lilith

she/her 20!

[sillygoose067]

Phases of the Moon

Nanamin Kento x Wife!Reader

The sickness had been lingering like a shadow—never quite announcing itself, but never leaving either. It crept in quietly, first as a dull queasiness, then as a persistent nausea that clung to your days like fog. You’d brushed it off at first. A bad batch of takeout, maybe. A stomach bug. Something transient. But the days passed, and the unease remained, growing roots in your body.

Now, you were hunched over the toilet, your breath ragged, your skin clammy with sweat. The porcelain was cool against your cheek, grounding you in its sterile stillness. Your hair stuck to your face in damp strands, and the taste of bile lingered at the back of your throat. You felt hollowed out.

Kento had noticed, of course. He always did. His concern had been quiet. He’d taken over the kitchen without a word, preparing meals with the kind of care that bordered on reverence. Every ingredient was inspected, every dish crafted with precision. You’d teased him about it—called him your “private chef”—and he’d only offered a soft smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I just want you to feel safe,” he’d said one night, setting down a bowl of miso soup with hands that had defeated countless curses and still found gentleness.

But even his cooking couldn’t chase the sickness away.

You pulled yourself up from the floor, legs trembling beneath you, and leaned against the sink. The mirror caught your reflection—a pale, gaunt version of yourself. Your eyes looked too big for your face, your lips cracked and red at the corners. You looked like someone who’d been trapped in a basement for days.

You opened the cabinet above the toilet, rummaging through the clutter until your fingers brushed against a small, forgotten box. The pregnancy tests. Bought months ago, back when you and Kento had first begun to speak in hypotheticals. Children. Futures. Not plans, not yet. Just possibilities.

You stared at the box for a long moment, your heart thudding in your chest. You peeled it open, the plastic crinkling like thunder in the quiet room. Reading the instructions twice, then again, your hands trembled as you followed them. When it was done, you set the test on the counter and backed away, as if distance might soften the blow.

You sank to the floor again, knees drawn to your chest, the cold tile biting into your skin. The minutes stretched, elastic and cruel. Your mind spiraled—memories and fears colliding in a storm of thought. You remembered the way Kento had looked at you the last time you’d talked about children—his gaze steady, but shadowed. “It’s not that I don’t want them,” he’d said. “It’s just... the world is so uncertain.”

And it was. Gojo’s sudden reappearance had thrown everything into chaos. That boy—Yuuji, with the cursed energy stitched into his bones—had become a new variable in a world already teetering on the edge. Missions were piling up. Kento was being pulled in every direction, and you could see it in the way he moved—like a man walking through a minefield.

This wasn’t the time.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

You didn’t hear the alarm on your phone go off.

But Kento did.

He stepped into the apartment, the door clicking shut behind him like punctuation. His tie was loosened, his brow furrowed, his shoulders heavy with the weight of another day spent navigating the wreckage of other people’s lives. The chime echoed from the bedroom, and he followed it, toeing off his shoes with the grace of someone who’d learned to move quietly through chaos.

He found you in the bathroom, eyes glazed, leaning against the cabinet like a ghost of yourself. The alarm blared from the counter, shrill and insistent.

“Hey,” he said softly, silencing it with a tap. “What was that for?”

You blinked, startled, then bit your lip.

There was no use lying. No use waiting.

“I... I think I might be pregnant.”

Silence.

Kento didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak. Just looked at you with that unreadable expression he wore when the ground beneath him shifted. You shrank into yourself, bracing for disappointment.

He glanced at the counter. “Did you check?”

You hesitated. “Not yet.”

He nodded once, slowly. “Let’s see.”

You reached for the test, hands still trembling, and held it out to him. “Can you... I’d rather you tell me.”

He took it gently, his own breath held as if he were diffusing a bomb. His eyes scanned the result, and for a moment, you thought you saw his hands tremble. Just a flicker. Then a tear slipped down his cheek, quiet and unannounced.

“It’s positive,” he said, voice cracking into a laugh that sounded like relief and disbelief all at once.

You gasped, knees buckling, but he caught you before you hit the ground. His arms wrapped around your elbows, steady and warm.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, the words tumbling out. “I didn’t mean for this to happen now. With everything going on—Gojo, Yuuji, the missions—you’re already stretched so thin, and I don’t want to add to it, and I know we aren’t trying, and—”

“Sweetheart,” he interrupted, pulling you close, pressing kisses to your damp forehead, your cheeks, your temple. “How could I ever be upset about this?”

You blinked up at him, tears welling. “But it’s not a good time. We didn’t plan for this. It might mess up your—”

“No,” he said firmly, brushing your hair back. “It won’t mess up anything. I’ll just adjust my plans around this. Around you. Around our child.”

You stared at him, heart thudding, the weight of your fears slowly lifting.

---

By the next morning, he had already booked the appointment. You hadn’t even asked. You woke to the sound of his voice in the hallway, low and clipped, the kind of tone he used when speaking to superiors. When he returned to the bedroom, he sat beside you and placed a hand on your thigh.

“Tomorrow. Nine a.m. OBGYN had a cancellation.”

You blinked at him, still groggy, still unsure if this was real. “You didn’t have to—”

“I did,” he said simply. “It’s not negotiable.”

That night, he stayed up late. You woke once to the soft glow of his laptop, casting a pale light across his face. He was reading. Medical journals, parenting blogs, forums filled with anxious first-time fathers. His brow was furrowed, his fingers curled around a mug of tea gone cold. You watched him for a moment, then drifted back to sleep.

By morning, the kitchen had transformed. The counter was lined with prenatal vitamins, ginger chews, and teas labeled “safe for pregnancy.” He’d printed out a list of dietary restrictions and taped it to the fridge, right next to the photo of the two of you in Kyoto—smiling beneath cherry blossoms.

Your meals became fully overseen by Kento. He cooked with reverence, measuring spices, double-checking every label, every temperature. You teased him once. Called him your “bodyguard”, and he didn’t even smile. Just said, “Someone has to be thorough,” and handed you a bowl of steamed vegetables with the care of a man offering a prayer.

One afternoon, you went out for lunch together. The restaurant was quiet, the air fragrant with soy and citrus. You scanned the menu, eyes landing on the sashimi platter. You hadn’t had it in weeks, and the craving was sharp, almost physical.

“I think I’ll get—”

“No,” Kento said, gently but firmly, his hand closing over yours. “Raw fish is off-limits.”

You blinked. “It’s just—”

He launched into a quiet, impassioned explanation about mercury levels, parasites, and the risks to fetal development. You stared at him, amused, touched. His voice was calm, but his eyes were fierce—like he was around Yuuji.

You ended up with a miso-glazed salmon, cooked thoroughly, and he watched you eat like he was memorizing the way you chewed.

Another time, at a gathering with friends, you reached for a plate of fruit. Pineapple, papaya, mango. The colors were bright, the scent sweet. But before you could take a bite, Kento appeared beside you, gently taking the plate from your hands.

“Some fruits have enzymes that can trigger contractions,” he murmured, replacing them with slices of apple and pear. “Better to be cautious.”

You should’ve been annoyed. You should’ve rolled your eyes and told him to relax. But instead, you felt something warm unfurl in your chest. His protectiveness wasn’t suffocating—it was grounding. It was his way of coping with the nervousness of stepping into the new, fitted shoes of fatherhood.

He began waking with you during your bouts of morning sickness, no matter how early, no matter how exhausted he was. You’d stumble to the bathroom, and he’d be there mere moments later, holding your hair back, dabbing a damp cloth on your forehead and collar, whispering reassurances in a voice that felt like balm.

He brought you ginger tea in your favorite mug.

One morning, after a particularly rough spell, you collapsed into his arms, trembling. He held you close, his chin resting on the crown of your head.

“You’re doing beautifully,” he whispered. “I’m so proud of you.”

Your fingers curled into his shirt.

---

The bedroom was quiet in that late-afternoon way—sunlight slanting through the curtains, casting long golden streaks across the floor, the air still and warm. You were barefoot, standing in the middle of it all, folding laundry with slow, practiced movements. The scent of clean cotton and lavender clung to the fabric, soft and familiar. A half-finished basket sat beside the bed, shirts and towels stacked in neat piles.

Kento was nearby, sitting cross-legged on the rug, matching socks with determined focus. His sleeves were rolled up, and he had that look on his face—the one he wore when he was deep in thought. You’d grown used to the silence between you. It was full of small things. Shared space. Shared breath.

You reached up to place a folded stack of shirts in the top shelf of the closet, stretching just slightly. Your shirt lifted with the motion, exposing a sliver of skin above your waistband.

Kento noticed.

He paused mid-fold, eyes catching on the curve of your lower stomach. It was subtle—barely there. He stood up slowly, like he didn’t want to disturb the tranquil moment.

You were still stacking more shirts when you felt his arms wrap around you from behind. Warm. Solid. Familiar. His hands settled low on your belly, gentle and unmoving, and you froze for a second, startled by the sudden closeness.

“Kento,” you said, laughing softly. “You scared me. I didn’t hear you get up.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just pressed his palm a little more firmly, like he was checking. Like he needed to feel it for himself.

“You’re showing,” he said quietly, almost like he didn’t believe it until now.

You blinked, then looked down. “Really?”

He nodded, then guided you gently toward the mirror without a word. You let him. His hands stayed on you, steady as ever, and when you stood in front of the glass, you saw it—just a slight curve. A soft swell. Nothing dramatic, but it was there.

“I didn’t even notice,” you murmured.

You smiled, reached up to touch his cheek. “You’re staring.”

“I’m allowed,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “You’re carrying our child.”

You leaned back into him, letting your weight rest against his chest. His arms tightened around you, and you felt his breath against your neck—slow, steady. His thumbs moved in slow circles over your belly, like he was memorizing it.

Your hands joined his over the curve of your stomach. The laundry sat forgotten on the bed. The sun kept sinking. And for a little while, you just stood there—wrapped in each other, wrapped in the moment.

He shifted slightly, brushing your hair back behind your ear, then kissed the side of your neck. “You’re beautiful,” he said, voice low. “Even more than usual.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile betrayed you. “You’re just saying that because I’m growing a tiny person.”

“I’m saying it because it’s true,” he said. “But the tiny person helps.”

You laughed, soft and breathy, and turned in his arms just enough to rest your forehead against his collarbone.

---

The clinic was quiet in a way that made everything feel more serious. Not sterile—just still. The kind of quiet where even the sound of your shoes against the tile felt too loud. You sat beside Kento in the waiting room, your fingers loosely laced with his. He hadn’t said much since you checked in. Just nodded when the nurse called your name, just squeezed your hand once when you stood to follow her.

You could feel it in him. Not nerves exactly. Just something tightly wound. His thumb kept brushing over your knuckles, slow and rhythmic, like he needed the contact to stay steady. You glanced at him once, and he gave you a small smile.

Inside the exam room, the lights were dimmed. The technician was kind, her voice soft and practiced. You lay back, shirt lifted, gel cool against your skin. Kento stood beside you, one hand resting lightly on your shoulder, the other curled into a fist at his side.

Then the sound filled the room.

A heartbeat.

Fast. Steady. Alive.

You turned your head toward him. His eyes were wide, mouth slightly parted. He didn’t speak, didn’t move. Just stared at the monitor like it was something sacred.

“Everything looks great,” the technician said, smiling. “Your baby’s developing beautifully.”

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. Kento didn’t say anything until you were dressed again, the printed scans tucked into a small envelope in your hands. On the way out, he asked for a copy of the heartbeat recording. His voice was quiet, but firm.

The drive home was quiet. You sat with the envelope in your lap, fingers tracing the edges, then pulled out the scans one by one. The tiny form. The curve of a spine. The outline of a head. It didn’t feel theoretical anymore. It didn’t feel like a maybe.

It was real.

Kento tapped his phone, and the heartbeat filled the car again—soft, steady, looping. You stared at the scans, tracing the shape of the baby’s body with your fingertip, and something inside you cracked open.

You sniffled once. Then again. Tears welled up, uninvited, and spilled over before you could stop them.

Kento glanced at you, alarmed. “Hey—are you okay?”

You nodded, but the tears kept coming. You tried to speak, but it came out as a hiccup. He pulled into the driveway quickly, parked without turning off the engine, and was out of the car in seconds. Your door opened, and he was crouched beside you, arms already reaching.

“Come here,” he said, voice low and urgent.

You let him lift you, let him carry you inside like you weighed nothing. The scans were still clutched in your hand, crumpled slightly now. He settled you onto the sofa, sat beside you, pulled you into his chest.

You cried into him, face buried in the soft cotton of his shirt. His arms wrapped around you, firm and steady. One hand cradled the back of your head, the other rubbed slow circles into your spine.

“What happened?” he asked softly. “Is something wrong?”

You shook your head, sniffling. “No. It’s just... it hit me. On the drive. That there’s a heart. A real heart. And it’s beating. And it’s inside me.”

He brushed the hair from your face, wiped a tear from your lips with the pad of his thumb. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were warm. Deep.

“I’m carrying a whole person,” you whispered. “And they’re growing. And they’re okay.”

He didn’t speak. Just held you tighter, rocking you gently like you were the child. His hand smoothed down your hair, again and again, until your breathing slowed.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmured. “I’m so proud of you.”

You hiccupped once more, then went quiet. The tears had stopped, but your face was still damp, your fingers still curled into the fabric of his shirt.

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled, voice small. “I didn’t mean to make a scene.”

He tilted your chin up gently, made you meet his eyes. “You didn’t,” he said. “You’re allowed to feel this way.”

You nodded, eyes glassy. He leaned in and kissed you softly. You melted into it, into him, into the gentle hum of the house around you.

---

Gojo arrived first, as expected—arms full of takeout bags and a bottle of sparkling cider he claimed was “the good stuff, non-alcoholic, baby-safe, and blessed by the gods of celebration.” Shoko followed not long after, hair still damp from a late shift, a box of pastries tucked under one arm and a quiet smile on her face. Yuuji showed up last, a little breathless, cheeks pink from jogging up the stairs, holding a bouquet of sunflowers he’d clearly picked up on the way.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, grinning. “I didn’t know what to bring so I brought... these.”

You laughed, taking the bouquet. “They’re perfect.”

Dinner was easy. The kind of night where conversation flowed without effort, where laughter came in waves and the food disappeared faster than you could plate it.

You waited until everyone had settled, until the table was cluttered with empty dishes and half-finished drinks, before you cleared your throat.

“So,” you said, glancing at Kento. He gave you a small nod, the corner of his mouth twitching up.

“We wanted to tell you something,” you continued. “We’re having a baby.”

For a second, there was silence. Then—

“No way!” Gojo practically shouted, nearly knocking over his glass. “You’re serious?”

Shoko’s eyes widened, then softened. “You’re really pregnant?”

You nodded, and Yuuji let out a whoop, throwing his arms in the air. “I’m gonna be an older brother? That’s so cool!”

Gojo leaned back in his chair, grinning. “Uncle Gojo has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

“God help us,” Kento muttered under his breath.

Shoko laughed. “I call dibs on being the cool aunt.”

“You’re all going to corrupt our child,” you said, smiling despite yourself.

“Corrupt?” Gojo gasped, mock-offended. “I’ll have you know I’m a pillar of moral excellence. Speaking of which—do you think the baby will like mochi? Because I feel like mochi is a personality trait, and it’s never too early to start.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet, here I am,” he said, raising his glass. “To the baby.”

Everyone echoed the toast, glasses clinking, laughter spilling into the warm air of the apartment. It felt good. It felt real. Like the future was already beginning to take shape around you.

Hours later, the house was quiet again. The dishes were done, the lights dimmed, and the two of you had been in bed for a while now. Kento had fallen asleep easily, one arm draped over your waist, his breathing slow and even.

You, on the other hand, were wide awake.

You shifted. Tried closing your eyes. Tried counting your breaths. But the craving had crept in slowly, then all at once—sharp and specific and impossible to ignore.

You turned onto your side, nudging him gently. “Kento.”

He stirred, groaning softly. “Mm?”

“I can’t sleep.”

He blinked, voice thick with sleep. “What’s wrong?”

You hesitated. “I’m... hungry.”

He sighed, already sensing where this was going. “What is it?”

You bit your lip. “Garlic butter pasta.”

He didn’t move.

“And... red bean mochi.”

There was a long pause. Then, muffled into the pillow: “I’m going to kill Gojo.”

You laughed, sheepish. “I’m sorry. I tried to ignore it.”

He sat up slowly, rubbing his face. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“I know.”

He reached for his coat and keys without another word. You sat up too, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed.

“You don’t have to come,” he said, glancing at you.

“I want to,” you replied, already pulling on a hoodie. “I feel bad.”

He looked like he was about to argue, then stopped himself. He just nodded, quietly accepting that this was one of those things you couldn’t help.

The mochi was easier to find than expected. The pasta, though—he insisted on making it himself when you got home. You sat on the counter, legs swinging, watching him move around the kitchen in sweatpants and a hoodie, hair still rumpled from sleep.

He didn’t complain. Just muttered things under his breath about “Gojo and his cursed influence” while he stirred the sauce.

When he finally set the plate in front of you, you nearly melted at the first bite. The pasta was perfect—rich and buttery, with just the right amount of garlic. The mochi was cold and chewy and exactly what you’d been craving.

You didn’t even finish the plate. Halfway through, your body gave in to the warmth and the fullness and the comfort of it all. Your eyelids grew heavy, and you leaned against Kento’s shoulder with a quiet sigh.

“Sleepy?” he asked, brushing your hair back.

“Mhm.”

He scooped you up without hesitation, carrying you back to bed. You didn’t protest. Just curled into him as he pulled the blankets over you, his arms wrapping around you like a second skin.

He kissed your forehead, then tucked your head beneath his chin.

“Better?” he murmured.

You nodded, already half-asleep. “Thank you.”

He didn’t say anything. Just held you, steady and warm, until the world faded out.

---

The third trimester had arrived like a tide—slow at first, then all-consuming. Your belly had grown into something undeniable, a round, heavy presence that shifted your center of gravity and made even the simplest tasks feel like uphill climbs. Your feet ached constantly, your back throbbed in a dull, persistent rhythm, and your ankles had begun to swell by mid-afternoon no matter how much water you drank or how often you elevated them.

You’d started groaning involuntarily when you sat down. Or stood up. Or turned over in bed. Kento had taken to watching you like a hawk, his eyes narrowing every time you winced or rubbed your lower back.

The two of you had been overjoyed to learn you were having a girl. The moment the technician had pointed to the screen and said, “Looks like a daughter,” Kento had gone quiet in that way he did when something hit him deep. Later, in the car, he’d whispered, “A girl,” like he was still trying to believe it.

Since then, he’d thrown himself into preparing the nursery. He’d insisted on keeping everything gender-neutral—soft greens, warm wood tones, muted creams. “I don’t want her to feel boxed in before she even gets here,” he’d said, adjusting the height of the mobile above the crib.

You’d laughed. “She’s not going to be forming opinions for a while, you know.”

He’d looked at you, completely serious. “She’s already a person. I want her to feel free.”

And that was Kento. Thoughtful to the bone. Headstrong in ways that made you feel safe even when your body didn’t.

Tonight, you were in the kitchen, leaning against the counter and trying to stretch out your spine. The ache had settled deep into your lower back, a kind of pressure that made you want to cry and crawl out of your own skin. You groaned softly, pressing your palms into the edge of the counter, trying to shift the weight forward.

Kento walked in, barefoot and sleepy-eyed, heading toward the sink for a glass of water. He paused when he saw you, his brow furrowing.

“Back again?” he asked, voice low.

You nodded, teeth gritted. “It feels like someone’s wedged a brick between my spine and my pelvis.”

He set the glass down and walked over, placing a hand on your shoulder. “I saw something online. Want to try it?”

“At this point,” you said, “I’d let you hang me upside down if it helped.”

He smiled, then moved behind you. You felt his hands slide around your belly, fingers interlacing beneath the curve. He adjusted his stance, braced himself, and gently lifted.

The relief was instant.

The weight shifted forward, off your spine, and you nearly whimpered. Your knees went soft, your shoulders dropped, and your head fell back against his collarbone with a quiet, broken sigh.

“Oh my god,” you breathed. “Don’t move.”

“I’m not,” he murmured, arms steady beneath you. “Just breathe.”

You did. Slowly. Deeply. The pain didn’t vanish, but it dulled—muted by the shift in pressure, by the warmth of his body behind yours, by the quiet strength in his hold.

You stayed like that for a while. Minutes, maybe. His arms didn’t tremble or falter. He just held you, patient and still, like this was the most natural thing in the world.

“I don’t deserve you,” you whispered, eyes closed.

“You do,” he said simply.

You turned your head slightly, cheek brushing his shoulder. “Your arms are going to fall off.”

“They won’t,” he said. “I’ve got you.”

Eventually, he eased you back upright, his hands lingering for a moment before releasing. You turned to face him, eyes glassy, body lighter.

“Thank you,” you said.

He kissed your forehead, then reached for the glass of water he’d forgotten. “Anytime.”

You watched him drink, watched the way his shoulders moved, the way his hair fell into his eyes. And you felt that overwhelimg onslaught of love for your husband.

---

The bedroom was quiet, lit only by the soft amber glow of the bedside lamp. You were already in bed, propped up against a stack of pillows, your legs stretched out and ankles wrapped in a warm compress Kento had prepared earlier. The ache in your back had dulled to a low hum, but your skin felt tight, stretched across the curve of your belly like it was holding something too precious to contain.

Kento emerged from the bathroom, towel slung over his shoulder, a small glass bottle in his hand. His new favorite part of the bedtime routine.

He climbed onto the bed beside you, settling in with quiet focus. “Ready?”

You nodded, lifting your shirt just enough to expose the soft swell of your belly. The marks were faint, thin, silvery lines that had begun to bloom across your skin like whispers. You hadn’t minded them much. They felt like proof. Like evidence of something growing.

Kento poured a few drops of oil into his palm, warming it between his hands before leaning in. He kissed one of the marks, then another, then another.

You giggled softly. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m thorough,” he murmured, lips brushing the curve of your belly. “She’s growing in here. I want her to know she’s loved.”

“She’s not going to remember this.”

“I will.”

He began massaging the oil into your skin, his touch gentle but firm, moving in slow circles. You closed your eyes, letting yourself sink into the warmth of it, the intimacy of being cared for like this. His hands moved with intention, tracing the shape of you like he was memorizing it.

After a while, you opened your eyes again, watching him work. “You know,” you said, voice casual, “sex is allowed during pregnancy.”

He didn’t pause. “I know.”

You blinked. “You know?”

He nodded, still focused on your belly. “I read about it. It’s safe. As long as you’re comfortable.”

You stared at him. “Then why haven’t you... I mean, we haven’t...”

He finally looked up, eyes wide. “Wait—you thought I didn’t want to?”

You shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. “I don’t know. I figured maybe I wasn’t... appealing right now.”

He sat up straighter, panic flickering across his face. “No. No, no, no. That’s not it at all. I’ve wanted to. I just... I didn’t want to push. I was waiting for you to say something. I didn’t want you to feel pressured.”

You blinked again, heart thudding. “You’ve wanted to?”

He nodded, earnest. “I’ve never been more attracted to you. You’re carrying our daughter. You’re glowing. You’re... you.”

You reached for him, fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck. “You idiot,” you whispered, and then you kissed him—firm, hungry, grounding.

He responded instantly, hands finding your waist, your back, your face. The oil bottle tipped onto the sheets, forgotten. The lamp stayed on.

---

There was a low, dragging ache in your back. You were standing in the hallway, one hand pressed to the wall, the other cradling the underside of your belly, trying to breathe through it. You’d felt tightness before—Braxton Hicks, pressure, discomfort—but this was different. This had rhythm. This had teeth.

You called for Kento without raising your voice. He was already watching you from the kitchen, glass of water halfway to his lips. He set it down, crossed the room in three strides, and placed a hand on your spine.

“Is it time?” he asked.

You nodded, eyes squeezed shut. “I think so.”

The drive to the hospital was quiet. You didn’t speak much. You couldn’t. Every few minutes, another wave would hit, and you’d grip the door handle, breathing like you’d practiced, like it would help. Kento kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting on your thigh, his thumb moving in slow circles.

At triage, they confirmed you were in active labor—but not ready yet. “Six centimeters,” the nurse said, cheerful in a way that made you want to scream. “We’ll get you admitted. In the meantime, walking helps. Or the birthing ball.”

You stared at her. “You want me to walk?”

“It helps move things along.”

Kento helped you into the gown, his hands steady as he tied the back. You leaned against him, forehead to his chest, breathing through another contraction.

“I don’t want to walk,” you muttered.

“I know,” he said. “But staying still makes it worse.”

You glared at him. “You’re not the one whose pelvis is trying to split open.”

He nodded solemnly. “I’m aware.”

You shuffled down the hallway, one hand gripping the rail, the other clutching his. Every few steps, you stopped, bent slightly, and groaned through the pain. You cursed. You cried. You leaned into him like he was the only thing keeping you upright.

Eventually, you returned to the room and eyed the exercise ball like it was a personal enemy. Kento crouched beside it, patting the top.

“Just for a little while,” he said. “I’ll be right here.”

You lowered yourself onto it with a groan, gripping his forearms for balance. The pressure shifted—not relief, but something different. You winced, breathing through it, forehead pressed to his abdomen.

He just held you steady, murmuring encouragement, brushing your hair back when it stuck to your face.

Time blurred. The pain sharpened, then dulled, then sharpened again. You squeezed his hand so hard he winced, but never pulled away. You swore at him. You apologized. You swore again.

When it was finally time, Kento stayed beside you, his hand in yours, his voice low and steady.

“You’re doing so well,” he said. “I’ve got you.”

You didn’t feel strong. You felt like you were being torn open. But he stayed with you, through every push, every scream, every insult you hurled at him in the heat of it.

And then—

A cry.

Sharp. New. Alive.

You collapsed back against the pillows, chest heaving, tears streaming down your face. Kento stood frozen for a moment, eyes glassy, before the nurse placed her in his arms.

Your daughter.

Tiny. Pink. Real.

He looked down at her like she was something sacred. His voice cracked when he whispered, “I’ve waited so long to meet you.”

He brushed a thumb over her cheek, then looked at you—exhausted, trembling, radiant.

“I’m going to protect her,” he said. “With everything I have.”

You nodded, unable to speak. The nurse helped you position her against your chest, and she latched almost immediately, her tiny mouth searching, finding, feeding.

Kento sat beside you, one arm around your shoulders, the other holding his phone. He snapped a few quiet photos—your face soft with awe, your daughter nestled against you, the room dim and warm.

For memory. Because your lives had changed completely from this moment onwards.

[chococatloving]

oh this is just so beautiful..

[gojosbf]

happy birthday to the only man ever

[purrrrsephonee]

I need Nanami SO BAD i'm not even kidding

[jongst4r]

kiss me (k. jiwoong)

you stain your boyfriend’s face with your lipstick

pairing: jiwoong x reader || wc: 0.7k || cw: fluff!! established relationship, kissing, use of petnames, a bit suggestive but doesn’t escalate || warnings: none! || a/n: finally wrote something for my dear woongie 💔

the apartment is quiet except for the low hum of the heater and the soft patter of rain against the window. 

it’s one of those lazy sundays where neither of you have anywhere to be, so you’re tangled together on the couch under the same blanket, jiwoong’s head resting on your chest while some random drama plays on the tv neither of you is really watching.

you’re wearing the new lipstick you bought yesterday — cherry red, glossy, the kind of lipstick that stains a little. you keep forgetting it’s there because jiwoong keeps stealing tiny kisses every few minutes, mumbling something about how pretty you look, how he can’t help himself. 

your fingers are in his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp the way he likes, and he’s practically melted against you, eyes half-closed, humming every time you move.

you tilt your head to kiss his forehead without thinking. then his temple. then the bridge of his nose because he scrunches it cutely when you do. each time your lips brush his skin, you leave behind little red smudges. you don’t notice at first. you’re too busy giggling at how his lashes flutter when you kiss the corner of his mouth, how he chases your lips like he’s starving for them even though you’ve been kissing for the past hour.

jiwoong shifts, propping his chin on your sternum so he can look up at you. his cheeks are flushed from warmth and affection, hair messy from your fingers.

“baby,” he says, voice soft and a little raspy, “look what you did to me.”

you blink, confused, until he turns his face a little. there’s a perfect lipstick print on his cheekbone. another on his jaw. a faint one near his eyebrow.

your hand flies to your mouth. “oh my god, jiwoong, i’m so sorry— i didn’t even realize—”

he laughs, quiet and fond, grabbing your wrist before you can wipe it away. “don’t you dare,” he says, eyes sparkling. “i love it.”

“you love it?” you repeat, incredulous. “i look like i attacked you or something.”

“exactly.” he grins, wide and boyish, the one that makes your stomach flip every time. “you marked me up. that means i’m yours, right?”

your heart does something stupid in your chest. “you’re already mine, silly.”

“yeah, but now everyone can see.” he tilts his head like he’s showing off. “look, there’s one on my neck too. very possessive. i like it.”

you groan, burying your face in your hands, but he tugs them away gently. “no hiding,” he murmurs, leaning up to nuzzle your nose with his. “do it again.”

“what?”

“kiss me more. leave more marks. i want them everywhere.”

“jiwoong—”

“please?” he pouts, dramatic and adorable, batting his lashes like he knows exactly what that does to you. “i’ll wear them all day. i’ll go buy groceries like this. let the cashier know i have the prettiest girlfriend who can’t keep her lips off me.”

you can’t help laughing, cheeks warm. “you’re ridiculous.”

“ridiculously in love with you,” he corrects, guiding your face back to his. “come on. one on my throat. make it dark.”

so you do. you press your lips to the soft spot under his jaw, lingering longer this time, feeling his pulse jump under your mouth. when you pull away there’s a perfect red stain, bright against his pale skin. he sighs like you’ve given him the world.

“another,” he whispers.

you kiss his collarbone. the hollow of his throat. the corner of his mouth until he turns and catches your lips properly, kissing you slow and sweet until you’re both breathless and the blanket has slipped off your shoulders.

when you finally check, his neck and face are dotted with little cherry marks like a constellation. he looks wrecked in the softest, happiest way.

“perfect,” he says, tracing one with his fingertip. “gonna take a selfie and set it as my lockscreen.”

“you will not.”

“watch me.” he already has his phone out, angling it to catch the marks and your embarrassed face behind him. “say ‘jiwoong is mine forever’.”

you hide in his shoulder, muffling your laugh against the lipstick stains you left there. “you’re impossible.”

he kisses the top of your head, arms wrapping tighter around you. “and you’re perfect. keep kissing me, baby. never stop.”

so you don’t. you spend the rest of the afternoon painting him red, and he wears every single mark like a medal, smiling like he’s the luckiest boy in the world.

because really feels like he is.

© jongst4r, 2026

taglist: @enhypenlvrsstuff, @gchirpy, @k13endall, @kristynaaah, @d1m-cataclysm

[chococatloving]

my number one dream..

[recklesscakeuu]

practical

★ synopsis: a day before valentine's day, kang taehyun notices your lingering gaze on couples with roses and chocolates. he teases you about practicality, his logic sharp as ever, yet the next day unfolds with deliberate surprises that blur the line between reason and something deeper. what begins as a calculated escape ends in warmth you never expected—subtle, intimate, and undeniably his.

★ pairing: boyfriend!taehyun x fem!reader

★ genre: fluff, romance, eventual smut (18+ mdni!) with a plot, established relationship

★ song reco: bad - wave to earth

★ status | word count: completed | 6.8k

★ao3: practical

note: first taehyun fic! a valentine's day inspired one for our february baby <3

i added the word count because someone asked me to add word counts to my posts! i’ve added it to past works and will continue moving forward! (i didn't know it was helpful to readers so thank you to the one who asked me to add it!)

happy valentine's day and enjoy! <3

The late afternoon sun slanted through the tall glass windows of the café, turning the wooden tables into warm amber patches. 

Outside, the streets of Seoul buzzed with an unusual energy for February 13th—couples everywhere, laughing, arms linked, carrying those telltale red-and-pink paper bags from florists and chocolatiers. Bouquets of roses wrapped in cellophane rustled against coat sleeves; heart-shaped boxes peeked out from under scarves. 

It was as if the city had decided to rehearse Valentine's Day a day early, everyone eager to beat the crowds tomorrow. 

You sat across from Taehyun at a small corner table, your iced Americano sweating rings onto the coaster. He was slouched comfortably in his chair, legs stretched out under the table so his sneakers brushed yours every now and then. His black button-up shirt  was pulled up his elbows just enough to show his veins whenever his hands flexed as his observant eyes flicked toward the window every few seconds.

A young couple passed right by the glass, the girl clutching an enormous bouquet of white peonies and red tulips like it was a trophy. The guy beside her balanced a gold-foil box of chocolates in one hand and her waist with the other. They were giggling about something, heads bent close.

Taehyun's gaze lingered on them for a beat longer than necessary then he leaned forward, elbows on the table, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"They're a day early, aren't they?" he said, voice low and amused. "Valentine's isn't until tomorrow. What's the rush?"

You followed his line of sight, watching the couple disappear around the corner. "Maybe they just couldn't wait. Or they hate lines."

He snorted softly, the sound more exhale than laugh. "Still. Flowers wilt in like, twelve hours if you don't put them in water right away. And chocolate? Melts if you carry it around too long in this weather. Not practical at all." 

He tapped his fingers once against the table, decisive. "Waste of money if you ask me."

You couldn't help but chuckle, the sound bubbling up warm and familiar. It was classic Taehyun—cutting straight through the sentimentality with that razor-sharp logic of his. Always observing, assessing, and deciding what actually made sense. No fluff, no wasted effort.

He'd always been like this, ever since the early days when he'd show up at your door with a single rose and a box of dark chocolate truffles, eyes bright with that boyish excitement. Back then, you'd smiled politely, thanked him, and after a few dates gently nudged him toward practicality.

"You know I'd rather you just... got me something useful," you'd told him once, laughing to soften it. "Like coffee. Or that new phone case I needed. Flowers are pretty for a day, but then they're just trash."

He'd looked at you for a long second, processing. Then he nodded once, sharp and final. "Got it."

And that was that. The flowers stopped and the chocolates became rare treats only on your birthday or when he felt like spoiling you with zero occasion.

Instead, he started showing up with your favorite iced latte on stressful days, or a new pair of wireless earbuds when yours broke, or tickets to that indie band you'd mentioned once in passing. 

Practical. 

Efficient. 

You never regretted saying it because you were the same as he was. Practical. Thoughtful in the way that actually lasted.

But sometimes, on days like today when the city smelled like roses and sugar, a tiny, secret part of you wondered what it would feel like to be one of those girls carrying armfuls of petals home.

Taehyun caught your expression—the slight softening around your eyes as another couple walked by with matching red heart balloons. He tilted his head, studying you the way he studied everything: quick, thorough, no detail missed.

"What?" he asked, voice teasing but gentle. "You want one?"

You rolled your eyes, nudging his foot under the table. "Don't start. You know I'd just complain about the pollen."

"True." He grinned, all teeth and mischief. "You'd sneeze for three days straight and blame me."

"Exactly." He leaned back again, stretching his arms above his head until his shirt rode up just enough to show a sliver of toned stomach. Casual. Effortless. The kind of movement that still made your pulse jump after all this time.

"Anyway," he said, dropping his arms and picking up his own drink, "we're not doing any of that tomorrow."

You raised an eyebrow. "No?"

"Nope." He set the cup down with a soft clink. "Got something better planned."

"Better than flowers and chocolate?" you teased.

He met your eyes, steady. "Way better."

There was no elaboration. Just that quiet confidence, the kind that came from already having everything mapped out in his head. Taehyun didn't do vague promises; when he said something was handled, it was.

You let it drop, content to let the mystery sit. That was another thing about him—he loved surprises, but only the kind he controlled. The kind where he could see the variables, calculate the outcome, and know it'd land perfectly.

The two of you finished your drinks in comfortable silence, his foot still brushing yours every so often like an absentminded anchor. When you stood to leave, he automatically grabbed your bag before you could, slinging it over his own shoulder. 

Outside, the air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of street food and exhaust. Couples were still everywhere, posing for photos with their bouquets, laughing as petals caught in the wind. Taehyun slipped his hand into yours without fanfare, fingers threading through yours with the ease of long habit.

"Tomorrow," he said as you walked, "wear something comfortable. No heels."

You glanced at him sideways. "Mysterious."

He just smirked again. "You'll see."

That night, you lay in bed replaying the café moment, the way his eyes had flicked to those couples, the quick logic that dismissed the romance as inefficient, the easy way he'd shut down any hint of wanting it himself. 

It didn't sting, exactly. You knew him. Knew he showed love in actions that stuck around longer than a vase of flowers ever could. Still, as you drifted off, you let yourself imagine—just for a second—what it would be like if he ever decided practicality could include a little impracticality.

The next morning was Valentine's Day and it dawned cold and clear and you woke to the smell of coffee already brewing in your kitchen. 

Taehyun must have used his spare key; he did that sometimes when his schedule let him steal early hours. You padded out in oversized sweats and fuzzy socks, hair still messy from sleep. He was at the counter, pouring two mugs, wearing a black hoodie paired with dark jeans and sneakers that looked ready for walking. His hair was slightly damp, like he'd showered recently, and the sleeves were pushed up to his elbows.

"Morning," he said without turning around. "Coffee's ready. Black, like you pretend to like when you're trying to be healthy."

You laughed, sliding onto a stool. "I do like it black sometimes."

"Sure you do." He turned, sliding your mug across the counter. Then he leaned against the edge, arms crossed, watching you take the first sip.You noticed the small paper bag on the counter beside him—simple brown kraft, no ribbon, no hearts. Practical packaging.

"What's that?" you asked, nodding toward it.

He followed your gaze, then shrugged one shoulder. "Open it later. After we eat."

Breakfast was quick with toast, eggs he'd scrambled with precision, and fruit sliced into neat pieces. He ate standing up, scrolling through his phone with one hand, occasionally glancing up to make sure you were eating too.

When the plates were cleared after he insisted on washing them himself, he finally picked up the bag and held it out.

"Here."

You took it curiously, noticing how it was heavier than it looked. Inside, nestled in tissue paper was a pink thermos, matte finish, the kind that kept drinks hot for twelve hours or cold for twenty-four. Engraved on the side in small silver lettering was your name.

You looked up at him, eyebrows raised and he rubbed the back of his neck, a rare flicker of something almost sheepish crossing his face. 

"You always complain your coffee gets cold when we're out. Figured this would fix it."

You turned the thermos over in your hands, feeling the solid weight of it. It was exactly your style—minimal, functional, thoughtful. 

"It's perfect."

"Good." He nodded once, satisfied. "Now grab your coat. We're leaving in ten."

The surprise unfolded piece by piece, the way Taehyun liked things: controlled reveals, each step building momentum. First, he drove you to a quiet park on the outskirts of the city, a small wooded area with winding trails and a frozen pond that reflected the sky like glass. He pulled a backpack from the trunk and slung it over one shoulder.

"Hiking?" you guessed.

"Sort of." He took your hand again. "Trust me."

The trail was easy at first, crunching leaves underfoot, the air sharp with pine. He walked ahead sometimes, pointing out little things like a bird's nest tucked in branches, a frozen stream that looked like twisted glass, his voice low and excited in that understated way of his.

.Halfway up, he stopped at a clearing. Someone had set up a small pop-up tent—nothing fancy, just insulated walls and a portable heater humming softly inside.

A folding table held a spread: sandwiches wrapped in parchment, fresh fruit, a thermos (that matched yours, but in a sky blue color) of hot chocolate, and—unexpectedly—a small Bluetooth speaker playing soft music.

You stared. "You planned this?"

He shrugged, but his eyes were bright. "Scouted it last week. Owner lets me use it sometimes when it's empty. Figured it'd be better than fighting crowds downtown."

Inside the tent, it was warm, cozy. Blankets on the floor, cushions. You sat cross-legged, watching him unpack everything with efficient movements before he reached into the backpack again.

This time, he pulled out a bouquet. It wasn’t huge nor extravagant. Just a tight bundle of deep red camellia and a few sprigs of eucalyptus for green contrast tied with plain twine.

Your breath caught as he held it out, casual as if handing you a water bottle.

"For you."

You took it slowly, fingers brushing his. "Taehyun..."

"Don't make a big deal," he said quickly, looking away toward the heater like it needed adjusting. "They're not roses. Roses are cliché and overpriced. These last longer, don't smell, won't make you sneeze. Practical."

You stared at the flowers, then at him. He was still avoiding your eyes, jaw tight like he was bracing for teasing but you didn't tease. 

Instead, you set the bouquet carefully on the blanket beside you, then leaned forward and kissed him—soft at first, then deeper when his hands found your waist and pulled you closer.

When you pulled back, his pupils were blown wide, breath uneven."You said you didn't like flowers," he murmured against your lips.

"I said I didn't like wasteful ones." You touched the camellias gently. "These... aren't wasteful."

He exhaled a laugh, low and relieved. "Good. Because I wasn't sure. I kept thinking about yesterday—how you looked at those couples. Figured maybe I was missing something."

You shook your head. "You weren't. You just... you always give me what lasts."

He studied you for a long moment, then nodded once. "Yeah. But sometimes lasting includes a little stupid romance, right?"

"Right."

He kissed you again—this time slower, hands framing your face like he was memorizing it. When he pulled away, he reached into the bag one last time. A small box of dark chocolate truffles. The expensive kind he used to bring in the beginning of your budding relationship.

"Last surprise," he said. "Not practical. Just... because."

You laughed, the sound muffled against his shoulder as you leaned into him. "You're ridiculous."

"Logically ridiculous," he corrected, wrapping an arm around you.

Outside, the wind rustled the trees. Inside, the heater hummed, the music played softly, and the camellias sat bright against the blanket—proof that even the most practical heart could bend, just a little, when it mattered.

The rest of the day passed in lazy perfection: eating, talking, stealing kisses between stories. He told you about scouting the spot, how he'd tested the heater twice to make sure it wouldn't fail. You teased him for over-planning a "spontaneous" date and he just grinned, unbothered.

As the sun dipped low, painting the snow gold, he packed everything up with the same efficiency he'd arrived with. But before you left the tent, he picked up the bouquet and pressed it into your hands again.

"Keep them," he said. "Even if they die eventually. At least they lasted longer than the cliché ones."

You smiled, holding them close. “Of course,” you murmured, smiling small and soft. “I’m not letting these go anywhere.”

He nodded once—sharp, satisfied—then bent to zip the backpack. But he didn’t stand right away. Instead he stayed crouched there for a beat, looking out through the open tent flap at the trail disappearing into the shadowed trees. The first stars were already pricking through the violet sky, faint and cold.

“I wanted to stay longer,” he said suddenly, almost like the words had slipped out before he could catch them. “Watch the stars come out properly with you. Lie back, point out constellations, the whole thing.” 

He huffed a short laugh, self-deprecating. “But the trail’s not lit. No markers past the first bend. If we wait too long we’ll be stumbling around in the dark, and I didn’t bring headlamps. Or a map. Or backup batteries.” He rubbed the back of his neck, the gesture quick and familiar. “Not worth the risk. We’d end up cold, lost, and then I’d have to carry you out piggyback while you complain on my back.”

You laughed—the sound bright against the quiet—and reached out to tug lightly on the sleeve of his hoodie.

“Always planning three steps ahead.” 

He squeezed your hand once. “Next time,” he said, voice low and certain, “we stay for the stars.”

You smiled, holding the camellias a little tighter. “Next time,” you echoed.

His decision was practical, yes. But also, undeniably, romantic in the way only Taehyun could be: deliberate, thoughtful, and surprising.

The walk back down the trail felt different—not just because the light had shifted to that soft, bruised purple of late winter dusk, but because the camellias were still in your hands. Their petals caught the last slivers of sun like small dark flames. 

Taehyun walked beside you, his pace deliberately slowed so you didn’t have to hurry. One hand was in his pocket, the other holding yours as he squeezed every few minutes like he was checking if you were still there.

He didn’t speak much on the descent but it wasn’t awkward. Silence was normal for him after something emotionally high-stakes. He processed in silence, turning the afternoon over in his head the way he’d turn a Rubik’s cube until every side matched.

You could almost see the gears moving behind his eyes—did the heater stay warm enough? Was the chocolate too bitter? Did the flowers feel like too much after all these months of steering him away from them?

You broke the quiet first. “You really planned all of this in a week?”

He glanced over, mouth quirking. “Ten days, technically. Had to wait for the owner to confirm the tent wasn’t booked.” A small shrug. “Wanted to make sure everything lined up. Weather forecast, sunset timing, how long the trail takes at your walking speed.”

You laughed under your breath. “You timed my walking speed?”

“Rough estimate.” He tapped his temple. “I pay attention.”

Of course he did. He always did.

He noticed you shivered when iced drinks sat too long, so he bought the thermos. 

He noticed you always forgot gloves in winter, so last December he’d slipped a pair of thin, touchscreen-compatible ones into your coat pocket without a word.

The parking lot was nearly empty when you reached it. Only two other cars, both with couples still inside, windows fogged, probably stealing the last few minutes before heading home to whatever Valentine’s dinner they’d booked.

Taehyun unlocked the doors with a quiet beep and opened the passenger side for you out of habit. Before you could slide in, he stopped you with a light touch on your elbow.

“Wait.” 

You turned. He was looking at the camellias again, then at you, expression unreadable for a second.

“I almost didn’t bring them,” he admitted. Voice low, like the confession cost him something to say out loud. “Kept thinking about what you said back then—how you’d rather have something practical. I didn’t want to… I don’t know. Make you feel like I wasn’t listening.”

Your chest tightened. “Taehyun—”

“But then yesterday at the café,” he continued, cutting himself off before you could interrupt, “you looked at those people with the big stupid roses and I could see it. Not jealousy, exactly. Just… curiosity? Like maybe part of you wondered what it felt like to be given the cliché thing anyway.” 

He noticed that too, you thought.

He exhaled through his nose, short and sharp. “So I figured—worst case, you laugh at me and we use the flowers as kindling later. Best case…” He gestured vaguely at the bouquet. “You smile like that.”

You hadn’t realized you were smiling until he pointed it out.He rubbed the back of his neck again—the same nervous action from earlier in the tent. 

“Anyway. Point is, I’m not gonna make it a habit. Flowers every week would be wasteful and you’d get sick of them in like, two months. But once in a while? When it actually means something?” He met your eyes, steady. “I can do that.”

The cold air stung your cheeks, but you barely felt it.

“You’re allowed to want things that aren’t one-hundred-percent logical, you know,” you said softly. 

He huffed a laugh. “Yeah, well. Working on it.”

You stepped closer, rising on your toes to kiss the corner of his mouth. “Thank you. For all of it. Even the illogical parts.”

He caught your waist before you could pull away, kissing you properly this time—slow, thorough, the way he did when he wanted to make sure you felt every second of it. When he finally let go, his forehead rested against yours for a beat.

“Get in,” he murmured. “Heater’s already on. Don’t want you freezing while I’m trying to be romantic.”

You laughed and slid into the passenger seat, cradling the camellias carefully on your lap like they were made of glass. 

The drive back into the city was quiet again, but comfortable. Taehyun kept the radio low—some chill R&B playlist he’d made months ago because he knew you liked certain tracks. Every so often his fingers would find yours over the center console, thumb brushing your knuckles absentmindedly.

When you reached your apartment building, he parked but didn’t turn off the engine right away.

“Still early,” he said. “You hungry for actual dinner or…?”

You tilted your head. “You didn’t book anything?”

“Didn’t want to lock us into a time slot in case you hated the tent idea and wanted to bail early.”

Of course he’d think of that too. Contingency plans for everything. 

“But there’s that ramen place you like” He continued, “the one with the spicy broth that makes your nose run. Or we can just order in. Your call.”

You considered it. The idea of sitting in a crowded restaurant right now, surrounded by other couples doing the full Valentine’s performance, felt suddenly exhausting. You wanted more of this—the two of you, no audience, no pressure.

“Let’s order in,” you decided. “And you’re staying, right?”

He looked almost offended that you’d asked. “Obviously.”

Upstairs, the apartment smelled faintly of flowers from the candle you’d burned last night. Taehyun kicked off his shoes by the door, hung both your coats, then disappeared into the kitchen like he lived there. 

Which, functionally, he practically did.

You set the camellias on the dining table, arranging them in the only vase you owned—a plain white ceramic cylinder he’d bought you last summer because ‘your old one leaked and stained the wood.’

While he scrolled through the delivery app, muttering about how the restaurant always forgot extra chili oil unless you wrote it in all caps, you slipped into the bedroom to change. 

Comfy sweats, one of his old oversized hoodies he left in your apartment months ago, and fuzzy socks. When you came back out he was already on the couch, legs spread, phone balanced on his thigh, looking completely at home.

He glanced up. Paused. His gaze did that slow sweep it always did when you wore his clothes—possessive, appreciative, a little smug.

“Looks better on you,” he said simply.You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the flush.

“Flattery isn’t practical.” you huffed.

“Doesn’t have to be.” He patted the cushion beside him. “Come here”

You curled into his side, head on his shoulder, legs draped over his lap. He wrapped one arm around you automatically, thumb rubbing slow circles against your upper arm through the fabric while the other kept scrolling until he hit submit on the order.

“Twenty-eight minutes,” he announced. “Plenty of time.”

You blinked, raising an eyebrow in confusion. “Plenty of time for what?”

He didn’t answer with words.Instead he surged up, one hand cupping the back of your neck to hold you exactly where he wanted, the other sliding to your hip with a bruising grip, and kissed you hard.

It wasn’t gentle. It was claiming—teeth catching your lower lip hard enough to sting sweetly, tongue sweeping in deep and wet and possessive, stroking against yours in slow, deliberate drags that made your head spin.

You made a small, helpless sound into his mouth; he swallowed it greedily, tilted his head to take the kiss even deeper, licking into you like he was trying to taste every corner.

His hands then started roaming.

Everywhere.

One palm shoved up under the hoodie you were wearing, rough fingertips skating over the soft skin of your ribs, then higher, cupping one breast fully through the thin bra.

He squeezed firmly, his thumb unhurriedly circling the already-pebbled nipple until it ached, then pinching just enough to make you gasp into his mouth. The other hand slid down the curve of your spine, fingers splaying wide over your ass, kneading the flesh before pulling you down harder against the thick, insistent ridge of him straining behind denim.

You rocked instinctively, grinding down on the hard length of him; he groaned low and guttural against your tongue, the sound vibrating through your chest and straight to your core. He broke the kiss only to drag his open mouth along your jaw, down the sensitive column of your throat, teeth scraping over your racing pulse before he sucked a mark there—hard enough to bloom purple by morning, soft enough that you arched into it instead of pulling away.

“Plenty of time,” he repeated against your skin, voice rough and wrecked, lips brushing with every word, “to get you so wet I can feel you soaking through my jeans before the food gets here.”

The bluntness delivered in that calm tone sent a fresh gush of heat between your legs. He shifted you in one fluid motion, flipping your positions so your back hit the cushions and he loomed above you, one knee braced between your thighs, the other planted on the floor for leverage.

The hoodie rode up to your ribs and he didn’t bother fixing it, shoving it higher with both hands, bunching the fabric under your armpits, exposing the lace of your bra and the way your chest rose and fell in shallow pants.

His gaze dropped, dark and ravenous. “Look at you,” he muttered, more to himself, voice thick. 

One hand closed over your left breast again, kneading slowly while the other yanked the bra cups down in a single rough tug. Your breasts spilled free into the cool air, nipples already tight and flushed. 

He made a low, appreciative sound in his throat before leaning down and took one peak into his mouth. Tongue flat and hot, he circled once, twice, then sucked—hard, rhythmic pulls that matched the slow, deliberate roll of his hips down into yours. 

The rough denim scraped against the thin barrier of your sweats, friction brutal and perfect against your swollen clit. You threaded your fingers into his dark hair, tugging hard. He growled around your nipple, before switching sides—teeth grazing the sensitive bud just enough to make you cry out before soothing it with slow, wet laps of his tongue.

His free hand slid lower, under the waistband of your sweats and past the damp lace of your underwear, straight to where you were already slick and throbbing. Two fingers parted your folds, slid through the wetness with obscene ease, then pressed flat against your clit in a slow, firm circle that made your hips buck.

“Fuck,” you breathed, head falling back against the cushion.

“Language,” he said against your breast, voice muffled and dark. “But I’ll give you a pass since that’s the response I want.” 

He rubbed again—tighter circles now, pressure steady. “Twenty-five minutes left.” He breathed. “Plenty of time to map exactly how many times I can make you come before the doorbell.”

He sounded almost proud of his own ruthless efficiency. You would have laughed if your breath weren’t already coming in short, desperate pants. 

You arched harder, chasing his fingers. He rewarded you by slipping one inside—slow, deliberate—curling immediately to that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids.

“Another,” you managed, voice cracking and hee didn’t hesitate. Second finger joined the first, stretching you beautifully, pumping in a steady, deep rhythm while his thumb took over your clit—small, relentless circles that never faltered. 

The wet, filthy sounds of his fingers moving inside you filled the room, louder than your own ragged breathing. He lifted his head to watch your face—eyes locked on yours, pupils blown so wide only a thin ring of iris remained.

“Twenty-two minutes,” he rasped, voice wrecked but still steady. “You’re clenching so fucking tight already. Gonna come for me like this? All over my hand before the noodles arrive?”

You could only nod, words gone, hips rocking desperately onto his fingers. He kissed you again—messy, open-mouthed, swallowing every broken whimper as he worked you faster. Fingers curling deeper with every thrust, thumb pressing harder, the rhythm never faltering. 

Practical.

Precise. 

Devastating.

When you shattered it hit like a freight train, your back bowing off the couch, thighs clamping around his wrist, a choked cry tearing from your throat as pleasure ripped through you in sharp, blinding waves. He didn’t stop, just slowed his movements, curling gently to draw it out until you were trembling, oversensitive, gasping against his shoulder.

Taehyun withdrew his fingers slowly, glistening with your release, and brought them to his mouth—licking them clean with slow, deliberate swipes of his tongue while holding your dazed gaze shamelessly satisfied with what he’d done. Then he glanced at his watch.

“Eighteen minutes left,” he said, already working his belt open with one hand, the metal clinking softly. “Enough time to fuck you properly… and still have time to wash my hands before I tip the delivery guy.”

You laughed—breathless, dazed, thighs still shaking. He leaned down, kissed you softer this time, almost tender as he reached for the waistband of your sweats, tugging them along with your soaked underwear—down your thighs in one efficient motion.

“Lift,” he instructed, voice rough with want and you followed.

He shoved his jeans and boxers down just enough, freeing his cock—thick, flushed dark at the tip, already leaking. The sight of him made your mouth water, made fresh heat coil low in your belly. 

He notched himself at your entrance, rubbing the head through your slick folds once, twice, coating himself until he glistened.

“Condom?” you asked, even as your hips lifted toward him instinctively.

“Already on the table,” he said, nodding toward the small foil packet he’d apparently placed there sometime in the last few minutes—because of course he’d prepared. “But if you want me bare tonight…”

You swallowed hard. “Yes. Please.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, something almost feral flashing in his eyes.Then he pushed in slowly, letting you feel every thick inch as he stretched you open, until his hips met yours and he was buried to the hilt.

You both groaned—low, broken sounds that mingled in the quiet room.He stayed still for a heartbeat, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “So tight… so wet… so…perfect.”

“Language” you teased, repeating his words earlier and he just groaned.

Then he started moving.Slow, deep rolls at first—pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in, grinding against your clit with every thrust. Each stroke dragged against that sensitive spot inside, building the pressure again impossibly fast.

“Feel that?” he rasped, voice wrecked. “How deep I am? How you’re taking every inch?”

You could only whimper, nails digging into his shoulders through his shirt. He picked up speed—harder now, hips snapping forward with controlled force, the couch creaking under you both. One hand braced beside your head, the other slid between you, thumb finding your clit again, rubbing tight circles in time with his thrusts.

“Fourteen minutes,” he growled against your ear. “Gonna make you come on my cock before the timer runs out. Then I’m gonna fill you up so deep you’ll feel me all night.”

The filthy promise tipped you over the edge, coming with a cry, walls fluttering and clenching around him, milking him as wave after wave crashed through you. He fucked you through it, hips stuttering only when your spasms pulled a low, guttural moan from his throat.

When the aftershocks finally faded he slowed, grinding deep instead of thrusting, letting you ride the lingering pleasure.

Then he pulled out slowly, both of you hissing at the loss, and flipped you onto your stomach, tugged your hips up, and slid back in from behind in one smooth stroke.

“Last one,” he murmured, voice strained. “Gonna come inside you now.”

He thrusted hard then—fast, deep, one hand wrapped around your hip, the other sliding up your spine to fist in your hair, pulling just enough to arch your back. The new angle let him hit even deeper, the head of his cock dragging against that spot with every brutal thrust.

You pushed back to meet him, desperate, needy sounds spilling from your lips.He reached around, fingers finding your clit again—rubbing fast, merciless circles.

“Come with me,” he ordered, voice breaking for the first time. “Now.”

You shattered a third time—harder than before, vision whiting out, body shaking as you pulsed around him. He followed seconds later—hips slamming forward one last time, burying himself deep as he came with a choked groan, spilling hot and thick inside you, pulse after pulse until you were both trembling. 

He stayed buried inside you for a long, suspended moment, chest heaving against your back, forehead pressed to the nape of your neck. His lips found your skin there—soft, reverent kisses scattered along the sweat-damp curve, as though grounding himself in the aftershock. His arms bracketed you, one hand splayed wide over your stomach, holding you close while the other braced beside your head to keep his weight from crushing you.

Then he exhaled a long shaky breath and glanced at his watch one final time.

“Three minutes to spare,” he murmured, voice hoarse but satisfied. “Plenty of time to clean up… and still answer the door like nothing happened.”

He pulled out slowly—carefully—both of you hissing sharply at the sudden emptiness and the flare of oversensitivity. The slick heat of his release immediately began to slip out, warm and thick, trailing down your inner thighs. You felt it—intimate, messy, undeniable—and a fresh shiver ran through you at the sensation.

Taehyun noticed instantly.

Without a word he shifted back just enough to reach the side table. He’d already placed everything he might need within arm’s reach earlier—because of course he had: a small stack of soft tissues, a clean hand towel folded neatly, and an unopened bottle of water.

Practical. Ruthlessly prepared. Always three steps ahead.

“Stay here,” he murmured, voice still rough around the edges but steady again. “Don’t move yet. I’ll get the food. And a towel. And water.”

You nodded weakly, limbs heavy, body humming with aftershocks. The couch cushions were cool against your flushed skin as you collapsed fully onto your stomach, cheek pressed to the fabric, breathing in the faint scent of his cologne that clung to everything he touched.

He moved with that same efficient grace—jeans tugged back up just enough to be decent, belt loosely buckled, hair still a beautiful disaster. He disappeared into the bathroom for a moment and you heard the faucet run, the soft rustle of a fresh towel being pulled from the cabinet. Then, he was back, kneeling beside you on the floor.

He draped the warm, damp towel over your lower back first then gently guided it between your thighs, cleaning you with careful, unhurried strokes.No awkwardness, no hesitation; just quiet focus, like this was simply the next logical step in the sequence he’d already mapped out.

“You okay?” he asked softly, thumb brushing a soothing circle over your hip where his grip had left faint pink imprints earlier.

“More than okay.” You managed to say, releasing a small, blissed-out hum.

Without a word, he reached for the rucked-up fabric bunched around your ribs, now twisted high enough that your breasts and stomach were fully exposed to the cool air of the apartment. His fingers gathered the hem gently, tugging it downward in one slow, careful motion.

The soft cotton slid over your skin like a whisper—first covering your breasts, then gliding past your navel, finally settling at mid-thigh where it had always belonged on you. He smoothed it flat against your sides with both palms, fingers lingering at your waist for a second longer than necessary, as though making sure every inch of you was shielded again. The gesture was simple, almost absentminded, but the care in it made your chest tighten.

“There,” he murmured against the shell of your ear, voice low and rough from overuse.

He leaned down, kissed your temple, then stood again. The doorbell rang right on cue as he glanced at his watch, a tiny satisfied quirk to his mouth. 

“Right on time.” he said, voice steady again, though his hair was still a complete disaster and there were faint red crescents from your nails on his shoulders. He adjusted himself one last time, smoothed his shirt down, and headed for the door—calm, collected, utterly composed.

You watched him go, boneless and blissed-out, legs still weak, a stupid, happy smile tugging at your lips as the scent of spicy ramen began to drift in from the hallway.

He set everything on the coffee table, then came back to you with a bottle of water already uncapped.

“Drink,” he said, sliding an arm under your shoulders to help you sit up slowly. “Hydration first. Then food.”

You took the bottle with shaky fingers, sipping while he arranged the containers—chopsticks, extra chili oil (he’d remembered to request it in all caps), napkins fanned out neatly. Only when you’d taken a few solid swallows did he finally let himself sit beside you, pulling you gently against his side.

The ramen was perfect—broth spicy enough to make your eyes water, noodles springy, extra chashu because he remembered what you liked, and it was still steaming as he handed you your bowl first, then took his own. 

You ate in a companionable quiet for a while, the only sounds were the soft slurp of noodles and the occasional satisfied hum from him when he got a particularly good bite. Halfway through your bowl you caught him watching you again.

“What?”

He shook his head once. “Nothing. Just… glad you liked today.”

“I loved today.”

“Good.” He set his chopsticks down, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Because I was ninety-two percent sure you would, but there’s always that eight percent margin for error.”

You snorted. “You’re such a nerd”

“Maybe” He leaned back, stretching both arms along the couch behind you. “But it made today successful. I calculated the weather, your mood after work yesterday, whether you’d think the tent was weird instead of cozy, whether camellias would feel like a cop-out compared to roses…” He ticked them off on his fingers. “High confidence overall.”

“You’re insane.”

“Logically insane,” he corrected, the smirk returning—slow, self-satisfied, the same one he’d worn when he’d announced the twenty-eight-minute countdown earlier.

You leaned over and kissed the smirk right off his face, tasting the lingering spice of chili oil that still clung to his lips from dinner. He hummed into it, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your neck, thumb brushing the soft skin just below your ear in a gentle, absent rhythm.

When you finally pulled back, foreheads resting together, his breathing was steadier but his eyes were still dark, pupils blown wide in the dim lamplight.

Even when the practicality included making sure you came three times, came inside you exactly as promised, cleaned you up efficiently with warm towels and careful touches, and still had the ramen piping hot when it arrived—he’d managed all of it without ever breaking that calm, deliberate focus of his.

You shifted then, swinging one leg over to straddle his lap properly again, thighs bracketing his hips. The bowls were already safely on the coffee table; there was no risk of knocking them over. The hoodie he’d tugged down earlier bunched comfortably at your waist now, soft cotton riding up just enough to let his hands settle on your lower back, palms warm through the fabric, holding you close without any urgency.

He exhaled softly against your mouth, the sound almost a sigh of contentment.

“Still think flowers are impractical?” he murmured, voice low and rough, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he spoke.

You laughed—weak and happy, the sound muffled against the crook of his neck where you’d tucked your face.

“I think you’re allowed to be a little impractical sometimes,” you whispered back, fingers threading lazily through the damp strands at his nape. “Just… don’t make it a habit. I’d hate to lose the version of you who times everything down to the second.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, the vibration rumbling through his chest and into yours. “Deal,” he said simply.

He leaned in and kissed you once more—slow, unhurried, like he had all the time in the world now that the countdowns were over, the ramen bowls sat empty on the coffee table, and the apartment carried the quiet, intimate perfume of spicy broth, lingering sex, and the clean notes of camellias drifting from the side table. 

His mouth moved against yours with deliberate tenderness— lips brushing, parting, tasting, no rush to deepen it further. Just savoring. One hand slid up to cup your jaw, thumb stroking the soft skin beneath your ear in lazy, soothing arcs; the other stayed splayed at the small of your back, fingers pressing just firmly enough to keep you anchored against him, chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat.

When he finally drew back only far enough that your breaths mingled, he rested his forehead against yours, eyes half-lidded and dark with something softer than hunger now. The lamplight painted warm shadows across his sharp features, turning the faint red marks from your nails into quiet proof of everything that had come before. 

He didn’t speak right away but exhaled once, long and steady, like he was letting the last of the day’s careful calculations slip away.

Outside the window, the city glittered with Valentine’s lights in pink and red and white. Couples were probably still walking around with wilting bouquets and half-eaten chocolate boxes but you didn’t care.

You had camellias on the table that would last another week at least, a thermos that would keep your coffee hot until next winter, and a boy whose heart operated like an extremely well-calibrated machine—precise, efficient, ruthless in its logic and still, somehow, capable of the softest, most surprising acts of love when it mattered.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, baby” he said, voice barely above a whisper, like the words were just for the space between you. 

You rested your forehead against his again, breathing him in.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Taehyun.”

And for once, he didn’t bother calculating the odds.

He just held you tighter.

[teaxeee]

Well, I don't know how to begin, but I wanted to ask this. I don't even know if you'll accept.

Gunwook, who idolizes his girlfriend, kisses every part of her body, telling her how much he loves her, how beautiful she is, how much she looks like a goddess as he gazes at her with those eyes. He does everything to please her. The kind of guy who kneels, puts your shoes on, and kisses your calf. He idolizes you from head to toe, something obvious in his gaze.

Sorry for my beginner's English.

I think I'll identify myself like this:

(☆)

Omg I love this cause this is literally Gunwook worshipping you hehe, don't worry your English is good and welcome ☆ anon hehe (do I include () or do I not I AM CONFUSED)

Gunwook being the type to be head over heels for you, listening to every single thing you say while staring at your ALWAYS with love in his eyes, just like a lovesick puppy :( Every single day he tells you how lucky he is to have you and how beautiful you are, knowing it'll make you smile.

Whenever you have to go out somewhere he'll make sure you look and feel pretty, always encouraging you to get dolled up, then complimenting you with whatever you chose to wear, even if it's a dress or a pretty top and a skirt. He has and I mean always HAS to help you put on your heels or take them off when you come back from your night out with him or your friends, he'd be so gentle too, making sure not to hurt you and would always kiss your calf and look at you with that loving gaze.

When it comes to sex though? He'll be worshipping your body, kissing you all over, even the places you're insecure about he'd reassure you that you're beautiful just as you are, would call you his pretty goddess, then smile widely when he sees you becoming shy and try to deny it.

He'd be so caring and gentle when he finally gets to be inside you, will always hold hands with you and keep the pace slow, to show that he's not there just for a quick fuck, but to show you how much he loves you and how much he cares about you <3

[teaxeee]

Head go brrr thinking about gunwook and overstimulation only fingering you 😖

SHIT I CAN IMAGINE THIS (I'm becoming wet thank yew very much)

Imagine being so needy when he's not home that you try to finger yourself the same way he fingers you, but it just doesn't feel as good as he does it!

You kept trying, your hands growing tired as you desperately rubbed your clit and fingered yourself. What you didn't know was that he came home earlier than usual.

As soon as he entered the bedroom he saw you, already on the verge on tears as you kept thrusting your fingers in and out of your now sore pussy.

It didn't take long before he took over, making you sit between his legs, your back pressed against his chest as he wrapped one arm around you, his other hand moving between your legs and replacing your fingers with his, finally giving you the relief you were craving.

By the time he made you cum for the third time that day you were starting to feel overstimulated. You kept trying to close your legs while whining, but he was quick to pry them open as he expertly rubbed your clit while thrusting his fingers in and out of your now clenching hole, his fingers covered with your creamy cum.

He kept thrusting his fingers in and out of your pussy, the pace he moved his hand was fast as you felt something coil in your lower belly, causing you to moan loudly and soak his hand, squirting all over it, while also soaking the bed sheets beneath you.

At least you were finally satisfied, or so you thought as he continued without stopping :3

[jenorotic]

needy : kim jiwoong

pairing — kim jiwoong x fem!reader

warnings — suggestive, disappointingly short

jiwoong has absolutely no control over himself.

especially when you're sat beside him wearing that dress.

he's had to adjust himself five times during the second course just to make sure his pants weren't rubbing him the wrong way.

of course, he couldn't have you the way he wanted to (you were at a public restaurant and surrounded by all your friends), but he had to have you one way or the other.

the minute you excused yourself to the restroom, he excused himself as well. nobody noticed his absence from the table, it being a very loud and crowded restaurant and your circle of friends being very drunk, so he stood guard outside of the ladies restroom waiting for you.

the second you got out, he's kissing at your neck. "jiwoong," you protest, trying to push him away. but then he pushes you back into the bathroom and locks the door behind you.

it was just the two of you now. but still "we're in public," you hiss.

"i know, " jiwoong breathes between love bites, "you don't have to do anything. i just need to-" he accidentally bites too hard and you let out a moan "-satisfy my appetite."

needless to say, the two of you excused yourself from the dinner shortly, to speed back home.

© 2025 MARKBIGDICKLEE all rights reserved — please DO NOT translate, take, nor repost any of my works on other platforms. reblogs are HIGHLY appreciated and preferred! i don’t take requests.

[iwillneverforgiveyousunghanbin]

n. n. n. - second to lose: november 8th ⋆˙⟡

n. n. n. (a ltd. series) masterlist general masterlist ⋆˙⟡ wc: 2.1k ⋆˙⟡ reader: gender neutral; all inclusive. NO pronouns used to refer to reader (not even they/them) and no biological or gendered descriptions of anatomy. ⋆˙⟡ warnings: 18+ explicit smut; MINORS DNI!!!! specific smut warnings for this chapter are located under the cut ⋆˙⟡ summary: gunwook was a shoe-in to win no nut november. all his hyungs agreed. but all that pressure is a lot to handle. and so, too, is newbarista!reader... ⋆˙⟡ series summary: eight idiots make a bet amongst themselves to win no nut november. get ready for a very interesting month! second chapter, please enjoy!! it was actually the first one i wrote bc i was inspired for some reason. ily all :)

EXPLICIT SMUT 18+ WARNINGS: penetrative sex (gunwook penetrating reader, non-specified anatomy); cumming inside of reader; "unprotected" sex; wet dream; gunwook feeling reader's chest (non-specific)... and that's kind of it!

gunwook was walking with a particularly pronounced spring in his step on november 8th. the bet was going well. after all, it had only been about a week and one member was already out. gunwook didn’t have a partner to tempt him and he was also used to prioritizing all of his other tasks and interests over sex and masturbation. and a bunch of his hyungs had chosen him as the probable winner of the bet. the mass praise alone was enough to make him cum... 

gunwook's eyes widen as he stops dead in his tracks on the way to his favorite tea shop after dance practice. he shakes his head, running his long fingers through his straight, black hair and refocusing himself. gunwook wasn’t really one to make sexual remarks like that, even if it was just in his head.

that was just a stupid, subconscious joke, he reasons to himself. you’re just a little stressed because of this stupid bet is all. calm down.

this whole bet was so childish to gunwook. his hyungs were right: gunwook was incredibly mature for his age. he had both a strong will and a strong resolve. even things like sex didn't really make him lose his head. he thought about everything calmly and thoroughly. sure, this bet was the epitome of stupid. but winning would come pretty naturally for him. and, besides, gunwook wouldn't complain about earning some time off and the respect of his hyungs…

gunwook pulls open the door to the tea shop, walking up to the counter and preparing to place his order — the same drink he always gets: iced black tea. but his jaw drops unintentionally when the dazzling smile of a new employee shines back at him.

"... um, hi?" you say once more as a tall, masked boy stands in front of you, just staring. "can i take your order?"

the boy blinks back at you several times before shaking his hair out of his eyes and clearing his throat awkwardly. "oh, uh. sorry. i, uh… i—," he stutters out, reaching to scratch the back of his neck.

what the fuck is wrong with me? gunwook thinks as his palms start to sweat. one thing about gunwook is that he's never at a loss for words. he was the president of his class; a star member of the debate team. there was almost never a moment when words escaped him.

but you…

you were fucking hot. a wholesome smile, attentive eyes, and a shirt that exposed just a little too much of your chest beneath your cafe apron. 

"holy shit," gunwook whispers under his breath. 

"excuse me?" you ask, brow furrowing in offense.

"i'm sorry!" he apologizes quickly, holding up his hands in pure horror. "i'm so sorry, i just—... i—..."

"can you just tell me your order already?" you interrupt annoyedly. what was this kid's problem anyway? 

suddenly you spot something besides the boy's wide eyes staring back at you: an incredibly noticeable erection in his sweatpants.

"oh great,” you say with a sardonic laugh. “it’s my first day and i already have some freak harassing me."

gunwook frowns as he follows your line of sight… right to the little bundle of joy looking up at him.

"NO!" he exclaims in a panic. this could not be happening. and it absolutely wouldn't be happening if it wasn't for this stupid bet. was he really so deprived after eight days that he couldn't control himself in public anymore? it couldn't be true. gunwook was not a barbarian like matthew or gyuvin. was the pressure of earning the respect of his hyungs effecting his mental state this badly? 

somehow things had suddenly and entirely spiraled out of hand… and he needed to fix it. 

gunwook pulls his mask down, revealing his (incredibly) handsome face to you. "i am so truly sorry for this. i can explain. my idiot friends and i have this bet and—."

"oh," you say, a smirk tugging at the corner of your lips. "i've seen you before, haven't i?"

"um," gunwook mutters, big lips forming a slight ‘o’ shape. "well, uh—."

"you're an idol, aren't you?" you ask with a grin, not-so-subtly maneuvering your shirt to expose just a little bit more of your chest. hey, you’ve got to climb the economic ladder somehow.

"what!? … no! no, i'm not an—," gunwook overdramatically feigns ignorance. "i mean, me? an idol? i'm very flattered you think i'm that handsome, and i am, but-—."

"this you?" you say, holding up your phone to show him a picture of himself on an mcountdown stage that you just found on google images during his little improv scene.

"heh," gunwook laughs in embarrassment, a blush shading his cheeks. "we look alike, don't we?"

"huh," you say, shaking your head curiously. "i didn't think idols were allowed to be so openly perverted in public."

"I’M NOT—," gunwook yells exasperatedly, before pressing his lips together and centering himself. "you know, this sort of thing isn’t really something i can control, okay? and, mind you, it's not something that usually happens. like, ever. at least, not since i was, like, 15. it's just—... there's some extenuating circumstances going on right now. and—... and—..."

you raise your eyebrows at him expectantly.

"and you're so attractive," he sighs finally. 

you stare back at him, fairly shocked. you knew you were hot. but you didn't know you were give an idol a boner in public hot. this was one of the most bizarre interactions you've ever had. but you'd be lying if you weren't growing incredibly more turned on with every word that came out of this strange, hot man’s face…

"i—... oh my god, this is so inappropriate," gunwook says suddenly, backing away from the counter. "i'm so sorry. please, please don't post about this online. i'm begging you. i promise, i'll do whatever you want, just. please don't."

with that, the handsome, perverted idol turns around and books it out of the cafe. 

"wait!" you call after him, but it's too late. 

-

gunwook wished he could just curl up in a ball and die. what the fuck had happened today? he is composed. he is mature. hell, it had only been eight days since the start of the bet. gunwook had better resolve than this and he knew it. he just needed sleep. all the stress of comeback schedules was probably just weighing on him. he'd feel better after a full eight hours of unconsciousness.

so that's what he did. only, he forgot that even though he was unplugged from the outside world, his dreams might try to torment him…

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆

"i didn't know idols were allowed to be so openly perverted in public," you say as you sit cross-legged on the front of the cafe counter, placing your hands behind you and leaning back, your shirt gaping so much that when gunwook peers down, he can see the top of your stomach. his whole body is flushing as he bites his lower lip.

"i—... i thought so, too," he whispers, leaning in closer. he raises his giant hand, hovering his fingers over the fabric barely covering your chest longingly. “but… i can’t do this. i—... i’m supposed to be the mature one. fuck, i am the mature one. they all expect me to win!”

“aren’t you getting tired of all that pressure, wookie?” you ask, taking his hand and pushing it beneath the fabric of your shirt. he gasps at the feeling of your warm skin on his fingertips and again at the sight of you batting your eyelashes up at him invitingly. “everyone already knows how smart you are; how diligent you are. but wookie…”

you slide closer to him, spreading your legs as he licks his lips at the teasing angle of the apron draping between your thighs (you’re not wearing any pants at your workplace for some reason, but you don’t really care). it’s covering exactly where he wants to see most. you watch it fading in his eyes: his willpower. you hook your fingers around the waistband of his sweatpants, tugging as you look up into his eyes sweetly.

“wouldn’t it feel so good to just give up and fuck me already?”

his lips are on yours in seconds as he leans you back against the surface of the counter, big hands pulling your hips as close to his as they can get. the hard contact of your core against his erection causes you to moan into his mouth.

gunwook pulls his pants down, his impressive length making you salivate beneath him. he was about to absolutely tear up your insides. the smirk that he gives you when you make eye contact again tells you he knows exactly what you’re thinking.

he kisses you again, his lips large and plush against yours, and he knows how to use them. he’s driving you crazy and all you want is to have him inside you.

“i don’t like to beg,” you breathe annoyedly.

gunwook laughs. “you shouldn’t. it’s undignified.”

“then stop teasing me,” you reply, a little whinier than you intended.

“i said you shouldn’t beg,” he starts, positioning the tip of his cock at your entrance. his eyes sparkle as he smiles down at you. “i didn’t say i didn’t want you to.”

“oh my god,” you cry out as he pushes himself inside you. he has to go fairly slow because of his size and every inch makes you squirm. 

“fuck, you’re so tight,” he seethes with pleasure until he finally hits your back-most wall. “i’m not—... there’s no way i’m gonna last. not when you feel this perfect.”

“i don’t care, just fuck me,” you demand, starting to lose your head in horniness. “please, please, just fuck me. need you so bad, wookie.”

“no, no, baby,” gunwook says, trying his best to begin thrusting in and out of you. “don’t—... don’t talk like that, i—... i can’t hold on if you say shit like that.”

“mm, feel so good inside me, wookie,” you moan, nails digging into his strong back. you wrap your legs around him, pulling him in even closer. “please, just want you to fill me up.”

gunwook can’t even hold a rhythm now. he’s rutting into you shallowly with the desperation of broken man. he knows he shouldn’t cum. he knows he’s better than this. but it’s exactly like you said…

it just feels so good to give up.

so he does.

he gives up deep inside you.

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆

gunwook jolts awake in bed. he looks around in confusion, realizing he had been sleeping on his stomach. much to his horror, he suddenly remembers his dream. his incredible, terrible dream. quickly, he sits up and turns on his flashlight to find…

a sticky, wet spot on his sheets exactly where his dick had been pressed into the mattress. 

fear, disappointment, and embarrassment all flood over gunwook. not only did he lose the bet second (SECOND), he lost it in his sleep to his fucking mattress.

gunwook was, in a word…

cooked.

gunwook paces outside the cafe for a few minutes before finally deciding to go in and own up to his entirely inappropriate behavior yesterday. thanks to his post-nut clarity, he’d actually written a pretty good apology speech… if there even was an apology speech good enough for what had transpired.

you’re standing behind the counter, waiting for something— anything— to happen on your second day at your new job. it had admittedly been much more boring than the first day, since a grand total of zero idols had come to show off their boners to you yet during your shift. and you were more than a little disappointed that that cute idol from yesterday hadn’t actually ripped your clothes off in the bathroom or something. he at least could’ve given you his number after all that…

so when he walks through the door this afternoon, you’re actually pleasantly surprised to see him. “ah, my favorite idol! welcome in, boner boy.”

gunwook squints really hard at this, like his body is rejecting the nickname. “hi—... uh… huh, i just realized that i don’t know your name.”

“it’s (y/n),” you reply with a smile. “i assume your name isn’t actually boner boy?”

“it’s gunwook,” he replies, clearing his throat awkwardly.

“gunwookie,” you say informally. “what brings you back here so soon?”

“right. hi, (y/n)! i wanted to apologize a—.”

“i hope it’s to do whatever i want,” you cut him off.

he blinks, taken aback. “um. what?”

you can’t help but grin. “you said that in exchange for not posting about what happened yesterday, you’d do whatever i want. i assume you’re a man of your word.”

“uh. i—...” he stutters for a moment before nodding excessively. “yes! i—... yes, that’s what i’m here to do… whatever you want. uh, within reason, of course. i’m not exactly a top idol yet so please go easy on my wallet.”

“of course,” you repeat with a smirk.

“so,” gunwook says, audibly gulping. “what do you want me to do?”

you adjust your shirt slightly again, just like you did yesterday so that just a little more of your chest is exposed. “i want you to do…”

you smile.

“me.”

who do you think will be third to lose no nut november?

hanbin

jiwoong

hao

taerae

ricky

gyuvin

Voting ended onNov 15, 2025

[twsglazer]

#NEEDTHAT

⭑.ᐟ synopsis: you’re lucky to have your hot, smart boyfriend help you study for your calc test but what happens when you can’t focus and the only solution is him. a sweet motivation.

⭑.ᐟ content warnings: established couple, kissing, fingering, begging, edging, softdom! gunwook x needy!reader

⭑.ᐟ wc: 1702

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ you’re lying on your bed, half asleep and buried under a mess of calc notes when your phone buzzes.

gunwook: wanna hang out tonight?

you stare at the screen for a second before sighing and typing back.

you: unfortunately i can’t 😭 i need to lock in for math. i have a test on monday 💔

his reply comes fast.

gunwook: wow... choosing calculus over me is crazy.
gunwook: i’m actually hurt rn.

you roll your eyes, but you can’t help and smile.

you: don’t be dramatic. i still wanna see you.. maybe we can study together?🥹

the typing bubbles appear right away.

gunwook: yes yes i can help in math 😏
gunwook: i’m kinda a pro, remember?

you snort, remembering how he bragged about acing the class last year.

you: we’ll see. i’m kind of a lost cause.

gunwook: good thing i like a challenge.

you press your lips together, trying not to smile too wide. he always knows exactly what to say.

a minute later, another text pops up.

gunwook: come over tomorrow. i’ll prepare snacks and equations.

you: not sure which one i’ll actually need more 😭

gunwook: both. obviously.

you laugh softly to yourself, tossing your pencil aside. no matter how stressed you are about the test, he always manages to make it feel less heavy.

and even though you told yourself you were gonna focus, you already know you’ll be at his place tomorrow.

the next day, you’re standing outside his house clutching onto your backpack like it’s your emotional support system, already 30 minutes late. god u hated calc. he opens the door before you can even knock twice, wearing that lazy grin that already makes you want to turn around and go home because you know you’re not getting any studying done.

“look who actually showed up,” he teases, leaning against the doorframe.

you roll your eyes. “im desperate but i never said i was dedicated”.

he laughs, stepping aside to let you in. his room smells faintly of laundry detergent and something sweet, the snacks he promised. there’s already a pile of them on his desk: chips, cookies, even some candy. all your favorites.

“see?” he says proudly, gesturing toward the spread. “premium tutoring service. snacks included.” you gave him a hearty smile to show your gratitude. it’s wasn’t long tho until reality hit, you had to study.

you drop your bag onto his chair and flop onto the carpet with a groan. “i hate calculus. like, with my whole soul.”

“yeah, you’ve made that clear,” he says, sitting down beside you and flipping through your notes. “what even is this handwriting? hieroglyphics?”

you swat his arm lightly. “don’t bully me im going through it.”

“i’m not bullying,” he says, grinning. “i’m motivating. there’s a difference.”

you give him a look. “you’re bribing me with snacks.”

“and it’s working,” he says, tossing you a pack of gummies.

you’re sitting cross legged on the floor with your notebook open, but the words and numbers have started to blur. gunwook’s voice is steady beside you patient explaining the same problem for the third time, but all you can think about is how close he’s sitting.

“see? you just take the derivative of this part,” he says, tapping the page lightly. “you don’t even have to overthink it.”

you nod, even though you’re not really listening. the sound of his voice is low and steady, making it hard to focus. you grip your pencil tighter, trying to get your brain back to calculus.

“y/n,” he says after a moment, tone softer now. “you’re not writing anything down.”

you blink, realizing you’ve just been staring at the same equation for a full minute. “sorry,” you mumble, fidgeting with the corner of your paper. “i’m just… tired, i think.”

he tilts his head, watching you carefully. “tired?” he repeats. “or distracted?”

your breath catches a little. “maybe both.”

he leans forward a bit, resting his elbow on his knee, eyes never leaving yours. “what’s wrong?”

you shake your head quickly. “nothing, i’m fine. i just—” you cut yourself off when his gaze flickers toward you again, calm and curious.

“you’re not fine,” he says quietly. “you haven’t looked at the paper in five minutes.”

you laugh weakly, just to break the tension than anything. “i’m just bad at math. told you i was a lost cause.”

he smiles faintly, but doesn’t look convinced. “no, this isn’t about math. i can tell.”

you try to look back down, but his voice keeps pulling your attention back. the way he says your name gently makes your pulse stutter.

“hey,” he says again, leaning a little closer. “what’s wrong?”

you swallow hard, eyes darting away. “nothing. i’m fine,” you whisper, though your voice sounds less convincing each time.

he studies you for another second, eyes soft but searching. “then why can’t you look at me?”

the question lingers in the air, quiet and heavy. you grip your pencil tighter, pretending to think, pretending to breathe normally but every second he’s watching you makes it harder to keep pretending at all.

after what you thought felt like an eternity, but realistically was prob 30 seconds. you reach out, your hand cupping his cheek, and pull him into a desperate kiss. his lips are soft and warm. he kisses you back, his arms wrapping around you to pull you closer. you can feel his heartbeat steady against your chest.

“baby, what’s got you so worked up?” he murmurs against your lips, his breath hot and tempting. his hands are in your hair, tangling in the strands, holding you to him.

you whine softly, your body pressing against his as you rub your thighs together, seeking friction and relief. “stress... i don’t know,” you gasp, your voice breathy and needy. “but i need you. i need you badly.”

he pulls back slightly, a teasing smile playing on his lips. “is that so?” he asks, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your back. “and what exactly do you need from me?

you whimper, your body aching with need. “you know what i need,” you whisper, your voice filled with longing. “please, i need you.”

he chuckles low with a seductive sound. “only if you answer this next problem correctly,” he says, his eyes sparkling with mischief. he pulls out a piece of paper, a math problem written across it.

you look at it, your brow furrowing in concentration. “but... i’m bad at math,” you protest, you whine.

“come on, you can do it,” he encourages, his hands still roaming your body, distracting you. “just focus, baby. you’ve got this.”

you take a deep breath, trying to concentrate, but his touch is making it hard to think. you start to work through the problem, your pencil scratching against the paper. finally, you look up at him with a smile on your face. “done,” you say, pushing the paper towards him.

he takes it, his eyes scanning the solution. a slow smile spreads across his face. “wrong,” he says, his voice a low growl. “try again.”

you whine in protest, your body aching with need. “please,” you beg, your voice breathy and desperate. “i need you.”

he leans in, his lips brushing against your cheek and his fingers tracing the edges of your panties. “you came here to learn, right baby?” he murmurs, his breath hot against your skin. his eyes meet yours, dark with desire, and you feel a shiver run down your spine.

you nod desperately, your body pressing against his, seeking more. “yes,” you gasp. “please, i need to learn. i need you.”

he has a smirk plastered on his lips. “good girl,” he says, his fingers finally giving you what you need, pushing you over the edge. “let’s try that again, shall we?”

you take a deep breath as you rush to finish the problem before you start to feel the wetness stuck to your panties.“done,” you say, pushing the paper towards him.

he looks at your work mentally scanning to see if u got it right “good job”. you finally earned what you have been begging for.

you straddle him, your body pressing against his, seeking more. he groans, his hands gripping your hips, pulling you tighter against him. but instead of grinding, he pulls back, his hands moving to your thighs, spreading them wider.

“wow, i didn’t know studying could get someone so wet,” he says, his voice a low growl. his fingers trace the edge of your panties, teasing.

you whimper, your body aching with need. “touch me,” you beg, your voice filled with desperation. “please, i need you to touch me.”

he smiles, “you’ve been good so far, i guess i need to reward you,” he says, his fingers finally giving you what you need, pushing you over the edge.

you gasp as his fingers find your most sensitive spot, circling. you start to move against his hand, chasing the pleasure, but he pulls back, keeping you on the brink.

“please,” you beg again, your body trembling with need. “i can’t take it. i need to come.”

he leans in, his breath hot against your ear. “soon, baby,” he promises, his fingers picking up speed, pushing you closer to the edge. “soon.”

you can feel the tension building, the pressure coiling in your belly, and you know you’re close, so close. but just as you’re about to tip over, he pulls back again, leaving you gasping and needy.

“not yet,” he says, his voice a low growl. “i want to hear you beg for it.”

you whimper, your body aching with need. “please,” you beg, your voice filled with desperation. “please, i need to come. i need you.”

he smiles, satisfied, “good girl,” he says, his fingers finally giving you what you need, pushing you over the edge. as you come undone, he holds you close. he slowly rubs your clit, helping you ride out the waves of pleasure, his lips brushing against your ear. “so needy, baby,” he murmurs, his voice filled with affection and desire.

“are you ready to learn now?” he asks softly, bringing you into a warm embrace. ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

[shigetaharua]

credit

[ratedfleur]

rn all i can think about is gunwook playing with your lovense toy when he’s away for tour..

📬: gunwook x fem reader, implied overstimulation, lovense toy (distance controlled sex toy)

his eyes are hooded as he watches you throw your head back, holding back a whimper as the vibrations become stronger against your pussy.

you bite your lip, subconsciously shutting your legs shut as you buck your hips into the air. gunwook clicks his tongue, calling out your name.

“spread your legs, baby. i need to see what belongs to me.” he says, eyes growing darker as he watches you shakily spread your legs once more. gunwook’s smile is sinister as he plays with the speed of the toy, putting to the lowest setting before setting it to the highest setting possible.

“f-fuck fuck fuck baby, is too much!!” you moan loudly, hands reaching to fondle your tits as you buck your hips, as if trying to get away from the intense pressure.

gunwook tosses his phone onto the bed, adjusting the ipad in front of him before slipping his clothes off.

he must be insane for wanting to watch you moan and cry, begging for mercy to take things slower. gunwook’s cock only grows harder as he watches you trash around, pussy creaming around the toy inside of you.

his cock is hard in his hand, only growing harder and wetter as he pumps his cock, moaning as he watches you cry out, calling out to him.

“you can take it, that’s exactly how i play with you when i’m home.” gunwook mutters, chest heaving heavily as he pumps his cock harder, hips bucking against his hand as he fucks his fist. he reaches over to the nightstand, grabbing the fleshlight that he bought. gunwook’s smile is full of lust as he preps the toy, rubbing the walls with lube as if he was prepping your pussy to take his fat cock.

crying out to him, you watch him fuck the toy, sliding in his cockhead as he moans, hips bucking up and down, mimicking your own movements as you moaned your boyfriend’s name.

gunwook moans, “jesus fucking christ, your pussy’s so tight for me baby..” he says before picking up the pace, fucking the toy with a stable pace, eyes still fixated on how you writhed and moaned his name, begging him go let you cum.

his hand reaches for the phone, toying with the vibrator’s pace as you whined, pussy clenching harder around the toy as you succumbed closer and closer towards your orgasm.

“please daddy— need to cum for you!” you gasped out, feeling the vibration intensify inside of you as gunwook moans your name. “cum for me baby, come on. cum for daddy.” gunwook grunts, covering the fleshlight’s walls with his cum, eyes fixated on how your pussy creams around the toy before you scream his name, pulling the toy out of your pussy before squirting all over the sheets.

gunwook only drools as he watches you cum, chest heavy with unstable breaths as you made a mess all over the bed.

eyes fixated on the screen, you whimper as gunwook pulls the fleshlight off of him, watching as his cum flows out of the toy and back onto his cock.

“i love you, did you know that?” gunwook gasps out, feeling spent as the two of you caught your breath. you shake your head with a laugh, “you seriously need to come home, i’m gonna get used to sleeping with my toys sooner or later.” you say as he whines, threatening that he’ll book a flight just to stuff your pussy with his cock.

hehe hi, just made a quick visit to envision my thoughts about gunwook 🫣 i missed u sm tumblr <3 also pop into my inbox! i’d love to yap with y’all <3

[tyangdoll]

https://vt.tiktok.com/ZSBT8WgUF/

i 😫😫😫

hi im back and insane about soft dom sugar daddy gunwook i just know he treats you like a princess and spoils you rotten

~ lei 🍫

link lowkey thinking abt sugar daddy wook w someone older… bc he’s so obsessed w you that he’s desperate to prove himself to you

gunwook had booked a hotel for the two of you to stay in for the night. he smiled warmly as he adjusted his glasses, gazing at you adoringly. he had just bought you a new lingerie set, having completely lost count of how many he’d bought you over the past month. “gosh, that looks absolutely stunning on you. you’re like something out of my dreams, pretty…” his eyes roamed appreciatively over your body before meeting your gaze again. “tell me, anything else i can do for you, princess? anything at all, i’d do anything for you…” you crawled towards the edge of the bed, palming him through his trousers. “want the most expensive champagne this hotel offers… want your dick too, wookie…” you whined with a pout. he inhaled sharply as your hand cupped his growing cock through his trousers, hips pressing into your touch. “mmm, as you wish, my insatiable princess.” he pulled out his phone from his pocket and placed an order for the most premium champagne possible.

hours passed and you were both tipsy now, gunwook pulling you onto his lap so you’re straddling him, large hands gripping your hips possessively. “need to feel that pretty pussy, all of it… come sit on my cock, princess, it’s all yours…” his fingers dug into your ass, leaving clear marks to show you were all his, at least tonight. you pulled your panties to the side, lowering yourself onto his thick length as you gasped out together. his hands went back to your hips, holding you in place as he started thrusting up with powerful strokes. “fuck, y/n, feel so good… so tight and wet around me…” he panted heavily, eyes wondering to where his cock disappeared inside your pussy over and over. “take every inch of this thick dick, princess… gonna give it to you all fucking night…”

[zbis]

[oneshot]

* ˚ ✦ i hate to see you go but i love to watch you leave ; p.gw (suggestive but cute)

you trace the veins on gunwook’s arm lazily as he writes. the muscles flex subtly underneath the tip of your finger with each scibbled letter and phrase. so far, he’s written around 5 pages of possible lyrics and scratched out around half of each of them. you vaguely remember him saying something about how he had some writing credits on the next album, but you didn’t think he’d be contributing this much.

he's already been at this for the past 4 hours. he has good material, he’s just being hard on himself, you think.

you sigh, laying your head on his bare shoulder. earlier he complained about how hot the studio was despite the air conditioner being on blast and decided to strip down to a black wife beater and his sweats. his unwashed black hair was messily strewn about all over his head, evidence of him stressing over the work in front of him.

you move some stray hair away from his face lightly so as to not disturb his flow. he doesn’t say thank you, but you notice his lips quirk up into a quick smile. that’s all you need.

you continue tracing his most prominent veins but stop when he stops writing. “ugh what the fuck,” he mutters. you watch him crumble up the entire paper and toss it behind him somewhere in the room.

“you didn’t have to do that,” you mumble. the vibe of the studio right now is calm and you’d like to keep it that way. it’s late, and you’re sleepy, so if gunwook was calm enough, you think you’d just might be able fall asleep right here in the studio. good, that way he can carry you back to the dorms and you won’t have to walk there.

“it’s not good enough,” he says, picking another piece of paper and writing whatever comes to mind. you don’t say anything because you know his standards are high and any input you give will probably be met with a half hearted “eh” or a condescending pat on the head for your efforts.

you shrug and yawn obnoxiously loud but not on purpose. the soft ticking of the clock, scribbles of pen on paper, and gunwook's steady breaths are lulling you to sleep. “will you carry me today? to the dorms?” you ask after several beats of steady silence.

it takes a long while for gunwook to respond. so long, in fact, that you start to think he didn't hear what you said. you're about to quietly repeat yourself when he finally speaks up. “do you want me to?” he stops writing to look at you curiously. you nod with a pout on your face, knowing that he'd never say no to you. he breathes out a laugh, putting his pen down.

you drop your hand from his arm as he lifts it up to poke your puffed up lips. “that shouldn’t even be a question, right?” he mocks lightly. his entire demeanor is different when interacting with you. when he’s writing, he’s practically attacking the paper. glaring daggers into it and furiously writing any line that comes to him, hoping the words will cooperate enough to form something coherent. in contrast, when he looks at you, his eyes seem to soften up. it’s a calm look full of love with an unspoken gentleness that emanates itself in how he treats you so delicately.

it’s like looking at two different people, really.

“yeah but if you're busy i’ll just get a head start and get hanbin to open the door, i think he left earlier today.” as you speak, you're already halfway off his lap. you don’t wait for him to respond, knowing words of protest would be uttered and honestly your legs were already falling asleep by now.

you saunter over to the door, your body practically dragging you down with drowsiness. gunwook turns his swivel chair around and watches you. "so you're leaving without me? thought you wanted me to carry you home?" he calls out after you. his eyes seem to flicker between your back and the door a couple of times.

you wave him off with your hand. "i'm-" a pause. he eyes your retreating figure, his gaze shamelessly dragging down to your ass. this whole time he hadn't realized you were wearing one of his old boxers that you now revamped into sleeping shorts for yourself. he bites his lip to stop from smiling like a fool and leans back in his seat. "i'm not that busy.." he mumbles under his breath as he hauls himself up from his seat, forgetting momentarily about the project behind him. this was practically the first time within his 4 hours stuck in the studio that he gets up.

he catches up to you effortlessly, caging you in from behind and nuzzling his face into your warm neck. he groans and sways you both back and forth as you walk out from the building. "don't ever- don't just walk out like that y'know.." you stifle a laugh at his words and roll your eyes.

gunwook nips at your earlobes when you teasingly giggle at his poorly masked attraction. "you know i hate to see you go but.." he narrows his eyes slightly and smirks playfully. "i love to watch you leave."

[lvlybin]

uni bf!gunwook who enjoys marking up his s/o so people know that shes taken lowkey the kind that would stand behind her like a guard dog so no other guys would try to flirt with her i love possessive men

cw suggestive, marking, mentions of making out, possessive behavior

✉️ this is so childhood best friend to lovers coded lowkey

“So, what? You’re saying no more neck kisses?” Gunwook pouts at you from where he’s sat on your bed. Your roommate is out and about, something about studying at the campus café or whatever, so it’s just you and your boyfriend tucked away in your dorm room on a Friday night. Neither of you necessarily had any plans for the night, just cuddles and relaxing in each other’s presence. Well, those were his plans. On the other hand, you had a few different things to do. Particularly, hounding him about the teeth marks that littered your very visible neck. 

You let out a small groan as you exit the suite bathroom, having finished changing into a matching pajama set that Gunwook had gotten you the last time you went shopping together. “These are not neck kisses, Wook, these are vampire bites.”

Somehow his pout deepens. The sight makes you want to scream in frustration and kiss all over his cute cheeks at the same time.

“I didn’t mean to.”

Oh yes you freaking did, you think to yourself. You understood getting caught up in the heat of makeout sessions (something that happened to you frequently), but these strategically placed marks were not any kind of freak accident. No, not when Gunwook knew that you tended to rest your hand on that part of your jaw/neck to hold your head up, which meant that your concealer would stand no chance. 

You flop down onto your bed, Gunwook already opening his arms for you to tuck yourself into his chest. Trying not to focus on how his biceps seem bigger than they did last week, you continue. “My freaking lab partner in bio asked me if I was okay when he saw these.”

“Good. He didn’t get the message that you were taking when I picked you up from class last week.”

Your stomach flips. “You mean when you interrupted our conversation by pretty much flexing behind me to scare him off?” He smirks, like he’s proud of himself, and you have to stop yourself from laughing too. You were trying to scold him, not encourage his behavior. “Don’t take part in pissing contests; they contribute to toxic masculinity.”

His fingers run over your arm gently, knowing you’d probably ask him for back scratches next after the caresses. “There isn’t any kind of contest. You’re mine.” You tilt your chin up at him, sending him a small glare. He chuckles. “Trying to intimidate me?”

“I’m serious, Gunwook, I don’t have enough makeup to keep covering these up.”

“Then I’ll just buy you more.” Another pointed look from you. He groans and taps your arm, a signal for you to sit up a little. When you do, he’s shifting his body over yours, covering you and resting his head on your chest. Probably listening to your heartbeat as one of his hands grabs yours to guide it to his hair. Spoiled. “Alright, fine, no more vampire bites.”

“Thank you,” you mumble to him.

Gunwook’s quiet for another moment, then a grin spreads over his lips again. You furrow your eyebrows as he plants a kiss to where your pajama top has slipped to expose your collarbones. 

“How about I mark you up somewhere else, then?”

[beomgyuversee]

"Say that again."

✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧

pairing:  Taehyun x fem!reader

Synopsis: ~ You called him a “brat” in front of the members. That night, he makes sure you regret it—and makes sure everyone else knows..

genre:~ non-idol AU, smut

rating:~ 18+ (MDNI)

Warnings:~ Hickeys, unprotected sex (dont you dare), slight exhibition-ish ending (he likes that the other know what they did), swearing, meanish Dom!Taehyun, oral (f rec), make up sex(?)

wc:~ 1k

(not proofread)

✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧

The moment the words left your lips, you knew you were in trouble.

It was meant as a joke—something light and teasing. You’d all been lounging around the dorms, the members bickering over takeout orders and random TV shows. And Taehyun had said something sarcastic to you—typical—and you, without thinking, fired back with a smirk: “You’re such a brat sometimes.”

Laughter from the other TXT members filled the dorm. So did Soobin’s usual scolding. Beomgyu had barked a loud, teasing “Ooooh!” from across the room.

But Taehyun didn’t laugh.

He didn’t say anything. Just raised a single brow, lips twitching like he was amused. But that heat behind his stare? That was anything but playful.

✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧

You’d barely made it into the room before you felt the tug.

A firm hand closed around your wrist, spinning you fast and pressing you up against the wall of his bedroom. The door clicked shut behind you. Locked.

"Say that again," he said, voice low, calm—but dangerous.

You blinked, breath hitching. "W-What?"

His hand slipped up your waist, warm through your shirt, fingers gliding over your ribs as he leaned in. His mouth hovered near your ear.

"I said," he whispered, "say that again."

"Taehyun, I was just joking—"

He clicked his tongue. "No, no. You called me a brat in front of my friends. Now, i'm gonna show exactly how much of a fucking brat I can be."

He caught your chin between his fingers, tilting your head up. His thumb dragged across your bottom lip, slow, like he was testing how far he could push before you'd break.

“You act like you’re all innocent,” he murmured, “but your mouth says otherwise.”

His hand slid down your front, under your shirt, over the skin of your stomach and higher, until he cupped your breast. His thumb brushed over your nipple through the fabric, and your back arched instinctively into his palm.

“See?” he smirked. “Already so responsive. And I haven’t even started.”

You let out a shaky breath. “Tae—”

“No.” He pressed a finger to your lips. “Don’t whine now. You had your fun earlier. You embarrassed me. So now I get to show you how bratty you really are.”

His mouth moved down your neck, teeth grazing lightly before biting into the soft skin with possessive hunger. A sharp sting bloomed as he sucked hard, marking you. Your breath hitched.

He backed you toward the bed and pushed you down gently. His shirt came off in one motion, muscles flexing under soft light as he tossed it aside.

And then he was crawling over you, slow, deliberate, letting the tension wind tighter with every second. He kissed you hard, tongue slipping past your lips, hand wrapped tight around your thigh as he slotted his hips between yours.

“Touch me,” you gasped, nails dragging down his back.

“I am,” he whispered. “But not how you want. Not yet.”

He shifted lower, mouth trailing down your neck, sucking a deep mark into your collarbone. His hand slipped between your thighs, over your clothes, pressing right where you needed him most. Your hips bucked up, desperate for more friction, but he just held you there, smirking.

“You’re already soaked,” he growled. “You like getting put in your place, huh?”

You nodded breathlessly.

“Use your words, baby.”

“Yes—fuck, yes.”

That was all he needed.

In one smooth motion, he peeled your clothes off, tossing them to the side. He kissed every inch of skin he uncovered—your stomach, your hips, the inside of your thighs—until you were squirming beneath him.

And then finally—finally—his mouth met your core.

You cried out, hips lifting off the bed as his tongue moved slowly, almost teasing, licking deep and slow, savoring every sound that escaped you. He held your thighs open with both hands, eyes locked on your face the entire time like he was memorizing every reaction.

You were close embarrassingly fast, gasping, fingers tangled in his hair.

But just before you could fall over the edge—he stopped.

“Not yet,” he said, dragging himself up your body, lips glistening. “You don’t get to come until I say so.”

You whimpered. “Please—”

“Oh, now you beg?” He chuckled darkly. “You should’ve thought of that before calling me a brat.”

He lined himself up, notching the head of his cock against you—and pushed in slowly.

Your moan shattered into the air as he filled you, deep and hot and perfect.

His pace was brutal from the start. Hands holding your wrists above your head, hips snapping against yours, his breath hot against your ear as he murmured filth into your skin.

“This pussy was made for me,” he growled. “You’re dripping for me like you need to be used.”

You could barely speak. All you could do was take it—his hips pounding into you, his hand around your throat, the stretch, the fullness—your walls tightening with every thrust.

When he finally let you come, you practically sobbed his name, legs shaking around his waist.

And even then—he didn’t stop.

By the time he collapsed beside you, chest heaving, skin flushed—you couldn’t feel your legs.

He rolled over, brushing damp hair from your face. “Still think I’m the brat?”

You blinked at him through hazy eyes. “A little.”

His smirk returned.

“Say it again,” he whispered, “and next time, I won’t let you off so easy.”

✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧

You woke to sunlight streaming through the curtains and a heavy weight curled beside you. Taehyun’s arm draped possessively over your waist, his face buried in your hair.

Slowly, you sat up and caught sight of your reflection in the mirror. Dark purple bruises blotched your neck, collarbone, and the sides of your breasts. You blushed furiously.

Later, when you joined the others for breakfast, you tried to hide under a loose sweater. But it was no use.

Beomgyu’s eyes flicked to your neck, then he gave a sly smile. “Wow, you look... loved,” he teased, voice low.

He glanced at Taehyun, who only smirked and shrugged innocently.

“So,” Soobin said with a raised brow, “someone was busy last night?”

You felt heat rush to your cheeks, and Taehyun pulled your chair close with a whisper, “Told you. Brat.”

The room filled with quiet laughter, but you could feel the lingering heat of Taehyun’s marks—and his claim—long after the morning sun.

✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧

a/n:~ I'm sick so if this sucks you aren't allowed to bully me 💔

[kongjjen]

pairing: rich husband!jaehyun x female reader ★ genre: fluff, mature, headcanon ★ warnings: mature themes ★ wc: 338 ★ a/n: im frothing at the mouth i need jaehyun so badly

rich husband!jaehyun who spoils you rotten. he takes out that black credit card like that's the easiest thing in the world (it is, to him). slides that credit card for anything, he even gives you a copy in case he's not with you when you need it.

cute shoes you've been eyeing for a while? you should have told him sooner. miumiu bag that suits your skin tone? yeah, that's yours on the spot.

rich husband!jaehyun who takes you on vacation four-five times a year. he loves italy so most of your holidays are spent there, at the lake, at the beach, milan. he rents a house on the lake, and a boat — because how else would the two of you reach some of the islands there, for day trips? you remind him that there are ferries you can take, and he pretends he doesn't hear you when you bring it up.

rich husband!jaehyun who loves expensive wine, expensive dinners. it's not like he won't eat something in the normal price range, but why have all this money if you don't feel the pleasures of life?

rich husband!jaehyun who drives a porsche 718 spyder, for which he spent ten grand more so he could get it in a limited, personalised colour.

rich husband!jaehyun who fucks you senseless. doesn't matter if you're on a boat on a lake in italy or switzerland, or if you're residing in the best resorts around the world. he gets at least two orgasms out of you each time and maybe, just maybe, he considers finishing as well.

rich husband!jaehyun who loves car sex! his porsche or your mercedes-benz he gifted you for your wedding anniversary, it doesn't matter, although he lowkey prefers your car for comfort in the backseat.

rich husband!jaehyun who's dying to put a baby inside you. he loves you, he can provide for you and him just fine, so he'd love to have a baby with you. and that's the thing, a baby with you? looking like both you and him? yeah he wouldn't have it any other way.

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