed your thigh open, the other sliding between your legs, fingers stroking through your slick folds in a rhythm that was maddeningly light. He teased your clit with the pad of his thumb, watching the way your hips jerked, your mouth parted around soft gasps.
âYou gonna let me make you come with just my fingers first?â he murmured, leaning close, breath hot against your ear. âWanna feel you grip them before I fuck you. Want you so messy I canât think straight.â
You whimpered, back arching. âYesâplease, Hanââ
He slid one finger in, slow, letting you feel the stretch. Then two. Then a curl of his knuckles that had you crying out, your hands scrabbling for purchase on the edge of the table.
âThatâs it,â he groaned. âGrind on my fingers. Let me see how desperate you are.â
You didâhips rocking, thighs trembling, your core clenching around him as he worked you open with deliberate pressure, circling your clit with his thumb until the pressure built fast and dizzying.
âI can feel you getting close,â he said against your throat. âYou gonna come for me, baby? Right here on the table where I ink peopleâs skin?â
âFuckâHanâyesââ
You shattered with a cry, legs shaking, body arching against his mouth as he kissed you through itâmurmuring things you could barely process, words lost in the white-hot rush.
And when you finally came down, breath heaving, he leaned back and licked his fingers clean with a satisfied smirk.
âThink youâre ready for my cock now?â
You nodded, dazed. âPlease.â
He undid his belt with one hand, gaze locked to yours as he stroked himselfâslow, thick, already slick from the sight of you. Then he lined up, ran the head through your folds once, twice, teasing your oversensitive clit just to watch you twitchâ
And then he pushed in.
You both groanedâdeep, gutturalâlike relief and hunger all at once. He filled you in one slow, brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt.
You were soaked. Sore. Already wrecked.
But he did not stop.
He fucked youâhard, deep, each thrust lifting your hips from the table, your hands clawing at his back, your moans turning to whimpers, then cries. His name over and over.
Your moans spilled out in sobs as your second climax hit you like a dam bursting. It was hotâblindingâyour release painting his cock in pulsing waves, your entire body locking up beneath him. All the hunger, the want, the times of aching tension you had swallowed back whenever he so much as looked at you with those dark, unreadable eyesâit all came out in that moment. You clenched tight around him, and he groaned loud and low, his head dropping to your shoulder.
âGodâlook at you,â he rasped, voice wrecked, pride and awe tangled in every word. âSo good for me. So perfect when you come.â
But then, his hips stopped to a jarring halt. He was still buried inside you, forehead pressed to yours, breath ragged. You could feel the tension in his bodyâevery muscle taut, his hips stuttering in that way that told you he was right on the edge, right thereâ
But holding back. Just for you.
You cupped his jaw, breathless but steadying. âYou didnât come.â
He shook his head, eyes fluttering. âWanted to feel you first. Wanted to seeâfuckâhow tight you get when you come around me.â
Your body gave a little twitch at the memory, still oversensitive, still full. But a flicker of something else lit behind your eyes.
You kissed himâslow and deepâand then, with a sly smile, clenched around him deliberately.
He choked on a moan, arms trembling where they braced beside your head.
âBabyâdonâtââ
âYou always so in control?â you whispered, brushing your lips along his jaw, down his throat. âOr are you just that good at hiding when you want to break?â
He groaned, head falling to your shoulder. âPleaseâfuckââ
You rolled your hips beneath him, just a little. Just enough.
âYouâre still so hard,â you murmured, voice thick with satisfaction. âStill deep inside me like you need to be. You want to come? Want to fill me up?â
âGodâyes.â
âThen allow me.â
You pushed him gently, and he let youâcollapsing back into the chair beside the bench, cock glistening and flushed as it slipped free, twitching with the aftershocks of restraint. He barely had time to breathe before you dropped to your knees between his legs and wrapped your hand around himâtight, slow strokes from base to tip that had him gasping and clenching the arms of the chair.
âYou look so pretty like this,â you murmured, kissing the head of his cock, licking the slit just to taste the salt of him.
His hips bucked and he cursedâhead thrown back, abs tensing.
âSensitive already, arenât you?â you purred.
âIâm gonnaâfuckâIâm gonna comeââ
You took him into your mouth before he could finish the sentenceâdeep and warm, tongue swirling as you bobbed your head, one hand cupping his balls, the other pressing down gently on his hip to keep him from thrusting.
He was loud now, whimpering, begging, gasping your name like prayer.
And when he cameâgodâ
It was with a broken moan, back arching, thighs shaking under your palms. You swallowed everything, licked your lips, and looked up at him through your lashes as he tried to remember how to breathe.
His eyes were glassy, hair clinging to his forehead, chest rising in jagged waves.
You smiled. âStill in control?â
He laughedâwrecked, breathless. âFuck no.â
You climbed into his lap again, your bare skin still warm, flushed and tingling, and curled against him with a quiet little hum.
He wrapped his arms around you like instinct. And then, softly:
ââŠRound twoâs gonna ruin us both.â
You grinned against his neck. âGood.â
The studio held comfortable silence for a moment.
Only your breathing filled the spaceâshallow and warm, mingling with his where you straddled him on the tattoo bed again, skin flushed and shining in the low amber glow of the work light. The air smelled like sweat and sex, care, and inkâhot, heavy, and honest.
Han was still beneath you, arms slack, mouth parted. His chest heaved, his cock softening between your thighs.
You dragged your fingers along the lines of his jaw, smug and satisfied. âSpeechless?â
He blinked once. Then again. Something shifted in his eyes.
âNo,â he rasped. âJust⊠trying not to fuck you so hard this bed breaks.â
You laughed softlyâuntil his hands shot to your hips and slammed you down onto his thigh.
You gasped, the sudden friction making your oversensitive body jolt.
âI let you ruin me once,â he growled, voice low and wrecked. âYour turn now.â
You barely had time to react before he stood, arms beneath your thighs, lifting you like nothing. Your back hit the nearest wallâyour bare skin flush to cool concrete, legs wrapped around his waist, his cock already hardening between you again.
âWhatâHanââ
âYou think you can just look at me like that,â he snarled against your neck, grinding up between your soaked folds. âTouch me like you own me. And then walk out of here? Nah.â
You shivered. His cock pressed right against your entrance.
âHanââ
âLook at me.â
You did.
He didn't give you a warning. Just a brutal promise, growled against your skin; âIâm gonna fuck you so good youâll forget your own nameâbut still remember mine when your hands are between your legs for weeks after.â
Then he was inside you againâdeepâin one smooth, merciless thrust, hips snapping forward so hard your back hit the wall with a dull thud.
You gaspedâhigh and breathlessâarms clinging to his shoulders, nails biting into skin.
âHanâfuckââ
He caught your cry in a kiss that was anything but sweet. All tongue, teeth, and desperation, lips crushed to yours like he needed your breath to survive.
Your walls fluttered around him alreadyâsensitive from the first round, still dripping wet and raw, but ready despite the ache. He filled you so completely, so perfectly, it stole the air from your lungs.
âI felt this pussy clench around my fingers,â he groaned, pulling back just enough to slam into you again. âBut itâs nothingânothingâcompared to how you grip my cock. So fucking tight. So wet.â
You moanedâhelplessâevery part of your body trembling as he started to move.
Hard. Fast. Focused.
Your back scraped against the wall with every thrust, the studio echoing with the filthy slap of skin on skin, the sound of your choked gasps and his rough groans.
âYou want control?â he hissed, fingers digging into the underside of your thighs, forcing them open wider. âThen take it.â
He pulled out.
You nearly cried from the loss.
Then he moved you back to the table, your knees hitting the workbench edge as he turned you, bent you forward, pressed your chest flat to the table.
You barely had time to breathe before he plunged back inside from behind, the new angle making you cry out, high and broken.
âLouder!â he commanded. âLet the whole damn building know how good I fuck you.â
And louder you were when he found that spot inside youâover and over again, the pace brutal and relentless.
He gripped your hips, pulling you back to meet every thrust, the obscene sound of your slick arousal growing louder with every stroke. Your legs started to buckleânerves frayed, every inch of your skin alight.
âF-fuckâHanâI canâtâtoo muchââ
âYou can. Youâre taking it like a fucking dream,â he rasped, reaching down, rubbing your clit in tight, wet circles that made your vision blur.
Your whole body tightenedâshaking, clenching, desperate to come again, and againâ
He leaned over you, lips to your ear, voice hoarse:
âCome on my cock again, baby. Milk it. Let me feel that pretty pussy worship me.â
And you did.
You shatteredâbody convulsing, mouth open in a silent scream as you came hard, squeezing him so tight he cursed and slammed into you with one final, brutal thrust.
He came with a shoutâloud, raw, highâhips jerking as he spilled inside you, his hands fisting in your hair, his teeth grazing your shoulder.
You stayed like that for a moment.
Ruined. One tangled, sweaty, aching mess.
Then his hands softenedâsmoothed up your back, traced the curves of your hips like reverence.
He pressed a kiss between your shoulder blades.
ââŠStill remember your name?â
You laughed, wrecked and breathless.
âRemind me?" you whispered.
You did not remember collapsingâjust that one moment he was still inside you, and the next, you were draped across the tattoo bed like laundry left out to dry. Your skin tingled, nerves alight, thighs sticky and trembling, your mind still floating somewhere just above your body.
And Han?
Han was slumped in the chair again, legs spread, one arm thrown dramatically over his face.
âJesus Christ,â he muttered into the crook of his elbow. âI think I blacked out. You short-circuited me.â
You snorted, face still pressed to the cool surface of the bench. âYou short-circuited me. Iâm literally leaking.â
He scooted the chair to get a full view of what you were talking about, eyes glassy but mischievous. âGood. I want it dripping down your thighs next time you show up in those little skirts you wear.â
You blinked. âNext time?â
Han grinned, wicked and lazy. âOh, baby. This is so not a one-time thing. Iâm gonna put a stamp on you like a repeat customer loyalty card.â
You rolled onto your side, raising a brow. âYouâre gonna fuck me five times and give me a discount on a flash piece?â
He laughedâloudly. Like you caught him off guard. âGod, youâre a menace.â
âYouâre the menace. Who says that shit mid-stroke?â you shot back, mimicking his earlier line with mock dramatics: ââForget your own name but still remember mine?â Who writes you?â
He leaned forward, dragging his fingers up your bare spine. âNo one writes me. I just improvise.â
You narrowed your eyes. âSo⊠you freestyled your way into making me cum thrice and see stars?â
He winked. âWhat can I say? Iâve got bars and stamina.â
You smacked him with a rolled-up paper towel, but he caught your wrist and pulled you into his lap, arms curling around your waist like he never wanted to let you go.
Thenâsofter, like he almost did not mean to say it aloud:
ââŠI really like you.â
You stilled, looked over to him and kissed him gently, pouring every single ounce of reciprocation your being had to offer him. Because maybe he was a cocky, ridiculous, and insatiable manâbut he was your cocky, ridiculous, and insatiable man.
Even when he was a little bit of a menace.
The silence after pulling away was heavyânot the uncomfortable kind, more like an exhale. A shared, serene stillness, your heartbeat slowing while his lips ghosted along your jaw, your collarbone, the tender edge of your throat.
He had not moved far.
Still close. Still inside your gravity.
Then Han shifted, propping his head on one elbow which rested on the arm of the chair, eyes sweeping your face like he was memorizing something. His fingers moved before his mouth didâbrushing a strand of hair behind your ear, thumb dragging down your cheek.
âHey,â he said quietly.
You blinked up at him, still dazed. âHey.â
He hesitatedânot out of uncertainty, but because this, somehow, felt bigger than everything you both had already done.
âYou donât have to go home tonight.â
You blinked. âHuh?â
His voice stayed soft, careful, âI mean⊠you could stay. With me.â
You stared.
He rushed to fill the silence, eyes darting between yours.
âNot just for more of thisâthough God, donât get me wrong, I want more of thisâbut like. We could crash at my place. Order food. You could steal my hoodie. Wake up and make terrible coffee together. You could see what Iâm like in the morning. Spoiler: not sexy. Kind of grumpy. But youâre good with chaos, right?â
You laughedâbut something in your chest ached, cracked just a little.
Because he meant itâthis wasnât just about lust anymore. Not even about proximity or chemistry.
It was a choice.
He was asking you to stay, to see him past the high, into the quiet.
You leaned up, kissed him onceâslow and certain.
âIâll stay,â you whispered.
And the way he looked at you thenâhopeful and smug and so unmistakably fondâmade you feel warmer than anything else that night.
Sunlight crept in like it was in on a secret, painting lazy gold across your bare shoulder.
You stirred, slowly, blinking awake to the smell of coffee and something warmâeggs?âcooking in the kitchen nook. Your body ached, in all the right places. Inner thighs sore. Lips swollen. A fingerprint or five pressed like stamps into your hips. You stretched, wincing slightly, and smiled.
And HanâGod, Hanâwas nowhere in the bed, but his hoodie had been draped over your legs like a blanket, his scent wrapped around you like a sigh.
You slipped it on, oversized and soft, sleeves swallowing your hands, and padded barefoot across the polished concrete toward the sound of gentle humming and the clatter of a pan.
Han stood with his back to youâshirtless, hair wild and sticking up in twenty-seven different directions, tattoos flexing as he flipped something in a pan. There were two mugs of coffee already out. One black. The other just the way you liked it.
You leaned on the doorway, biting your smile.
He sensed you, because of course he did.
âYouâre up,â he murmured, glancing over his shoulder. And then, softer, like he couldnât help himself: âFuck, you look good in my hoodie.â
You padded up behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist, pressing your face on his nape.
âYouâre feeding me. You really trying to make me fall in love with you?â
He chuckled, flipping the egg once again with a practiced hand. âThat was the plan, yeah. Ruin your body, then win your heart with food.â
You laughed against his skin. âTactical.â
He turned the stove off and turned in your arms, resting his hands low on your hips, looking down at you with sleepy warmth in his eyes. You felt it thenânot just the physical closeness, but the easiness of it. The comfort. The pull.
âYou staying the whole day?â he asked, voice quiet now, vulnerable in that way he rarely let show.
You nodded, brushing your lips over his collarbone.
âOnly if you kiss me like that again,â you teased.
He grinned.
And did just thatâslow, sweet, a kiss with no agenda other than to keep you there.
Later, with your stomach full, your limbs loose and drowsy from the best kind of indulgence, you found yourself curled up on the couchâHanâs head in your lap, your fingers absentmindedly playing with the messy strands of his hair.
Some terrible movie was playing on his television. Neither of you was really watching it. The remote lay forgotten on the floor. His fingers traced idle patterns on the bare skin beneath your borrowed hoodie, the both of you half-clothed, half-tangled, fully comfortable.
âThis is dangerous,â you murmured.
Han cracked one eye open. âWhat is?â
âThis. Us. You looking at me like I hung the stars and made your coffee.â
He smirked without moving. âYou did, though. Kind of. That coffee was perfect.â
You rolled your eyes, but your cheeks warmed anyway.
His expression softened, gaze dropping to where his hand rested just beneath your ribs. âYou should let me tattoo you again,â he said after a long beat.
You looked down at him. âNow?â
âNo,â he smiled, ânot now. But someday. Something small. Just for me. Somewhere only I get to see.â
Your stomach flipped at the idea. You tried to play it off. âThatâs a lot of trust, letting you draw on me permanently.â
His fingers slid a little lower, dangerously close to a place that still pulsed with the memory of last night.
âYou already let me ruin you once,â he said with a grin. âWhatâs a little ink?â
You snorted, swatting at him half-heartedly. âYouâre so full of yourself.â
âAnd youâre still here,â he countered easily, nuzzling into your thigh like he belonged there. Like he always had.
You sighed contently as you carded your fingers through his hair again.
âYeah,â you whispered, half to him, half to yourself.
âAnd I'm here to stay.â
drops this in your hands and runs off into the sunset
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couldnât even edge to ts i busted immediately
correct me, i dare you
pairing: bang chan x reader
word count: 8k
summary: as chan's choreographer, he told you not to test him. now youâre all messed up in a studio chair, trying to remember your own name while heâs planning round two.
tags: brat/brat tamer dynamic, porn with plot, unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), tension. enjoy
It always began the same way.
With him being late.
You were halfway through your warm-up, music echoing low through the empty studio, when his reflection emerged in the mirrorâhood up, the ghost of a smirk already tugging at the corner of his lips. He moved with the casual arrogance of someone who had never once been told no. Someone who knew you would forgive the delay simply because he was good.
You did not turn to greet him. Did not acknowledge him. You continued to stretch, breathing steady and precise, though your skin buzzed with a treacherous awarenessâan irritating, familiar hum that only he could summon. The kind that made you feel seen in a way that was almost unbearable.
Behind you, the studio door closed with a soft thud.
"Youâre late, Chan," you said, gaze fixed forward.
"Iâm worth waiting for," came his reply, smooth and infuriatingly self-assured. His voice, lower than usual, dragged across your spine like velvet laced with steel. You heard the dull thump of his bag hitting the floor. A moment later, he stepped into your space as if it belonged to him. âUnless you missed me.â
You finally turned, offering him the flattest look you could summon. "I missed the part where you follow the schedule."
"Schedules are tedious."
"And youâre exhausting."
He hummed, letting his eyes wander over you with the kind of unrepentant interest that made your blood simmer. His head tilted slightly, all charm and provocation. âStrange. You look wide awake to me.â
He came to a halt too closeâdeliberately closeâand there was something maddening in the way he regarded you. Expectant. Like he was waiting for you to snap. To bite. To rise.
You did not dare give into him. Not yet.
Instead, you stepped forward, refusing to retreat. "Are you going to follow the routine today? Or must I play babysitter again?"
Chanâs smile curved, sharp and wolfish. âYou can try.â
He moved past you with infuriating ease, brushing his shoulder against yours in a way that felt far too intentional. You swore he did it just to steal the air from your lungs.
And it worked. You exhaled through your nose, reached for the speaker, and pressed play.
As the beat rose and the session resumed, you already knewâthis would be difficult. He would not merely follow the choreography. He would flirt with it. With you. With every boundary you had erected between what was permissible and what was not.
And worse still?
You were going to let him.
The first mistake was subtleâa single beat too early. A downward roll of his shoulder when it should have lifted. Barely perceptible to anyone elseâbut not to you. You saw everything.
You cut the music.
The abrupt silence cracked through the air like a whip. He glanced up, one brow raised, a bead of sweat sliding down his temple, breath steady despite the interruption.
"Youâre early on that step," you said as you crossed the floor toward him, your tone calm, precise, with the faint edge of authority you had learned to wield like a shield.
"Iâm in the pocket," he countered, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Youâre simply obsessed with clean lines."
"No, Iâm obsessed with accuracy."
"Mm." He made a thoughtful sound, amused. "Is that what weâre calling it?"
You stopped in front of him. "Turn."
He obeyedâslowly, deliberately. As though he were indulging you. As though you had not earned his compliance.
You stepped into his space, eyes on his shoulders, fingers lifting to adjust the angle. The moment you touched him, everything shifted.
His muscles stilled beneath your hand. The air thickened. His breath caught, barely audibleâbut there. Real. Raw. You were too close. You could count the freckles scattered beneath his jaw, trace the curve of his smirk with your thumb if you dared.
"Like this," you said, your voice softening, almost in spite of yourself. Your fingers guided his arm upward. "Not down. It ruins the symmetry."
You anticipated a nod. Silence. Deference.
Instead, his gaze dropped to your hand. Then lifted to meet yours. His lips parted, just enough to be dangerous.
"Are you always this hands-on with the others?" he asked, his voice low and curling.
Your fingers twitched. You pulled away like he had scorched you.
He turned to face you fully, his expression unchangedâconfident, calculating, unreadable.
"Go on," he said. "Correct me again."
The words were a dare.
An invitation.
A spark held too close to dry kindling.
Your pulse quickened. Your mouth dried.
"Keep pushing me," you murmured, almost without thinking. "See what happens."
He stepped forward, gaze unwavering.
"I am."
You held his stare.
And for a momentâjust a single, suspended secondâhe believed you would retreat. That you would fall into old patterns: step away, bite your tongue, pretend this was not a game you both played in heat and proximity.
But not this time.
This time, you lifted your chin, voice cool and unwavering. âIs it attention you want that badly, Chan? Fine. Letâs correct the entire routine.â
You stepped forward with deliberate poise.
His eyebrows roseâbarelyâbut the subtle arch was all the proof you needed. A hairline fracture in that maddening self-assurance.
You reached for his wrist, adjusting it into the proper positionâhigher, tighter, until the tension rippled through his forearm. Satisfaction bloomed in your chest at the way his breath hitched, ever so slightly. Your other hand swept across the line of his back, palms pressing flat, coaxing his shoulders into symmetry with a precision born of practiced control.
âYouâre slouching,â you murmured, your tone featherlight and biting.
âIâm relaxed,â he replied, tone casual, though his posture betrayed him.
âWrong energy.â
You moved behind him, fingers barely skimming the plane of his spine as you traced a slow descent. He stiffened beneath your touch, every muscle drawn taut, as though your proximity alone threatened to unravel him. You paused at his hips, nudging them into alignment, the silence between you swelling with something unspeakably charged.
âYou like giving orders, do you?â he muttered, the words caught between a breath and a challenge.
âOnly when people fail to listen.â
His head turned slightly, gaze sliding to meet yours over his shoulder. His eyes had darkened, that lazy grin now replaced by something sharper. Edged. Curious.
âIs that why you keep touching me?â
You offered a smileâsweet, sharp, devastating.
âWould you prefer I simply tell you that youâre wrong?â
And thenâpurposefullyâyou let your hands fall from him, slow and final, the ghost of your touch lingering even as you stepped away.
âYour choice, Chan,â you said with a shrug, voice dripping with implication. âKeep testing me. I don't mind showing you exactly what you canât get away with.â
The atmosphere shifted.
His breath caught.
That ever-present smirk faltered.
And for the first time since he arrived, he remained completely still.
Throughout the rest of practice, he listened.
Not perfectly. Not without that trademark insolence glinting in the curve of his mouth or the flick of his gaze. But he listened.
Because now, he knew what it cost not to.
Every cue you gave, he followedâsharp, fluid, intentional. Every correction you made, he absorbed without a word. You watched him from the corner of your eye, and it infuriated you just how good he looked when he was focused. How easily he slipped into that quiet dominance, body cutting through the choreography like he was born to lead.
And stillâyou felt it.
The shift.
With every pass, the space grew tighter, the air more fraught. Every glance he threw your way bore a weight it had not held beforeâno longer teasing, no longer smug.
Something else had taken its place.
Something coiled. Waiting.
At one point, you reached for your water bottle and caught him watching you through the mirrorâopenly, steadily, unflinching. He made no effort to look away.
You raised a brow.
He licked his lower lipâslow, subtleâand exhaled the softest laugh. The sound was quiet, but it struck you like a match dragged across dry kindling.
It lingered between you. That laugh. That look. That dare.
By the time the last beat dissolved into silence, your pulse thundered in your throat, your skin overheatedânot from exertion, but from him. From the unbearable presence of him, the pressure that never eased.
You knelt to unplug the speaker, sweat cooling against your spine. You never heard his footstepsâonly felt the warmth of his approach, the charged silence that always accompanied him when he drew too close.
His voice came low. Measured. Dangerous.
âYou push harder when you are flustered.â
You rose slowly, subconsciously standing just a little too close for professionalism. âAnd you make more mistakes when you want attention.â
He smiledâbarely. But it was different now. The mischief was muted. The darkness had settled in. He leaned even closer to your face, mere centimetres away by now.
The proximity sent your brain into haywireâwas he about to kiss you?
Then, he broke the silence softlyâalmost like a secretâ
âSo what happens when we slip?â
Your breath caught.
He did not wait for a reply. He turned and walked away, towel slung over his shoulder, leaving nothing behind but the echo of his actions and the heat it carved into your chest.
You lasted four minutes.
Four long minutes of stretching, of pretending to cool down, of rationalizing your stillness in an empty room now thick with unsaid things. You told yourself you were being responsible. That this was routine.
You waited for him to return, to shut up your flustered little brain with his lips, like he threatened to do before he left. But, the doorway remained empty. So, you went after him.
The hallway outside was dim, lit only by vending machines and flickering overhead lights. You found him by some lockers, shirt clinging to his back, head bent as he scrolled through his phone like nothing had happened.
Your voice cut through the quiet.
âYou always walk away like that?â
He looked upâslowly. No trace of surprise. Just a small flicker of something that told you he expected this. Maybe even wanted it.
âThat a complaint?â he asked.
You gave a half-shrug. âDoesnât feel like your style to run.â
He offered a lazy smile, but his eyes were sharp beneath it. âI wasnât running.â
âCouldâve fooled me.â
There was a pause then. Something softer. And when he spoke again, it came quieter. âYou followed me.â
The air changed again, heavier now, suspended in a silence that could shatter with one wrong word.
You took a step closer.
His eyes tracked the movementâfirst your mouth, then your hands, then back again.
âYou keep starting things you donât finish,â you said, your voice low.
He tilted his head, gaze steady. âAnd what exactly is it you want me to finish?â
You let the question settle for a breath. âPick one.â
His jaw clenchedâsubtle but telling. You saw the moment something inside him shifted, his control fraying at the edges.
âYou really want me to finish something?â His voice dropped, warmer now, tinged with restraint.
âI want you to stop pretending this isnât real,â you said, barely more than a breath. âWhether you act on it or not, stop playing like it isnât there.â
He stepped forward, closing the space between you. Still not touching. But the pressure of his presence was overwhelming.
âThen tell me,â he whispered. âWhich one do you want?â
And God help youâyou could not tell if he meant the choreography or the almost-kiss.
But either answer would be dangerous.
And either way, you were about to find out.
You said nothing. You had no need to.
Because something in him changed. His gaze dropped to your mouthâand stayed there. Your breath stuttered, heat washing over your skin.
He moved closer.
Not boldly. Not recklessly. Justâcloser. Deliberate. His hand lifted, hovered near your jaw, fingers twitching as though asking permission he would not voice.
Your lips parted. Not in invitation. In instinct.
You did not lean in.
But your eyes flicked to his mouthâand that was all it took.
He leaned forward.
Just enough for your foreheads to brush.
Your breath mingled. His hand found your waist, not with confidence, but with careâuncertain, hesitant, like the moment might collapse beneath the weight of it.
You tilted your head, just enough for the moment to turn.
And thenâ
The door swung open.
Footsteps. A voice, casual and unaware: âYo, Channieâmanagerâs looking forâoh. Uh..â
You broke apart as though scalded.
His hands dropped. You stumbled back. Blood roared in your ears, a deafening rush of shame and unspent want. Chan cleared his throat, turning away as if to hide what could not be hidden.
âRight,â he muttered. âComing.â
The third voice mumbled an apology and disappeared.
And what followed was silence.
Not the charged kind. The kind that ruins everything.
Neither of you spoke at first. You didnât even look at each other.
But as he reached for his bag, something passed between youâunspoken, trembling.
âI wasnât going to do anything,â he said quietly.
You nodded. âMe neither.â
A beat passed.
Then the faintest, wryest smile. âWeâre such liars.â
You said nothing, you just watched him walk away for the second time.
But this time, the tension did not dissipate, it settled. Sank deep into your bones.
Waiting. Waiting for the next time. The inevitable. Not if.
When.
The next time you encountered him, it was in another studio. The mirrors were unfamiliar, the playlist unfamiliar still, yet the weight beneath your skin remained unchanged. A pressure that had not dulled, only shiftedâwaiting. You had arrived early, already moving through stretches when he stepped in. Earlier than usual. Deliberate, perhaps. His gaze found yours too quickly, and for the briefest of moments, both of you froze, suspended in the remnants of memory. The lockers. The breathless hush of almost. The air between mouths that had nearly touched.
But no words acknowledged it.
âMorning,â he offered with the kind of ease that could only be forced, lifting one arm to stretch overhead, voice deliberately light.
âYouâre on time,â you replied, nonchalant.
âTrying to be good.â
Your eyes flicked toward him, measuring.
His smile curved, laced with implication. âFor now.â
Electricity pulsed between youânot overt, not overwhelming, but coiled tightly beneath the surface, waiting for friction. You chose silence, turning toward the speaker as though the task of finding a track demanded all of your focus. In truth, your hands betrayed you, trembling faintly with the effort it took to maintain distance.
The music began. The session commenced. But the silence between the beatsâbetween the countsâspoke louder than anything the speakers delivered.
Every motion you made was shaped by awareness. His presence carved itself into your periphery, every mirrored movement sending subtle tremors down your spine. When your rhythms aligned, when his shadow stretched too close behind you, it no longer felt like mere choreography. It felt deliberate. Intimate. Dangerous.
He slipped once, losing half a beat on a glide. Your eyes met his in the mirror, and the atmosphere shifted. That heatâundeniable and hungryâreturned with a vengeance.
You were the one who looked away first this time, though only just. And yet, before the song had finished its final measure, you reached for the speakerâonly to find him behind you once again. Not touching. Merely present. His breath a soft warmth against your neck, the scent of sweat and something inherently him clouding your thoughts.
âStill correcting me?â he murmured, voice pitched low, brushing the back of your mind like velvet dragged slow.
You did not turn. âDo you still require correction?â
There was a pauseâbarely a breathâbefore he answered, quieter still. âPerhaps.â
Then, as though his nearness had not unraveled the composure you fought to maintain, he turned away, towel in hand, a ghost of a smile curving his lips. He left you standing there, the ache blooming inside your chest like a bruise kissed too many times.
And this timeâthis timeâyou cursed him, because it had been you who wanted to close the space. You who ached to kiss him first.
It began with a glance. He was mid-step, face composed, body fluidâuntil your gaze found his in the mirror once again, and you gifted him a smile far too knowing, slow and sweet, laced with an innocence you did not possess. He faltered, missing his mark by a fraction of a second.
âToo early,â you noted smoothly, your tone silk and challenge in equal measure as you crossed the studio floor. âAgain.â
He cleared his throat, gave a terse nod, and reset his posture. He did not meet your gaze this time. Did not dare.
The music restarted, but you no longer danced. Instead, you circled. A quiet predator draped in calm, arms crossed, watching him with all the patience of something waiting to strike. He held steady, but you saw itâthe tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched slightly each time your footsteps drifted too close behind him.
You waited.
You let the chorus build.
And then you moved.
When he turned, you were thereâtoo close again, and yet not touching, until your hand rose with precision to adjust the angle of his posture. The movement echoed your earlier correction, but this time your fingers lingered. They traced the length of his forearm, slow and deliberate, pausing at his wrist before gliding upward again, your eyes never leaving his.
âBetter,â you murmured, your breath teasing the edge of his skin. âI hadnât expected you to be so obedient.â
His breath caughtâa shallow hitchâand you watched the restraint tighten across his brow.
âYou like it when I touch you, donât you?â
He tried to laugh, but the sound caught, strangled by the atmosphere. âDonât start something you wonât finish.â
You stepped in until your chest nearly brushed his, your gaze heavy-lidded, your voice a murmur blooming like smoke between you. âWho said I wouldnât?â
His stare burned. His hands remained clenched at his sides, but his entire body trembled with the effort to remain still.
And then you touched his chestâonce, lightly, a single mocking tap over the steady thrum of his heartbeat. âStart again.â
He did not move immediately.
You saw the conflict in him, the tension that curled like a storm behind his eyes, the desire barely restrained. He waited. He wanted.
And in that hesitation, you knew you had won.
Because this time, he had no words.
This time, it was him left breathless.
You continued, unabated.
The lingering touches, the glances heavy with implication, the murmured suggestions veiled in choreographic critiqueâeach one became more deliberate, more artfully placed. A calculated seduction cloaked in professionalism. And he? He accepted it all in stride. A faint smirk here, a deeper inhale there. But he never rose to the bait. Never stumbled. Never retaliated.
So you pressed further.
During a lullâwater break, bodies gleaming with effortâyou leaned casually against the far wall, the curve of your hip framed in sunlight spilling through the studio window. You sipped slowly from your bottle, letting the straw linger between your lips, tongue brushing it just so. A test.
He looked.
This time, he did not smile.
Instead, he walked toward youâunhurried, unflinching, and terrifyingly assured. Each step reverberated like a silent countdown. You straightened, half-formed wit on your tongue, some flirty retort meant to reestablish the upper handâbut you never spoke it. He reached you first.
One hand braced against the wall beside your head, grounding you in place with a subtle dominance that stole your breath. The other hand lifted, slow, deliberate, until his fingers curled beneath your chin. Gentle, yet inescapable, he tilted your face upward, commanding your gaze with nothing but touch.
His eyes were not coldâbut they were unreadable. Deep and calm, like a still ocean hiding a storm just beneath the surface.
âYou finished?â he asked, voice low and unshaken.
Your stomach dropped, heat coiling in its place. âWhat?â you whispered.
âPlaying.â
You blinked, feigned confusion. âI wasnâtââ
âDonât lie to me.â
His grip did not tighten, but it also did not relent. His thumb traced lightly along the line of your jaw, as though mapping it to memoryâor warning.
âYouâre charming when you tease,â he murmured, the edge of a smile tugging at his lips, though it held no mirth. Only precision. âBut donât forget what could happen when I stop indulging you.â
Your breath caught. Blood surged, dizzy and hot beneath your skin.
He studied you like a man memorizing a work of artâone he intended to wreck, piece by piece. His voice remained smooth, but it darkened, dipping into something far more dangerous.
âYou believe youâre in control here?â His smile sharpened, languid and lethal. âPrincess, Iâve only allowed you to think so.â
Then he leaned inânot enough to kiss, not quite. But his breath caressed your skin, hot and deliberate, brushing your ear like a secret.
âYou want to be a brat? Go on, be my guest,â he breathed. âJust rememberââ
He withdrew, slowly, his gaze sweeping you from head to toe with devastating intention.
âBrats get handled.â
And then he stepped back. Casual. Composed. As if he had not just stolen every shred of power from your body and left it trembling in your veins.
You remained thereâmotionless, lips parted, heart thrumming in your throat. Breathless, undone.
You knew, then. The game had shifted.
The next round?
You would not be the one in control.
But you did not stop. Even after that moment at the wallâafter the words that laced threat with promise, after the heat of his breath echoing in your skin like a burnâyou could not seem to stop. Perhaps it was the way he looked at you now, gaze simmering with warning and anticipation, like a man one heartbeat away from devouring. Perhaps it was the thrillâthe exquisite danger of pushing too far, too fast, too close.
But today, he was done playing.
Today, he struck the match.
You had been playing a dangerous gameâone step too close, one brush too many, your body skimming his in a way that most certainly did not belong to the choreography. And he saw it. Saw you smirk at your own boldness in the mirror.
That was all it took.
The music cut, abrupt and echoing in the sudden hush that followed. The studio stilled. Heads lifted. A few half-smiles, expecting a correction, perhaps even a teasing remark.
But he did not joke.
He turned to you. âCome here.â
Your stomach turned over at the sound of itâlow, commanding, unmistakable. You hesitated, just long enough to register your heartbeat climbing.
âI saidââ His tone sharpened. He snapped his fingers, pointed to the floor in front of him with infuriating precision. âCome. Here.â
You moved, pulse thudding like thunder in your ears.
He did not touch you. Not at first. He circled you slowly, like a thought forming in real time, eyes raking over your frame with unnerving composure. And then, he began to correct.
His hand settled at your hip, adjusting the tilt with a firm, measured push. His palm rose to your arm, guiding it upward, fingers splayed just wide enough to graze the sensitive space below your ribs. He stepped in closer, lifted your chin with a single knuckleânot gently, not cruelly, but with a control that brokered no disobedience.
He said nothing.
Not until he stood behind you, breath whispering against your ear like silk edged in flame.
âYou want to be a brat?â he murmured. âVery well.â
His hands did not wanderâthey instructed. They placed. They demanded.
âYou will hold this form. You will listen. And if you test me againââ
He leaned in, just close enough for the strength in your knees to falter.
ââIâll deal with you in private.â
And then he stepped away. As though the warning had never left his lips. As though he had not just carved a promise into your spine with the threat of restraint.
You remained where he placed youâlocked in position, every nerve alight, throat tight with anticipation.
And from that moment forward?
You behaved. But it was not fear that tethered your obedience.
It was desire.
After the rehearsal had concluded, you gathered your things in silence, though every motion, every breath, was steeped in tension. You felt his presence behind you like heat radiating from a fire you refused to face. Each glance toward the mirror caught his reflectionâpoised, dispassionate, but never inattentive.
He was watching.
Waiting.
Your steps carried you to the smaller practice roomâthe one without windows, the one with a door that locked. You stepped inside. The door closed behind you with a soft, decisive click.
You did not need to turn.
He followed. Still, he did not speak.
He moved toward you with the same deliberate calm, the air between you darkening, thickening, drawing tight around your throat. His eyes raked over your bodyânot with lust, but with intent. Calculation. Possession.
âYou donât listen,â he said, his voice quiet, surgical in its stillness.
You did not reply.
âYou flirt. You provoke. You test.â
He stopped in front of you.
âAnd when I warn you?â
You glanced at his lips, unthinking.
His hand snapped to your jawânot violently, but with unwavering dominanceâredirecting your gaze back to his with a pressure that brooked no defiance.
âYou smile.â
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Then, without ceremony, he leaned in. His lips did not find yours. Instead, they brushed your cheekâdeliberate, lingering. A claim, not a kiss.
âYou wanted this,â he whispered, voice deep enough to tremble through your bones. âEvery little stunt. Every subtle touch. Every glance.â
He pulled back, just enough to study your expression.
âYou wanted to be handled. Is that right?â
You swallowed. âYes.â
His smile returned, slow and devastating.
âThen put your hands behind your back.â
Your breath stilled.
âNow.â
And you obeyed.
The moment your wrists crossed behind you, he movedâswift, precise. One hand gripped your hip, dragging your body flush to his. The other tangled in your hair, firm but controlled, tilting your head until your throat bared for him.
âYou donât speak unless I say so,â he growled, voice rich with heat and power. âYou donât move unless I command it.â
A kiss, featherlight, brushed just beneath your ear.
âAnd you donât come until I allow it.â
You shuddered.
He felt it. Smiled.
âGood,â he murmured against your skin. âLesson begins now, right?â
His fingers tightened in your hairânot cruelly, but with authority. A signal. A seal.
You nod meekly in answer.
He tilted your head just enough to force your gaze to his, his thumb ghosting along your jaw with a delicacy that belied the command in his posture. His eyes locked to yoursâunchanging, fathomless, a storm beneath glass.
âWords.â
âYes,â you whisper.
He studies you for a moment longer, then releases your hair with a final stroke and began pacing behind you. Slow. Silent.
You did not turn to look. The weight of his eyes was too heavy to bear.
You felt him insteadâcircling, appraising, plotting every step like a predator does when they know the prey cannot go anywhere.
Then, without warning, his voice unfurled at your earâlow, deliberate, velvet-wrapped steel.
âTake off your jacket.â
You obeyed. Fingers trembling slightly, you slid the fabric from your shoulders. Slowly. Precisely. Offering him the ritual of your submission with each inch revealed.
He didnât move to help. Didnât lift a hand to touch.
Just watched.
When it fell to the floor in a soft rustle, he made a soundâdeep and approving, barely more than a hum.
âGood girl.â
The words landed like fire in your chest.
âNow,â he murmured, âcome here.â
You stepped forward, heart caught in your throat. But before you could close the distance, he halted you with a hand at your hip. His grip was firmâanchoring, possessive. You felt the shape of his restraint pressed against your body, his power held tightly in check.
Still, he did not kiss you.
Instead, his palm slid upward, trailing the curve of your waist with exquisite slowness, watching your eyes as if waiting for the moment theyâd break.
âYou know what I want?â
You shook your head, breath caught in your lungs.
His fingertips ghosted along the edge of your waistbandâjust enough to tease, never enough to give.
âI want to hear you beg.â
Your breath stuttered. But before you could speak, his smile curvedâdangerous.
âNot yet.â
Then suddenlyâmotion. Heat. Pressure.
His hands closed around your hips, lifting you as if you weighed nothing. He placed you on the tableâs edge, the wood cool and unyielding beneath your thighs. He spread your knees, stepping into the space he now owned like heâd claimed it by right.
His mouth brushed your cheek. Barely there.
âYouâve been restless all week,â he murmured, breath hot and intimate. âActing out. Testing limits. All so Iâd give you this.â
âIââ you started, but your voice came out as a whisper, shaky and small.
His hand slid beneath your shirt, knuckles trailing your spine, an ache of contact that never satisfiedâtoo light, too brief, too intentional.
âQuiet,â he said, voice like silk drawn tight. âYou donât speak unless I say.â
You nodded.
He clicked his tongue softly. âStill not listening.â
Then his mouth descended on your throatânot with tenderness, but with claim. Each kiss dragged, teased, taunted. He pulled soft, involuntary sounds from youâgasps that dared to break past your lips before you swallowed them down.
His hand dipped lower, brushed between your thighsâonce. Barely.
Your body jerked forward, instinct chasing what it needed.
Immediately, he withdrew.
âDonât,â he growledâlow, sharp, searing. âDo. Not. Move.â
You froze. Eyes wide. Breath stalled.
He waited until the tremble settled in your legs, then tilted his head with that maddening smirk.
âI thought you wanted to be good.â
âI do,â you said, the words spilling out, hoarse and needy.
âThen prove it.â
And with that, he stepped backânot to leave you, not to show mercy, but to begin.
To take his time.
To teach you exactly what it meant to fall apart at the hands of someone who delighted in denying you everything until you earned it.
He returned to that maddening rhythmâtouching, teasing, coaxing you to the precipice only to steal it away with surgical precision. Again. And again. Each retreat more cruel than the last. Each denied high a blade across your nerve endings.
Your thighs trembled, the ache blooming into something unbearable, your lips parting in a silent plea you no longer knew how to suppress.
His mouth traced your collarbone like a secret heâd memorized. Up the delicate slope of your throat, across your jawâeach kiss a promise without fulfillment, a cruelty dressed in velvet.
Still, he didnât kiss you.
Still, he withheld.
âYou feel that?â he murmured, voice a warm breath against your skin, fingers pressing almostâalmostâto where you burned for him.
You nodded, a frantic gasp caught in your throat, a tremor running through you like lightning.
But he only leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper edged with wickedness.
âNot even close to earning it yet.â
Thenâemptiness.
He stepped back, stripping you of warmth, of touch, of relief. You were left gasping, trembling, hands clenched in the fabric of your shirt like you might come apart if you let go.
His smile as he watched you was both tender and mercilessâbeautiful and brutal.
âYouâll beg soon,â he said, voice like a verdict.
And then, to your disbelief, he turned.
Walked to the other side of the room with unhurried grace. Dragged a chair across the floor, the sound scraping through the silence like a dare. He satâlegs spread, arms folded, gaze fixed on you with the full weight of his dominance.
âTry again,â he said. âFrom the top.â
Because this wasnât indulgence.
This wasnât even pleasure.
This was a lessonâand you, trembling and undone, were the student.
The chair groaned beneath him as he leaned backâcomposed, commanding. He looked relaxed, leisurely, like a man with all the time in the world.
But you knew better.
His eyes were sharpâcut-glass cold. Unforgiving. Watching not just your body, but the unraveling of your will. He wasnât waiting.
He was watching you fall. A performance, a masterpiece in the making.
A slow, sweet descent into obedience.
You were still tremblingâperched on the edge, slick and aching, every nerve a livewire. Jaw set tight, lips parted, your whole body strung taut with need. And still, you did not move.
Not until he allowed it.
His voice slid into the silence like silk over a blade.
âGo on,â he said, low and unhurried. âBeg.â
You blinked, your breath catching, heart stuttering like it had forgotten how to beat.
âWhat⊠what do you want me to say?â
That earned you a slow, dangerous smile.
âI want you to admit it. Tell me what you need.â
The silence stretched. Heavy. Punishing. You swallowed.
âI⊠I need you to touch me.â
He hummedâdispleased. Like that wasnât enough.
âYouâll need to do better than that.â
Your hands clenched into trembling fists. Your voice, when it came again, was louder. Frantic.
âPlease. Pleaseâjust touch me. I needââ
He leaned forward just enough to steal your breath.
âThat what all this attitude was about? All week?â he asked. âPushing buttons, playing gamesâjust to fall apart at my feet?â
Shame flared hot across your cheeks, but you nodded. The truth clung to you like heat, undeniable.
âSay it,â he ordered.
Your throat worked. You were already breathless.
âI want to come for you,â you whispered.
His smile sharpened, cruel and beautiful.
âAnd why should I let you?â
âI canât thinkâI canât breatheââ The words tumbled out in broken pieces. âIâve been aching since you walked inâI need you to take itâIâll be good, I swearâplease, pleaseââ
And then he moved.
Two strides. A fist in your hair. He tilted your head up, forcing your eyes to his.
âYouâll be good?â he growled.
âYes.â
âYouâll listen?â
âYesâyes, I promiseââ
âNo more bratty little stunts unless I ask for them?â
âGod, yesâpleaseââ
His mouth descended on yours in a brutal kissâhot and claiming, teeth and tongue, a devouring hunger unleashed. His hands gripped you everywhereâcommanding, unrelentingâlike your pleading had finally torn the leash from his restraint.
And then he pressed you to the mirrored wall. One hand slipped between your thighs, the other pinned your wrists high above your head.
He smiled.
âThere she is,â he murmured, reverent and wrecking.
And you broke.
Not from the touch itself, but from what it meantâthat he had made you wait for it. That you had earned this.
He kissed you like he had starved for it. No space. No mercy. Just his mouth consuming yours, swallowing every whimper, every gasp. One hand fisted in your shirt, the other tracing fire between your legsânot teasing this time.
This time, it was real.
Your hips jolted forward, seeking more, but he pulled backâjust a hair.
âDonât,â he said, voice razor-sharp. âYou begged to be good. Be good.â
You froze. Your whole body trembling in the silence that followed.
His smile was maddening.
And then he moved again.
His fingers pressed between your thighsâdeep, slow, deliberate strokes over fabric. Not fast. Not generous. Just enough to have you writhing, your hands twitching in his grip.
âStill,â he reminded.
You obeyed. Barely.
His mouth traveled down your neckâbiting, soothing, leaving traces only he would know were there.
âI could keep you like this all night,â he murmured. âDripping, trembling, obedient. Until you forget everything except how to beg.â
You whimperedâweak, wrecked.
His fingers circled your clit again, slow and torturous.
âYouâd let me, wouldnât you?â he whispered. âLet me take you apart. Piece by perfect piece.â
âYes,â you breathed. âPleaseââ
âThen ask.â
âPlease⊠let me come.â
He stilled.
And smiled.
âGood girl.â
Then everything changed.
He slipped beneath your waistband, found you bare, drenched, desperate. Two fingers pushed deep, curling just right, sending shockwaves down your spine. You cried out, your body arching, but he held you fastâhis strength the only anchor in the storm.
âYou hear yourself?â he growled, mouth against your ear. âSo fucking loud. So needy. You were made for this.â
He moved with purpose nowâno longer denying, but delivering. Each thrust of his fingers uncoiled something unbearable inside you. His mouth was at your neck again, claiming every sound, every twitch, every unraveling breath.
âYou take it so well,â he whispered. âFucking perfect.â
Your body tightenedâhips trembling, core clenching around him.
âSay it,â he commanded. âWho do you come for?â
âYou,â you gasped. âYouâChan, fuckâpleaseââ
âThen come.â
And you did.
With a cry that shattered the silence. Your body convulsed, clinging to him, coming apart in his hands while he whispered you through it, holding you like something precious. Reverent. Relentless.
âThatâs it,â he breathed. âThatâs my girl.â
Your vision blurred. Your limbs trembled. But he didnât stop.
He slipped his fingers freeâwet, glistening. He moved to hold them up to your mouth.
âOpen.â
You obeyed wordlessly, to which he slid them past your lips, watching as you sucked yourself clean, dazed and undone.
âThatâs right,â he whispered, âYouâre all mine.â
And thenâhe lifted you.
A gasp escaped before you could stop it, air rushing from your lungs as the ground disappeared. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, legs instinctively circling his waist. His grip was firm, assuredâlike heâd done this a thousand times in the dark of his mind. He carried you like you weighed nothing, then lowered you into the chair with reverence, like he was crowning you, before sinking to his knees between your spread thighs.
âYou donât get to stop now,â he murmured, dragging you forward until you were right where he wanted. âI decide when youâre done.â
You barely managed a nod before his mouth was on you.
His tongue moved slowlyâdevastatinglyâlike he intended to savor every inch, like you were something forbidden heâd finally been allowed to taste. He licked into you with aching patience, moaning against your soaked skin, hands gripping your thighs with a possessive edge as he opened you wider, held you still.
You tried to shift.
He growled.
âStill,â he ordered.
A whimper rose from your throat.
He only smiled, smug and sinful, and kept goingâflicking the tip of his tongue over your clit until your eyes rolled back, sucking you softly until you cried out, until your legs trembled around his head and tried to close. He forced them open again with a harsh squeeze, unrelenting.
âNo running.â
And then you shatteredâquick, brutal, your climax torn from you in a sob that barely sounded human.
But he didnât stop.
Didnât pause.
He kept licking, mouth locked to your heat, tongue dragging through your second orgasm as it surged up behind the firstâhot and helpless, tearing through you as your body arched, your fingers twisted in his hair, and your voice broke on his name.
When you finally slumped, boneless and breathless, reaching for him with a wrecked sort of need, he rose.
Unbuckled.
His cock was flushed, hard, slick with precum as he stroked himself lazily, watching you with a hunger that made your knees shake all over again.
âGet on my lap,â he said, voice dark velvetâan order barely veiled in honey.
Your breath hitched, heart pounding against your ribs as you obeyed, your limbs moving on instinct alone. You climbed into his arms with a quiet gasp, thighs trembling as they slid around his waist. His hands guided you with slow precision, anchoring your hips as he settled you astride him. The chair groaned beneath the shift of weight, wood creaking with every motion like it, too, was aware of what was about to happen.
âTake it,â he murmured, eyes burning.
Your fingers trembled as they slipped between your bodies, wrapping around his cockâhot, heavy, slick with need. You guided him to your entrance, breath shallow as your body quivered with anticipation, still pulsing from the high heâd already coaxed from you.
You began to sink downâinch by inch, unbearably slow.
He filled you like fireâstretching you wide, pushing into the sensitive ache heâd left raw and wanting. The pressure stole your breath, your spine arching as you took more of him, your walls fluttering helplessly around the thick drag of him.
He didnât help.
Didnât thrust.
Didnât move.
He just watchedâutterly still beneath you, like a king on his throne, content to let his prize struggle to claim him. His hands rested on your hips, warm and commanding, but he offered no lift, no aidâonly possession. His gaze tracked every twitch of your mouth, every tremor in your thighs, every desperate gasp you made as you worked to take all of him.
âYou can take more,â he rasped, his voice jagged with restraint. âBe good for me. All the way.â
You whimpered, nearly undone by the fullnessâthe way he stretched you open, made you feel too much. But you didnât stop. Couldnât. Not with the way he was looking at you, like nothing had ever captivated him more.
Finally, with a trembling sob, you sank the last inch, until he was buried to the hiltâhot, thick, deep. Your body clenched, fluttering in overwhelmed surrender, your thighs quaking around him as you tried to breathe through it.
He didnât move.
Just one large hand rose, slow and sure, to wrap around your throatânot tight, but claiming. He tilted your face up until your eyes met his.
âNow ride.â
You tried.
You set a rhythmâfragile, unsteady, the rise and fall of your body a stuttering dance over his cock. Each descent was a war against gravity and exhaustion, your slick walls dragging along his length in maddening friction. But your strength was spent, your body trembling from earlier pleasure, and your movements slowed with every pulse of overstimulation.
He watched you falterâwatched the way your head dropped to his shoulder, your grip on him desperate and shaking.
And then he took over.
His grip on your hips turned unyielding, and he slammed you down onto him with brutal precision. His thrusts were deliberateâslow, devastating, designed not for pace but for impact. Each one drove up into you with a punishing force, making your eyes roll back as he filled you again and again, bottoming out so deep you saw stars.
âStill think youâre in charge?â he panted against your ear. âStill think you can tease me, push me, and not pay for it?â
You sobbed, lips parted, unable to form a single word as your next climax rushed toward you like a breaking wave.
He caught your face again, palm hot against your cheek, thumb dragging across your lower lip.
âLook at me,â he growled. âYouâre gonna come again. On my cock. Right now.â
And you did.
Your body broke like glassâshattered and blinding and unbearable. Your head fell back, mouth open in a silent scream as you clenched hard around him, your walls fluttering in helpless spasms as pleasure exploded in white-hot waves through your core.
But he wasnât done.
He held you thereâcrushed against his chestâand kept thrusting into you. His pace slowed, but the force remainedâdeep, relentless, possessive. He fucked you through the aftershocks, through the sobs, through the trembling collapse of your strength.
âIâm gonna fill you up,â he groaned, voice breaking. âSo deep youâll feel me dripping out of you every time you move. Youâll think of me every time your thighs press together.â
You clenched around him, broken by his words.
And it was enough.
He let out a guttural moan and buried himself to the base, spilling inside you with a shudder that rocked through both your bodies. His hips stilled, jaw clenched tight as warmth spread between your thighs, thick and hot and endless.
You collapsed against him.
Ruined.
Shaking.
His.
The silence that followed felt holy. Your breath came in broken exhales against his shoulder, your fingers tangled in the damp hair at the nape of his neck. His hand rubbed slow circles into your back, grounding you as you melted into himâsweat-slicked and spent.
âYou alive?â he asked, his voice a rough whisper.
You nodded, the movement barely there. âBarely.â
He chuckled, low and tender. âDidnât tap out. Iâm impressed.â
âYou didnât let me,â you mumbled, lips brushing his skin.
âOf course not,â he said, mock-affronted. âYou begged for this. Over and over.â
You groaned weakly, burying your face in his neck. He laughed again, thumb sliding beneath your chin to tilt your head.
âHey,â he said gently. âLook at me.â
And his gazeâsoft now, reverentâmelted everything inside you.
âYou okay?â
You nodded. âReally okay.â
âGood,â he murmured, and kissed you slowly. Like a thanks. Like a promise. Like a home.
ThenââGonna have to carry you to the showers, arenât I?â
You scowled. âI can walk.â
He arched a brow. âIs that so?â
You tried to shiftâand winced.
His grin turned feral.
âThought so,â he said smugly. âGuess Iâll have to take care of you. Again. What a burden.â
âYouâre enjoying this way too much.â
âObviously. You were such a brat. And now look at youâwrecked and clinging to me like Iâm the only thing keeping you alive.â
You slapped his chest half-heartedly.
He caught your wrist, brought your fingers to his lips, and kissed them with mock solemnity.
âDonât worry,â he whispered as he stood with you cradled in his arms. âIâll deal with you properly once youâve recovered.â
You blinked, dazed. âThat wasnât properly?â
His smirk darkened.
âOh no, sweetheart,â he said, walking toward the showers. âThat was just the start.â
You were curled against his chest, limbs boneless, body swaddled in the oversized hoodie heâd tugged over your head with gentle handsâstill warm from him, still carrying the ghost of his cologne. That scentâclean, musky, unmistakably himâwrapped around you like second skin, grounding you in the aftermath.
A thick studio blanket had been pulled from the couch and thrown over both your bodies, tangled at your waists where your legs remained loosely knotted, thigh to thigh, hip to hip. The lights had been dimmed to a golden hush. Somewhere, the mirror still wore the breath of your bodiesâfogged and glistening in the low light, like it remembered.
Everything was slow now. Quiet.
His fingers brushed idle shapes into your bare thigh, the pads of them warm and absentminded, like he couldnât stop touching you, even when he had no destination in mind. His voice came low, laced with the softness of a man who'd thoroughly undone you, and was still basking in the afterglow of your ruin.
âYou were good,â he murmured, tone deceptively casual. âEventually.â
You huffed into his shoulder, lips twitching. âI tried.â
He hummed, thoughtful and amused, his lips brushing against your temple like punctuation.
âNext time,â he whispered, the words velvet and sin against your skin, âdonât make me work so hard.â
You smiled, eyes fluttering shut as you nestled closer into the cradle of his arms. âWhereâs the fun in that?â
His chest rumbled with a deep, lazy laughâcontent and unhurriedâas he tilted his head and pressed a kiss to your hair.
âGod,â he said, almost to himself, âyouâre lucky I like you.â
A quiet grin curved your lips, full of warmth and weariness and something dangerously close to love.
âI know,â you whispered.
And then there was nothing but his steady heartbeat beneath your cheek, the rhythm of his breath against your back, and the comforting weight of his embrace as he held you thereâtucked safely in the stillness, limbs entangled, skin to skin in the hush that followed the storm.
He did not speak again, he just kept holding you, as if he were protecting your tired form from the world outside his arms.
soo this was a lil longer than expected......
taglist (ask to be added here): @petersasteria @gdinthehouseee @aizshallnotbefound @burlesquerade @floofeh-purpi @ldydeath @wcnderlnds @ttturnitup @breakmeoff @sherrayyyyy @ricecake9999 @leni111 @scream-queen-25 @spiritualgirly444 @fairyprincesslvr21 @loonybunny1 @uuchii @sherxoo @m-325
iâm screaming without the s
my love song to you
jane like from breaking bad call me jesse the way idk how to handle allat ur pussy like meth the way im choppin it up idk PLEASE LET ME HIT PLEASE PLEASE
HIS WRITING IS FIRE?!?!?!?
(come over bae u can hit)
clay stains
pairing: hwang hyunjin x reader
word count: 3.1k
summary: hyunjin enjoys it when you let him take the lead. in more situations that just a pottery class.
tags: tension, teasing, flirting. oral (f receiving). enjoy
The studio had fallen quiet, save for the low hum of the pottery wheel and the soft scuff of your shoes across the worn concrete floor. Light poured in through the tall, arched windowsâmolten gold cascading in long, lazy beams that stirred the floating dust into glitter. The scent of damp earth and spinning clay filled the air, grounding and ancient, as though time itself had thickened around you.
And he was already there.
Hyunjin.
Bent over the wheel with his sleeves pushed up and his fingers coaxing grace from chaos. A smudge of pale gray streaked across his forearm, another just beneath his jaw, another on his forehead, threatning to mix with the short hairs of his buzzcut. The white of his shirt clung in places where sweat had kissed the fabric, tracing the planes of his chest, the crest of his bicep, the dip of his spine. He looked almost unrealâlike something sculpted from alabaster and warmth.
You paused in the doorway, suspended. Caught between the instinct to retreat and the ache to step into his orbit. To belong in that still, golden moment that smelled like summer storms and felt like something slow and blooming.
Then he looked up.
The grin that unfurled across his lips was dangerous. Too knowing. Too soft.
"There you are," he said, his voice a low thrum in the quiet, as if heâd been waiting for you all morning and had enjoyed every second of the wait.
You tilted your head, arching a brow. "Thought this was a group class."
"It was." He stood, wiping his hands on a towel, then letting it fall aside without ceremony. "Then I asked if I could have you to myself."
Your breath caught somewhere high in your throat, and he noticed. Of course he did. He crossed the space between you with that same deliberate ease he wore on stageâlike time bent itself to his rhythm. Sunlight gilded the angles of his jaw, caught on the sheen of sweat along his collarbone.
He stopped just shy of touch. Close enough that the air felt charged.
"You ready?" he asked, coaxing, velvet-toned.
You noddedâtoo fast.
The wheel spun, quiet and steady as you settled before it. Hyunjin stepped behind you, his presence unmistakable, magnetic. Then his hands brushed up your arms, fingertips dragging softly against your skin before curling around your wrists. He guided them forward, slow, reverent, until your palms hovered above the clay.
His touch lingered.
"Hands here," he murmured, wrapping his fingers around yours. His breath warmed the shell of your ear, his voice sinking into your bones. You leaned back, unthinking, into the space he offered, into the heat of his body aligning with yours.
His chest brushed your back. His hips aligned behind you. And when he guided your hands to cup the spinning clay, his fingers slid between yours, pressing inânot just to instruct, but to feel.
Your breath hitched.
"Good," he whispered. "Steady now⊠let the clay move through you."
It sounded like a ritual, like prayer.
The clay spun, slick and warm beneath your touch, and he molded it with youâpressing down, coaxing upward, shaping something new from your combined intent. His voice murmured praise, soft and slow, threading into your veins like smoke.
"Youâre tense," he said, brushing his lips just above your temple. "Relax. Trust me."
And so you did.
He let go. Only for a breath.
Then his hands shifted lower, framing your hips, anchoring you. "There," he murmured. "Donât move."
His touch ghosted across your skin every time he adjusted your fingers, each graze more deliberate than the last. The heat built between youâquiet, relentlessâas if the wheel itself pulsed with want.
âI thought this was a pottery lesson,â you murmured, though your voice barely qualified as sound. It trembled at the edges, fragile beneath the weight of his nearness.
Hyunjin chose not to answer right away. His eyes flicked to yours, dark and gleaming with something far too wicked to be innocent.
âIt is,â he said, the corners of his mouth curling into a knowing smirk. âIâm a very⊠hands-on teacher.â
The air between you thickened. Heavy. Charged.
You turned slowly, gaze catching hisâtoo long, too deep. The moment stretched, trembling like a string pulled taut. One breath and it might have snapped.
âYouâre a natural,â he whispered, the words low and smooth, his breath fanning across your cheek. He was close enough that if you tilted your head just a fraction, your lips might have brushed.
You remained still.
âOr maybe,â he added, voice slipping lower, the syllables velvet-soft and dangerous, âyouâre just letting me take control.â
A sound left your throatâhalf laugh, half gaspâbut it came out thin, breathless. âIs that⊠a problem?â
He hummed, the sound slow and deliberate, vibrating through the warmth of his chest against your back. âNot at all,â he murmured near your ear. âI like when you let me take the lead.â
You were unsure if he meant with the pottery anymore.
And when you glanced over your shoulder to meet his eyesâthose endless, dark pools gleaming just above your skinâyou knew he didnât mean it in that context either.
His gaze dropped. First to your mouth, lingering there with bold, deliberate slowness. Then, just as slowly, his eyes lifted again, his smile returningâbut softer now. Less teasing. More intent.
His hand slid around your waist. The touch was unfirm, but it was not fleeting either. His thumb rested against your side, unmoving. As if he was anchoring himself. As if you were the thing grounding him.
âYouâve got clay on your cheek,â he murmured, his voice a little rougher now, quieter. His thumb reached up to brush the spot, tender and slow. But it made no move to pull away. It hoveredâjust a breath too long. âWant me to get it off for you?â
The air crackled around you, silent and electric.
You nodded. A small gesture. And you hated how breathless it made you feel.
But instead of wiping it away, he dipped his thumb back into the bowl of wet clayâand with a mischievous glint in his eye, tapped it gently against the tip of your nose.
You gasped, blinking. âHyunjin!â
He was already laughing, the sound bright and boyish, the kind of laugh that pulled heat to your chest even as you narrowed your eyes.
âYou shouldâve seen your face,â he grinned, utterly pleased with himself.
You moved to flick a smudge of clay at him in retaliation, fingers swiping through the bowl, but he caught your wrist mid-motionâfast and fluid. And suddenly, without meaning to, your hand was splayed against his chest.
The laughter stilled.
Your palm pressed over the soft fabric of his shirt, right where his heartbeat pulsed strong and steady. He didnât let go. And neither did you.
For one suspended breath, you just stood like thatâyour hand on his heart, his fingers curled gently around your wrist, eyes locked like the world had narrowed to just this.
And then, low and wrecked and barely a whisper, he said, âYouâre making it really hard to behave.â
Your breath hitched. Soundless. Helpless.
He stepped back, but only by a pace, only just enough to let the air return between you, though the heat remained. That maddening smirk curved across his lips again as he caught your fingers and tugged lightly.
âCome on,â he said, voice smoother now but no less rich. âLetâs clean up. Iâve got⊠other ideas.â
You followed, your skin flushed, your heart thundering wild and erratic, the clay still warm beneath your nails. And you already knewâevery nerve in your body knewâthat this night was nowhere near its end.
The car was quiet. Too quiet.
Outside, the sun had dissolved into dusk, painting the city in soft amber hues and the blue hush of approaching night. Shadows stretched long across the pavement, and the streetlights had begun to flicker to lifeâwarm halos blurred against the glass, like the world had been dipped in honey and left to glow. Inside, the silence settled thick between you, intimate and brimming with unspoken weight.
The hum of the engine purred low beneath you, each gentle vibration a tether to the moment. You sat still in the passenger seat, hands clasped too tightly in your lap, knuckles pale from the strain. And yet it wasnât tension you feltâit was anticipation. The phantom heat of Hyunjinâs hands still lingered on your skin like a ghost, a memory, something molten and stubborn that refused to fade.
He drove one-handed, fingers draped with casual elegance over the wheel, while the other hovered on the gearshiftâtoo close. Painfully close. So close that each bump in the road felt like a provocation, like the universe itself conspired to close the distance between skin and skin. Every shift of the car was a question. Every silence, a dare.
You swallowed against the tightness in your throat, eyes flicking toward him in a stolen glance.
He didnât speak. Just glanced back, slow and knowing, the corner of his lips curving in a way that made your pulse stutter. Like he knew. Of course he knew. Like he was content to let you simmer, to let the echo of his touch drive you quietly mad while he sat cool as dusk beside you.
âDidnât expect you to be so good with your hands,â you said at last, voice pitched lowâan attempt at nonchalance that failed miserably beneath the softness that had crept in.
Hyunjinâs laugh was a low, velvet thing in his throat. âYou liked that, didnât you?â
Your gaze dropped to the blur of passing lights outside, but your mouth curved in spite of yourself. âI didnât not like it.â
He shifted gears, and the back of his hand grazed your thighâan accident, maybe. Or maybe not. He didnât flinch. Didnât pull away. Just kept his gaze on the road while the corner of his mouth twitched upward in subtle satisfaction.
The silence returned, thicker now. Tighter. It thrummed like a string stretched to its limit, vibrating between you both.
He tapped the steering wheel lightly with his fingertips. Then, like the thought had just occurred to him, he said, âYou looked cute concentrating like that.â
You turned your head, slow and measured, unsure whether you wanted to challenge or indulge him. âCute?â
âMmh.â His smile deepened. âAll serious and focused. Tongue caught between your teeth. Your eyes kept darting between the clay and meâlike you couldnât decide if I was about to help you or kiss your neck.â
Your breath caught in your throat.
âYou were watching me?â you asked, the words falling quiet, fragile.
He glanced at you againâthis time longer. This time slower. That lingering look that undressed without touching, that made you feel warm and bare under your clothes.
âYou were hard not to watch,â he said.
The world tilted slightly.
You shifted in your seat, knees grazing his, the contact small but seismic. He didnât pull away. And neither did you.
âSoâŠâ you murmured, the word curling at the edges with the faintest smile, âwas this your plan all along?â
âTo seduce you with clay?â he asked, laughing softly. The sound was warm, indulgent, wicked. âMaybe.â
You looked at him through lowered lashes. âAnd what now?â
He eased the car to a slower glide as the light ahead turned gold. The moment stretchedâlong enough for his gaze to slide back to you, for his hand to slip, finally, fully, onto your thigh. His touch was slow. Deliberate. The weight of it was nothing short of electric.
âNow,â he murmured, voice like silk unraveling, âI take you home.â
A beat of silence followedâsharp, suspended.
Then, softer: âBut not before making you admit you wanted my hands on you the whole time.â
Your breath tangled in your chest, heart knocking against your ribs.
And as the light turned green, he drove onâone hand steering you through the city, the other anchored to your thigh like a promise.
By the time you crossed the threshold of his home, you were already unravelingâevery thought threadbare, every breath half-formed.
Flecks of clay still clung to your arms like phantom fingerprints, a soft reminder of where he had touched you. Your shoes lay forgotten by the door. You turned instinctively, not even sure what you were reaching forâan answer, a reprieve, maybe himâand found him already there, close and silent, his presence like a tide cresting toward you.
The door whispered shut behind you, sealing you in. The sound echoed louder in your chest than it did in the room.
He didn't kiss you.
Not yet.
He only watched youâhis gaze slow, deliberate, dragging over every inch of you with the kind of reverence that felt heavier than hands. He saw more than your shape. He saw the shiver running along your spine, the rise and fall of your breath, the heat you had been carrying all night like a secret you could no longer keep.
Hyunjin stepped closer, and it felt less like movement and more like gravity tilting toward your skin. His fingers found your hair, brushing it back from your face with an aching tenderness that made your pulse stutter. Then downâhis hands ghosted over your arms, featherlight, until they reached your wrists.
He curled his fingers around them gently and tugged, coaxing you backward until your spine kissed the wood of the door. It was a barely-there pressure, a coaxing rather than a command, and yet it held you still.
âYou were such a mess earlier,â he murmured, his voice a velvet coil wrapping slow around your ribs. âDidnât know what to do with your hands. Just let me touch you⊠guide youâŠâ
His gaze dropped to your mouthâhungry, soft, certain. âYou like letting me guide you, donât you?â
You nodded. Just a flicker of movement. You were unsure if you were breathing.
A smile bloomed; slow and dangerous across his lips.
âGood,â he whispered. âThen donât move.â
Then he sank to his knees at your feet.
Your breath caught like a gasp left half-born. He settled before you with the reverence of a man kneeling before something holy. The crown of his head brushed your thighs, and his hands found the backs of them, tracing slow, possessive lines as though committing the shape of you to memory.
âLook at you,â he murmured, the words devout, almost in awe. His thumbs stroked lazy circles into your skin. âStanding here all quiet⊠all sweet⊠like you donât know how long Iâve wanted this.â
You could barely make a sound. Your lips parted, but nothing came.
He looked up at you, eyes burning with something quiet and consuming. âYou gonna let me take my time?â he asked, his voice like honey trickling over heat. âOr are you already aching for me?â
The tremor in your legs gave you away. That made him smile.
âHmm. I thought so.â
And thenâslow as moonlight melting over dark waterâhe pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee. Not rushed. Not greedy. Just a single, awed kiss, soft and devastating. Then another. Higher. His hands slid beneath your skirt with the patience of a man who knew he had earned every second, and his thumbs hooked around the waistband of your underwear.
âYou wore these to pottery class?â he teased, lips brushing skin just above where your thigh met your hip. His breath made your knees buckle. âSweetheart⊠you wanted to be touched.â
You whimpered.
âStill pretending you donât? I see how it is.â
He pulled your panties down slowly, watching the fabric stretch, watching the wetness already glistening there like a secret too loud to ignore. He groaned softly, the sound raw and low, like he was restraining himself by the thinnest thread. Holding your gaze, he let the underwear fall to the floor, but his attention never waveredânot from you.
Then he leaned forwardâand kissed you, right where you needed him most.
A slow, delicate stroke of his tongue between your folds that stole the air from your lungs. Your hands flew to the door behind you, clawing for something solid, something real, as your moan broke open against the hush of the room.
âFuck,â he exhaled, voice muffled against your skin. âAlready this wet, and I havenât even started? Baby.â
You tried to breathe. Tried to answer. But your hips jerked forward, and he caught you effortlessly, wrapping his arms around your thighs, anchoring you to his mouth.
âUh-uh,â he murmured, tongue sliding against you againâfirmer now, slower. âYou stand there and take it. You asked for this the second you leaned into me like that at the wheel.â
A strangled sound escaped you, high and desperate, and he grinned against your heat.
âYou remember that?â he whispered, his lips ghosting along your inner thigh. âHow you were squirming while I held your hands⊠made you press down slow and hard?â His mouth found your clit and suckedâgently, terribly, perfectly.
âYou were panting like I was already inside you.â
You cried out, hips jerking forward again, your body entirely out of your own control.
He pressed you to the door harder, his tongue flicking with new purpose, his fingers now sliding between your folds, pressing slow and sure where you needed him most.
âIâm not gonna stop,â he said, voice ragged and reverent, âuntil your legs give out.â
His mouth worked you with aching precision, tongue circling, lips sealing around you like he was learning you by taste.
âI want you to remember this every time you see a ball of clay,â he murmured, and then sucked again, relentless, skilled, perfect.
You shattered with his name on your lipsâyour back arching, your hands clawing at the door frame as your climax crashed over you in waves, messy and sudden and breath-stealing.
You didn't fallâonly because he held you up. Even as your legs trembled. Even as your voice failed.
His mouth gentled, his tongue drawing softer circles now, slower kisses against your overstimulated skin as he brought you back to earth. Then one last kissâlow, tender, possessiveâbefore he stood.
He rose like the tide returning, slow and inevitable. His eyes burned. His hands cradled your waist.
He pressed a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, and then he leaned in close enough that his breath ghosted over your lips.
âIâm not done.â
im gonna get the pottery video tattooed on my inner eyelids so i can see it when i close my eyes
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just creamed
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