Synopsis: On a Friday nigth, you go to your friends to the bowlling club and you end up talking louder than you should
genre: smut (minors din!)
wc: 3,180
Warnings: smut, threesome; vaginal fingering; vaginal sex; p in v; oral sex (M reciving); unprotected sex; creampie; semi-public sex; praise; degradation:
author's note: english is not my first language, please excuse any mistakes
It was late at night, the bowling club vibrated with the bass and laughter. Neon lights spilled across the wall and the different faces that stood between the lanes. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and soju.
Just like any other Friday night, the club was full, full of teenagers waiting to ease the stress of that week’s classes.
Like you and your friends.
The group of girls sat around a plastic table right below a glowing screen that showed the scores.
You watched the ball roll down the lane before knocking all the pins down.
“Yes!” You cheered with a faint jump.
But as you glanced back, none of your friends seemed to be paying attention anymore. They were rather focused on something else across the room, giggling between themselves like little girls.
With a sigh, you adjusted your black school skirt and went to meet them.
“What’s going on?” You asked, trying to peek in the same direction as them.
“This place is filled with hot guys, that's what’s going on.” One of the girls joked, sitting on her chair practically drooling over herself.
It was not news that this place was filled with testosterone, after all the bowling club was the Union’s hideout. Everyone knew that.
In a place full of bad boys and wannabe gangsters, sculpted muscles and pretty faces were everywhere.
“Oh my God! Look at those two.” Another girl pointed, making all the others giggle in agreement.
You rolled your eyes but still glanced at the tables at the back of the room.
Under the neon lights, two guys sat a couple of tables away. They didn’t seem to be playing nor taking any attention to the lanes beside them. A cloud of black smoke hovered above their heads, fading into the air.
One was slightly taller, hair slicked back and a cigarette between his lips. The other had broader shoulders, cleaned haircut. A cigarette burned between his fingers as he scrolled through his phone.
You knew them.
Baek Dongha and Do Seongmok.
They went to your school. Not that you ever talked to them, but they were hard to miss. Being one of the most important boys in the Union, the duo turned heads in every hallway.
If you were being honest with yourself you always thought they both looked good. If you dared to admit, you had a little crush on both of them.
“Oh I know them. They go to my school.” You started, mocking the uninterest. “You want me to get their numbers?”
Your group of friends snapped their heads to you.
“What? No! Are you crazy?”
You crossed your arms with the most unfazed expression you could muster. “Thought you said they were hot.”
“Yeah but they’re in the Union.” One girl said. “They’re dangerous.”
“I saw Dongha beat someone yesterday.” Another pointed out.
With a sigh you rolled your eyes. “Oh please. You just don’t have the balls to actually do it .”
The girl scoffed. “Oh, because you do?”
You most definitely did not.
But they didn’t need to know that.
“Yup.” You said with a faint grin. “I could even take both of them.”
The air around you suddenly felt colder, voices faded away into an awkward silence. Finally you realized how loud you were talking.
You glanced around, besides your friends who stared at you with mouths agape, all the other students were staring deadpan at you.
A shade of pink bloomed across your cheeks, you gulped embarrassed before glancing at the two boys. They continued on their phones, with no sign that they even heard a word.
Thank God.
You thought as you sat back down.
Maybe that wasn’t true.
After a while, you headed to the counter, asking for another Diet Coke to ease your thirst. Leaning forward on the counter, you weren’t really paying attention to the rest of the room.
The scent of tobacco crawled quickly through your nostrils, too heavy, too close.
“Hey sweetheart.” A voice behind you called.
Your heart dropped, recognizing that voice. For a second you prayed you were wrong, but as you glanced over your shoulder there they were.
Dongha and Seongmok.
They’re eyes swiping you from head to toe with a dangerous glint in their gaze.
Fuck.
Was it possible that they heard you?
Whatever.
Even if they did, you were going to keep the cool facade you always carried around.
You tugged your black skirt, the hem was just above your knee, and you could see the way Seongmok’s eyes followed the movement.
The realization made something grow hotter inside you.
Still, you played it cool, tilting your head with a sardonic expression flickering in your eyes.
“Are you talking to me?”
Dongha blew the smoke to the side with a laugh.
“I don’t see another pretty girl around here.”
You scoffed, faking the annoyance when your cheeks tainted a shade of red.
“What’s your name?” Dongha asked as both took a step closer.
“Why do you want to know?” You raised your chin, eyes glancing between the two boys.
A dark grin tugged at his lips.
“I like to know the names of the people who talk about us.”
The can nearly fell out of your hands.
So they did heard.
“You should keep your voice down when you talk about other people.” Dongha continued before taking one last drag of his cigarette.
You stared at him frozen in place. Your heart nearly exploded when he leaned forward to put it out on the ashtray on top of the counter. The scent of his cologne invaded your mind, making your breath hitch.
Dongha stared down at you like a predator staring down at its prey. His eyes were sharp, there was something hypnotizing about them that made you incapable of looking away.
“Are you really sure you can take the both of us?” His voice was lower, almost like a whisper.
You didn’t answer at first, your lips parted, your cheek turned a deep shade of red, but no words came out.
Almost immediately, Seongmok gave his friend a faint shove.
“Yah” he warned Dongha who backed down from you with a bitter click of his tongue.
As they turned around to walk away, you gathered all the courage you could muster. This was the opportunity to get the two guys you always dreamed about since the first day of school. There was no way you were going to miss it.
“Yeah I can.” Your confident voice made them turn back to you.
Surprise flicker across their eyes, not actually believing that you had the courage to go through with it.
“Let’s go then.” Dongha smirked with a hungry look in his eyes.
You followed the both of them through a narrow corridor, your heart pounding all the way.
The fluorescent light buzzed above your head as Dongha opened a metal door. Seongmok stepped aside to let you in, your breath hitched when he placed his large hand on your lower back.
Inside that small office, the air shifted with something unspoken lingering. The door clicked shut, sealing the world outside, the bass no longer reached your ears.
“Baekjin will kill us if he finds out.” Seongmok said, still standing in front of the door.
Dongha scoffed playfully as he stripped his windbreaker. “He’s not going to find out.”
You couldn’t take your eyes off his tall, sculpted figure. Instinctively, you pressed your thighs together, heat crawling under your skin.
“Like what you see?” He asked like he was reading your mind.
But the fog inside your brain was too strong for you to form a coherent thought.
You watched with your lips parted as Dongha walked towards with a dangerous grin in his lips.
“Don’t act all shy now.” He laughed softly, the distance between you two getting shorter by the second.
Unconsciously, you took a step backward until you felt your back collide with Seongmok’s chest. He didn’t move an inch and soon you were trapped between the two of them.
Seongmok rested his hands on your waist, holding you in place.
“Relax.” He whispered to your ear. “Let us take care of you.”
You pressed your eyes shut, feeling the heat that radiated from his body, without even controlling the urge to press your body back against his.
That didn’t last long, because suddenly another pair of hands tilted your chin up. Dongha forced you to meet his eyes, they seemed a bit more serious now.
“Are you sure?” He asked in a rough voice.
A deep breath escaped your lungs before you nodded, a dangerous flame burned in your eyes.
And Dongha saw it.
Without warning, he crashed his lips against yours, eliciting a gasp from you. Your hands curled around his shirt, pulling him closer.
Another pair of lips roamed over your neck wildly. You could feel Seongmok’s breath fanning near your ear, it sounded raged, as if he was trying not to lose his composure.
His hands roamed over your waist until he found the buttons of your school shirt. Seongmok worked each button with all the gentleness in the world, as if you were a fragile thing he was scared of breaking.
The cool air kissed your soft skin as the white fabric fell to the ground.
“Fuck…” Dongha murmured against your lips as he saw your bare body, only wrapped by the black bra around your chest.
Their hands roamed around every inch of skin they could reach. Your body grew impossibly hotter, the sensation was too much, you could barely breathe.
Your breath became heavier against Dongha’s lips, he took the advantage to push his tongue inside your mouth.
From behind you felt the bulge inside Seongmok’s jeans pressed against your ass as he grinded on your skirt. You pushed back, meeting his movements with a feverish desperation.
With one finger, Seongmok pushed the strap of your bra down your shoulder, kissing the bare skin before doing the same on the other side.
You heard the familiar click and the fabric landed on the floor, forgotten like the shirt.
“What a view.” Seongmok muttered behind you, though you were too lost in Dongha’s lips to barely register the words.
His hands cupped your breast, thumb applying the lightest amount of pressure on your sensitive nipples.
You couldn’t help the whine that escaped your mouth. Neither of them seem too worried about the noise, on the contrary in fact, it seemed to only fueled them even more.
Dongha trailed his hand up your thigh, under the fabric of your black skirt, sending goosebumps all over your body. His long fingers grazed the cotton of your panties, just testing at first.
The teasing was driving you insane, making your knees weak. Thank God Seongmok was there to hold you.
“Please.” You whined but Dongha only stretched his lips into a cruel smirk.
“Please what sweetheart?” He coed at you.
Fuck, you could barely kiss him back let alone form a decent word.
“Please…just… touch me.”
Dongha smiled satisfied before pressing his index on the damped fabric. He traced lazy circles around your clit, making you roll your eyes with each wave of pleasure.
A full moan escaped your throat this time, echoing through the office.
“She sounds so pretty.” Seongmok said before pressing a kiss on your neck, his hands still playing with your breasts.
“And it’s only for us.” Dongha added as he pushed your panties aside.
You jolted when his finger ran along your soaked entrance. Their grip on you tightened with a trace of possessiveness to it.
“Shit, you're soaked.” He said, gently prodding your wet entrance.
Just when you thought Dongha was going to push his fingers inside, he removed them completely, leaving you clenching around nothing.
“Feel it.” He urged Seongmok. “Feel how wet she is for us.”
Seongmok quickly reached between your legs feeling your drenched cunt. A finger slipped inside, then two, your warm wrap around him deliciously. When he curled them to a specific spot, you could swore you saw stars.
Your hand flew to Dongha’s chest as if to ground yourself.
He wrapped a hand around your neck, not pressing hard but just to feel you pulse and make you look at him.
“Right there huh?” Dongha smiled as slid one hand down to unbuckle his jeans.
You nodded helplessly before throwing your head back to Seongmok’s shoulder.
The squelch sound of his fingers thrusting into your cunt was obscene. You felt your legs shaking and the knot in your stomach pulling tighter.
Knowing you were about to step over the edge, you searched for his lips.
“Please… don’t… stop.” You begged against Seongmok’s lips.
He didn’t, abusing that same spot inside you until he felt you clench around his fingers.
The orgasm ripped through your body, eliciting a broken cry from you. Your balance was lost, your muscles went lax against Seongmok who held you in place with a hand wrapped around your waist.
His fingers continued buried inside your cunt until you relaxed again and your breathing steadied a bit. Seongmok removed his fingers, leaving you empty, but not for long.
He brought them to your lips. You opened them without even thinking, sucking on the large digits like it was his dick.
Another set of hands trailed through your body, you felt the heat in front of you.
“You okay sweetheart?” Dongha asked as he brushed softly a strand of hair away from your face.
You nodded, dazed eyes looking up at him and a faint moan vibrated against Seongmok’s fingers.
Dongha smiled amused. “Go to the couch.”
You obeyed without hesitation, you didn’t even know which position to take. But that didn’t matter because they took care of everything. You were quickly placed on all fours, your knees and elbows digging into the black leather couch.
When you noticed, they had already removed their clothes.
The two lean and sculpted figures circled around you like predators around a prey.
Dongha settled behind you, bringing the tip of his cock to your wet entrance that pulsated with need.
The tease of him rubbing it against your clit was unbearable, sparks of pleasure jolted through you body. You were about to turn back and beg him to slip it inside already, when Seongmok settled in front of you.
His cock stood hard and leaking in front of your face. You widened your eyes at the sight.
It was fucking big.
“Can you take it, sweetheart?” Seongmok asked as if reading your mind.
You glanced up at him as he patted gently the top of your head.
“Yes, I can.” You gathered all the courage you had left and wrapped one hand around his dick.
Seongmok threw his head back with a silent gasp fleeing his mouth. His hand buried in your scalp, pulling your hair firmly but not enough to hurt you.
“Good girl… fuck.” He muttered under his breath.
Your lips parted, ready to take him in your mouth when you felt the stretch burning in your cunt.
Dongha filled you up with his cock, your warm welcoming him without much resistance. His hands traced the shape of your hips, holding firmly the soft skin with so much force you knew it was going to leave a mark.
You couldn’t care less anyway, your neck was already full of blooming purple marks.
Buried to the hilt inside you, Dongha swept the sweat that dripped on his forehead.
“You’re so tight.” He breathed. “So perfect for us.”
You could only moan in response. He was so deep you could feel him in your lower belly.
One firm thrust and you were pushed against Seongmok who wasted no time in slamming his dick inside your mouth. The tip reached the back of your throat making you choke slightly, but still you didn’t pull away.
You were trapped between the two boys, all on display for them to use. The thought made you squeeze around Dongha, pulling a raged moan from him.
“Look how good you’re taking the both of us.” He said with a grin.
The praise made you hum around Seongmok’s length, the vibration making him thrust into your mouth even deeper. One hand kept the grip on your hair as the other moved to cup your breast.
You loved this, the way they were using you for their pleasure, the way you could feel them both losing their composure and strength with you. It made you even more wet, if that was any possible. The obscene sound of skin colliding filled the office.
The fullness of their cocks inside you left every nerve in your body on fire. With every thrust Dongha hit that sensitive spot inside your cunt, making you vision spin and the heat on your body growing again.
You knew the second orgasm was building up. Suddenly, a slap sound echoed across the air. You felt your ass cheek burn where the shape of Dongha’s hand was imprinted on the skin.
He felt the way you clenched around his cock and smirked.
“You like that, huh?” A question you couldn’t answer with words. Instead you tried to nod with Seongmok’s cock disappearing inside your mouth.
Another slap and Dongha railed inside you with a punishing rhythm.
“Such a slut.” He laughed but there was a trace of affection in his voice.
“Our slut.” Seongmok corrected him.
Our
The word echoed in your mind making you knees weak, barely keeping your body from collapsing.
Dongha seemed to sense your orgasm approaching, both of them were also close to the edge. One had wrapped around your waist, reaching for your clit and tracing lazy circles on the sensitive bundle.
It was too much, you came with tears pricking down your eyes, your body spasmed violently in an explosion of pleasure that numbed your muscles.
The way your walls squeezed around his cock was too intense, making Dongha reach his climax with a broken moan as he spilled the hot release inside of you.
Seongmok was also pushed over the edge with the vibrations from your throat.
“Hmm…swallow.” He pushed your head into him as his dick pulsed white ropes of cum inside your mouth. You wasted no time in swallowing every drop like he told you to.
The three you slowly came down from your high. Sweat drenched your body as they pulled out of you, your cheeks were flushed and lips swollen, you could barely stand.
Seongmok gently tugged you down into his lap as he sat down on the couch.
“You did so good.” He whispered with a gentle kiss to your temple.
You could only let your body melt into his touch. You friends were probably going crazy, looking for you outside.
You didn’t care, you weren’t capable of it right now.
Dongha rushed to get something to clean you up, stepping out for a second before returning with a wipe in his hand.
Gently, he cleaned you up before sitting down on the couch beside you.
LOOVE love love love your work. saw your post about the whc class boys reaction to a girl flirting w them while on a date and thought: HEY, how about their reactions to a girl flirting with their gf while on a date?
"I wasn't talking to you"
SUMMARY: Weak Hero Boys react to a girl flirting with you while on a date.
WORD COUNT: 0.756 K.
PAIRINGS: Yeon Sieun, Ahn Suho, Oh Beomseok, Park Humin, Go Hyuntak, Seo Juntae, Na Baekjin, Geum Seongje.
WARNINGS: none,
GENRE: fluff,
NOTE: I wrote this with a bisexual!reader in mind so where you also like girls for maximum jealousy from our boys eheh (they hate me).
TAGLIST — @whcfreak, @suhoholic, @10baku, @christinamadsen, @heartshapesandcigarettes, @vamp18e, @ashayein, @loonym0ony
BOY VERSION.
— YEON SIEUN
Boy does not care,
Jk, of course he does but with that signature glance of fake idgaf,
Doesn’t say a word the whole time the girl is there,
STARES INTO HER SOUL,
When you're finally done with her, he doesn't mention it and just keeps doing whatever the two of you were doing,
It's not that he doesn't care, he just loves and trusts you and doesn't want to waste time talking/thinking about another girl (even less one who just asked you out and bothered you guys' date),
— AHN SUHO
This bitch genuinely believed she came for him,
Eyes wider than his face, turns back and forth between you and the girl in confusion when he realizes she’s talking to you,
Lets you handle it and won’t feel jealous because he knows you love him only,
Definitely smirks afterwards and pretends to have his ego wounded but smirks the whole time,
“Didn’t know my girl could pull off girls like that”,
lowkey thinks it's hot
— OH BEOMSEOK
Insecure 101,
Does NOT know what to do, like just stands there awkwardly,
Listens intently when you reject her because he’s the type of guy to be hyperaware of your words and tone (if he senses the slightest potential interest from you towards this girl, he’s overthinking for three whole months),
Holds your hand when she leaves without thinking of it, just instinctively grabs it to reassure himself,
Eventually forgets about it because despite his insecurities he does trust you,
Still not letting go of your hand,
— PARK HUMIN
I feel like he either takes it very good or very bad,
"Oh okay!" / "..what?" kinda energy,
On one hand, he's letting you reject her and jokes about it afterwards, on the other he's suddenly pushig her away like "wait, she's my girlfriend, can't you see it?",
Might become slightly insecure because he can compete against guys but a girl? A whole other gender? What can he do against that when she's literally everything he's not?
You might have to comfort him a bit afterwards (offer him a kiss and words of affirmations and you should be good),
It genuinely throws him off a little, thinks about it for a few days,
— GO HYUNTAK
“I'm not interested” vs “I wasn’t talking to you” THE SIDE EYE THE TENSION,
Genuinely just shocked at the audacity as if it’s written on your forehead that you guys are together,
Of course he trusts you but this man CANNOT not feel at least the slightest bit jealous,
Will let you handle it if the girl is respectful, absolutely intervenes if not (like full on standing between you supplement death glare (to the other girl ofc)),
Do not breathe in that girl’s direction again if you value your relationship,
— SEO JUNTAE
Absolute angel who is surprised,
"Oh sorry, you meant her?",
Kind of dumbfounded because he did not expect that but smiles and waits patiently for you to reject her,
Don't mistake his kindness for weakness—if the girl gets too pushy, he will intervene with a smile that doesn't feel like one at all,
Will smile at you the second she's gone and smile as gentle as ever though,
"I really didn't expect that! I'm not surprised she fell for your charms though" (this man has unknowingly so much rizz),
— NA BAEKJIN
Quiet for about two seconds until he intervenes,
He doesn't take boys flirting, he won't take girls either,
Absolute feminist (in the sense he'll threathen her just as much as if she was a guy, beating and all),
If the girl is pushy/confronts him (very confident i know), he'll hold his ground and have the Union watching her for a while,
Takes you away from her as fast as possible, groaning and clearly in a very bad mood because of that encounter,
For your sake, do not mention that girl ever again,
— GEUM SEONGJE
I lowkey see this man get offended,
Like he’ll act all nonchalant and shit but his ego is hurt,
Probably wants to let you handle it but his ego speaks for him and he rejects the girl himself and pull you closer by the hip,
Groans once she left because he doesn’t understand how she couldn’t fall for him instead (he knows you’re beautiful he just loves himself a lot),
please make fun of him
AN: you quite literally read my mind there anon🙏 thought EXACTLY THIS while writing the other one lmao i love wlw so much💞 I HOPE IT REACHED YOUR EXPECTATIONS AND THANK YOU FOR YOUR SUPPORT<33 also it took way too long to come out but that’s usual ig (sorry</3). I'll try to be more active during summer holidays, love y'all <3
SUMMARY: Weak Hero Boys react to a brutal heatwave.
WORD COUNT: 0.700 K.
PAIRINGS: Yeon Sieun, Ahn Suho, Oh Beomseok, Park Humin, Go Hyuntak, Seo Juntae, Na Baekjin, Geum Seongje.
WARNINGS: none,
GENRE: fluff,
NOTE: This seems really random but to all of my french mutuals you know what this is about (STAY HYDRATED AND DO NOT STAY OUT IN THE SUN!!).
TAGLIST — @whcfreak, @suhoholic, @10baku, @christinamadsen, @heartshapesandcigarettes, @vamp18e, @ashayein, @loonym0ony
— YEON SIEUN
You legit cannot take this man by surprise,
The heatwave hits you straight in the face—he's been ready for weeks,
Sighs heavily but still invites you over so you can sit in front of his fan and never move again,
"You should have known" ; "They talked about it on the news" (you do not watch the news),
Makes sure you drink enough, don't go out in the sun, offers you cold compresses to place on your forehead, anything to make you feel better,
You're in awe of never seeing a single drop of sweat on his skin throughout the whole thing,
— AHN SUHO
Two babies melting,
Supposedly taking care of each ocher, officially dying together,
You almost throw hands when he insists on keeping working despite the heat,
You swear to kill him if he does and he reconsiders,
Ends up not working because he "doesn't wanna upset you" (he stepped one foot outside of his air-conditionned room and gave up),
Sweaty and sticky skin will NOT hold him back from hugging you,
— OH BEOMSEOK
I feel like this man is SO sensitive to temperatures so he's burning,
Doesn't move all day and won't go outside under any circumstances (invites you over so he can see you and hurriedly closes the door behind you),
Air conditionner blasting, ice packs all over the place,
Wouldn't feel comfortable with the feeling of skin against skin in this heat but wouldn't dare push you away if you initiated contact,
Very seriously calls it the worst week of his life (mind you this man was bullied),
— PARK HUMIN
Whining like a dramatic toddler,
"I can't play basketball! I can't breathe! My lungs are burning, baby I'm dying please—",
His biggest problem is he can't do sports or pretty much anything outside and is basically confined at home (you forced him because he wanted to go and see you),
"The sun's not even that bright, I bet I could fight it and win—" then proceeded to look up and instantly got blinded,
Ugly cried on your lap for an hour,
— GO HYUNTAK
Oh this man's temper is AWFUL,
You thought you knew Gotak annoyed? Heatwave-induced annoyed Gotak is a WHOLE NEW LEVEL,
Lowkey don't talk to him, he'll say things he'll regret way too easily (supplement all the curse words in his vocabulary),
"I swear to fucking god I would beat this bitch ass sun to death if I could—",
Lays on his bed, doesn't move a muscle, doesn't wanna see anyone and barely answers his phone,
Will scream at the slightest inconvenience,
— SEO JUNTAE
This man is red,
Sweating, sunburns, headaches caused by sunstroke—my boy cannot catch a break,
Will still smile at you as you gently take care of his skin, applying cream to soothe the burns,
Probably just locks himself up in his room with you, fan on, and you guys eat ice-cream the whole day,
— NA BAEKJIN
The embodiment of unbothered,
Could not care less, will wear long sleeves and not see the problem,
"It's not that hot, I think people are exagerrating" meanwhile you're lying half naked on the bathroom tiles begging for some mercy,
Will still work at the Union, not understanding if some of the members are fainting due to the heat,
Roll his eyes as you explain just how hot it is for any normal human being except him apparently but still makes sure you don't get hurt, stay hydrated and have some relief (from ice packs he gave you himself),
— GEUM SEONGJE
Tries so hard to be nonchalant but bro is not him,
Would wear a jacket and show it off, pretending to be fine when he's dying underneath,
Drops very quickly the act but will NOT let you see it,
Kinda happy because he finally have an excuse to stay at home playing games all day (not that he needed one before that),
Lowkey take care of yourself cause he won't check up on you if you don't reach out first,
꣑ৎ― all characters depicted are 18 years or older consenting adults. │ wc: 2,5k
cw (please read & proceed with caution): adult content / s*xual themes / consensual adult intimacy / fluff / kissing / needy bf / h!ckies / strawberry jam involved / a little messy / slightly suggest!ve / bites / cutesy
pairing: boyfriend! yeon sieun x female reader
⤷ sypnosis: you and sieun are dating. his thoughts have been unusually needy all day, unable to stop thinking about how your lips would feel against his. eventually, the temptation becomes too much, surrendering to his need. finally giving in, he makes you his dessert.
۶ৎ author message ﹕this is a request by @lillycore ♡ enjoy!
"Can I request Sieun suddenly succumbing to the urge to desperately kissing reader (established relationship), pinning her to the wall and not wanting to let go of her?"
reblogs, likes and comments are appreciated ♡ + ↻
੭﹕﹒AGAIN, MDNI 18+ 彡
masterlist . ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐
ᴺᵒʷ ᵖˡᵃʸᶦⁿᵍ ♬⋆.˚ Adore You - Harry Styles (Literally just PERFECT)
ᴺᵉˣᵗ ᵁᵖ ♬⋆.˚ Japanese Denim - Daniel Caesar
The grocery bags crinkle as you shove the door shut with your hip, almost dropping one of them. You shake your hair out of your face, some of it just sticks there anyway clinging to your eyes.
You quickly kick your shoes of at the door before heading into the kitchen to set the bags down on the counter. An easy smile on your face while you unpack.
“Sieun! Baby, I’m home!” you call out, your tone carrying through the apartment.
He usually came grocery shopping with you without you having to ask. Sieun didn’t like when you carried heavy bags alone. He especially hated when the plastic cut into your palms even if you promised him it was fine. Promptly urging him to pull the bags right out of your hands without allowing room for protest.
But today you insisted on going alone, pushing him back toward his desk and his unfinished work.
It doesn’t take long before you hear his footsteps.
The kitchen was open to the living room, one of those small yet cozy apartments, making you catch him in your peripheral vision. His cream quarter zip and sweats were still on from earlier. A slightly worn out look on his face coupled with faint tired shadows underneath his eyes.
Always from staring at documents and his laptop screen.
His hair was a slight mess, probably from running his hands through it far too much.
He pauses when he sees you. Just for a second.
“You carried everything okay?”
Placing the jar of strawberry jam down, you looked up at him and slightly rolled your eyes. Though there was a little smile on your face.
“Yes, I carried everything okay,” you reassure him, knowing how much he thinks of your comfort. “You worry too much.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is.”
Sieun shakes his head.
“I just don't want you getting hurt.”
Your smile softens.
“I know.”
More groceries slowly spread across the marble countertop between you.
He leans over the island, forearms pressing into the cool surface. His sleeves were slightly pushed up, revealing how the muscles in his arms looked strained after spending the whole day hunched over his desk, typing away.
“I got a cupcake mix,” you continue, rummaging through another bag. “And frosting. Oh, and those little decorating things.”
He hums quietly.
“So we can make them together later.”
Another hum.
“And I got that strawberry jam you like.”
“Mm.”
“And hot chocolate since it’s so cold out—“
You pause.
“Baby.”
He isn't looking at the groceries.
His eyes are panning over you instead. The flushed look of your cheeks from the cold outside. The way your fingers carefully unpack each item. The smile on your face whenever you get lost in your own words.
Putting your arms around your chest, you cross them.
“Are you listening?” you raise an eyebrow.
“I am.”
“No, you're staring.”
A pause.
“Can I not do both?”
You smile despite trying to seem ticked off.
“I'm serious.”
“So am I.”
His voice is quiet, tired from work, but there's warmth in it.
“I like listening to you.”
You shake your head slightly and resume your unpacking.
His gaze drops briefly to your hands. At the pretty diamond sitting on your finger, catching the soft hue of the kitchen light, the promise ring he'd given you on your second anniversary.
His eyes linger there for a moment. Quietly in awe of everything. Such a minor detail, but the way it was resting so perfectly on your hand, it was a quiet reminder of a vow he'd made long ago. And he never regretted it.
Even now, watching you ramble about cupcake frosting, while unloading groceries in his hoodie with pink cheeks, the thought comes as easily as breathing.
Yeah. Her.
The same love he felt for you still deep within him. Within every inch of his body like you already owned him far beyond words could describe. Stronger now than ever.
He was sure about you. More sure than he's ever been about anything.
He rounds his way around the counter, watching you go on and on about a new Pocky flavor you were intrigued to try together, a smile playing at his lips. The corner of them lifting a little.
You look so cute. So perfect. Everything he needed in his life.
And craving you all day, was not making it any easier.
His need only doubled the moment you had walked out that door. Even while sitting at his desk, finishing up his last bit of work, his thoughts only kept drifting back to you. Always circling back to his beautiful girlfriend.
The way you’d laid so blissfully next to him in the morning. Lazily draped over the mattress, leg flung over him as you hugged him close. Face digging into his neck, close enough for him to smell your shampoo, like his chest was the only place you ever really wanted to be.
Which, naturally, made him sit restlessly waiting for you.
“—Right? It’s not crazy to say.”
His eyes flutter for a second as he snaps back from his thoughts, your voice cutting through the daydreams of how badly he wanted to sit you over that counter, wrap your legs around his waist and scatter your body with kisses and marks.
A dramatic sigh slips through you.
“You’re not even listening, I knew it,” you turn, already putting food away.
He pauses a moment trying to get his thoughts in line, string something coherent together that didn’t sound like he was caught lost of focus. Halfway between your words and his own reverie.
And yet, what he ends up saying is quite… unexpected?
“…You look beautiful.”
He catches you slightly off guard for a moment before you snap back in quite a stiff tone.
“Mhm.”
His eyes drift to the strawberry jam sitting on the counter. Without much thought, he twists it open and fishes a spoon out of the drawer, scooping up some and taking a bite straight from the jar.
The only person who could eat jam like that was Sieun. His hidden sweet tooth shamelessly came out around you.
And you had come to terms with that long ago.
He keeps picking at it inattentively, small bites here and there, his attention never leaving you. Eyes following you around the kitchen. The sway of your hair as you reach into the cabinets, the line of your back beneath his hoodie, the curve of your waist disappearing beneath soft fabric.
Putting the spoon aside, he swallows.
Something in him finally giving out. He couldn't keep his lips off of you any longer.
Sieun steps behind you as you reach into the fridge to slide a fresh carton of milk in, the cold air spilling out in between you. His hands find and settle at your waist, fingers tugging lightly at the hem of your hoodie before letting it fall back into place, like he’s toying with the idea for a second, teasing himself.
When he leans in, his breath brushes the back of your neck. Warm and soft, close enough that it changes the energy. Clashing with the cold waves coming from the fridge.
You feel it immediately, the way your skin reacts to his touch, small goosebumps rising along your arms as everything fades into something less important. Your thoughts tunneling in on the man behind you.
Pressed up against you.
“What’s gotten into you?” you ask, but you don’t move away.
He leans in and moves your hair to the side, pressing small kisses along the back of your neck, one after another, slow enough that it stops being accidental and starts being a choice he’s actively making.
His hands slide under your hoodie and stay there, fingers resting at your waist.
“Nothing,” he murmurs between kisses.
His crotch presses closer into you, making your breath catch as you felt his hard outline right against the curve of your ass.
“Doesn’t feel like nothing.”
He smiles against your neck, the corner of his mouth lifting from something only he knows, before his hands slide around you and turn you smoothly.
One arm slips around your waist as he crowds you against the wall, your back meeting the cool surface while his warmth closes in around you. His finger taps teasingly against the bottom of your chin, gently urging you to look up.
“Head up, baby,” he murmurs, his voice low enough to make something flutter in your chest.
You take a second too long to process it.
A tiny smile tugs at his lips.
“C'mere.”
His fingers slip beneath your chin, tipping your face up for you before he closes the distance, kissing you slowly, sluggishly. It felt like the kiss itself was mirroring how he wanted to relish the way your mouth danced against his.
He'd spent the entire day thinking about this and was finally getting what he needed.
His head tilts slightly, deepening the kiss, his free hand settling at your hip, keeping you close against the wall.
And without missing a beat, you kiss him back instantly, just as desperate to have him close. With the same intensity. His lips felt soft against yours, wet, inviting.
“Sieun…” you echo his name softly.
“Mm,” he breathes, smiling against your mouth. “Baby…”
His mouth doesn't last long before it finds your neck. Peppering it with gentle kisses as he pulls your head back by your hair. Not aggressively, but more like he's softly reminding you he needed to claim every inch of you.
“You smell good,” he rasps against your skin, sucking mixes of blue, red and purple on your neck. Tongue licking right into the thumping, restless rhythm of your pulse.
Eventually biting just hard enough to make you gasp before sucking the spot gentle. He blows cool air over the wet, stinging skin, and a full body shiver ripples down your spine before he kisses it warm again.
There was clear tooth indents in your neck. A sheepish smile immediately finds his face, though it doesn't stop him from going right back to it. Kissing, nipping, and fussing over every patch of skin he could find, as though he couldn't decide where to give his attention first.
Lacing with his hair, your fingers twirl it, your other hand on his shoulder. Keeping yourself sturdy in the moment.
“You’re being a little… needy…” you murmur between soft breaths, the words brushing his ear.
Which, weirdly, only seems to make things... more demanding.
As though the second he loosened his hold, you'd somehow disappear back into that evil grocery store that had stolen you from him for two whole hours.
“I just missed you,” he confirms.
You let out a little breathy laugh, “I wasn’t even gone that long.”
“Long enough.”
His breath comes in warm, shallow puffs against your mouth, pupils blown wide as he holds your gaze, the soft curve of his lower lip still pink from kissing. The need in his stare is sharp, that familiar puppy look in his eyes. Edged with a quiet claim that makes your heart stutter.
“A little break?”
He manages a sound of protest, his mouth slots back over yours before the sound can fully leave you, one hand fisted tight in the back of your hoodie to keep you close. His chest heaves against yours, every ragged breath warm between your lips, and he doesn’t pull back even when his lungs burn for air.
“Baby, mmh—” you giggle, his thumb brushing slow over the curve of your jaw before pulling back.
An idea clear in his eyes.
He grabs the same spoon once again, scooping a tiny amount and holding it in front of your lips.
"What are you doing?"
"Open."
"Sieun."
"Baby."
"You were just kissing me till you could barely breathe and now you want me to do a taste test? I already know it tastes go—"
Before you could finish, he slips the spoon gently past your lips and you have no choice but to take it.
"Don't swa—"
Immediately, the jam is down your throat.
"Baby, let me finish," he lets out a little breathy sound, almost a laugh, and shakes his head. Giving you yet another spoonful.
"Keep it in your mouth," he puts the spoon back.
Attention turning to you again, that is if it had ever left, his lips finds yours once more.
Only then do you realize what he's doing. And you'd be lying if it didn't make some certain parts of you pulse in need.
His tongue slips past your parted lips. The taste of the strawberry jam against his mouth as it mixes with his saliva, and his hand slides down to curl tight around your waist underneath your clothes, pulling you flush against him.
"Mm," he whines a little into the kiss, urging every bit of jam out of your mouth and into his.
His hands sneak up your torso, one settling tightly against your bra, cupping your tit into his desperate grip. The pressure of his thumb circling your sensitive peak makes your back arch off the wall into his chest. The moan you gasp out is swallowed immediately by him, his grip tightening just a little when you press closer.
Chasing the shudder you sent down his spine.
With one last content little hum, he kisses every bit of jam out of your mouth, sucking gently on your tongue before he lets go. His own tongue darting out to lick a bit that smeared the corner of your mouth.
Your fingers still curl in the fabric of his sweater, heart hammering against your ribs.
"Messy," he simply says and leans back in for another kiss, hand kneading your boob beneath the hoodie. Again.
Incredibly greedy.
“You taste good,” he whispers into your mouth.
You smile into the kiss, lewd, needy sounds spilling from your lips directly into his mouth. Your fingers twisted in the fabric of his clothes, your body leaning heavy into his, every nerve buzzing even as your knees go weak and you struggle to match the hungry rhythm he set.
“Better with the jam?” you tease.
He can’t help but smile, pulling back to study the expression settled on your face. The rosey tint spread across your cheeks, now definitely not from the cold but something entirely different, your messy hair, your pink bruised lips, and the glassy look in your eyes.
Especially the marks that adored your neck.
He stares a little too long. Thumb brushing against your cheek then your bottom lip. As if he was testing if you were real. Real and his.
“Mm.”
Another second passes.
“Don't make me compare you to food, weirdo.”
His mouth twitches.
You giggle.
“Seriously.”
The corners of his lips lift, something soft hidden beneath the teasing.
"Just you is enough."
A stupid smile washes over your face. Head over heels just as much as he was for you.
genre: established relationship, full fluff, college!au.
wc: 2.4k
warnings: aged up characters, Nabi means butterfly in korean, Si-eun being a sweet cat dad, that's it, that's your silly boyfriend.
synopsis: Si-eun never asked for a cat. But when a tiny black kitten curls up in his arms, he seems to change his mind pretty quickly.
a/n: Divider made by @saradika-graphics I made this as a way of coping with the fact that I couldn't adopt a pretty kitten that I wanted, when I finally could get her, she was just with somebody else.... I hope she has a great life because she is really lovely. This was requested by doremichann
You had been thinking about that cat for at least two weeks.
It all started with a cardboard box left in front of your veterinary school building. It was common for people to abandon animals there. Somehow, people expected that because of the vocation you had chosen, you could take care of every animal in the world and every situation involving them. The senselessness of that idea made you anxious, but you knew at this point in your degree that it was useless to fight against common sense.
Most of the time, you managed to absorb the number of animals abandoned there. Some were adopted immediately, others stayed at students' homes temporarily until they found a permanent home. As wrong as it was to accept that situation, you eventually became those people's hope—and indeed, you gave homes to those animals. It would simply be too hard to ignore a defenseless being in need, and that only contributed to raising the expectation even more that you were immaculate saviors.
You, however, were anything but part of that group of saviors.
Yes, you contributed financially with donations when you could and shared the adoption campaigns, but since your building didn't allow pets, you never felt like you were really helping. Until eventually, that day arrived.
The message group of people who participated in animal fostering wouldn't stop making your phone vibrate during the day. That sometimes happened when an animal couldn't find a home and needed one immediately. It was very common in cases of older animals or those in situations requiring extra care due to illness. But to your surprise, that wasn't the case.
It was a kitten. Black with tiny white details. The same one you had been following for days and that, for some reason, had captivated you more than anyone in that active adoption and donation group.
You felt very tempted to adopt her several times, but you knew it would be impulsive to take her only to have to give her back if your landlord found out about her existence, so you contented yourself with looking at a few photos fondly and accepting that eventually she would find a permanent place.
However, a problem arose, and the person who was going to take her couldn't provide that support anymore, returning the cat to one of the students in the group. Apparently, she had a bad adaptation with the willing adopter, who already had another older cat, and the animals almost got into a serious fight. Now, for safety reasons, she had been separated from that cat and, consequently, was left without a new home.
Your heart tightened more than it ever had in all the time you'd been part of the group. It wasn't just about the cat's situation. It was the fact that you had wanted her from the beginning. In some way you couldn't explain, the two of you had formed a connection. You could imagine yourself with her, sleeping with her, hearing her purr as you studied and she rested on your lap. You could almost smell her.
You almost… Ah, screw it! You thought. And in a moment of total impulse, you volunteered to take her. Your problems with the landlord would have to wait.
[…]
You were stroking the still‑nameless cat's fur as she rubbed against your hand and purred, when finally the impulsiveness of your action came to the surface.
Honestly, you didn't mind keeping her as a big secret so much, but that secret didn't depend entirely on you—it went far beyond that. How could you guarantee she wouldn't raise any suspicion when you were away at college? It wasn't as if you could take her in your backpack or monitor her 24 hours a day.
No, you couldn't imagine going back on your decision, but you also couldn't stop cursing your own lack of restraint. No, you couldn't blame the cat's sweet eyes or the way she meowed at you so affectionately. You only had yourself to blame, and honestly, yourself to find a more viable solution. And no, giving her back to the adoption group—which would feel like a second rejection to her—was not among the options.
You took a deep breath, trying to find a way out, any way out.
Until something you had never considered came to mind. Or rather, someone.
Yeon Si-eun.
[…]
Your boyfriend stood before you after opening the door of his apartment, staring at you as if there was a bomb in your arms instead of a cat. It was a little hard to tell what he was thinking, mainly because you had called saying you needed to see him urgently, and suddenly you were at his doorstep with a large bag in one arm and a kitten in the other, curiously staring back at him.
Si-eun knew better than to bombard you with questions, especially while you were still in the hallway of his building, so he just made space for you to enter and closed the door behind you.
Still in silence, he guided you—though he didn't really need to, since you already knew every corner of that apartment very well—to his room, where you sat down on his bed. The kitten still in your lap while you set the bag on the floor.
"I imagine the urgency has to do with…" Your boyfriend gave you the cue to start explaining.
"She doesn't have a name yet."
"Right."
You didn't know exactly why you had said the cat didn't have a name, as if that was what Si-eun was asking. You knew that wasn't what he wanted to know. He wanted to understand what his girlfriend was doing here in the middle of the night with a kitten and a giant bag.
Even with all the curiosity in the world, Si-eun didn't pressure you to say everything immediately, and you couldn't help but notice how his gaze kept drifting toward the cat. You never tired of admiring your boyfriend's expressive eyes, but that wasn't what caught your attention about them now. They were staring intently into the kitten's eyes on your lap. Both the cat and your boyfriend seemed to be studying each other—the two of them with the most beautiful eyes in the world.
You almost felt like an intruder in the situation.
"She won't bite," you said, breaking the spell. "She's very calm."
Si-eun blinked first. Of course he did.
"You brought her here because your building doesn't allow pets," he stated. It wasn't a question.
You nodded, hugging the kitten against your chest as if she could protect you from the conversation. "I'm not going to ask you to keep her forever. Just… for now. Until I figure out what to do. Until I find a way."
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he approached—one slow, calculated step—and sat down on the edge of the bed, beside you. Not too close, but close enough for you to feel the warmth radiating from his arm. The cat turned her head to stare at him again. And then, with an audacity that only a kitten could have, she stretched out her neck and sniffed his fingers.
Si-eun didn't move.
She sniffed for a few more seconds, blinked slowly—which you knew was a sign of trust in cats—and then rubbed her cheek against the tip of his index finger.
Your heart leaped.
Si-eun finally looked away from the cat and fixed his gaze on you. "She stays," he said, simple as that—simple like he always was with you. "For now."
The relief that flooded your chest was so overwhelming that you almost cried. "Si-eun-ah, thank you so much, I swear I'll figure this out as soon as possible—"
As you were still trying to plead your case, Si-eun got up, went to his closet, and took out an old t‑shirt. He folded it into a perfect square and placed it on the floor beside his bed, as if he were setting up a miniature campsite.
"Is that for her?" you asked, incredulous.
"She needs a place to sleep." But Si‑eun quickly added in his classic rational tone, "But I'm not sleeping with her either."
You almost laughed. "She's not going to steal your bed, Si-eun-ah."
Your boyfriend just looked at you with that expression that said "I'm not taking that risk" without having to open his mouth. The cat, however, had already lost interest in him and was now nestling deeper into your lap, her tiny eyes slowly closing.
"How cute. She's sleepy," you murmured, stroking her head. "That was a lot of excitement for one day."
Si-eun watched the scene for another moment, then got up from the bed. "Are you sleeping here too?"
The question was practical, not an invitation. He was already grabbing an extra pillow from the closet, as if your presence there was already a foregone conclusion. Because it was. That was how it worked between you.
"If it's not a bother…"
"It's not." He tossed the pillow onto the bed, next to yours. "But the cat stays on the floor."
"Si-eun-ah, she's tiny…"
"On the floor."
You sighed, but smiled. He was already pulling off his hoodie, leaving himself in his usual black t-shirt, and flopped onto the bed beside you with a low grunt. The cat meowed in protest at the movement but didn't open her eyes.
You didn't dare argue with your boyfriend since you were already asking too much of him. He wasn't mistreating the cat or anything, and not in a million years would he ever do that. You could only respect the boundaries he would set for taking care of her. Even so, something inside you felt that this situation wouldn't stay that way: you knew Si‑eun's soft heart better than anyone.
Adjusting your position in bed, turning your back to your boyfriend, you looked at the kitten one more time as she rested at the floor, on top of Si-eun's folded shirt, and then you finally felt relaxed enough to rest.
[...]
The next morning, very early, since you and Si‑eun had college, you both woke up to a surprise: the cat had climbed onto the bed and nestled herself between the two of you, sleeping soundly. She yawned, showing her pink tongue, and then started purring loudly. The kitten stretched, sinking her tiny claws into the blanket, and then turned to stare at Si-eun up close. He stared back, motionless.
"Good morning," you said, still sleepy.
"She was purring in my ear." His voice was rough with sleep. "For almost half an hour."
"And you didn't move?"
"She was sleeping."
Your heart melted. "You're an idiot, Yeon Si-eun."
He frowned, confused. "Why?"
"Because you pretend you don't care, but you do."
He didn't deny it. Instead, he sat up in bed carefully so as not to fully wake the cat—but she was already awake and meowed, demanding attention. Si-eun hesitated for a second, then slowly ran one finger between her ears. The purring grew louder.
"She's going to need food," he said, switching to practical mode. "And a litter box."
"I brought everything in the bag."
"Right." He got up. "I'll make coffee."
And he left, leaving you and the cat in bed. You weren't sure if he was running away from the situation or just being himself. Probably both.
[…]
Over the next few days, you instructed Si-eun on the best ways to take care of the cat, and he sent you photos and videos daily, along with descriptions of how the day had gone. It was a funny ritual, but you couldn't help finding it adorable. Even though your boyfriend wasn't obligated to be so dedicated given all his commitments with his own college, he still made an effort to keep you informed of everything.
Eventually, however, you noticed that over time, the messages became more frequent and the descriptions less distant, as if Si-eun was actually starting to see this as more than just another task.
Ever since you had left the still‑nameless kitten at his apartment, you hadn't been able to return because you were in the middle of a chaotic exam week. But now that week was over and you could finally breathe a little, it was time to pay your boyfriend another visit.
[…]
When you arrived at the apartment, Si-eun opened the door with the cat in his arms. She was curled around his arm like a baby, her front paws hanging down and her little head resting against his chest. He didn't say anything — just made space for you to enter.
"She doesn't want to get down," he commented, as if it were a technical analysis.
"And you don't want to put her on the floor," you teased, laughing.
Your boyfriend didn't answer. He just walked to the sofa and sat down, adjusting the cat on his lap with a care you rarely saw in him. She was purring like a little engine.
"She has a name now," he said, looking away. "It's Nabi."
"Nabi? Why Nabi?"
He was silent for a second, running his fingers slowly along the cat's back. "Because she's black. And small. And…" He hesitated. "Black butterflies are rare. When they appear, it's a sign. She appeared out of nowhere. In the middle of everything else."
Your heart tightened. He wasn't just talking about the cat.
"And you think she's a sign?"
"I don't know." He stared at the kitten, who was now closing her eyes in pleasure. "But she's not leaving."
"What?"
"She stays." His voice was firm but low. "Permanently. If you want. I've already decided."
You were speechless. That wasn't how you had agreed things would go. It was supposed to be temporary, just until you sorted out the situation with your building. But there was Si-eun — the same Si-eun who didn't like unexpected things, who planned everything, who rarely opened up — offering a permanent home to a kitten he barely knew.
"Are you sure?" you managed to ask.
"She's already adapted. It wouldn't make sense to take her away now." He shrugged, as if it were pure logic. But you knew him better than that.
"Si-eun-ah…"
"She likes me." He finally looked her in the eyes. "And I… don't mind her staying."
"You don't mind?" you repeated, laughing softly.
"That's what I said." The tips of his ears were slightly pink. The cat meowed, demanding more affection, and he immediately obliged.
You sat down next to him on the sofa, leaning your head against his shoulder. "You're in love with her."
"She's a cat." He answered immediately, as if nurturing that feeling for an animal didn't make sense.
"And you're hopelessly in love."
Si-eun neither confirmed nor denied it. But when the cat meowed softly, your boyfriend cracked a small smile. Nabi was home.
JEALOUS BABY - Suho feels that you’re spending a little too much time with your new classmate. He feels a little down about himself and avoids you, but don’t worry, he’ll make it up to you. By: @slaybinnie
Pressure Point - You weren’t supposed to be here. Not in the boys’ bathroom. Not with Ahn Su-ho pressed against your back, knuckles bruised, chest heaving. By: @juliettejwnewinesa
Distraction by: @parkjihoonswifey
Friends help each other out - when your period surprises you, leaving you crampy and in pain, your friends decide to help you out by: @heartshapesandcigarettes
Characters: All characters depicted are 18 years or older consenting adults.
Content warnings (please read & proceed with caution): adult content / s*xual themes / consensual adult intimacy / fluff build-up / established relationship / marriage / making it fit / finish inside / p in v / teasing / crying / passionate / degrading + praise / worked up baku / breed!ng / u wanna be a mom? / needy baku / size difference / rough / too big / yearner baku / body worship? / till shes mindless / "don't run from it now" / talking you through it / mocking / smacks / unprotected / overst!m kinda / “i love you” / pillowtalk
Pairing: husband!park humin x female reader
WC: 7,6k
⤷ Summary: you and Baku are newlyweds. He convinces you to call in sick with him on a random Wednesday so you can spend the day together at the beach. You agree and go change, only to come back out in your bikini and distract him so badly that the original plans quickly become the last thing on his mind. After all, what's a beach date when his wife looks like that?
author message; my absolute nastiest oneshot to be created. writing this was insane bro, whew. also this is a two part oneshot. this is the first part of it. if you wanna read the second here is the link. i hope you guys enjoy!
p.s didn't proof read because im lazy so dont mind errors.
reblogs, likes and comments are appreciated ♡ + ↻
⤷ AGAIN, MDNI 18+
masterlist
ᴺᵒʷ ᵖˡᵃʸᶦⁿᵍ ♬⋆.˚ PILLOWTALK - ZAYN (this fits too perfect, i HAD to)
ᴺᵉˣᵗ ᵁᵖ ♬⋆.˚ Die For You - The Weeknd
Flip flops hitting against the living room floor, Baku practically bounces around as he flexes his muscles in every pose imaginable, the kind you'd see on a bodybuilding competition show. Turning this way and that way, he makes absolutely sure you're looking at exactly how pumped his biceps are. A big stupid smile sits on his face. The one Baku always wears whenever he's way too proud of himself.
“Beach bod, I know,” he nods agreeing with himself.
“You’re ridiculous,” you mutter, sitting on the edge of the couch, still wearing your pajamas.
Baku has yet again dragged you into one of his stupid impulsive plans. The kind you still can't quite predict or get the hang of even after three years of dating and now two months of being married to him.
And despite how stupid he can be, you don't regret saying yes at that altar for even a second. Because it's his stupidity, his endless fun, and that strange little spark he carries with him everywhere that made you fall in love with him in the first place.
On the outside and inside, Baku is exactly what you need in your life.
A big, intimidating, ridiculously strong husband with a personality that contradicts his appearance so powerfully it could give someone whiplash.
“Baby,” he pauses, pointing at his biceps. “these don’t happen by themselves. A lot of work went into them.”
You roll your eyes, but the smile gives you away before you can even stop it, and Baku catches it instantly, as he always does.
“You love me so bad,” he shrugs, completely unbothered, speaking as if it’s an obvious truth. “I love you more, my beautiful wife.”
You shake your head again, leaning back slightly as you watch him properly this time—watch that ridiculous, bright, effortless grin he wears when he’s proud of himself, when he’s proud of you, when he’s proud of the fact that you exist in the same sentence as him. The word wife never sits quietly in his mouth. He says it with weight, with certainty, with this almost childlike disbelief that it belongs to him to say.
Two months in.
Two. Whole. Months. In.
And Baku had been throwing the word “wife” around far too much. It still hasn’t fully settled into him. Every time he says it, there’s this flicker in his expression—something pleased, something excited, something that never quite gets tired of it. Hearing it. Saying it. Claiming it in the middle of ordinary moments just because he can.
‘My wife this, my wife that, my wife will, I gotta ask my wife,’ has slowly become its own habit with him, a rhythm of speech that follows him everywhere, said with the same fond certainty every time, as if he’s still getting used to the fact that you’re real, and you’re his, and he gets to say it out loud.
“Do we bring the castle one or the turtle one?” he asks so casually, holding up two sand building sets he’d bought from the toy store not long ago. A grown man, standing there like it’s the most normal decision in the world.
“Humin.”
“The castle one is a classic, we can build a big one, but the turtles are cute,” he continues, still genuinely weighing it as if it matters more than it should, turning them over in his hands while thinking out loud. “Let’s just bring both,” he says, not even giving it a second thought as he drops them into the oversized beach bag he’d packed, already stuffed with a few other stupid items.
A frisbee, water guns, floaties and snorkeling gear to apparently ‘just see what’s down there.’
His red swimming trunks hang at his hips, revealing the definition of his thigh muscles as he moves.
“Are you gonna get dressed or what?” he asks, walking over to the couch and reaching out to rest his palm flat on your head, gentle and casual, like you’re something small and cute to him.
“I can’t believe you genuinely convinced me to do this.”
“You’re so grumpy in the morning, y’know,” he smiles, ruffling your hair and earning a quick smack to his hand from you. It only makes his grin widen, like that was the reaction he wanted, before he goes right back to messing your hair again. Then he leans down, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead, a small apology for his childish antics.
Baku had convinced you to call in sick from work with him so the two of you could steal a beach date in the middle of a weekday. According to him, the world was at its best when everyone else was stuck in it and you weren’t.
“Everyone else is miserable right now, at work and school,” he says, nodding seriously at his own logic as if it’s the most undeniable fact, while his hands absentmindedly gather your hair, brushing it back before lifting it into two loose sections just to mess with you. “That means no screaming kids and no crowd. The beach is ours.”
A pause.
“Go get dressed, c’mon. It’s so nice out. Pleaseeee.”
You look up deadpan.
“You carry me to the car. I’m not wearing shoes.” You say it like it should make him reconsider, pushing just a little to see if he’ll back down.
It doesn’t work.
“On it madame!” a stupid salute follows.
“And you dust the sand off my feet when we leave.”
Again, no hope.
“Yes ma’am, at your service,” he says, bowing dramatically with zero hesitation, already fully committed to entertaining your spoiled tactics without a second thought.
“Now may you please get dressed your royal highness?”
And with a final defeated sigh, you push yourself up from the couch, palms pressing into the cushion for support. He smooths your hair down where he’d messed it up earlier, an easy smile on his face as he watches you for a moment.
“Catch ya later alligator!” Giving you a light smack to your ass. You roll your eyes not even phased. “God damn, that recoil always gets me,” he says dead serious, you hold back a laugh.
You disappear into the bedroom, the door closing behind you, and he lingers there a second longer before turning back to what he was doing.
“So cranky,” he murmured to himself with a grin.
He resumes packing. Two separate containers this time. One filled with your favorite chips, the other packed to the brim with freshly cut fruit, each piece carefully shaped into little hearts. Thoughtful in a way that almost feels playful, like he’s turned snack time into something meant to make you pause and smile before you even realize it.
Baku loved taking care of you in those small ways. Always finding quiet, unspoken gestures to make your day a little softer, a little brighter, without ever making it feel like a hassle.
“And sunscreen,” he says, almost to himself, already reaching for it. He makes sure it goes in the bag too, because he knows how much you care about your skin. Honestly, so does he.
The idea of you getting sunburned has his expression tightening for a second, like it’s not even worth risking. He doesn’t want you uncomfortable later, red and sore when the whole point of today is for you to enjoy it.
A few moments later you emerge from the bedroom, a simple pink bikini resting on you, tied neatly at your hips and high at your back. Nothing flashy, no patterns, no extra details. Just something plain and light, the kind of ordinary that somehow makes it stand out even more.
A sheer beach cover-up draped over your arm, a sun hat in your other hand as you step out, your hair cascading down your shoulders loosely. Beach ready without trying too hard.
Baku, who’s by the bags folding towels in, pauses the moment he sees you. His hands stop mid motion and his head tilts slightly as he just… looks at you. Eyes panning down your body as he takes in the sight before him. Mouth slightly parted in quiet adoration, like his brain lagged behind what his eyes just registered.
He stands up and walks over to you with that stupid little smile already on his face, like he’s made up his mind about what he wanted the second he saw you. His hands find your waist right away, familiar and warm, before he presses a kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, then your neck.
You look at him skeptically, a little confused at where the sudden wave of affection came from. Yeah, Baku was always clingy, always touchy. But this feels a bit out of nowhere.
“Is it the bikini?” you mutter, still getting kisses placed all over your face, neck, shoulders. His lips trail down your arm before he slows, finishing by pressing a soft kiss to your hand. Your hand looks so small compared to his rough bigger one, fitting perfectly against it.
“Nope,” he replies, still holding your hand close. “It’s you. The bikini’s just a bonus.”
Ha. He’s good.
Suddenly, your feet are no longer on the floor as he lifts you into his arms with no struggle at all, halting any further thoughts brewing in your brain.
“Humin!”
“Baby,” he replies simply, like he didn’t just steal your balance in one smooth motion.
“Put me down.”
“No, that’s not fun.”
“Humin.”
His grip is steady as your frame naturally curls into his, instinctively fitting against him while he carries you with ease. Like you weighed the same amount a pebble would. He walks toward the bedroom without rushing, unbothered, as if he has all the time in the world, before gently lowering you onto the mattress carefully.
The mattress dips between the combined weight of you two.
You barely have a second to react before he leans in, pressing a kiss to your forehead. Sweet, soft, and slow.
“What are you doi—” before you finish the question, he cuts you off with a kiss to your lips, his hand resting at your waist and moving in slow, reassuring strokes.
The kiss is gentle, deliberate, unhurried, like he’s trying to say everything at once without using any words. All that affection he’d been ‘holding back’ seems to settle into that single moment, especially the way he’s been looking at you since you walked out in that pretty pink bikini.
You press your palms flat against his chiseled chest, pushing back in a way that has no real force behind it, more for show than anything else. Like you want it to seem like you’re taking control of the moment, more mature than him somehow, even while you’re clearly melting into every kiss he gives you.
“Park Humin,” you say, trying for something threatening between breaths, though it doesn’t quite land the way you want it to.
Still, you kiss him back anyway, shamelessly, muscle memory taking over before you can think to stop it.
He just hums in response, completely unbothered, he heard you but didn’t feel even slightly compelled to stop.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he says as he sits up on his knees between your legs, keeping them spread.
Already reaching for his swimming trunks so casually. His palm tightens around his hardened shaft through the material, giving it a firm squeeze while he looks down at you, completely natural, like he has no idea what he’s doing with his hand.
“You think?” you say, clearly sarcastic.
“Mm,” he hums, serious, not missing a beat. “I know, baby. You’re perfect. Stunning.”
“Oh, really?”
“Really.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You say that to every woman in a bikini?”
His grin only widens. “Uh, hell no? Just my perfect wife.”
"Are you seriously hard?"
"Um, it'd be crazy if I wasn't," he replies like that ends it all.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“And you’re pretty.” His eyes drift over you again, completely shameless, palm still pressed against his outline kneading firmly, as if to give relief. “Everything about you.”
“Those lips,” he says, thumb brushing over them slowly, testing the softness with focus.
Imagining all the ways your pretty lips could look wrapped around his cock.
“Those eyes too, always looking at me like that. Just begging to be fucked.”
“Shut up.”
“Make me, sit on my face.”
You had a feeling he wasn’t joking. But you stay still.
His fingertips run down your neck, feeling you swallow beneath them as your heartbeat quickens slightly at his words.
His hand lingers as it moves, drifting down your shoulders with deliberate ease before settling at your waist, holding you there. You feel the skin of his calloused hands on you.
“And this perfect body,” he adds, voice lower now, almost amused at his own thoughts as his gaze drags over you again.
All the different positions he wanted to fuck you in right here, right now.
His hand drifts up, cupping your breast through the bikini fabric. Giving a gentle squeeze. “You make it kind of hard to think straight, you know that?”
You roll your eyes. “Park Humin.”
“What?” he asks innocently, though the stupid smile on his face says otherwise. “You asked.”
“I didn’t ask for a full review.”
“You didn’t have to.” He leans a little closer, amusement dancing in his eyes. “I was gonna give one anyway.”
“God, you’re annoying.”
“Mm,” he nods thoughtfully. “And yet you’re laying there looking all pretty for me and letting it happen.”
He keeps taking you in anyway, eyes lingering over you again and again, quiet in that way he gets when he’s just… looking. In his eyes, you weren’t someone he ever got used to. You were someone closer to art in the highest sense of it, someone that stopped him for a second every time, no matter how familiar you already were.
A sight he never seemed to get enough of, no matter how often his gaze traced you, no matter how many times his mind tried to memorize every detail of you. It wasn’t even conscious anymore, the way he studied you, like his brain was trying to hold onto you in a way that went beyond seeing, just in case he ever had to. Ingraining every inch and curve of you into his memory.
“What happened to the beach?” you ask, raising your eyebrows from your position on the mattress, back pressed flush against it as you look up at Baku. You try a little too hard to avoid eye contact with what he’s doing with his hand. Still working over his outline. Searching for a bit of relief in his aching length.
“The beach is always there,” he replies easily, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s not going anywhere. We can go whenever we want.”
His other hand keeps moving down your thigh in a slow, gentle way, way more focused on you than any plan he had.
Fingers skate over your bikini bottoms and feel the wetness slick against the sleek material of it.
A sigh escapes his mouth, his adams apple moving as his head tips slightly back before settling again, as if he’s trying to collect himself but failing miserably.
“How’d I get so lucky?” he asks, not expecting an answer, not really needing one either. He’s already somewhere else entirely, caught up in you. The way your body lies perfectly flush between the cream sheets of your shared bed, the fabric bunching softly around your skin. The bikini framing you just enough, revealing everything in quiet detail while still leaving little to the imagination, enough to make his focus falter.
“My wife is so pretty.”
“You know, you say wife too much.”
“Anyone with a wife like mine would,” he grins, as if the answer is obvious, already decided for him. You, just being you, is enough to make him look at you like you’re something he can’t help but show off.
“But not everyone’s as lucky as me,” he adds, softer this time, the grin settling into something quieter as he keeps his eyes on you, still a little caught in it all.
“Don’t move.”
Finding the strings of his trunks, his fingers tug at them, loosening them until it no longer sits properly together. His hand fists his bulge gently once again, then moves to the hem of his shorts, pulling down just a fraction, low enough to expose his tanned skin, before letting them rest there, never fully committing. Caught in that familiar space between need and teasing, the one he always seems to hover in.
He watches you the entire time, completely aware of where your attention drifts. The way your eyes settle on the v-line adoring his crotch below his stomach, following the lines there. The definition of his thighs. The barely visible veins that traced along his skin, climbing up his lower stomach with quiet intention, giving subtle shape and detail to him in a way that always caught your eye.
Small things you noticed without meaning to.
Especially when you were horny.
He doesn’t say anything about it, just lets you look, letting the moment sit there between you both without interruption.
Your hands skate over the lower stomach of your tanned, muscled husband, your touch moving across him with intention. His stomach shifts and dips beneath you in a quiet shudder, reacting instantly to even the lightest contact, as if your presence alone is enough to make him fully aware of every way you had control over him.
“Yeah, yeah, I know I’m impressive,” his tone was proud, too proud. “That’s your husband, by the way.”
His hand finds yours and guides it down his body, making sure you feel every line of his build along the way.
“This is all yours,” he says.
He slows deliberately when your fingers reach his abs, holding you there just long enough to make a point of it, then glances at you with a small, satisfied smile when he notices the way your attention slips. He makes sure your fingers feel every dip and rise of his abs.
“Feel all of me,” he breathes as your hand moves lower, running over his hard shaft, the familiar firmness beneath your palm. Something primal flickers across his face as you touch it. You give it a gentle squeeze, earning a little groan. “God damn.”
It’s almost unfair how much he reacts to it. As though no amount of having you close could ever truly satisfy the part of him that needed more. As though he was doomed to crave your touch even after spending every day wrapped up in it.
Having you screaming his name last night wasn’t recent enough.
“Keep touching it and I’m gonna fuck you till you cry, I swear,” he says, sounding light enough to pass as a joke, but there’s a real edge of warning underneath it.
And despite that, you keep going.
His breathing grows a little uneven, not from anything dramatic, but from the simple fact that he lives for moments like these. He drinks them in greedily, surviving off your affection with the quiet desperation of a man who could spend a lifetime loved by you and still wake up wanting just one more touch.
“Mm, fuck baby, I love you.”
His hips begin moving on their own, working his cock gently against your palm.
His lips find your neck, lingering there before slowly tracing the path of your collarbone, each kiss carried with quiet devotion, as if he’s remembering you through touch alone.
“I don’t think I’m ever gonna get used to you.”
He moves across your shoulder blades, down your arm, pausing at your hand as if even the smallest part of you deserves to be acknowledged. His breath drifts over your skin between each moment, warm and uneven. Caught deeply in need.
“I want more of you like I’m starving,” he whispers between kisses. “I can’t get enough.”
Then lower, kisses scattered in no rush to finish, only to stay. Along your arms, your wrists, the quiet unnoticed lines of your body, even down your legs as if there isn’t a single part of you he could ever skip over.
“I’m all yours, you know that? You’re all I need.”
He takes his time with you, not as something to have, but something to adore, as though every inch of you is something he’s been searching for without knowing it.
“Humin…” is all you muster up as your husband practically worships your body.
“Don’t say my name, please, fuck— I’m already so hard it's painful...”
Taking his time, he retraces his way back up, kisses scattered in his wake until the final one comes crashing softly against your lips. His hand finds your waist immediately, pulling you flush against him with the kind of familiarity that had long since become a routine between you.
“I’d—" he exhales a sharp breath, "—lay my life down for you.”
And that he would. Genuinely.
He lingers there for a moment, unwilling to part completely, before finally pulling back just enough for his forehead to brush yours, his words falling in a whisper against your lips.
“You’ve really got me wrapped around your finger, huh? Did you cast a spell? Be honest,” he exhales a laugh. “I could worship your body all day, every day.”
You push him off and sit up, standing to fix your messed bikini.
“Well, we have plans, so not now.”
He catches your wrist before you can even make it to the mirror. Tight enough to halt any further movement.
“Baku—”
“Come here.”
He lets go just as quickly as he grabbed you, he already knows you’re not going far anyway.
You turn back around, arms crossed over your chest, trying to look annoyed while you take in the look on his face. That smile. That quiet, need in his eyes that he doesn’t bother hiding from you.
You still felt his devoted kisses lingering on your skin, the warmth of them settling in even after he’d stopped. The aftermath soft and reassuring, like a quiet reminder over how crazy your husband was about you.
“You’re being weird,” you say, rolling your eyes, but your mouth is betraying you a little.
His smile only widens. “I don’t care.”
“Humin.”
“Yeah?” he answers immediately, too calm for someone acting like this.
“We were supposed to leave fifteen minutes ago.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you still sitting there?”
He leans back slightly, eyes not leaving you for even a second. “I need you.”
You pause. “Right now?”
“Right now.” A beat. Then, softer, almost like he’s testing you. “Shit, I’m so hard, baby. You’re being cruel,” he says dramatically brushing his hand over his face trying to hide his smile.
That alone makes something in your expression shift, the confidence slipping just enough for you to look down for half a second.
And your eyes confirm. He was indeed incredibly hard. Hard enough to where it looked like his length might burst out of the material of his trunks at any moment.
You try to step out, but your feet don’t quite cooperate the way you want them to, your whole stance giving you away.
He notices immediately.
Even while he’s sitting on the bed, he had you pinned down where he wanted you. Without moving a muscle.
“Stop making me wait,” he says, still smiling, voice lower now, more needy than demanding. “Please…”
And that “please” doesn’t feel like a request so much as it feels like him admitting defeat in the most unfair way possible.
You exhale, trying to hold onto your resolve, but it’s already gone.
“…You’re impossible,” you mutter, barely convincing yourself.
He just opens his arms a little, waiting.
And this time, you don’t make him wait for long. Immediately pinned onto the mattress underneath him once again.
“This—” he hooks a finger under the strap of your bikini, tugging it lightly before letting it snap back into place. “—is making me wanna watch my cum drip out of you.”
His voice is barely above a whisper.
“I’m waiting…”
And that was enough for him.
“Fuck the beach,” he declares, the matter is already settled and no force on earth is changing his mind. Leaning down without another thought, he litters your neck with kisses, the kind born purely out of need.
Not even ten minutes ago, he had been passionately defending his weekday beach philosophy. Now, with you beneath him in that pretty pink bikini, he looks perfectly willing to abandon every carefully packed towel and container.
Looking down, he noticed the damp patch on your bikini, perfectly centered between the outline of your lips. Giving it a light teasing smack, earning a wince from you, he whispered, “you little slut, you’re soaking through.”
He quickly undoes the bikini ties, urgency in his hands. His fingers brush over yours when you try to help, briefly lacing with your hand before pushing it away. He doesn’t want your help, he wants you laying there taking it all. All his need.
“No, let me.”
The bikini comes off, flung somewhere off to the side. His hands trace all your lines, taking you in, fully bare and on display beneath him.
The sheer white blinds filtered the morning sunlight, casting a soft glow over your trembling body. Your tits rose and fell with each desperate breath, the sensitive peaks hardening in the cool air. Your slit was wet, dripping even, the evidence of your need clear. He saw it all.
And there you are, still shy under his gaze, the same way you are every time, no matter how many times he’s seen you like this before. It never really changes. You still go quiet, still avoid his eyes, like it’s the first time all over again.
“Acting shy now?” he teases, running a finger over one of your nipples, kneading both of your tits in one of his bigger hands.
“I’ve seen you choke on my cock with a smile on your face, don’t be silly now.”
You swallow.
“Spread those legs for me, honey,” And immediately, you comply without even thinking about it. Not because you’re unaware of yourself, but because you know exactly who he is to you in that moment. Your husband knows what he’s doing, knows how to pull the right reactions out of you without even trying too hard. He knows how to make you feel good, in ways that settle under your skin.
And you’d be lying if you said you didn’t crave his touch twenty four seven.
“Look at that…”
His fingers immediately graze your slit, drawing a small sigh out of you in reaction.
“Shit…” he exhales a shaken breath, cursing.
A soft slickness gathers at his fingertips immediately, coating them as he intently spreads it further. Making it messier on purpose.
“Soaked, aren’t you?” a light, but now wet, smack again. “This pussy knows how to welcome me, hm?”
You fail trying to bite back a sound at the feel of his fingers against your clit, the reaction slipping out before you can stop it. Your need for him settling in deeper.
Two fingers slip inside you slowly, walls clenching around them and arms hooking loosely around his neck.
“Are my fingers enough?”
You shake your head desperately.
"What do you need then, baby?"
"You know what I need, Humin," you murmur.
"Enlighten me."
"I need you inside me..."
He smiles down at you, tilting his head slightly as if he’s watching something he genuinely loves seeing. The way your expressions shift makes something in him settle.
He curls his fingers gently making you squeeze harder, a groan leaving his lips.
“Fuck, I can't keep up with this teasing shit,” he pulls his fingers out.
Pushing down his trunks, his cock springs free. The thick, veiny shape taps against his stomach as he finally settles it down. Gripping it in hand, slapping the tip lightly against your clit, making you gasp a little in response.
“Ah—“
Sharp and cool against your teeth.
“Ah,” he mimics you, mocking your gasp, and smiles. “Fuck, those sounds. Makes me wanna fuck you senseless till that’s all you are.”
He teases the tip lower, between your folds, his precum and your slickness working to make the movement addictive.
And it was in that moment that it wasn’t just the size of Humin hovering over you that stood out so starkly. It was his shaft resting against your thigh, thick and warm. His fingers alone seemed to take up so much space against you, your smaller frame swallowed so effortlessly beside his.
It had always been that way. From the way your hand disappeared in his, to how easily he gathered you into his arms. The contrast between you both never failed to leave a quiet flutter in your chest.
Especially in this position, the ceiling barely came into view past how wide his shoulders were, his frame taking up most of your sight without even trying.
“Mm,” he hums, focused on his tip probing at your entrance.
You brace yourself, eyes fixed on the sheer, thick weight of your husband’s cock—unforgiving, carved to fit only you, to split you open. Even after all these years, after countless nights together, that slow, burning stretch never gets anything less than overwhelming.
He pulls you right out of your thoughts as he glides his cock slow through your slick.
“You think this’ll all fit easy this time, baby? I’ll go real slow.”
At first, no response.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you,” his tone growing a touch firmer, enough to pull you back. “Eyes on me.”
His thumb brushes slowly over your bottom lip as he holds your jaw steady, his hand nearly swallowing your face, keeping you from looking away. The solid weight of his tip taps against your clit again, deliberate this time, and your breath catches sharp in your throat, your hips twitching up toward him on instinct.
“That’s a good girl, so eager, you just wanna be filled, don’t you?”
You nod. “Please.”
His thumb brushes your cheek, a faint smile tugging at his lips despite the intent in his eyes.
“C’mon, baby. Stay with me,” he murmurs. “You gonna be good for me? Take it all?”
You nod again, subtle but immediate, an urgency slipping through the small motion anyway. Needing all of him despite the anticipated pain.
“Mm, keep those legs open for me,” he whispers. “Squeeze my arm if it gets too much, deal?”
You nod.
His tip presses soft and insistent, pushing slow against the tight fit.
“Breathe, baby, I won’t fucking fit otherwise.”
Your breath catches and shatters into a gasp, vision blurring at the edges where pain and pleasure bleed into one, too tangled to tell apart.
Despite how turned on you were, it was always a struggle. No amount of foreplay could allow a smooth sink.
“Humin—” his name slips from your mouth, vulnerable, like it’s the only thing you can reach for in the moment. As if saying it alone might ease the pain.
He leans down without a word and presses a kiss to your forehead, slow, staying there long enough for you to register it.
“I got you, baby,” he murmurs. “Just hold still. Breathe.”
He pushes deeper, the head sliding past that tight, resisting give, sinking in. Still barely a fraction of him. A low, wrecked groan pierces your ears from above, fingers digging hard into your hips.
“Oh, fuck— Good girl—“
His shaft was caught in a crushing yet addictive grip.
He freezes, hips stuttering like he’s forgotten how to move, a shaky, high whine catching in his throat. Resisting the impulse to close the distance. “Fuck—shit, baby, you’re so fucking tight. I can’t—shit, that feels good.”
Simultaneously, your back arches off the mattress with nowhere to go, hips pressed firmly down into it.
“No, fuck no, don’t move an inch.”
The pain isn’t damaging, but it lingers there all the same, enough to make your breath catch and your focus narrow. Your nails dig into his shoulders, holding on.
His thumb located your clit, moving in slow, deliberate circles that coaxed your soaked heat to stretch wider. You fought to accommodate his thick length, muscles trembling as your body slowly made room. It worked—for a moment—two more inches of him sliding deep inside before his girth hit that familiar resistance again.
“Oh, fuck— Mhm, that’s it,” he immediately praises you, voice coming out barely there.
“Mm— you’re gripping me so fucking tight, what the fuck. Are you trying to cut my dick in half?” A laugh slips from his chest, because apparently Baku’s nonsense always had to make an appearance. Even while he was busy stretching you open.
A small, broken sound slips from your mouth, followed by a whine as your eyes well up, tears spilling over before you can stop them and tracking down your flushed cheeks. Your vision turns hazy, everything blurring at the edges for a moment.
“It’s okay. Cry all you want, princess,” followed by a groan. “We got all day.”
He looks down immediately, focus snapping to you, watching your face closely, making sure you’re okay. Your gaze never leaves each other as he watches you struggle to take him.
“Humin…” you cry out. “Too much…”
“I know, baby, I know,” he says, low and even, like he’s trying to calm the air around you with his voice alone. Wiping your tears away carefully. “You’re doing good. So good. Just a bit more, okay? Should I keep going?”
You nod.
Despite the cruelty of your deep scratches raking his broad shoulders, the moment your hand slips, he finds it and drapes it right back in place. He doesn’t even acknowledge the sting, only adjusts you gently as if your comfort outweighs everything else.
“Scratch all you want, it’s okay, baby.”
He pushes your thighs back, his thumbs keep tracing slow, soothing circles, coaxing a few more inches in until he’s more than halfway buried inside.
You shift forward instinctively, trying to push through and take more at once, “Shit—“ he whines, immediately guiding you back with a firm hand, keeping you from rushing.
“Be patient baby, don’t hurt yourself,” he whispers despite how badly he wanted to sink in your fucking guts. “I’ll give all of it to you.”
A whine slips from your mouth again, sharper this time, born out of frustration and impatience. He reacts instantly, hand tangling in your hair, a firm pull draws a startled gasp from you.
“You’re being an impatient little slut right now, hm?”
An answer wasn’t even needed, but you nod anyway, mindless and needy in the way that just gives you away. Your hand finds his forearm where he’s holding your hair, gripping on. But not squeezing like he told you to.
“Want the rest?”
You nod eagerly.
And that was all he needed. With a low breath leaving his chest, he finally committed, guiding the motion through. His hands settled firmly at your hips, grounding you against one final, yet still gentle, thrust, sinking in till he bottoms out.
“That’s it—“ he groans softly. Hips staggering for a moment.
A gasp tears from your throat as your back arches further, as though something deep inside you had seized control for a moment and left you helpless to anything but the feeling.
“Mmhm, Humin—” you whine, the words barely making it out, your voice so faint it almost disappears altogether. “I cant—“
Your body betraying the very words falling from your lips, giving in despite yourself, taking all of it as though it had long since made up its mind before you ever could.
“Fucking hell…” He groans as he feels you completely engulf his cock. Gripping like your life depended on keeping him buried inside you. Adjusting to his size till he could comfortably move.
“Oh, no? You can’t?” A smile tugs at his lips, almost teasing as he looks at you like he already knows the answer. “But you are. You’re doing it so good—if only you could see what I’m seeing.”
He looks down, already rocking his hips into you, the pace agonizingly slow, yet somehow you could feel him everywhere, his presence settling into every part of you until there was nowhere your mind could wander but back to him. Feeling the head of his wet shaft settling in your uterus.
“Taking it like a good girl. It’s sliding in smoother than you’d think,” he teases. “You’re fucking taking it like you wanna get pregnant.”
Your breath hitches.
“Do you, baby?” He whispers, your eyes finally locking again.
“Mmhm…”
"Need a very clear answer," he repeated, his hand gripping your jaw firmly as he delivered a series of light, open handed smacks to your face. Teasing your sensitive skin. The sound echoed in the quiet room, soft but demanding. "You wanna be a mommy? Have my baby?”
“Mmh— yeah…”
“Yeah?”
“I do…”
“Y’want me to cum inside you, that it?”
You didn't respond—your mind too full of the weight of his question. Embarrassment burned hot on your cheeks even as you laid naked on the edge of the table, your legs already spread wide for him, your wet slit on display below and full of him. The contrast of your coyness and the filthy position you'd let him put you in was stark.
Earning you a sharper smack to the cheek, leaving behind a warm red mark.
“Answer me.”
“Shit— Mmhmm—“ A whimper escapes loose as his wet strokes ruin you further.
“Mmhmm shit mmhm…” he mocks, still thrusting deep into your guts. Purposely. “Words, silly. Heard’ve them?”
“Please— please cum inside me— Make me— fuck— make me a mom…”
His smile widened in satisfaction as he gently brushed your hair behind your ear—a gesture so tender it clashed with the nasty way he was fucking you—and then smacked your cheek again, not hard enough to hurt this time but hard enough to make you clench around his cock.
He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your lips.
“You're so beyond beautiful.”
His voice comes out rougher at the edges, attention locked in on the spot your core swallowed him whole, like he can’t quite look away, completely caught up in you in a way he doesn’t try hiding.
“What a sight, fuck. Soaking the fucking sheets, you’re making a mess.”
His thumb pulls your lips apart, a thick string of saliva settling right between your folds where you connected, rubbing it in, making it all the more messy.
Fingers finding your clit and working you.
Your thighs give a weak pathetic twitch and he keeps going, pushing you to overstimulation as his tip was already abusing your cervix just doubling down on the pleasure.
“It's— shit, please... too much—” you gasp out pathetically, attempting to push his hand away, fighting your own orgasm.
Your words tumble over each other into a broken whimper. Barely able to catch your breath, let alone string together a proper sentence.
"Squeeze my arm then, go on."
Nothing. No squeeze. But you double down on your protests.
"I can't—" as if reaching the edge felt too overwhelming but you still wanted to be pushed over it.
“Oh, but you will, cum all over me,” despite your attempts to push his hand, he kept going. Thumb pad pressed stubbornly against your clit. Making you gush all over his lower abs, soaking the sheets and his cock with your aftermath.
He presses the words out through grit teeth, voice rough and thick with heat as he keeps his pace up, “That's it, baby, see? Such a good girl, so pretty.”
Despite the wrecked sweaty state you were in.
The obscene, wet squelching echoes off the bedroom walls every time his hips sink deep, each hard thrust deliberately driven to drag that loud, sticky sound out. He holds your hips tighter, chasing it, chasing the proof of just how soaked and messy you are for him.
Your tears were already soaking the cream sheets by your head as you pushed back on his lower stomach. To no avail, it doesn’t work slowing him down.
Only encouraging him. Pulling your hand up to kiss it.
“Uh uh, what’s the matter? Can’t take it?” He breathes, your ankles now draped over his shoulders. A sight you could never quite get enough of, the way your husband’s broad, sun-warmed shoulders offered the perfect resting place for your feet without a single word needed between you. “You were acting like a cock hungry whore not long ago.”
“You’re taking this pounding, baby. I haven’t cum yet.”
He shoves your legs back hard until your knees practically brush your chest, folding you open just how he wants, and drives deep from above. His breath catches, sharp warm puffs against your neck, and you feel his cock throb weak inside you.
Bear hugging you right into him while simultaneously fucking you further into the mattress, close enough you felt his groans and breaths caress your ears.
"Mm, fuck,” his tone was shrill, closer to the edge. “You feel fucking good—“
Your tits pressed firmly against his chest, brushing into him with each thrust. A thin sheen of sweat coated your bodies where you were pressed together from neck to hips.
“I’m gonna cum inside,” he whispers, “baby… that okay?” leaning slightly back, but still hugging you close.
His gaze stays on you, heavy lidded, caught in a way that makes it feel like he’s not fully thinking straight anymore, just drunk on you. He asks it again, softer, as if he didn’t already get you to admit you wanted his seed deep inside you.
“Mm, yeah…” you nod weakly.
“Yeah…?” he echoes back even weaker. “Fuck, I love you…”
He found your lips in a sloppy, desperate kiss, pushing every ragged breath and broken grunt into your mouth like he needed you to swallow his noises whole.
Saliva slicked both your lips as his breathing grew uneven, hitched, until suddenly his hips bucked erratically and his whole body trembled on top of you, a shudder running through his frame.
The kiss broke only for him to bury his face in your neck, muffling his broken groans against your skin as his cock continued to twitch. Strokes noticeably sloppy, with each pass becoming significantly less rhythmic, less coordinated.
“Feels good…” you continue, pleading, “please don’t stop…”
“Mmhm…” is all he manages. A weak attempt at proving that he was still present. But he was already slipping away. With a final thrust that completely ended him.
His body went rigid as he came inside you with a desperate, shuddering eruption, his cock pulsing deeply as he emptied himself completely.
A softened gasp overtook you. Your body trembling against the sheets.
“Baby, fuck— shit, shit, so good— you feel so fucking— good—“ his voice came out hoarse and whiney. “Please— don’t move, jus’ take all of it… All of my cum…”
“Oh, g–god—“ an incoherent string of moans and words tore from your mouth.
Finally, with a last weak leak, he collapses forward, catching himself instantly on one arm so he doesn’t fall fully onto you, saving you from being crushed beneath him.
He catches his breath before looking at you, leaning in just enough to press a soft, tired kiss to your cheek.
“I love you, baby.”
Your chest rises and falls in uneven breaths as you try to settle back into yourself, the world slowly catching up again.
He lets out a weak laugh, shaking his head slightly. Barely even able to breathe, but still talking. “What, no ‘I love you back’? That’s cold.”
Sweat dampened his forehead and entire body.
“I love you…” you manage, barely getting it out.
“I know, baby,” he says immediately, still smiling as he brushes his thumb over your cheek, wiping mascara smudges. “I was kidding. Just breathe.”
Still buried deep inside you and partially soft. Peppering your sweat damp skin with small, appreciative kisses, slow and absent of hurry, adoring you in a way that feels completely natural. Like you deserve.
“You okay, princess?”
You nod—delicate, but still there.
“Y’know you’re pretty cute when you’re like this,” he smiles, fully serious, but with that teasing edge in his tone. “Gives you a glow… like an afterglow—is that what it’s called?”
“Oh, shush,” you mumble, trying to hide your face as you shift under him. Feeling the aftermath of his undoing against your walls. Plugged up and still inside.
He laughs right away, light and easy. “What? I’m being observant. It’s important work.”
“It’s not work.”
“It is,” he insists, nodding like that settles it. “Someone has to study these things. I’m basically helping science right now.”
You let out a small sigh, but you’re smiling anyway.
“Oh—there it is,” he points at you, way too pleased with himself. “That smile again. I was right.”
“You’re insufferable,” you say, but it comes out soft.
“And yet,” he says, unbothered, shifting closer, giving your forehead a kiss, “you’re still here listening to me.”
“That’s because you won’t shut up.”
“False,” he corrects immediately. “It’s because I’m charming.”
You roll your eyes.
He grins wider. “See? You’re doing it again. Cute.”
A pause. Neither of you say anything, just bask in each other’s warmth, a comfortable silence settling, until Baku breaks it—
Characters: All characters depicted are 18 years or older consenting adults.
Content warnings (please read & proceed with caution): adult content / s*xual themes / consensual adult intimacy / fluff build-up / established relationship / marriage / eating you out / very messy / sp!tplay / mango fruit involved / loving / eater baku / public s*x / beach s*x / might get caught / fluff build-up
Pairing: husband!park humin x female reader
WC: 2,1k
⤷ Summary: you and Baku are newlyweds. He convinces you to call in sick with him on a random Wednesday so you can spend the day together at the beach. And while at the beach, he helps you relax in his own way.
author message; this is the second part of a two parter oneshot. link for the first part is here. hope u enjoy!
p.s didn't proof read because im lazy so dont mind errors.
reblogs, likes and comments are appreciated ♡ + ↻
⤷ AGAIN, MDNI 18+
masterlist
ᴺᵒʷ ᵖˡᵃʸᶦⁿᵍ ♬⋆.˚ Get You – Daniel Caesar ft. Kali Uchis
ᴺᵉˣᵗ ᵁᵖ ♬⋆.˚ Legs Shakin' - Ludacris (just gives MAJOR eater Baku vibes)
Skin catching the sunlight as it shifts over you, Baku’s hands move over your back with quiet care, spreading sunscreen. This was the second layer—he’d already done the first earlier, before the two of you got distracted building slightly questionably formed sandcastles near your spot.
No rush to it—just him making sure every inch is covered, that alone being a part of his protective nature. With the occasional wandering hand, giving a light squeeze to your ass.
“Humin,” you warn, already aware of your husband’s childish antics.
“Sorry, sorry,” he laughs under his breath, but he’s not really sorry at all—more amused than anything, that familiar grin pulling at his mouth as he finishes up along the backs of your thighs, landing a playful greedy smack to your ass. “All set, baby.”
“Thanks,” you murmur, face squished into the polka dotted towel beneath you, eyes closed as you sink into the warmth of the sun. The distant rhythm of gentle waves fills the quiet between you, steady and unbothered by anything else.
No screaming children, no voices cutting through the air, no beach balls bouncing across your space.
Just you and Humin.
Warm weather. Stillness.
Enjoying the beach alone after a long, lazy morning of loving s*x.
“You might be onto something,” you say.
He turns his head, opening a container of fresh fruit—the same ones he’d cut into neat little heart shapes for you earlier. A questioning look settles on his face.
“About?”
“This,” you continue, glancing out at the empty stretch of sand and water from the corner of your eyes. “Coming here when no one else is around. It’s… really nice.”
His smile widens, proud of himself.
“I knew it,” he says, lifting a piece of watermelon right to your nose, making you crack one eye open at the smell alone. It drags you upright, attention pulling straight to the container in his hands.
Inside, a mix of orange, red, and yellow—banana slices, watermelon, mango, strawberries—each one cut into small, careful shapes.
“Stop,” you say quickly, hands coming up to your chest as your smile wobbles into something dangerously soft. “This is so cute, what.”
He just grins, doing a little satisfied shuffle like he’s won something important.
“Right?” he says, like it was obvious all along. “Here. Try this.”
He holds up a strawberry piece to your mouth. You take it from his fingers, still looking at him like he’s done something far too unfairly sweet for you to recover from.
“Mmm, they’re sweet!” you squeal, bright and immediate.
He nods, he already knew that would be your reaction. He’d gone out of his way for it—picked the exact kind he knew you liked, skipping the ones he knew you’d wrinkle your nose at.
“Watermelon?” he asks, holding up a piece.
You take it straight away, a little too fast, and some of the juice drips down your chin before you even notice.
He doesn’t say anything about it. Just reaches over, wipes it away with his thumb like it’s nothing, and absentmindedly brings his thumb to his own mouth after—cleaning up after you like it’s the most basic thing.
He watches your reaction closely as you savor it, already reaching for more before you’ve even finished chewing—feeding you again until your cheeks are lightly puffed with watermelon.
“Good?” he smiles, almost distracted by how cute you look like that, pausing just long enough to quickly snap a picture.
You nod.
A mango piece comes next, and this one is extra juicy—too much. It slips a little as you try to chew, dribbling past your chin and onto your chest. Baku’s gaze drops, his attention slipping away little by little as he watches the trail of mango juice glisten against your skin, strewn across your tits. It leaves him entirely caught in the sight with the same dazed look he always gets.
“Damn—this mango’s so ju—” you start, words getting swallowed halfway as you chew, a giggle following. “It’s like… really juicy, what the hell—”
The rest of the sentence dissolves into a messy little sound as you keep eating, barely managing anything coherent between bites.
“Baby, stop,” he manages, voice a little strained, eyes clearly not staying where they’re supposed to. “Wipe it off.”
“Huh—wipe what off?” you say, immediately patting at your cheeks, then your collarbone, then your face again, trying to figure out what he even means, completely missing the actual spot you didn’t notice.
“Hello? What am I supposed to wipe off?” you repeat, quieter now, a little annoyed as you keep searching blindly.
He swallows, clearly struggling to keep his focus, leaning in closer until his face hovers near your neck. His warm, wet tongue flicks out slow, tracing a sticky sweet path up from the curve of your chest right to your collarbone.
You try to push his head away, eyes flicking around in a panic like someone might’ve appeared out of nowhere and caught him mid act, your oversized husband currently being completely unreasonable in public.
“Humin!”
He continues licking every last drip of spilled mango from your warm skin, his lips closing softly to suck the leftover juice off. Leaning back, he wipes at his mouth with a stupid little smile, like he knows exactly what he just did to you and is way too pleased about it.
“Are you insane?”
“I was just helping,” he shrugs. “You made a mess.”
He was just lucky his breath always smelled like fresh mint—otherwise you’d have already landed a punch square on his face.
“We’re in public.”
“I’m aware.”
“Act like it.”
He tilts his head at you like you’re the funny one here, taking a sip of water, unbothered.
“I am acting like it,” he says.
“You just— did that, that’s not acting like it.”
“Did what?”
“You know what.”
“I don’t.” He leans in a little, grin starting to show. “Explain it.”
“I’m not explaining it in public,” you hiss.
He rolls his eyes like you’re lame in this situation and just scoots closer.
You scoot away.
He scoots closer.
You scoot away again.
He follows every time, not even hiding the smile on his face, until he finally grabs your arm and pulls you back, pinning you down onto the towel. His hand immediately finds your stomach, poking just enough to make you break.
“Humin! Stop!” you gasp between giggles, trying to twist away, but it’s useless.
He just laughs under his breath, leaning down like he’s won something important, and presses a quick kiss to your cheek like that settles it.
Kisses drift from your cheek down to your neck, slower now, like he’s gotten distracted by how you feel under the sun. It pulls a soft sound from you without meaning to.
“Mm,” he hums against your skin in response, like he heard it clearly over everything else—the waves, the wind, even his own thoughts.
His hand stays at your waist, fingers curling in just enough to keep you close, warm from the sun and completely uninterested in anything except you.
His mouth trails slow, warm down the curve of your body, each kiss catching the faint gold of sun still held in your skin until he settles low on your stomach, his lips pressing soft right where your uterus sits, already half convinced a tiny new life is starting to grow there from what passed between you earlier this morning.
“Humin…” you breathe his name into the warm salt air, fingers tangling in dark strands as you glance over. Empty shoreline stretches both ways, only gulls singing and waves hushing, his mouth burning slow and dangerous inches from the inside of your thigh. “What are you doing?”
“Just relax,” he murmurs, voice low, kissing the inside of your thigh. “C’mon, baby, just lay back for me.”
“Why?”
“You’re sore from earlier, this is the least I could do.”
You sink back against the warm towel, sand gritty, soft under the material of it, and let your thighs fall open for him. The ache between your legs pulses sharp, every nerve ending singing, waiting for that familiar warm pressure to slip lower and finally put the craving out.
He tugs your thighs open wider, draping them heavy over his broad sun kissed tan shoulders, the same ones adored with your scratches from earlier.
His calloused palms brushing slow up the sensitive skin of your inner knees. He presses open mouthed kisses one by one up the inside of each thigh, each one making your hips twitch closer toward his mouth.
“Patience,” he smiles against your skin. “I got you, baby.”
“You want my mouth?”
“Mhm…” You hum softly.
He purposely blows cool air on you core, and you could feel it through the material, earing a wince. "Right there?"
"Mhm...” you confirm with a sharp inhale.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah…”
He tugs the thin fabric of your bikini aside to bare you to the warm air, his breath catching rough when he sees how ready you are for him. The first soft, open mouthed kiss presses right against your slit, and your whole back arches off the towel, a sharp shudder rolling through you from your hips up to your shoulders.
Taking even you aback by how badly your body seeked this.
“So responsive, fuck.”
Pulling your lips apart with his thumbs, he presses another wet kiss to your clit, urging a high pitched little moan out.
“Mm, right there, baby? That's the spot.”
You nod, one hand resting lightly over your mouth while the other runs through his hair.
He hums against your skin, the vibration sending a jolt up your spine, and pulls back just enough to murmur against you again
“This is where you needed me, huh, princess?”
His palms slide slow up the soft skin of your thighs, pushing them gently back to hold you open, his tongue licking up your slit, tasting you against his buds with satisfied sounds of enjoyment.
“Mm,” he hums, enjoying the taste.
The soft, wet sounds are immediate as he lets some of his saliva leak onto you, mixing with your already heavy arousal as it drips and runs together in a messy little spill, already making a bit of a mess between you and his mouth.
He leans back, picking up a mango piece, holding it above you for a second before squeezing it just enough for the juice to run down your core in a slow, sticky stream.
“What—” you gasp softly, barely getting the word out.
He doesn’t even look phased. “Uh uh. Don’t talk. Just lay back down. I’m eating.”
He lingers for a moment, admiring his “masterpiece” with an easy smile before diving right back in. Poking at every inch of your patience with the way he works his tongue through your slit, far too pleased with the smacks and sloppy sounds he makes as he goes. Tasting the mango juice as it drips and spills while he keeps going like he’s on a mission.
It felt like the mango just pushed him even more. Making him eat more vigorously as if he wasn’t eager enough beforehand.
Your little noises linger in the hot summer air, soft and scattered with the warmth. You shift a little, hips wriggling restlessly.
“Mm,” he hums, genuinely enjoying it like it’s the best thing he’s ate all day. “Keep those legs open, let me taste you,” he leans back with a wet grin, catching his breath for a second before immediately going back in.
His mouth seals over your clit, sucking slow and sure, gaze locked on yours with an amused, quiet glint. The smile impossible to miss in his eyes.
"Mm, tastes good," he says between his work, completely slipping out like he's merely enjoying an ice cream, as if he didn't have his face buried against your dripping pussy.
Your back bows off the towel, fingers scrabbling for anything, landing in the fine, gritty sand at your side.
Your thighs tense and lock against his head, tightening until it almost feels like you’re bracing too hard, like you could bruise his skin. He forces your thighs back in place. Scattering kisses before working his way back to your orgasm again.
“Someone feeling overwhelmed?” he teases in between. “Cum, baby, just fucking soak my face, give it to me.”
His tongue plunges inside you, curling till he tastes you deep in his throat with each passing leak. Till you’re nothing but a trembling mess in his hands, thighs shaking by his head till you finally soak his face with a sharp gasp, followed by yet another off guard gasp, just completely ruined for him.
“Fuck—oh, God! Humin!” you moan out, the sound echoing a little too loud, way louder than you meant it to be.
Thankfully, there’s no one around. Just the open beach, the heat, and the two of you—lucky for both of you.
He tilts his head back, thumb brushing slow over your hip bone, and grins. “Mm, there’s my good girl.” He blows a cool breath against your overheated, sensitive core, and a full body shiver wracks you, still buzzing from the aftershocks.
“Hey, teamwork!” he cheers, grabbing your limp hand and making it highfive his himself when you’re far too tired to lift it properly.
You can practically see the gears turning in his head. That look in his eyes—one you know far too well by now—means another completely unhinged thought is seconds away from leaving his mouth. And then—
“I’m never eating fruit any other way,” he teases, though there’s a hint of seriousness under it. “Been doing it wrong my whole life, clearly.”
could you please write a baku x f!reader where they’re secretly together? I’d love scenes where they almost get caught and have to play it off 😭 (maybe they lowkey enjoy the thrill of it) btw I love your writing so much <3
Thank you so much for enjoying my work and for the request, lovely! I had a lot of fun writing this one, and I hope you enjoy it!
Also, I may have accidentally misunderstood your request at first like an idiot 😭 so I ended up writing this longer piece before realizing you wanted multiple “almost getting caught” moments. If that’s okay with you, the ending will be followed by a bunch of little scenes of Baku and Reader nearly getting caught in different situations!
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Five More Minutes
✦ 𝑷𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈: Baku x Fem!Reader
✦ 𝑹𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈: Mature (18+)
✦ Genre: Romance, Secret Relationship, Established Relationship, Angst, Fluff, Tension
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Synopsis: One month into your secret relationship with Baku, you’ve both gotten used to stolen glances, hidden touches, and meeting where no one can find you. Keeping your relationship hidden is supposed to be easy—until one impulsive moment in a dressing room turns into something much harder to conceal. With strict parents, the Union, and the constant threat of being discovered, the line between danger and excitement begins to blur. After all, maybe the two of you enjoy the thrill a little more than you’d like to admit.
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Warnings:
Secret Relationship, Established Relationship, Sexual Content, Public-ish Setting, Almost Getting Caught, Heavy Make-Outs, Fingering, Penetrative Sex, Risk of Discovery, Mutual Desire, Mild Profanity, Reader Insert (Y/N)
────────────
You and Baku have been dating for one month. From the beginning, you made it clear that you didn’t want anyone to know about your relationship because of your strict parents. Baku understood and agreed. He had his own reasons for keeping it a secret, too—he didn’t want the Union finding out about the two of you. More than anything, he cared about your safety.
So how did the two of you end up here?
Standing together in the cramped dressing room, Baku had his arms wrapped around you, holding you close against his chest. The secret relationship that had been so carefully hidden suddenly felt a lot harder to keep hidden when you were looking up at him with those pretty eyes of yours.
“Y/N… I should get out…” Baku muttered, glancing toward the door.
“No, stay.”
His gaze dropped back to you, and for a moment he just stared. The usual confidence he carried around seemed to disappear whenever the two of you were alone like this.
“You’re gonna get us caught,” he said, though his arms never loosened around your waist.
“Then why are you still holding me?”
Baku scoffed quietly, looking away. “Because you’re making it difficult.”
A small smile tugged at your lips.
Outside the dressing room, voices echoed through the hallway, reminding both of you that you weren’t supposed to be here. The relationship was a secret for a reason. If your parents found out, you’d never hear the end of it. If the wrong people at school found out, rumors would spread everywhere.
Still, neither of you moved.
“Just five more minutes,” you whispered.
Baku let out a long sigh, resting his forehead lightly against yours.
“Five minutes,” he agreed. “Then we’re leaving before somebody opens that door and ruins my life.”
The tiny dressing room suddenly felt impossibly small. You were pressed completely against his chest, your body warm through his thin shirt, your face close to his neck. You began kissing it softly and deliberate, slow kisses that made him get goosebumps.
“Wait..” he whispered, voice cracking slightly.
“Touch me Baku” you said softly.
His jaw clenched, pulse pounding.
“We shouldn't," he muttered, though it lacked any real authority.
His hands still hovered. Then your lips traced that line on his neck again.His resolve fractured. His fingers moved,hesitant at first but they began brushing your waist, then gripping. He pulled you closer, his lungs filling with your scent. One hand moved up, resting on your hip. He bit his lip to hold back a groan when you wiggled slightly against him.
Your hand moved down, palming his member through his pants. He gasped sharply, eyes fluttering closed.
“Shit y/n” he whispered hoarsely, his grip on your hip tightening almost painfully.
“I need you” you whispered right against his ear, something inside him snapped completely.
"We can't..” he gasped, voice strained as your palm pressed firmly against his growing boner. His eyes darted toward the door, ears burning red.
“Someone's gonna hear—"
Another groan escaped before he could stop it, his hips bucking slightly into your touch. He was painfully hard, his member straining against the fabric. His hands trembled on your waist.
“It’ll be quick.. I promise” you muttered.
His eyes widened as you began lifting your skirt, revealing those black lace panties again. He swallowed hard, his nervousness turning into pure desperation.
“Quick," he agreed, his voice barely a whisper. He quickly unbuckled his belt and pushed his pants down just enough.
His hands shook—too nervous, too scared of getting caught.
“We shouldn't—"
“Please Baku”
He immediately grabbed you, lifting you effortlessly by the thighs. You wrapped your legs around his waist instantly as he pinned you back against the dressing room wall. His breathing was shaky, terrified someone would hear the rustling, but desperate for you. He hooked his fingers into your panties, pulling them aside, exposing your slick folds.
"Please don’t be loud..." he hissed desperately, pressing his forehead against yours.
With trembling hands, His fingers slid through your slick folds, spreading you open gently to check how ready you were. You were absolutely soaking wet, making his breath hitch in his throat. He had to be so gentle, terrified of making a sound. His thumb brushed your clit instinctively, his face burning red.
Your hand shot up, pressing your own mouth shut, but a muffled, involuntary whimper escaped against your palm. It made his entire body shudder. He was on edge, hyper-aware of every sound in the cramped space. Every rustle from the outside world felt deafening. But the thought of someone walking in or hearing you two did something to him. His thumb pressed harder on your clit, rubbing fast and rough despite his previous gentleness.
“Oh god y/n”
Your muffled moans grew louder, your legs tightening around his waist. He could feel your wetness coating his fingers as he spread you wider. His own breath came in ragged gasps, his member throbbing painfully against your entrance. He quickly lined himself up, pushing just the tip inside.
Your moans vibrated against your own hand as you slowly lowered yourself onto him. The wet sound of your body taking his length made him whimper, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. He was so thick, stretching you perfectly. He held you steady, letting you control the pace even as his hips bucked involuntarily. The dressing room echoed with your stifled noises.
He held you trembling against the wall, every muscle in his body locked tight to keep from making a sound. As you sank fully down onto him, taking him inch by inch, his head tipped back, mouth falling open. The stretch was overwhelming—he was thick and hard, and you were fitting around him perfectly.
He buried his face deeper into the crook of your neck, his breathing ragged and hot against your skin. The dressing room felt suffocatingly small, the air heavy with the scent of sex and desperation.
Suddenly, both of you heard footsteps approaching from the hallway.
Your eyes immediately met, and Baku’s heart nearly stopped when he realized they were getting closer. Without thinking, he quickly covered your mouth with his hand and pulled you closer against him. You nodded, understanding immediately, and both of you went completely silent. You felt every throb of his length inside you, pulsing with need and desperation. He was frozen, buried to the hilt, his hands gripping your hips so hard you knew you'd have bruises later. Your legs wrapped around him instinctively, trying to keep him inside you without moving an inch.
The footsteps stopped outside the dressing rooms.Then came the sound of a door opening.A few seconds later, another one opened.And then another.Someone was checking each dressing room one by one. Being buried deep inside you without moving was absolute torture. The wet heat gripping him was making his member throb aggressively. A single bead of sweat rolled down his temple.
You could hear the woman moving closer down the hall, opening every door she passed. The closer she got, the tighter Baku held you. You could feel him battling his instincts not to move, not to thrust up into you even an inch.Neither of you dared to move, afraid even the smallest sound would give you away.
Then the footsteps stopped right outside your door.The handle rattled slightly.Your stomach dropped.Baku’s eyes widened as he stared at the door, silently praying she wouldn’t open it.Just as the handle began to turn, another voice called out from farther down the hallway.
“Ma’am! We need you over here!”
The woman paused.
“Coming!” she called back.
A moment later, her footsteps faded away in the opposite direction.
The second she was gone, both of you let out the breaths you’d been holding.
But the adrenaline spike instantly turned back into desperation. There wasn't a second of hesitation. you immediately started rolling your hips again, taking him deep. Baku choked back a loud groan, his head dropping against your shoulder.
“We have to be fast”
He grabbed your hips firmly, helping you bounce yourself on his member, his strokes thrusting up into you desperately.The thin walls made each wet sound echo terrifyingly. Still, he couldn't slow down. He felt you squeeze around him with every thrust. His hand moved from your hips to cover your mouth, his fingers slipping between your lips.
His thrusts started picking up the pace, hitting that sweet spot inside you with every snap of his hips. You bit down on his fingers to stifle your moans, your body tensing around him. He felt you start to come apart, your walls clamping down around his length.
He felt you tightening around him, your body quivering as you reached climax. That was all it took to send him over the edge. With a muffled groan against your shoulder, he buried himself deep and came hard, pulsing hotly inside you. Your legs shook violently as you both trembled through the shared release, sticky and sweaty against the wall.
“Oh my God…” you whispered, pressing a hand against your chest.
“We were literally one second away from getting caught.”
Despite how terrified you’d been, a smile crept onto your face.Baku noticed immediately.
“Don’t.”
“What?” you asked innocently.
“Don’t start smiling. This isn’t funny!”
“But we didn’t get caught.”
He groaned while you laughed quietly, and despite the scare, neither of you could ignore the thrill that came with almost being discovered.
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The thrill was becoming a problem. He wouldn’t admit it, but getting away with it was half the fun now.
One afternoon, you and Baku were walking through the hallway when his hand briefly brushed yours. Nobody was around, so he let his fingers intertwine with yours for a second.
A second became five.Then ten.
Then—
“Hey, Baku.”
Both of you immediately jumped apart.Hyo-man stood a few feet away, looking confused. Baku shoved his hands into his pockets while you pretended to be deeply interested in a random classroom door.
“You two okay?”
“Yep.”
“Why’d you jump?”
Neither of you answered.The second Hyo-man left, you looked at Baku.
“We almost got caught.” He said
A grin spread across your face.
“I know.”
⸻
Another time, you were sitting beside him during lunch.
Nothing suspicious.Nothing dangerous.Until you stole one of his fries.Baku watched you eat it.Then another.Then another.
“Those are mine.”
“Not anymore.”
He rolled his eyes before casually sliding the entire carton toward you.Unfortunately, Si-eun happened to notice.His eyes narrowed.
“Why are you sharing food?”
Your heart stopped.Baku didn’t even blink.
“She’s broke.”
“What?!”
Si-eun immediately nodded.
“Oh that makes sense.”
After he left, you kicked Baku under the table.
“You called me broke.”
“You stole my fries.”
⸻
One day after school, you were leaning against a wall while Baku stood in front of you.
Nobody was around.
At least that’s what you thought.
“You know,” you said, reaching up to fix his hair, “you’re kinda cute.”
Before he could say anything, footsteps echoed down the hallway.Immediately, you dropped your hand.Baku took three giant steps backward.Unfortunately, he backed directly into a trash can.The crash echoed through the hallway.You stared.He stared.The janitor stared.
To this day, Baku claims it never happened.
⸻
The worst one happened at the convenience store.You were standing beside the drinks when Baku leaned down and quietly asked if you wanted anything.Before you could answer, Hyo-man walked in.Panic took over instantly.You pointed at Baku dramatically.
“Stop following me!”
Baku blinked.
“What?”
“I said stop following me!”
The poor cashier looked horrified.Hyo-man looked even more confused.Meanwhile, Baku looked ready to leave the country.The second Hyo-man walked away, you doubled over laughing.
“This isn’t funny.”
“It absolutely is.”
Despite his complaints, he was laughing too.
⸻
One evening, the two of you were sitting on a bench after school.It was quiet.Peaceful. Baku had his arm stretched across the back of the bench behind you, and for once neither of you were worried about being seen.
“You know,” you said softly, turning toward him, “I kinda like this.”
“Like what?”
“Just us.”
For a moment, his expression softened.Then he reached over and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.Your heart immediately melted.
“Y/n?”
Both of you froze.
A classmate was approaching from down the sidewalk.
Without warning, Baku shot up from the bench so fast he almost tripped over his own feet.The classmate looked between the two of you suspiciously.
“You guys hanging out?”
“No.”
“Yep.”
You and Baku looked at each other.The classmate raised an eyebrow.After an awkward pause, Baku pointed at you.
“She owes me money.”
“What?”
“What?”
The lie was terrible.The classmate looked even more confused than before.But somehow they accepted it and walked away.The second they were gone, you burst out laughing.
“Money?”
“I panicked.”
“That’s your excuse for everything.”
“It works.”
“Not really.”
⸻
At some point, both of you realized something.Every time you almost got caught, your hearts raced.Every time someone got suspicious, you’d spend the next ten minutes trying not to laugh.Maybe you should’ve been more careful.Maybe you should’ve stopped sneaking around.But as Baku slipped his hand into yours during an empty walk home, neither of you made any effort to pull away.
“We’re definitely getting caught someday.”
“Probably.”
Neither of you sounded particularly worried. Still, when someone appeared at the end of the street, your hands immediately flew apart.The two of you exchanged a look.Then started laughing.Yeah.You were definitely getting caught someday.
"What did I tell you?" Suho smirked. "I knew he'd agree."
"Yeah, you didn't know anything," Y/N shot back, rolling her eyes. "Thanks for all the support you gave me back there, by the way."
Suho laughed. "Trust me, he would've said no if I had gotten involved."
Y/N smiled. "Dinner's on me. I got paid."
"Nah. I've got a date."
"With who? Actually, never mind. I probably don't know her anyway."
"Son Naeun. She kept blowing up my phone." He glanced at her. "By the way, did you get his number?"
Y/N froze.
"Shi—"
Y/N's phone rang for the fifth time that day. She ignored it.
Well, mostly. She had already answered her mother's call earlier that morning. This one was from her father. And she knew exactly how it would go if she picked up. Her mom definitely snitched on her.
Not that it was her fault they had decided to cut off her pocket money.Honestly, she was enjoying the slight change in her life. The job didn't require much interaction, but it gave her plenty to observe. Different kinds of people. Different personalities. Different drama for sure.
Suho was not nearly as careless as she had first thought, either. He knew exactly how to handle people. And judging by the number of girls who conveniently found reasons to stop by, he was very aware of the effect he had on them.
Yawning, Y/N stepped into the classroom.
There he was. Pretty ey— As in her tutor. He was bent over a notebook, writing something down. Does he ever do anything else? She walked towards her seat, which, now that she thinks about it, wasn't far from his. If she sat any closer, would that count as invading his personal space?
Siuen slowly looked up from his notebook and turned to her direction. The same bored, mildly irritated expression greeted her.
Oh right! She immediately looked away. He had specifically asked her not to stare.
"I am gonna head out first," Suho said after school.
"To your date?" Y/N asked. "Are you not gonna dress up at least?"
"Maybe after work." His eyes flickered toward Sieun for a brief second.
"Yeah, text me later and tell me how it went," Y/N said, taking an exit, following Sieun.
She could probably recognize him in a crowd just from the way he walked. Eyes forward. Earphones in. Completely uninterested in the rest of humanity. Quickening her pace, she caught up to him. For a second, she considered tapping his shoulder.
Instead, she poked him. As if that's somehow less annoying.
Sieun pulled one earbud free and glanced back.
"I was thinking about a tutoring schedule," she said, meeting his gaze. "Something you are comfortable with."
A pause. "Also, give me your number."
His eyes shifted back to the road ahead. "Every morning. Before class."
"But what about the other students? I will not understand anything if it is noisy."
"That is why I said early morning."
If she had known someone like Sieun existed nearby—someone willing to teach her every day without being excessively nosy about why she didn't have friends—she would have asked for help much sooner. It did help as he didn't have any either.
Not only did she learn math, but also how to appreciate the bed she has. Where she was barely getting any sleep.
Her schedule had become ridiculous - morning tutoring sessions, classes, part-time work, and then studying everything else at home. She was running almost entirely on determination.
Sieun was not the type to criticize people. He did not lecture. He did not sigh dramatically. He did not say anything about being disappointed. His eyes handled all of that for him. She still remembered the first day he had given her a test to assess her level. After looking through her answers, he stared at the paper for an entire minute.
"...You need to start with the basics," Sieun muttered.
At the time, she had genuinely thought he was about to give up on her. Instead, he did exactly what he had said. They started from the basics. Maybe he treated tutoring the same way he treated everything else. Like an assignment he refused to fail. To be fair, she had done her part too. Mostly by making sure their conversations stayed strictly related to math. Math and nothing else.
Progress came gradually. Not just in mathematics, but with him, too. Y/N had to give credit where it was due. At some point, he had quietly moved their sessions from the classroom in the morning to a public library in the evening. He never explained why. But she guessed that he understood.
He understood what his student needed. Sometimes she did not even have to say anything. He would slow down when she looked confused. Repeat explanations when she seemed uncertain. Find a different method when the first one did not work. He was becoming surprisingly good at reading her. Which was irritating. Because she had been the one trying so hard to figure him out. Trying to figure out what's behind those eyes.
It also meant she spent more time looking at him than she would like to admit. His features were not...Well, they were not bad if she was being honest.
Did she get his number?
Nope. She had intended to ask by now. But somehow it felt like crossing a line. Things were going well. She did not want to ruin that. Sure, that was the reason.
Definitely.
Besides, she had already asked once. She did not want to seem desperate.
Y/N couldn't hold back her smile. She was improving.
12 out of 20.
Sure, it was not amazing, but she had passed! She glanced toward Sieun with a smile. Maybe she'll treat him to dinner today as a gesture of gratitude.
"Everyone," the teacher announced, "two students received awards in the Intramural Mathematics Competition." The classroom quieted. "Yeon Sieun. Jeon Youngbin. Come up here."
The room erupted into cheers, followed by a round of applause. Which was exactly what Y/N did not understand. Most of it was reserved solely for Youngbin, and what part of him deserved cheering? If he were not such a bully from some rich family, and surrounded by people desperate to stay on his good side, nobody would have cared.
"Yeon Siuen, gold prize," the teacher read, handing him a certificate, "This student received the above prize at the Intramural Mathematics Competition."
Y/N started with a loud clap, although it died midway when she realized no one joined in. A few glances came her way, including Sieun's.
"Jeon Youngbin, bronze prize. I'm handing you the same certificate," the teacher said, which was once again followed by hoots and cheers.
Maybe she should not have clapped for Sieun. Or maybe she should have clapped for both. Because that awkward moment was the beginning of something she had been trying to avoid.
The bell rang, indicating the end of the math class. Youngbin was, as usual, busy bullying a kid. And she expected it to continue that way.
Then a paper ball smacked her in the head. She turned to look in their direction.
"Look who's mad," Jungchan snickered. Y/N rolled her eyes and reached for the textbook for her next class. She could hear several footsteps approaching her desk.
Great.
"A little birdie told me you've been out on dates with the nerd," Youngbin grinned, "that clap was quite loud."
The boys around started hollering as if he had cracked the funniest joke. "You passed your test, too." He leaned closer. "He is fixing you up good?"
How about you fix your eyebrows?
Y/N bit her tongue. Responding would only encourage him, and she didn't need any extra event in her life. It worked, as getting no reaction bored them enough to leave.
SMACK. "You should have aimed better, asshole," Youngbin laughed. "You hit him." She could see a slipper missing from Jungchan's foot.
Of course. If they couldn't get a reaction from her, they would find someone else. She felt a tinge of guilt when she realized who his next target was.
Sieun. Who had already pulled one earbud out.
"I am sorry about that. Go back to study," Jungchan said.
"Yeah. Sorry," Youngbin added, mockery dripping from his voice.
"Next time, be careful."
Y/N blinked. Did Sieun just answer him? And she recognized that tone. The exact same one he had used when telling her to stop staring. He returned his attention to his notes.
Youngbin did not appreciate that, as expected. He got up and walked over. "I said it was a mistake."
Sieun slowly looked up. "Be careful," he continued with a pause. "Not to make more mistakes."
Y/N sat up straighter. This was new. She did not know Sieun had this side to him. He kept talking back. Which was definitely going to make things worse. But what was she supposed to do?
Youngbin dropped into the chair across from him. "Hey, you know what? Everyone thinks you are full of yourself."
Sieun said nothing.
"No matter what you say, you somehow make it sound irritating."
It's the pot calling the kettle black.
The next words out of Sieun's mouth made Y/N decide she needed to step in. Somehow.
"You must be bored." He looked directly at Youngbin. "Why don't you go expand your vocabulary?"
"Hey," Youngbin said, glaring at him, "Do you have a death wish?"
Wonderful. Y/N could always make herself the problem instead. Since she seems to be great at it anyway.
Hopefully, if she interrupted, Youngbin would lose interest. Maybe getting Sieun's attention would work. Sure, it might annoy him. But that felt like a much smaller problem right now.
summary: you have been desk mates with detective ahn since your first day at the yeongdeupo branch, and you have hated him since then. he’s sloppy, lazy, and disorganised, and yet, somehow, he still has more arrests than you. when you lose a bet and have to go on a date with him as punishment, suho makes you promise not to fall in love with him, but he doesn’t promise the opposite.
warning(s): 18+ content, MDNI, explicit language, explicit sexual content, enemies to lovers, yearner!suho
word count: 0.44k
author’s notes: this takes place ten years post-canon, therefore all characters are in their mid-to-late twenties. this story is inspired by jake and amy from brooklyn nine-nine. support banners and dividers are made by @saradika-graphics. images are from pinterest. please comment below if you want to be tagged in the final fic!
“Three, two, one.” Suho counts down the last seconds as the clock ticks to one minute past eight in the morning. “It’s official! For the first time since being a rookie cop, ___ is late! Does anyone want to take a guess at why?”
Gotak snaps his fingers. “Her alarm didn’t go off?”
“All three alarms along with the battery back-ups?” Suho points out incredulously. “Come on, Hyuntak! If you’re gonna play ball, at least be serious! Next!”
“Ooh!” Juntae snaps his fingers. “Maybe she got kidnapped in her sleep?”
“That’s super dark, but way better than Gotak’s stupid alarm clock theory.” Suho comments, making the latter glare at him. “Anyone else?”
“I bet she tucked herself into bed too tightly last night and couldn’t get out.” Sieun theorises before chuckling to himself. “This is fun.”
Yeongi offers her two cents. “Maybe she fell into an alternate dimension where she’s interesting?”
“All great ideas, but I’ve been her desk partner for years, therefore I have the correct answer.” He brags. “I’d like to say she’s doing the walk of shame after her date last night with Haejun from HR, but ___ knows she’s too good for him, so I’m betting that she was in line at the bank.”
Sieun narrows his eyes. “How did you know she went on a date last night?”
Suho shakes his phone. “Because HR Haejun posted a picture of them in his story, but judging by the very sad rum and coke in ___’s hand, she wanted to be tipsy enough to get through with the date but not drunk enough to the point that she accidentally sleeps with him. Ergo, no sad, pity sex for Haejun.”
“You’re a creep.” Sieun deadpans, unimpressed by the use of his best friend’s deductive skills.
“You’re a creep,” Suho repeats in a high-pitched whiny tone, clearly taking offence. “Shut up, man. You know what? I bet she‘s gonna walk in here, right about …now.”
True to his word, the elevator dings and the doors slide open to reveal you, dressed in a professional dark brown blazer, collared shirt and perfectly pressed black trousers.
“Detective ___!” Suho gasps. “You’re late! Would you care to explain yourself?”
“I’m only ninety seconds late. It’s no big deal.” You say, although your frantic tone indicates otherwise.
“Nope, you are late, and as your sunbae, I am ordering you to tell us why,” Gotak demands, unusually serious.
You answer meekly. “There was a line at the bank.”
Suho whoops in victory, raising his arms up as the others groan. “And Detective Ahn Suho is right, once again, ladies and gentlemen! Pay up!”
pairing: music producer!geum seongje x fem idol!reader
wc: 14k
summary: you've spent three years being exactly what everyone needed you to be: the sweet member who smiled through every comeback even when the group was falling apart around her. when your members walk out and the label won't let you follow, you're handed a solo debut you didn't ask for and a producer you didn't choose. you figure you can at least keep the version of yourself you actually know how to be.
geum seongje has never once in his career told an artist what they wanted to hear. he listens to your demo for forty seconds, closes his laptop, and tells the room you should go sexy. he doesn't seem to care whether you agree or not. he's already certain about what you're apparently capable of whether you believe it or not.
content: porn w slight plot, smut, 18+, slight power imbalance, enemies to not lovers but something worse (relationship is left open to interpretation at the end), virgin reader x seongje who makes fun of her for it, lots of emphasis on how unexperienced and untouched she is, possessive behavior from seongje, reader calls him a perv multiple times, fingering (f receiving), edging and orgasm denial, sex in the recording booth, romance blooms and then seongje ruins it by being a possessive pos, slut shaming, noncon recording during sex since reader isn’t aware and seongje doesn’t delete it when asked, p in v, condom use for the first round and then raw for the second round, “it won’t fit” x “i’ll make it fit” mmmmmm, size kink (reader is referred to as small/tight) , reader slaps him during their argument
a/n: based off this ask!
⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔
The meeting is scheduled for ten o'clock. By nine fifty-eight you are already seated in the conference room on the fourteenth floor with a paper cup of coffee going cold between your palms, watching the door.
You’re nervous.
Eight months ago, the other four members of Blossom terminated their contracts and walked out of this building with their personal items in paper bags. You watched them go from the window of this exact floor. The label had offered a restructured deal and they had declined it, collectively and without much deliberation, and then they had looked at you in the hallway outside the legal team's office with an expression you have spent eight months trying not to think about too precisely.
You did not leave with them. The label's restructured deal had your name on a separate clause, and the penalties attached to that clause were a number that made your vision go briefly white when you read it. So you stayed, and now you are a solo artist with eight months of rejected concept submissions and a debut that the label needs to happen before the end of the fiscal quarter.
The concept submissions are not bad. You know they are not bad. Sunshine, Sunshine has a key change in the bridge that your vocal coach called exciting, which is the most enthusiastic thing your vocal coach has said about anything in three years. The production team said it was charming.
Chansung, the label's head of A&R, is at the head of the table rearranging his papers. Your manager Jisoo is beside you reviewing something on her tablet. Two junior A&R staff sit at the far end of the table with their laptops open, speaking quietly to each other about something that stops the moment you glance at them.
Everyone in this room knows something you don't know yet. You can feel it in the particular quality of their helpfulness this morning, the way Chansung offered you coffee twice and then apologized for the cups being paper.
"He's particular about punctuality," Chansung says, to no one specifically.
"It's ten oh four," you say.
The door opens.
Keum Seongje is not what the industry photographs suggest. The photographs present him as angular and composed, all sharp jaw and expensive neutrals. In person he takes up more space than his frame should allow. He’s wearing a grey hoodie with the cuffs pushed up and glasses that cost more than your monthly vocal coaching sessions. He has a coffee cup from the place two blocks over, which means he stopped somewhere on the way here and did not hurry.
He sits down without greeting anyone. He opens his laptop and reads something on the screen. He does not apologize for the time.
Chansung clears his throat. "Seongje, thank you for making the trip. We're very glad to have you on board for this project. As I mentioned in the brief, we're looking at a solo debut for our artist here, building on the fanbase she established with Blossom, and we thought given your track record with image repositioning that you might have some interesting-“
"Play it," Seongje says.
Chansung stops mid-sentence. "Sorry?"
"The submission." He sets his phone face-down on the table. "Play it."
Chansung looks at you. You pull out your own phone, connect it to the room speaker, and press play. Sunshine, Sunshine fills the conference room. The opening is bright and synth-driven. Your vocal sits high in the mix, clean and controlled. The key change arrives at two minutes and twelve seconds, right on schedule.
Seongje listens with his elbow on the table and two fingers pressed against his mouth. He stares at a fixed point slightly above the speaker like the music is a document he is reading rather than something meant to be felt.
The track ends. Thirty-two seconds of silence follow it.
"No," he says.
Chansung shifts in his seat. "The key change in the bridge was something we were particularly excited about, the production team felt it added a real sense of-“
"It's not bad. It’s just not right,” Seongje says. He finally looks at you. "Sing something for me."
You blink. "The track is right there."
"I heard the track." He gestures vaguely at the speaker. "Sing something. Anything. Whatever you were singing this morning."
Your manager Jisoo makes a small sound beside you.
"I wasn't singing this morning," you say.
"Then yesterday. Whenever you last sang something because you wanted to, not because someone was recording it."
You think of the voice memo you recorded at two in the morning three weeks ago, sitting on your bathroom floor because the acoustics were good and you couldn't sleep and there was a melody circling your head that wouldn't resolve. Then you look at this room full of people and you sing four bars of Sunshine, Sunshine instead, a cappella, just to give him something to work with.
"Lower," he says.
"It's written for my range."
"I'm not asking about the song. Drop it an octave and do it again."
The melody transforms into something your chest has to work for, something that sits in the back of your throat rather than the front of it. Four bars. Twelve seconds, maybe.
Seongje is very still.
Then he picks up his pen, writes two words on the notepad in front of him, and turns it to face Chansung.
"What does it say?” you ask.
Neither of them answers immediately, which is its own answer.
"What does it say?" you repeat.
Chansung turns the notepad toward you.
Sexy concept.
The silence that follows is the loudest thing that has happened in this room all morning.
"Your submission was written for a group," Seongje says, without looking up. "Four other voices, a concept that only works as a unit. What I just heard from you in that octave has nothing to do with Blossom. That belongs to you."
"I can't pull off sexy." The words come out before you can arrange them better.
"I didn't ask if you could pull it off."
"Because you are not the one who has to."
"Chansung." He caps his pen and looks straight at you. "Play me her fancam from the Inkigayo performance last March."
Chansung pulls it up on his laptop and turns the screen. You know the one. You know every frame of it. You were in the center, the camera finding you every eight counts, and you were doing exactly what the choreographer told you to do, which was be bright and accessible and pleasing.
Seongje watches twelve seconds of it and stops the video.
"That part." He points at the frozen frame. "Right there. You dropped the smile for exactly two seconds because you were listening to the bass line change." He taps the screen. "That is not a cute concept face. You made that face because the music did something to you and you forgot to perform for a second."
Your throat tightens.
"Oh," says one of the junior A&R staff at the end of the table, very quietly, like something has clicked into place for him.
"Oh my god," says the other one, slightly louder.
Chansung is nodding the way he nods when he is already composing the press release in his head.
"It suits her perfectly," the first staff member says. "Why didn't we ever-“
"Because you were looking at what she was doing instead of what she was about to do.” Seongje picks up his coffee. “I will take the full project."
"I am in the room," you say.
"I know," he says.
I haven't agreed to anything." The words come out sharper than you intended but you can’t help it. This stranger showed up four minutes late and now he thinks he can dissect your entire career in one sentence. You have been doing this for five years. Your image has been carefully constructed and maintained through comeback after comeback. No producer who couldn’t even arrive on time should be able to unravel it this quickly.
The protest sits on your tongue ready to be spoken. Except the bass line change from the Inkigayo stage is still lodged somewhere in your chest like a physical object. The way your voice sounded in that lower octave has not stopped replaying in your head since you heard the recording. A terrible suspicion creeps in that he knows exactly what both of those things are doing to you right now, that he can see the curiosity you are trying to bury under professional skepticism.
Your gaze shifts to Chansung for backup or at least solidarity.
Chansung’s posture has relaxed. One hand rests on the table near the portfolio like he is already planning which photos to use for the concept shoot. The betrayal of it makes your jaw tighten.
"Fine," you say. The word tastes like defeat. "But I want approval rights on the final direction."
Seongje has already turned back to his notepad before you finish speaking. His pen moves across the page in quick efficient strokes. Notes get added to whatever framework he has been building this entire meeting.
"Sure," he says without looking up. The tone carries the easy agreement of someone who has no intention of honoring what they just promised, like he is humoring a child who thinks they have negotiating power.
Your fingers curl against your thigh under the table where no one can see.
────୨ৎ────
The second meeting is in the same conference room, which you are beginning to resent on principle.
Seongje arrives on time. The punctuality gives you nothing to be quietly annoyed about before things officially begin. He sets his laptop on the table and pulls a small portable drive from his jacket pocket. The drive slides across the table toward you.
"Reference tracks," he says. "Listen to all of them before you say anything."
You don’t even bother reaching for the drive. "Good morning to you too."
He opens his laptop without acknowledging the comment.
Chansung has developed a new habit of sitting precisely between the two of you like a human buffer. He clears his throat now and attempts to restore some semblance of professional courtesy. "Today we are narrowing down the creative direction. Seongje has prepared some references, and we thought it would be useful to-"
"I have references too," you say. Your own laptop opens and the screen turns toward Seongje. A mood board you spent four hours building last night fills the display. Clean lines and soft lighting create something that walks the border between the image you have and the image they want. It’s a version of the concept that does not require you to become someone unrecognizable. "This is what I think we could be working toward."
Seongje glances at it for approximately three seconds.
"No," he says.
"You looked at it for three seconds."
"I didn't need longer." He nods at the drive still sitting in front of you. "Listen to the references."
The drive gets picked up. You put it in your laptop and open the first file with more force than necessary.
The track is nothing like what you expected. Slow and low, it builds around a bass line that takes up more space than the melody does. The vocal sample sitting on top is not pretty in any conventional sense. The voice sounds like it has been somewhere and came back changed.
You close the file after ninety seconds.
"That is not my style," you say.
"Not yet," Seongje clarifies.
"Not ever. My fanbase is not going to follow me into whatever that is." The gesture you make toward the laptop encompasses the entire concept he seems to be building.
"Your fanbase followed Blossom. Blossom doesn't exist anymore. You are building a new fanbase. The old one is a bonus if it comes along, not a blueprint."
The junior A&R staff are very still at the end of the table. Nobody seems to be breathing.
"I have two hundred thousand people who have followed my career for five years," you huff, suddenly angry. "That’s the foundation of everything the label has invested in, and if we alienate them with a complete image overhaul then we’re gambling with the only one I have."
Seongje glances at Chansung. "She's not wrong about the risk."
You blink, surprised he even had the ability to agree with you.
"She's wrong about the solution," he continues. You sigh. You knew it was too good to be true.
His hands pull the laptop toward himself and open the second reference file. "The answer isn’t to stay inside the old image to keep the old audience. The answer is a transition that gives the existing audience somewhere to go."
He turns the screen toward you. A chart fills the display with streaming numbers across a three-year period. The artist whose name you recognize stares back from a thumbnail photo. "She had a cute concept for four years before doing a full pivot at twenty-three. She lost thirty percent of her casual listeners in the first month but gained them back within a quarter, plus the new audience on top. The music was good enough that people followed it."
"She isn’t me," you argue.
"Correct. Her voice is less interesting than yours."
The room goes quiet in a different way than it has before. The junior A&R staff exchange glances.
"You don't know my voice well enough to say that. You heard me sing for twelve seconds in this room last week." The compliment feels fake coming from him.
"Fourteen seconds," he says. "And yes, I do."
"That is exactly my point. You don’t know me. You walked in here with a decision already made based on fourteen seconds and a fancam.”
"Then what do you actually want?" He closes the laptop. His full attention lands on you and it carries an uncomfortable weight. "Not what's safe or what keeps the label happy. What do you want the music to do when someone hears it?"
"I want people to feel something," you say. The answer is true but also a lie at the same time.
He looks at you for a long moment while his expression remains unchanged. "That's not an answer. That's what everyone wants. Try again."
"I don't have a better answer for you right now." Your hands flatten against the table on either side of your laptop.
"Then we have a problem," he says as his coffee cup lifts to his mouth without him drinking from it yet. "I can't build a direction around an artist who doesn't know what she wants the music to be."
"I know what I want it to be. I want it to be..." The words trail off as you stop yourself mid-sentence. The mood board is still open on your laptop and your eyes drop to it. "I want it to feel like me."
"The mood board doesn't feel like you." He sets the cup down.
"You don't know what feels like me." The defensiveness in your voice has become obvious now. "What do you even want from me?"
Seongje leans back in his chair and the leather creaks under his weight. "For you to stop performing in the studio."
"I am a performer. That is literally what I do for a living." Your spine straightens in response.
"That’s it. You perform for the crowd, not for yourself," he corrects. "The music I'm building will not work if the person singing it is managing everyone else's reaction to her the whole time.”
“That’s a very easy thing to say to someone whose entire career was built on being likable," you scoff.
"I’m not asking you to change your identity. I am asking you to separate your music from it,” he continues. "The problem is that you think your music has to be your identity and that every song you release has to represent the totality of who you are as a person. The music is part of you, not all of you.”
You have no idea what to say to him or how to argue against something that makes this much sense. Every meeting with him goes like this. You walk in prepared for one conversation and he tilts the entire axis of it before you realize what is happening. The ground keeps shifting beneath you and you keep losing your footing.
His laptop opens and the sound of keys clicking fills the quiet as he types something. A few seconds pass before a soft chime indicates an email being sent.
"I just sent you the rest of the references," he says while his eyes stay on his screen. "Listen to all of them before our next session. Pay attention to how the music makes you feel.”
You pull out your phone once everyone leaves and open the email to find six audio files attached. The subject line reads simply: "Listen with headphones."
You download the first file.
────୨ৎ────
The references he sends are forty-three minutes of music you would never have found yourself.
You listen to all of them sitting cross-legged on your studio apartment floor with your laptop open and the lights off because somehow the dark makes it easier to hear things properly. Track after track, the same aesthetic running through all of them like a thread pulled tight. Low tempos, with negative space in the production where most music would fill in the gaps.
You listen to the whole thing twice. Then you sit in the dark for a while.
The problem is not that the music is bad. The problem, the one you cannot say out loud in a conference room, is that it makes sense. Not for the image you have built and maintained for five years or for the fanbase that knows your name because of synchronized choreography and matching pastel outfits, but for something inside you that you have carefully buried inside you when the label first told you to do a cute concept.
You open a new browser tab and sit there for a moment. Then you type: clubs in Mapo idols frequent.
It takes you twenty minutes to get ready. You tell yourself this is a reasonable and professional thing to do, gathering information, field-testing a concept before committing to it in a studio with Geum Seongje watching you through the glass. If you walk into a room dressed the way his references suggest and nobody looks at you, then you will have concrete evidence that the concept does not work. Concrete evidence is something even he cannot argue with.
The cab drops you outside at eleven-fifteen. Inside, the music is bass-heavy and continuous, and the lighting is dark enough that your eyes take a moment to adjust.
You find a spot at the bar and order something without tasting it.
This is the part where you did not think far enough ahead. In the version of this plan that existed in your apartment with the lights off, you walked in and either things happened or they didn't and you had your answer. You didn’t account for the specific loneliness of standing alone at a bar in a club at eleven-fifteen on a Wednesday, nursing a drink you don't want, performing casualness for an audience of nobody.
Blossom used to come to places like this together. All five of you in a corner booth, Jiyeon ordering for everyone, Haerin stealing fries from the platter, the particular noise of four other people who knew your face without the stage makeup on. You hadn’t thought about that in a while. You think about it now, standing here alone. You finish your drink and order another one.
The second drink is when he sits down.
He’s attractive in a generic, well-maintained way, wearing a shirt that costs money. He smiles at you with the confidence of someone who does not often hear no.
"You've been standing here alone for twenty minutes," he says, leaning slightly toward you to clear the music.
"I'm aware," you say.
"That seems like a waste." He flags the bartender. "Let me get you something."
"I have something." You hold up your glass.
"Then let me get you something better." His smile doesn't shift. "I feel like you could use the company."
You’re deciding how to handle this when a hand settles at the small of your back.
"She's good," says a voice beside your ear.
You go completely still.
Seongje is looking at the man on the stool with the mild, unhurried attention he gives everything, glasses catching the bar light, one hand still at your back and the other wrapped around what appears to be his own drink. He looks like he belongs here in a way, the complete opposite image of how out of place you feel.
The man on the stool reads the situation in about four seconds. His smile stays but the confidence behind it drains out. "My bad," he says, and picks up his drink and leaves.
Seongje's hand drops from your back and leaves the space where it was feeling suddenly cold.
You turn to look at him but he is already facing forward with his elbow on the bar. His attention focuses on the middle distance like none of the last thirty seconds happened.
"What are you doing here?" you say.
"Having a drink." He takes a sip of whatever he's drinking and the ice clinks against the glass.
"Here specifically."
"It's a bar. They have drinks here." His tone suggests this should be obvious. He turns his head and looks at you with an expression that differs from the conference room version of him. The club lighting does something to the sharp lines of his face and softens the edges just enough that he reads like a different person standing in the same body.
"Go home," he says.
"I was here first." Your grip tightens on your glass.
"I know." He looks at you for one more moment that lasts long enough for you to feel it in your sternum before he looks away again. "Go home. This place isn’t for you."
You set your glass down on the bar with more force than necessary. The sound of it hitting the wood makes the bartender glance over. "This place doesn't suit me? You picked a sexy concept for me."
"I know." He swirls the liquid in his glass and watches it move.
"Both those things can’t be true," you say slowly in the way you speak when you are trying very hard not to raise your voice.
"They are. You just don't understand how yet." His fingers tap once against his glass in a rhythm that matches the bass line bleeding through the speakers.
The laugh that comes out of you is not polite. Several people at the bar nearby glance over in your direction. Seongje closes two fingers lightly around your wrist. He pulls you away from the bar without any particular urgency but with clear purpose.
"What are you doing?" You pull back against his grip but he is already moving. "I’m not going anywhere with you."
"You're making a scene." He navigates through the crowd like he knows exactly where he is going.
"I’m whispering."
"You're whispering loudly." He steers you down a short corridor off the main floor before stopping at a door marked Private which he opens without knocking.
The room inside is small and dim, with a lounge arrangement that sits empty. The door closes behind you both and the bass from outside drops to a low thrum through the walls. The sudden quiet makes your ears ring.
"You brought me into a private room in a club." Your arms cross over your chest defensively.
"You were about to get loud." He leans against the wall like he has all the time in the world.
You point at him with one hand while the other stays wrapped around your elbow. "Pervert."
"You came here to prove you couldn't pull it off," he says, seeing right through your plan.
"I was trying to understand the concept," you argue.
"The concept isn't about being in a place like this," he says. "It's not a club concept. What I sent you, those references, did any of them feel like this?"
He gestures vaguely at the walls, the muffled thump of the music outside.
"No," you admit, quietly and with great reluctance.
"You were trying to test the wrong thing." He pushes off the wall. "You can't field-test this in a club. It doesn't live here."
"You are still a pervert for bringing me in here,” you turn to leave, because suddenly all of the exhaustion from the night hits you all at once.
"There was a bouncer twelve feet away the entire time."
"A pervert with backup," you say, and push open the door before he can respond.
The bass hits you immediately, full volume, and you walk back through the club and out the front door into the cold without looking back. The cab you call takes four minutes and you spend all four of them standing on the pavement in the black dress telling yourself the heat in your face is from the noise inside and not from anything else.
────୨ৎ────
Three more concept meetings happen in the following two weeks, each one shorter than the last. The direction is set. The aesthetic is what it is.
His studio is in Mapo, on the fourth floor of a building that looks like it should contain a dental practice or a mid-tier accounting firm. There is no label signage anywhere. The directory in the lobby lists the fourth floor as a private recording space with no company name attached, just a unit number, which tells you something about the kind of person who works here. His name is not on anything.
The door code he texts you the night before is eight digits. You stand in the hallway and type it in and feel, for no reason you can justify, like you are entering somewhere you were not entirely meant to find.
The studio is not what you pictured. There’s a long desk crowded with two monitors, an audio interface, and a keyboard controller pushed to the far edge to make room for a legal pad covered in handwriting you cannot read from the doorway. Cables are bundled and labeled with small pieces of tape. Three empty coffee cups are lined up along the windowsill. One of the monitors has a sticky note on the bezel that says fix the low end on 3 in what you assume is his handwriting.
Seongje is at the desk with his back to you, headphones around his neck, clicking through something on the left monitor. He does not turn around.
"Sit down," he says.
The only other chair in the room is pushed against the far wall. You pull it up to the desk and sit.
He finishes what he is doing, rolls his chair slightly to the right, and pulls up a project file on the right monitor. The waveforms are dense, layered, more tracks stacked than you expected for something still in the working phase. He has been in here building this for a while. You look at the file name at the top of the screen.
YN_titletrack_v9.
Version nine.
"Instrumental first," he says. "Don't say anything until it's done." He hits play.
The track comes through the studio monitors. It’s different from what you’ve been hearing his references through laptop speakers for the past two weeks. The sub-bass sits below your hearing and registers in your sternum instead, a low persistent pressure that you feel before you consciously process it as sound. The opening is sparse, the bass and a hi-hat pattern land slightly behind the beat in a way that makes your body want to lean forward into the rhythm.
Then the melody comes in. It’s softer than the instrumental suggests it should be, sitting in a middle register that has room and warmth to it. There’s a moment in the pre-chorus where the bass drops out entirely for two counts.
The chorus builds slowly. It deepens, adding texture in layers, the melody folding into a lower harmony that runs underneath it and pulls the whole thing somewhere more serious than it started.
The second verse is tighter than the first. He has compressed something in the arrangement, pulled the space in slightly, and the effect is the feeling of something closing around you. The bridge strips everything back to the bass and a single vocal line, unharmonized, and the nakedness of it after the layered chorus is the most affecting thing the track does. It is over in eight bars and when the final chorus comes back in you feel the loss of that space immediately.
The track ends on a single sustained note that fades.
"It's good." The admission requires no effort because it is simply and completely true, and dressing it up would be embarrassing for both of you. "It's very good."
Something in his posture settles. Not pride or satisfaction in the way you expected it would look on him but more like the quiet release of a tension he was not visibly carrying.
He pulls up a new document on the left monitor and turns it toward you. "This one’s still a working draft. Nothing is locked."
You lean forward. The title track is called Under Your Skin.
The first verse opens cleanly, the language restrained, almost domestic in its specificity.
You leave your things on my side of the room
Like you're marking something
Like you already know I don't mind, I don't mind
That's the part I can't say out loud
You read it twice. It’s not explicit per say. Implication is more effective than statement, and the restraint of the first verse makes the turn in the pre-chorus land harder than it would have otherwise.
I've been good at keeping distance
You make it look so easy to close it
Come here, I said, come here
The repetition of come here sits in your chest the same way the bridge of the instrumental did, stripped and direct. You keep your face very still. The chorus arrives and the track stops being careful.
I want to get under your skin
Find the parts you don't let anyone near
Stay there I want to stay there
Tell me where it hurts I'll learn every single one
The second verse deepens what the first established. The language is still not technically explicit but it has stopped pretending to be innocent, the domestic specificity of the opening replaced by something more physical.
You run warm, always warm
I notice everything
The way you breathe when you're trying not to show it
I notice everything
The bridge has four lines.
Don't tell me to be careful
Don't tell me to slow down
You've been watching me the whole time
We both know what this is
You finish reading and sit back in your chair and look at the ceiling for a moment.
"It's still good." You look back at the monitor. "It's also very."
"Very," he repeats, waiting.
You gesture at the screen. "You’ve written a song about sex."
He leans back in his chair. "The reading is up to the listener."
"Seongje." You point at the screen. "Explain to me how that is suggestive and not explicit."
He reads it again with the genuine focus of someone considering the question seriously. "It could be about emotional vulnerability."
"It’s obviously not."
"You're being a prude."
"I am being a professional." You sit up straighter. "I agreed to sexy. Not to whatever the bridge is doing."
He looks at you for a long moment. "Are you actually going to be able to sing this?"
"I can sing it."
"You look like you've never heard a song with a double meaning before." He tilts his head slightly. The studio lighting catches the edge of his glasses. "You're not seriously this sheltered. You've been in the industry for five years."
"Being in the industry for five years does not mean—"
"I'm just saying." He leans back in his chair. "You're acting like a virgin."
The word lands in the room and sits there. You open your mouth, unable to stop yourself from gaping at him.
"It was a joke," he scoffs, already turning back to the monitor. "Calm down."
"I know it was a joke."
"You're very red."
"It’s warm in here."
"The temperature is fine." He scrolls through the lyrics. "Look at the second verse, the meter is what I actually want your opinion on—"
"I'm not a virgin," you say.
The scrolling stops.
He turns his chair very slowly and looks at you. You avoid eye contact. The back of your neck is hot. You said it too fast and too loud, with the specific energy of someone who has proven the exact opposite of what they intended to prove. You know it, and he knows it.
"Okay," he talks to you in the same tone you would use with a toddler throwing a tantrum.
“The second verse,” you change the topic. “You wanted my opinion on the meter.”
He’s quiet for a moment. When he speaks again, his voice has lost its usual edges. “I shouldn’t have said that. It was a cheap joke.”
You weren’t expecting this. Three weeks of meetings have taught you to anticipate his deflections. You don’t know what to do with this plain acknowledgment. The lack of performance disarms you more than the apology itself.
“It’s fine,” you manage.
He accepts this with a small nod and turns back to the monitor. “The third line in the second verse runs long. Tell me if it feels natural to sing or if it needs cutting.”
You pull your chair closer to the screen and read the third line of the second verse.
You run warm, always warm
It sits cleanly in the melody in your head. The problem is not the meter. The problem is that the line means something different than it did sixty seconds ago, and Keum Seongje is eighteen inches away waiting for your professional opinion.
"It's fine," you say, in a perfectly level voice.
"Agreed," he nods and opens the next file.
────୨ৎ────
The break happens at a natural pause, him switching between project files and you reaching the limit of how long you can read suggestive lyrics with your face arranged into something professional. He gets up to deal with the coffee situation, which apparently involves a small machine on the shelf behind the desk that he operates with the quiet focus of someone who does this exact thing at the same time every day.
You roll your chair back and stretch your neck.
"I want to see the rest."
"Sure," he says, and sits back down.
He opens the second file and turns the monitor toward you.
The title is two words. Taste Test.
You read the title. You set your coffee cup down.
"That's just the title," he says.
You read the actual lyrics. You read them twice because the first time through you are not entirely certain you are parsing the Korean correctly, and the second time confirms that you are.
"I need a moment," you say.
You stand up and walk to the far side of the room and stand there with your hands on your hips facing the wall for approximately ten seconds. The wall has a small framed print on it, abstract, which you study with great attention while you locate your professionalism. Then you walk back and sit down.
"Next one," you say.
He opens the third file. Get Closer.
The opening line is deceptively simple. Four words, nothing technically explicit, but sitting inside the melody he has built for it in your head they land with a weight that is considerably more than the sum of their parts. You read the first verse without incident. You read the second verse. You get four lines into the bridge.
Don't keep the door between us
You know I can hear you breathing
Come here, just come here
Stop pretending you don't want this too
You stand up. You make it to the door this time before you turn around. Seongje watches the entire thing with his elbow on the desk and his chin resting in his hand, expression unreadable.
You walk back. You sit down. "All of them," you say. "Just show me all of them at once."
He opens tracks four, five, and six in sequence and pushes the monitor toward you without a word.
Track four is called Running Hot and opens with two lines that make the back of your neck prickle immediately.
You run warm, I run warmer
Come find out what that means
The chorus of track four does not bother with implication.
Track five is called After Hours and is structured as a conversation, call and response, the kind of song that requires two people to perform it.
Track six is called Stay and is the quietest thing in the folder, slower than the others.
You read all three without getting up, which you consider a genuine personal achievement, though by the end of track six you are sitting with your elbows on the desk and your face pressed into both palms.
The room is quiet. Down the hall, something from another studio moves through the walls at low volume.
"I'll edit them," Seongje says.
You lift your face. "What?"
"The other tracks. Pull the language back on a few of them." He is already opening the second file. "The title track is close to final but the rest have room to—"
"Don't."
He stops.
You look at track six still open on the screen. Stay is sitting there in plain text and the last two lines are still doing something to the inside of your chest that you are not going to examine right now. "These work. All of them. Don't water them down because I made a face."
He says nothing for a beat. Then, carefully: "I just want to make sure we're on the same page. Because two weeks ago-"
"I am aware of what I said two weeks ago." You pick up your coffee. "I am updating my position. People are allowed to do that."
He looks at you for one more moment, the corner of his mouth doing the thing you have started to recognize as the closest he gets to laughing, and then he turns back to his keyboard.
"Meter on the bridge of track two," he says. "It runs long."
You pull up Taste Test and read the bridge again. The bridge is still the bridge. You read it with professional detachment and only minimal damage to your composure. "Last four words. They're dead weight."
He makes the note.
"Track three, second verse, line five," you say. "Syllable count is off against the instrumental. You can hear it even when reading it cold."
He leans over and reads it, then pulls up the instrumental file and plays the section in question. Twelve seconds of music fills the room, the bass sitting in your chest the same way it did on the first listen. He stops it and makes a note. "Good catch."
"The call and response structure on track five," you say. "Is that intentional or a draft thing?"
"Intentional."
You look at the lyrics for After Hours on the screen. "That requires two voices. Are you planning a feature?"
"Something like that," he says, which is not an answer .
The session continues. Track four remains exactly as written. You read the chorus of Running Hot two more times over the course of the afternoon for purely professional reasons, and by the third time the initial heat in your face has downgraded to something that is almost, almost manageable.
Almost.
────୨ৎ────
The booth is smaller than it looks from the other side of the glass. You put the headphones on. Through the glass Seongje settles into his chair at the board, pulls the monitor toward him, and his voice comes through the cans a moment later, close and direct in a way that is slightly disorienting.
"Warm up first. Anything."
You run through your scales. Your voice sounds different here than it does in any rehearsal room you have worked in, the acoustic treatment catching every detail.
"Good," he says, when you finish. "Take it from the top of the first verse. Just the verse, don't push into the pre-chorus yet."
You find the melody in your head and come in on the count.
The problem is the bridge.
Specifically the third line of the bridge, which reads simply as "I've been waiting so long I've forgotten how to want anything else", and which you have now sung fourteen times across two hours with results that Seongje has described, in order, as: too bright, too controlled, too performed, too careful, too much like a ballad, too much like a jingle, and, most recently, too much like you are reading a grocery list.
"Again," he says, through the cans.
You breathe. You come in on the count.
Don't tell me to be careful
Don't tell me to slow down
I've been waiting so long
I've forgotten how to want anything else
We both know what this is
"Stop," he says.
"I know what the problem is,” You sigh, stopping him before he can start. “I don't know how to fix it."
"What does the line mean to you?" he asks.
"Wanting something for so long it becomes the whole of you," you answer. "Losing the ability to want anything else because the wanting has taken up all the available space."
"And have you ever wanted something like that?"
"That's not relevant," you say.
"It's the only relevant thing." He leans forward, elbows on the board. "The line requires a specific quality of longing. The particular feeling of something you have wanted for so long it has become structural, part of how you're built." He pauses. "If you haven't felt that you cannot fake it. The mic will hear the difference."
"I have felt longing before."
"Not like this," he says, and the certainty in it is not unkind but it is absolute. "This is not the longing of someone who is sad about missing something. This is the longing of someone who wants something long enough that the wanting has become its own kind of fever." He holds your gaze through the glass. "That is a very particular feeling and your voice does not have it yet."
The booth is very quiet.
"I don't have a reference point for it," your voice comes out quieter than you intended and more honest than you planned.
The studio is completely silent except for the low hum of the equipment.
You do not look up.
Through the glass you hear the subtle shift of his chair, the sound of him sitting back. He does not say anything for a long moment, long enough that you are constructing a full list of things he might say, all of them worse than the silence.
"That's the problem," he says finally. "I'm aware."
Another silence.
Then, in the same tone, unhurried and completely clinical: "I could give you that reference point."
Your first thought is that you misheard him. The headphones sometimes do something to consonants, compress them slightly. You have been in this booth for two hours and it’s possible that what he actually said was something logistical, something that your exhausted brain assembled incorrectly into the sentence you think you heard.
Your second thought is that you did not mishear him.
You look at him through the glass. His elbow is on the desk, face in its usual arrangement. He does not elaborate or follow it with anything that would tell you whether it is an offer or a producer solving a technical problem with the most direct available solution. The silence stretches.
You think about asking him to clarify. You construct the sentence in your head: what do you mean by that. Four words, professionally delivered, a reasonable request for clarification in a working context. You could say it. You should say it. You have the sentence fully assembled and ready.
He pushes his chair back, the casters rolling softly on the floor, and stands up. He doesn’t look at you as he walks around the console. He reaches for the door handle of the booth and you take a step back without meaning to, a purely physical response, your body making a decision slightly ahead of your brain.
The seal breaks with a soft thump of releasing pressure.
Suddenly he is in the booth with you. The small booth turns microscopic. He pulls the door closed behind him, and the world outside the glass ceases to matter.
He closes the distance in two deliberate steps. Now he’s standing in front of you, not touching, but the heat from his body is a tangible force. He looks down at you, his sharp eyes cataloging every micro-expression: the widening of your eyes, the quickening pulse in your throat, the way your fingers curl uselessly against the foam panel.
“You’re shaking,” he observes. His voice is lower here, without the mediation of the headphones.
“I’m not.”
“You are. Here.” He lifts a hand, fingertips stopping a centimeter from your throat. “And your breathing is all fucked up. You’re holding your breath, then taking these shallow little sips of air. You can’t sing like that.”
“I know how to breathe,” you whisper. The protest is pathetic.
“Do you?” He finally touches you. Just his index finger, under your chin, tilting your face up. The contact is electric, a jolt that travels straight down your spine. His skin is warm. “You know technique. You don’t know feeling. It’s a physical problem. So we solve it physically.”
His other hand comes up, palm flat against the panel beside your head, caging you in. You are surrounded by him.
“What are you doing?” The question is airless.
“Giving you a reference point.” His thumb strokes the corner of your mouth, a slow, deliberate pass. You do your best to resist leaning into the touch. “You said you lacked the experience. I’m providing the experience. Consider it vocal coaching, free of charge.”
He leans in. His mouth hovers near yours, sharing the same frantic air you’re exhaling. You’ve been kissed before, chaste, staged things for cameras or awkward, fumbling attempts in darkened vans. This is nothing like that.
“Have you ever been touched?” he asks, voice a rough murmur against your lips. You can’t speak. You shake your head, a tiny, shameful movement.
“Ever had a man’s hands on you? Here?” His thumb leaves your mouth and drifts down, tracing the column of your throat, over the frantic jump of your pulse, down to the neckline of your sweater. He hooks a finger in the fabric. “Or here?” His palm settles, heavy and warm, over the swell of your breast through the thick wool. You jerk as if scalded, a full-body flinch that he absorbs without moving.
“Fuck,” he breathes, and for the first time, the clinical edge slips, replaced by something darker, more intrigued. “You really are completely untouched.”
The humiliation is a hot wave. You squeeze your eyes shut.
“Don’t. Look at me.” He commands it. Your eyes fly open. “This isn’t something to be ashamed of. It just means every sensation is new. That’s what I need from you in there.” He nods toward the microphone. “That raw, unfiltered signal.”
His hand on your breast kneads once, slowly, and a shocked, thin sound escapes you. Your nipple tightens instantly under the layers of fabric. The sensation is utterly foreign, a line of pleasure that draws your belly tight.
“See?” He watches your face like a scientist. “That’s a physical response. You’re not supposed to think about it. Your body knows things your brain hasn’t caught up to yet.”
He drops his hand from your breast, and you almost whimper at the loss of contact, a reaction that horrifies you. But he’s not finished. His hands go to the hem of your oversized sweater. You grab his wrists, panic flaring.
“Wait—”
“Do you want to fix the bridge or not?” The question is brutal in its simplicity. It’s not about this. It’s about the song. It’s always about the song.
Your fingers loosen. You let your hands fall to your sides, clenched into helpless fists.
He pulls the sweater up and over your head in one smooth motion. The cool studio air hits your skin, and you cross your arms over your simple cotton bra.
“Stop hiding,” he says, and his hands wrap around your wrists, pulling your arms down to your sides. He bends his head, and his mouth finds the skin where your neck meets your shoulder. He bites.
The pain melts into a deep, throbbing heat that pools low in your abdomen. You feel yourself growing wet, a desperate betrayal between your legs.
“You like that,” he says against your skin. One of his hands releases your wrist and slides down your side, over the waistband of your jeans, to cup you between your legs. You buck against his hand, a shudder wracking your whole frame. Even through the denim, the pressure is intense and overwhelming.
“So sensitive,” he mutters. His fingers rub a slow, firm circle over the core of you. The friction is maddening. Your hips jerk, seeking more, and a ragged moan is torn from your throat. “There it is. That’s the sound. That’s the fucking sound I need on the track.”
He unbuttons your jeans. The zipper’s rasp is obscenely loud. He shoves the fabric down over your hips, just enough. His fingers slip beneath the edge of your plain cotton panties, and then he’s touching you, skin to skin.
You gasp, your head thudding back against the panel. His fingers are direct, exploring without ceremony. They slide through the slick heat he’s found, parting you, finding the tight, clenching entrance of your virgin body.
“Jesus,” he breathes, the clinical detachment faltering for a split second. His forehead rests against yours. “You're dripping wet.”
His thumb leaves your entrance, shifts upward, and finds the swollen, desperate knot of your clit. Your knees actually buckle. Only his body and the wall keep you upright.
“There,” he says, his voice rough in your ear. He begins to move his thumb in slow, deliberate circles. The pressure is perfect. “This is the part they don’t put in the songs. This specific, fucking needy ache.”
You are unspooling. Your hips are moving on their own, a frantic rocking against his hand, chasing the sensation. You’re making noises you’ve never heard before, guttural, hungry little whimpers that echo in the dead air of the booth.
“That’s it,” he coaxes, a dark, approving whisper. “Give me the real sound.”
The pleasure builds in a terrifying, glorious wave. Your muscles clench, breath coming in ragged gasps. The world dissolves into a blur of sensation: the scent of his skin and the perfect rhythm of his thumb. You are so close to something, teetering on the edge of a cliff you didn’t know existed. Your body is tensing, bowing, every cell straining towards a shattering release.
“Please,” you hear yourself beg, the word ripped from somewhere primal. “Oh, God, please…”
You’re right there. The wave is cresting, about to break.
He pulls his hand away.
The loss is so violent and abrupt, it’s a physical shock. A cry of raw protest tears from your throat. Your body convulses, empty and furious. The promised release snatched away leaves you throbbing and desperate, obscenely unfinished. You slump against the wall, trembling violently, humiliation and need warring in the pit of your stomach.
Seongje brings his wet fingers to his mouth and tastes them, his gaze locked on yours.
“Now,” he says, his voice low and graveled with a tension that wasn’t there before. “You know what wanting feels like.”
He steps back, giving a single, devastating once-over your heaving chest and the ruined look in your eyes. “Now let’s sing the bridge.”
────୨ৎ────
The month happens the way most significant things happen, gradually and then all at once, the individual sessions blurring into a continuous thing that you stop being able to separate into distinct memories somewhere around the third week.
What you can reconstruct, if you try: the first time you stayed past midnight because the bridge of track three was not sitting right in the mix and leaving felt wrong. The takeout containers that started appearing on the windowsill beside the coffee cups, a permanent installation, Seongje ordering without asking what you wanted after the second week because he had already catalogued your preferences. The studio couch, which is narrow and not particularly comfortable, on which you fell asleep twice and woke to find a jacket over you that was not yours.
The almost-moments are harder to reconstruct because almost-moments require identifying where they begin and end, and in this studio, in this month, they did not have clear edges. They accumulated instead, layering over each other the way tracks layer in the mix, until the texture of being in a room with Keum Seongje became something you had to consciously manage.
You did not name any of it. Neither did he. The work was always there to return to, and returning to the work was easier than examining what was accumulating in the space around it.
The lap situation has a clear origin, which is that the studio's listening setup is built for one person. There’s only one chair at the board and one set of monitors positioned at ear height for whoever is sitting in that chair, the sweet spot in the room calibrated to a single point in space. When Seongje plays back a finished section he sits at the board and listens from that point. The sound is exactly what he built it to be. When you stand beside him to listen, the perspective shifts enough that the mix loses something. The difference matters when you are trying to evaluate a finished take.
You stood for three sessions before your back made the decision for you.
The first time you sat on the edge of his chair he moved without comment to give you room, which somehow became you sitting properly on his lap and him with an arm loosely around your waist to keep you both on the chair.
It’s simply how you listen to the playbacks now, your back against his chest, his chin occasionally dropping to your shoulder when he is focused on something in the mix, the weight of his arm across your lap a thing you have stopped noticing the way you stop noticing.
That’s not entirely true. You haven’t stopped noticing. You have simply developed a working arrangement with the noticing, a way of letting it exist alongside the professional purpose of being in the room without letting it consume the professional purpose of being in the room.
It is an imperfect arrangement.
────୨ৎ────
The finished album takes six weeks from the first vocal session to the final master. On the last night he sends the final files to the label and then opens them again in the studio.
You climb into his lap. He moves his arm to accommodate you without looking away from the monitor. He pulls up the first track.
Under Your Skin fills the studio through the monitors and it is different from every previous listen, different from the rough mixes and the working drafts and the late-night playbacks where you were still fixing things. It is done. The decisions are made and locked. The version of you that is in this track is permanent now.
Seongje's arm is across your lap. You can feel his breathing against your back, slow and even, the breathing of someone giving the music his complete attention.
The pre-chorus arrives. You remember the fourteen takes of the bridge you two went through. The chorus opens up the way it always does, the production expanding outward, and your voice is doing what he built it to do.
His chin drops to your shoulder, the way it does when he is listening to something specific in the mix. You feel rather than hear the small sound he makes in the back of his throat.
"It's done," he says.
By track four you have stopped looking at the monitor. You listen to your own voice do things that six weeks ago you didn’t know your voice could do.
Seongje shifts slightly behind you. His chin lifts from your shoulder. You feel him turn his head and you are fairly certain he’s looking at the side of your face rather than the monitor, but you don’t turn to confirm this.
Track five begins and you are not prepared for it, which should not be possible given that you already recorded it. After Hours in its final form is the most intimate thing you have ever heard your own voice do.
You remember recording the pre-chorus. You remember the specific quality of Seongje's silence through the glass after the first clean take, the way he sat very still at the board for a moment before reaching for the talkback button. You remember him saying, simply, that's the one, and the flatness of his voice when he said it.
The chorus arrives and it is the most explicit thing on the album, the language finally abandoning the restraint that the other tracks maintained, direct in a way that made you stand very still in the booth the first time you read it and very still again now, listening to your own voice deliver it with a conviction that still surprises you.
Tell me what you want
Don't dress it up, don't make it pretty
I want to hear you say it
All of it
Tell me what you want from me tonight
I can take it
Tell me
The track ends without a resolution, the two channels falling silent at different times, the right channel a half beat after the left, like one person leaving a room before the other has finished speaking.
You look at the monitor. The waveform for track five is complete, flat line at the end, the album continuing to track six automatically. You reach forward and stop it.
"There's no feature," you say.
"No," he says.
"You built the production around two voices." You look at the waveform. "There's a space in it. You built a space for another voice and you never filled it."
"I remember. I’m taking it off the album," he says.
You turn your head to look at him, which requires some maneuvering given the current arrangement, but you manage it. His face is its usual face, attentive and composed.
"What? Why?" you’re more upset than you thought you’d be.
"It doesn't fit the sequencing."
"It fits the sequencing perfectly. You built the sequencing around it. Track four into track five into track six is the emotional arc of the whole second half of the album. You told me that yourself."
"The arc works without it."
"Seongje." You look at him steadily. "We spent four sessions on that track. The pre-chorus alone took two hours. Whatever your reason is, it is the best thing on the album and pulling it makes the record weaker. You know that."
"The record is strong without it."
"Who were you going to feature?”
"It doesn't matter."
"It clearly matters."
"The track is coming off," his voice has the finality he uses to end conversations, the tone that in the first weeks of the project made you feel like a door being closed. You know it better now. You know it is not always a door being closed. Sometimes it is a person standing very still in front of something they do not want looked at directly.
"It's my call," he insists. "I produced it."
"Release it as a solo track," you fight back. "No feature. Reformat the production and close the space in the mix, it works as a single voice. It's actually more interesting that way. You know it's more interesting that way."
The quiet that follows is different from the other quiets in this studio. It has heat in it. Seongje stands up.
"You want to talk about what's actually happening," he says, and his voice is low and even, "or do you want to keep talking about the track."
"Close the space in the mix," your voice is steady, which is an achievement given the current circumstances. "Release it as a solo track. If you pull it, I’ll go to Chansung."
The mention of the CEO’s name lands like a thrown glass. His eyes flash, a crack in the composed facade. “You’d really run to him?”
“To release my best work? Yes.” Your voice doesn’t waver. “It’s my name on the album. My career.”
“Your career.” He repeats the words like they’re a joke in poor taste. The space between you evaporates. He closes it in two swift steps, his hands coming up to frame your face, his grip not painful but inescapable. “You think this is about your career?”
His mouth crashes down on yours.
He bites your lower lip, sucks it into his mouth, and you gasp against him. Your hands fly up, clutching at the front of his shirt, the fine cotton twisting in your fists. He breaks it as suddenly as he began, breathing harshly, his forehead pressed to yours.
“It’s a song,” you pant, your own breath coming in short, sharp bursts.
“It’s our song.” He spits the words. “That gasp in the bridge? At 2:47? That’s the sound you made when I had my fingers inside you. That’s mine.” His thumbs dig into your jawline. “You want to release that? You want the whole world to hear exactly how wet you got for me in that booth? To play it on the radio while they drive to work?”
Heat floods your cheeks, but a different heat coils low in your belly. “They won’t know.”
“I’ll know.” He shakes you, just once. “Every time I hear it, I’ll see you against that wall. I’ll remember how you shook. You want to let strangers get off to the sound of you coming apart?”
“Stop it.”
“Or what?” His voice drops to a seething whisper. “You’ll run to Chansung and tell him what, exactly? That your producer won’t let you release the song he fucked the performance out of you for? You think that helps your ‘sweet member’ image?”
The slut-shaming is crude, effective. It reduces the raw, terrifying intimacy of those sessions to something cheap and dirty. It makes you feel cheap. And yet, your body betrays you, a treacherous pulse throbbing between your legs. He sees it. He always sees it.
“You’re a fucking hypocrite,” he growls. “You cling to that demure little act, but you begged for it in that booth. You came against my hand like a starved thing. Now you want to package that and sell it.”
“That’s not what it is!”
“It’s exactly what it is.” He releases your face, his hands sliding down to your waist, yanking you hard against him. You feel the rigid proof of his anger straining against his slacks.
He grinds himself against you. A ragged moan escapes you, humiliation and arousal twisting together into one inseparable knot. Your head falls back, and his mouth finds your throat.
His teeth sink into the soft skin beneath your jaw, a sharp claim that draws a gasp from your lungs. You push at his chest, but the motion was weak, your body arching into the brutality of his mouth instead of away from it.
“You’re turning me into one of them,” you spat, the words trembling. “You wanted this. A marketable slut.”
He released your throat with a wet sound, leaning back to look at you. His eyes held a weary, cynical amusement.
“Maybe the concept just needed the right material.” He ground himself against you again, the hard line of his erection a blunt demand through the fabric. “We haven’t even fucked yet, Y/N, but you’re fine with the whole country listening to you sound like a desperate little thing begging for it.”
You shoved him, hard enough this time that he took a single step back, his hands falling from your waist. The space between you crackled with violent, unsaid things.
“I’m not desperate,” you said, but it sounded thin.
“Aren’t you?” He laughed, a short, harsh bark.
Your calves hit the edge of the couch and you collapsed onto it, looking up at him as he loomed over you. He undid his belt with a sharp, metallic rip. He pushed your skirt up your thighs, hands rough and efficient.
His fingers hooked into the sides of your plain cotton panties and tore them down, the fragile material yielding with a soft sigh. The cold air of the studio kissed your exposed skin, making you flinch. You were spread open before him, utterly revealed, and the clinical glare of the desk lamp left nothing to the imagination.
“See?” he said, his voice low. “You’re dripping. For a man who’s done nothing but use you for a song. That’s not desperate?”
You had no answer. Your body was a traitor, slick and throbbing, clenching around nothing.
He watched you, his eyes dark and unreadable, before lowering himself to his knees on the floor between your spread legs. You tried to close your thighs, a last instinct of modesty, but his hands clamped on your knees, holding you open.
“Don’t,” he said, the word flat. “This is what you’re selling, remember? Let’s see the product.”
He leaned forward, his breath hot against your inner thigh. So perfect and untouched,” he murmured, a mockery of wonder.
One hand left your knee. You heard the rustle of his slacks, the tear of a foil packet. You squeezed your eyes shut.
“Look at me.” The command was absolute.
You opened your eyes. He was sheathing himself, his expression focused, almost bored. The sight of him sent a jolt of pure animal fear through your veins. It was too much. You were too small.
“I can’t,” you whispered.
“You can.” He moved closer, the head of his cock pressing bluntly against your entrance. The pressure was immense, a fullness that promised to split you open. You cried out, a sharp sound of protest, and your hands flew to his wrists, nails digging into his skin.
He stilled, but didn’t retreat. “Relax.”
“It won’t fit,” you gasped, panic clawing up your throat.
“It will.” He shifted, removing himself, and you felt a dizzying mix of relief and shameful loss. He spat roughly into his palm, the crude sound echoing, and brought his wet fingers back to you.
One finger pushed inside you, deeper than before, a slow, relentless invasion. Your body resisted, clenching tightly around the intrusion, a sharp burn accompanying the stretch. He swore under his breath. “So fucking tight.”
He began to move his finger, a slow in-and-out. The burn began to soften, your body reluctantly yielding, betraying you with a fresh slickness.
“See?” he said, his voice low. “Your body knows what to do. It’s just your brain that’s scared.”
He added a second finger. The stretch was intense, a burning pressure that made you gasp and arch off the couch. He scissored them inside you, stretching the tender, virgin flesh.
“That’s it,” he coaxed darkly. “Take it. Just like you took my direction in the booth. Open up.”
He crooked his fingers, searching, and found a spot that made you jolt. A shocked, sharp sound was punched from your lungs. He pressed it again, circling it, and your hips gave a helpless, involuntary jerk. A broken sob escaped you.
“There,” he breathed, a hint of triumph in his voice. He worked you open, his fingers pistoning with a ruthless rhythm, stretching you until the initial burn faded into a hot, slippery ache. Your cries softened into moans.
The sound you made when he withdrew his fingers was a wet, obscene gasp in the quiet room. Your body clenched around nothing, a reflexive protest against the sudden emptiness. Your mind was a storm of shame and want, the sharp bite of pain from the stretching already softening into a deep, throbbing ache. He watched you, his eyes tracing the glistening evidence of your arousal on his fingers before he wiped them casually on the leg of his slacks.
“Up,” he stepped back, giving you space to rise on trembling legs. Your skirt fell back down, a flimsy veil over your utter exposure. The torn cotton of your panties lay on the floor near the couch, a stark white flag of surrender. You couldn’t look at them.
He was already moving, his back to you as he walked around the desk. You watched his hands, those same hands that had just been inside you, as they reached for a piece of equipment.
It was a microphone. A sturdy, professional condenser model on a short stand, one of several he kept nearby for when a melody or a lyric struck and couldn’t wait for the booth. He placed it carefully on the cleared edge of the desk, adjusting the angle with a precise twist. The small red power light winked on.
He looked at you over the expanse of black glass and scattered papers. “Come here.”
Your feet carried you forward on autopilot. You stopped in front of the desk, the cold edge pressing into your thighs.
“Turn around,” he said. “Bend over. Put your hands flat on the glass.”
You turned, facing away from him, toward the darkened window that reflected a ghostly, fractured version of the room. You saw the lamp, the couch, the torn underwear on the floor. You saw your own wide, dark eyes in the glass. You leaned forward, the position forcing your hips back, your spine into a deep curve. The cool, smooth surface of the desk met your palms. Your cheek pressed against it a moment later. The scent of lemon polish and old dust filled your nose.
One hand settled heavily on the small of your back, pinning you in place. The other gripped your hip, his fingers digging into the bone.
The blunt, thick head of his cock nudged against your entrance, still slick from his fingers and your own arousal. You tensed, every muscle locking.
“Don’t,” he warned, his breath hot against your ear. “You’re ready. Take it.”
He buried himself deep inside you, letting you feel every inch of him, letting your body convulse around the sudden, shocking intrusion. Your cry echoed off the hard surfaces of the office, decaying into a series of ragged, wet sobs.
“Fuck,” he groaned into your hair, the word vibrating through his chest and into your back. “You’re so fucking tight.”
He pulled back almost all the way, the drag a new, shocking friction, and slammed back in. The force of it drove you forward an inch on the desk. His hips slammed against your ass with a wet, meaty sound that was obscenely audible over both your breathing.
He was hitting something deep inside, a place his fingers had only teased. A broken, gasping moan fell from your lips.
“That’s it,” he snarled, his voice rough with exertion. “Let me hear it.”
And you did. You were so, so loud. Every slam of his body into yours punched another sound out of you, a sharp gasp, a choked sob, a high, keening wail you didn’t recognize as your own. You were crying, tears smearing the glass under your cheek, but you were also pressing back against him, meeting his thrusts with a desperation that shamed you.
He shifted his angle slightly, and on the next downward drive, he struck a place that made your vision whiten. A shattered, screaming cry ripped from your throat, echoing wildly in the room.
His hand left your hip. You heard a faint click. Then his fingers were in your hair, fisting painfully, yanking your head up and back. He forced you to look into the dark window at your own reflection.
“Look at you,” he panted, never breaking his rhythm. “Look at what you are. Not the sweet little idol. This. A messy, noisy, desperate little fuck.”
You wanted to deny them, but your body was proof. You were clenching around him, milking him. The coil in your belly was winding to a breaking point, fueled by the overwhelming friction and his degrading praise.
“You’re gonna come,” he stated, as if reading the tremors building in your thighs. “Come on my cock. Let the whole building hear you.”
He reached around your hip, his thumb finding your clit, swollen and exposed. He pressed, hard, and rubbed a rough circle.
Your back arched wildly against his restraining hand. A raw cry was torn from your very core, a sound so loud and ragged it scraped your throat. Your inner muscles clamped down on him in frantic, fluttering pulses, gripping him like a vise.
The feeling of you climaxing around him was the trigger. With a guttural groan that was pure animal satisfaction, he buried himself one last time, grinding deep. You felt the hot, sudden rush of his release inside you.
He held there, both of you locked together, shuddering. The only sounds were the ragged symphony of your breathing and the faint, electronic hum of the equipment.
Slowly, he softened and slid out of you. You heard him dealing with the condom, the soft toss into a trash can.
You couldn’t move. Your forehead was back on the cool glass, body trembling.
You saw his hand in the reflection. He reached for the microphone on the desk beside your head. He pressed a button. The red light went off. He had recorded it.
You pushed yourself up from the desk, your arms shaking violently. The cool air of the studio hit the wet mess between your thighs, a disgusting reminder. You turned to face him, your body screaming in protest at the movement. He was calmly wrapping the microphone cable around his hand, his expression unreadable.
“You… you recorded that?” Your voice was a hoarse shred of itself.
“I record everything.” He didn’t look at you, placing the mic back on its stand. “It’s a studio. That’s what I do.”
A hot, cleansing fury boiled up through the shame and the ache. It cut through the daze. “You’re sick.” The words were a whisper, then a shout. “You’re a fucking pervert!”
He finally looked at you, his sharp eyes assessing. “Am I?”
“You get off on this! On degrading me. That’s what this is!” You gestured wildly at the desk, at your own body, your voice cracking. “It’s not about the music. It’s about you being a twisted, controlling pervert!”
“That performance, right now, was the most honest thing you’ve ever done. I wanted the real thing.”
“That’s not me!” you screamed, the tears coming hot and fast now.
He walked to the laptop, his movements unhurried. He tapped a key, and the screen bloomed with a waveform. He clicked play.
The room filled with the raw, intimate cacophony of your own pleasure. First, the wet, slick sound of his fingers working inside you, obscenely amplified. Then your sharp, hitched breathing, the muffled sob against the leather couch. Your own voice, pleading “I can’t” in a tremulous whisper you hardly recognized.
You clapped your hands over your ears, but it was useless. You were hearing the pure need in the guttural moans that followed each brutal thrust.
“You set me up,” you whispered, the fury gone, replaced by a cold, sinking horror.
He closed the audio file. “You chose to come here. You chose to fight for the track. You chose to push. Your body chose to respond.”
Your hand moved before you could think. The slap cracked through the room. His head snapped to the side. A slow, red bloom appeared on his cheekbone.
He didn’t react. He just turned his head back, absorbing the shock, his eyes never leaving yours. A faint, almost approving smirk touched his lips. “Good.”
Then his hands were on you again. One palm cradled the back of your head, fingers tangling in your sweat-damp hair. The other splayed against the small of your back, pressing you into him. His mouth found yours.
You fought it for a second, teeth clenched, before a broken sound vibrated in your throat and you opened for him. He walked you backward until your knees hit the edge of the heavy steel desk. He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged.
He didn’t bother with a condom this time. He just gripped himself, gave two rough, slick strokes, and guided his head to your sore, swollen entrance. He pushed in with a deep thrust that made you gasp, your back arching off the cold metal.
Your body, despite everything, rose to meet his. A ragged, pathetic moan escaped you with each drive. You were wet for him again, a fresh, hot slickness that eased his passage and betrayed your every protest.
“This is the deal,” he grunted, his rhythm stuttering as he pushed deeper. “You want the art that matters? You pay for it here. I’ll give you a masterpiece to show the world. That’s the transaction.”
“That’s it,” he hissed, feeling your internal muscles begin their frantic flutter. Your legs wrapped around his hips, ankles locking, pulling him deeper into the mire of your own betrayal. “Come on it. Come on the truth.”
Your cunt clamped around him in rhythmic pulses, milking him desperately. It triggered his own release. He slammed into you one final, crushing time and groaned as he emptied himself deep inside your clenching heat.
He pulled out slowly. A gush of his spend followed, pooling beneath you. He found a box of tissues from a drawer and tossed it onto your stomach.
You mechanically cleaned yourself, wadding the tissues and letting them fall to the floor.
He was back at the laptop, his back to you. “Fine. The track stays on the album. Go home. Shower. Be back at ten for vocal comps. We’re finishing the album.”
You walked to the door on numb legs. Your hand paused on the handle.
“The recording,” you said, not turning around. “The raw file.”
You heard the clack of a single key. “Deleted.”
You didn’t believe him. You knew you would never speak of it again. You opened the door and stepped out into the sterile, bright hallway.
The demo he’d played earlier was still on the laptop, the track now irrevocably fused with the memory of your own screams. He highlighted the file: YN_AFTERHOURS_TAKE_H_FINAL.
He changed one letter. The H became a J.
YN_AFTERHOURS_TAKE_J_FINAL.
────୨ৎ────
The album drops on a Friday.
By Saturday morning it has charted in eleven countries. By Saturday afternoon the title track has two million streams and the comments section of every platform is a variation of the same thing: who is she and I did not know she could do this and where has this been hiding.
By Saturday evening your phone has become a continuous notification, buzzing against every surface you set it on. Chansung calls three times. The third call you answer.
"The numbers," he says, and then stops, like the numbers are too large to follow with a complete sentence.
"I know," you say.
"The label is—" Another stop. "There are no words."
He mentions a celebration dinner on Monday. Full label team, management, A&R, the marketing department who spent three months building the rollout. You agree to Monday. You hang up.
You sit on the floor for a while with your back against the bed and your phone face up on your knee, watching the notifications come in. Streaming numbers. Comment screenshots. A fan-made compilation of reaction videos set to the title track that someone has already edited together and posted, which you watch twice.
Seongje does not call. Seongje does not text.
You are not waiting for him to.
────୨ৎ────
The message arrives at 2 a.m.
A link. Below it, eight characters: the password.
Below that, a single word: Congratulations.
You sit up.
You look at the message for a moment, clicking it when you should probably wait. It’s seven in the morning and you are not fully awake. Whatever is behind a password-protected link that Keum Seongje sent at two in the morning is probably something you should approach with more preparation than you currently have.
The drive opens. It has an audio file, the filename a string of numbers with no title attached, the way his working files always look before he names them properly.
You put your earphones in and press play.
The opening is familiar. The bass line of After Hours settling into your sternum the way it always has, the production you spent six weeks living inside, the mix you know well enough to identify individual elements by the way they sit in the arrangement.
The difference arrives in the second half of the first verse, where the right channel comes in with the answer to your voice's question. It is his voice.
I'm not ready to go, he sings. His voice isn’t a performer's voice, not polished or produced in the way yours is, but it doesn’t need to be because he built the track around exactly what it is, something unguarded and direct, and the directness of it is worse than polish would have been.
You open the message thread.
You: what is this
You: why does it sound like that
You: you recorded yourself on it
Seongje: The mix needed something in the right channel. Go listen to the rest of it.
You: why did you put your voice on it
Seongje: Twelve now. Chile came through last night.
You: That's not what I asked.
Seongje: Congratulations on twelve countries. The label dinner is Monday. Get some sleep.
You: I'm still angry at you
Seongje: I know
You look at the word for a long moment. It is the closest thing to an admission you have ever received from him.
You lie back against the pillow and close your eyes.
Hello, how are you? Could you make something about a reader who has a niece who is a few months old and Kang Woo-young is with her?
᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ hold her for me.ᐟ.ᐟ
pairing: kang wooyoung x reader
wc: 1.0k
summary: you only asked Kang Wooyoung to hold your niece for a second. somehow, she ends up becoming his favorite person.
content warning: swearing
genre: fluff, comfort
A/N: yayy thank you for the request hehe it means alot to mee, hope you like this, sorry if its short and bad
Your laptop screen had been glowing for the past two hours straight, unfinished essays and assignments had been piled up while your phone buzzed with unread messages from your classmates asking if you started on the projects you forgot.
At this point, you felt like your head was gonna explode from stress. And somehow, things only got worse when your sister suddenly dropped your baby niece off at your apartment with a quick “I’ll be back later!” before disappearing.
“You’ve got to be kidding me..” you groan, rubbing the temple of your head while your niece happily chewed on one of your pens on your bed.
You were genuinely juggling everything at this point, your niece drooling on your shoulder while you were typing out essays when the sound of your apartment door unlocking makes you immediately look up. Kang Wooyoung barely glances at you before kicking his shoes off lazily.
“…Did you even sleep?”
“Does it look like I slept?”
Before he could even reply, your niece let out a babble from your shoulder, Wooyoung finally gets a proper look at her for the first time. The baby immediately reaches toward him with her tiny hands as if she already decided she already liked him.
“..Fuck no.” Wooyoung says immediately, taking a step back.
“Can you hold her?” you suddenly ask, looking at him with tired eyes,
“Absolutely not.” he immediately replies,
“Please,” you groan, adjusting your niece on your shoulder while trying not to look at the pile of unfinished assignments waiting to be done, “I just need like… five minutes?” you plead, “No.” he repeats, staring blankly at your niece
“Wooyoung.” you plead once more, “Hell no.” he shoots back, taking steps back as you walk closer to him.
Your niece suddenly lets out another excited babble while trying to reach him again.
“…See? She likes you!” you explain, trying to move closer to him.
“Thats a personal problem.”
Before Wooyoung could protest again, you carefully place your niece in his arms, while your niece clings onto him like a koala. Wooyoung immediately stiffens “…Wait–“ he protests.
He genuinely looks horrified holding her, like one wrong movement might break her, “…Why is she so fucking small.” he whispers, genuinely horrified, “Dont swear!” you scold him, smacking his mouth softly.
Your niece grabs onto his hoodie immediately while giggling and babbling, Wooyoung stares at the baby in confusion, thinking of what to do with the small child in his hands.
“Just sit with her for a bit,” you say while walking back to your desk with mountains of unfinished assignments,
Wooyoung looks down at the baby still clinging onto his hoodie before immediately looking back at you, “…And do what exactly?” he asks– genuinely confused, “I dont know,” you sigh while typing something in your computer, “just like, play with her or something?” Wooyoung stares at you blankly,
“Do I look like i know how to entertain a baby?”
“You’ll survive.”
You ignore his complaints, too busy finishing essays due at midnight while your niece sat happily in Wooyoungs lap playing with the strings of his jacket.
At first, the apartment stayed quiet except for the faint sound of your keyboard clicking. You were fully focused on your work when suddenly— click click click. Your eyebrows furrow slightly yet you try to keep focusing. Another clicking noise follows after that. Slowly, you glance up from your laptop and you see Wooyoung sitting stiffly on the center of your bed, awkwardly shaking one of your niece’s toys in her face.
Your niece immediately bursts into giggling while softly clapping at him.
“…What are you doing?” you ask slowly, trying to contain the grin forming on your face.
Wooyoung immediately stops.
“…Nothing.”
“You’re literally playing with her.” you say, smiling widely.
“No I’m not.” he immediately says while scratching the back of his neck.
Your niece lets out another excited babble while grabbing onto his hoodie again, Wooyoung looks down at her for a second before awkwardly shaking the toy again, another giggle leaves her immediately while you stare at them in disbelief, trying to stop the laugh thats forming.
Kang Wooyoung, the same person that beats people for money was now sitting on your bed making stupid clicking noises at a baby.
“…Dont look at me like that,” he mutters without glancing at you.
“Like what?”
“Like this is funny.”
“It is though.” you say while giggling at him,
Wooyoung clicks his tongue before gently fixing your niece properly on his lap before she falls sideways, the movement was surprisingly gentle and careful, almost natural— And that makes your chest soften a little bit.
After a bit, your niece suddenly grabs onto his finger with her hand, Wooyoung freezes immediately.
“You’re stronger than I thought.” he mumbles quietly you almost dont hear it.
You snort immediately “She’s a baby, Wooyoung.”
Your niece giggles as if she understood you.
After finally finishing all of your assignments, you let out a tired sigh before closing your laptop. The room was quiet now, well— except for the sound of your niece giggling and babbling nonstop. You glance up towards your bed and immediately pause.
Wooyoung was tiredly laying againts your pillows while your niece sat on his stomach happily grabbing his face while babbling and Wooyoung lazily stopped her grubby hands every now and then.
“…Stop trying to gouge my eye out kid.” he mutters while your niece giggles again, the sight weirdly softens your chest a bit before walking to them and placing your head on his shoulder.
One of Wooyoungs hand lazily traced circles while the other played with your niece.
“You know,” you start to mumble,
“Hm?”
“You’d actually make a pretty decent father one day,” you say, looking up at him while smiling.
“…What the fuck kind of sentence was that?” he says while looking down at you as if you just personally insulted him.
You snort suddenly.
“I’m serious though, just two hours ago you said you didn’t wanna touch her. But look at you now, you’re playing with her! She even likes you” you say while pinching your nieces cheeks softly, making her giggle and babble.
“That’s genuienly terrifying.”
Even when he said that, his hand still rested on your nieces back to steady her while she was playing with his jacket.
A/N: this req was act soo cute omg, idk if its a bit ooc thuough. anyways, thanks for the request!! it was so fun to make hehe
everyday things because they like you | whc characters x gn!reader one shots
pairings. Yeon Sieun. Ahn Suho. Oh Beomseok. Park Humin. Go Hyuntak. Kang Wooyoung. Geum Seongje. Na Baekjin. Baek Dongha. Do Seongmok. Jeon Yeongbin. Yeongi. Jeon Seokdae (omg new character) x reader
wc. tbe
genre./ contains. pre-dating. no warnings. FLUFF. everyone is whipped
note. back with my huzz (my laptop)
❀ YEON SIEUN
annotates your notes when you’re studying together
You were in the library together, your face almost even with the table, but Sieun wasn't commenting on it yet. The soft scribble of your pen against the paper in front of you was soothing, lulling you in like a sleep lullaby and you were getting drowsy.
“Do you want a pillow?” Ah, there it is.
You sighed, no fight left in you to bite back. “I need the letters to all have the same size.”, you mumbled, understanding Sieun’s frown hence you wouldn’t have been able to decipher that gibberish either had it not left your own mouth.
Sieun rested his eyes on your face for a few more beats before sighing and closing his own books. With a gentle tug he grabbed your note book and shuffled it over his own, calmly starting to write down some notes. “You can rewrite them later.”
❀ AHN SUHO
stands in front of your door to pick you up for a ride when he knows you can’t fall asleep
Had someone asked you if your boyfriend had a superpower, you wouldn’t waste a beat before claiming that he did. Suho had a sixth sense: he always knew when you lacked something.
One time you had forgotten your jacket on a late date night and started shivering in the cold, so he just gasped as he pulled his own windbreaker off his shoulders, revealing a thick sweater you hadn't seen on him before, and draped it over yours. “I had a feeling I should put on warm clothes.”, he joked.
When your stomach rumbled on your way home a few days later, Suho’s notification popped up in that exact moment with a casual invitation to join him for dinner.
He always knew what you needed and when you did. Like tonight.
You had tried a myriad of sleeping positions, food, TV and phone screens burning into your retinas and still, sleep failed to mantle you in.
When you had almost given up and decided to binge watch the new show everyone around you was glazing, a loud knock on your front door had you jolt.
You opened it, shivering against the cold air you had invited it, to reveal your friend. He wore a lazy grin as he handed you his extra helmet. "Trouble sleeping?"
❀ OH BEOMSEOK
asks you to punch the straw through the lid of his drink and offers you the first sip of his drink
You thought you were slick, stealing glimpses at his drink but little did you know that he was following every gaze that drifted towards his cup. Maybe you should’ve chosen a bubble tea as well, instead of an iced coffee.
The most suble smile tugged on Beomseok’s lips as he tipped his drink towards you, the liquid immediately rushing to the inclination. “Wanna put the straw in?”, he offered you, honey-drippingly sweet. You went to decline, but he’d seen through you.
“The lid always rips when I do it.” His pout was artificial and you called it, but the gesture made your heart squeeze, so you took the straw out his grasp and started unwrapping the plastic with a bustle.
“Tell me what it tastes like?” After a pointy look from you, he added: “I forgot what I ordered.”
You kept the tug on your lips at bay as you lazily covered the printed label, that bore the ingredients, with your hand.
❀ PARK HUMIN (BAKU)
wakes you up with a call
There was absolutely no sound in your room, or at least not detectable in your position, hence the pillow over your head drowned everything out, your breath included.
The vibration of your phone was barely there, at least ignorable for now—only it kept getting louder. You groaned, blindly feeling your mattress for your phone, but the sensation of victory was short lived as you swiped your thumb over the screen to accept the call.
“Don’t start singing.”, you immediately hoarsed, earning a scoff and a cut off version of what you could only assume was the intro of eye of the tiger.
“You overslept again.”, Humin all but barked into your ear, making you wince as you moved the phone a little further away from your face. “I’m in front of your door, so open up, yeah?” You could basically hear the grin in his voice.
With a sigh, you ditched the rest of sleep and shot up to check the time. 7:54.
“Humin.”, you drawled. “Now we’ll both be late.”
❀ GO HYUNTAK (GOTAK)
lets you win in basketball 🏀 (only thing he doesn't suck at btw)
The red letters on the display were going up with every toss that made it through the hoop, consequently Gotak’s were skyrocketing while you tailed him close behind.
His eyes kept glimpsing back at you, but the triumphant smile that was plastered across his face seemed a little too droopy at the corners. He wanted you to win.
“You only have like 5 shots left.”, you pointed out. You had seven. The one with the lower score had to pay for lunch — at least that was what you had agreed on.
When you had dunked the most recent one, your friend suddenly started to see double— or whatever other pretext he had come up with to excuse his sudden loss streak.
As your highscore blinked repeatedly, the hasty rhythm biting your vision, you turned to Gotak, cocking a brow at his smug expression.
“Don‘t you do this like professionally?“, you inquired at which he just opened his mouth and closed it soon after, unable to come up with an excuse.
“Did you seriously just let me win?” Your guess must‘ve hit bullseye, but Gotak waved your accusation with a flick of his hand.
“Name one reason why I should’ve done that.”
“Oh, you absolutely did.”, you concluded with a scoff. Gotak slid his hands into his jean pockets as he led the way out the arcade.
“I just wanted to be a gentleman.” That statement was worth your eyeroll.
“You‘re basically calling me poor.“, you shot back, making your friend groan.
“Guess who’s not getting dessert.”, he drawled, stopping short as he heard the beeping sounds emit from your phone. “Who are you calling?“
You ignored him, waiting for your other friend to pick up the call.
“Humin,", you whined. "guess who just called me fat.“
❀ KANG WOOYOUNG
eats your left-overs to soothe your conscience
The plate scurried across the table with a loud clatter, making Wooyoung’s head whirl up as he shifted his attention from his phone to you.
You sighed, at which he arched an eyebrow. “I’m full.”, you announced with a pout.
Wooyoung eyed your half eaten plate before looking back at you. “That’s like two bites. Just eat it.”
Easier said than done. “Don’t you think I would if I had the capacity?” He knew how much you hated left-overs, calling it a waste of food, so when you offered him your fork, he took it with a light groan.
“Are you aware that I have to do extra sessions to train this off?” His tone was accusing, but speaking with a full mouth failed to capture any bite in his words so you just nodded along.
“Yeah, that sucks.”
❀ GEUM SEONGJE
flanks u in video games
“Get next to me!” Your voice was booming, but the explosions spilling out the cushioned headphones made you doubt that any volume had left your mouth.
“I am next to you.” Seongje’s annoyed voice on the other hand was clear as day, hence you were on call with him.
The screen before you flickered as a grendade exploded right next to you. You barley managed to steer the remote to the side, too caught up looking for your friend’s avatar.
“No, you’re not. You’re tailing behind.”
When he had finally picked up the pace and landed next to you, you continued running, subtly glimpsing at his kill count. The gap between yours and his couldn’t have been any further.
“Where do you keep finding people to shoot? There’s no one around me.”, you wondered aloud.
The click of Seongje’s gun was loud enough for you to hear but you barely paid it any attention as you eyed your next loot.
As usual, you were oblivious to the gunmen that had caught up with you.
“Yeah, I wonder why.”, Seongje just huffed.
❀ NA BAEKJIN
let’s you pick the movie
The night was bustling with laughter and excitement as the people around you mingled together, awaiting the start of the entry to the movies.
Your eyes kept darting back to the groups, curiosity lingering in your chest. You hadn’t made any research on that film, but you had heard that people were awaiting it for a year now after an accidental leak of production scenes.
Baekjin had asked you to accompany him to the cinema tonight because he needed his mind off things and you were glad to comply, happily accepting his choice of movie. Psychological thriller. Easy to keep track of the plot.
He noticed your sway of interest. He really picked up on everything.
You hadn’t noticed Baekjin slipping back to the register to swap out the tickets, but when the screen announced room B for the movie you thought you were about to watch and you headed for it, Baekjin softly tugged on your sleeve as he stirred you into the opposite direction. “We’re not watching that one anymore.”
❀ BAEK DONGHA
gives you his jacket, knowing that your closet is filled with more of his stuff than yours
Dongha did a double take as you ascended from the stairs of your apartment complex, narrowing his eyes as he let his gaze sweep over your outfit choice.
You closed the distance to him in a swirl, showing off your new top, but his eyes were still stuck on your pants. “What?”, you asked him, a snicker escaping you at his raised brow.
He hooked a finger in the waistband of the washed out denim, ignoring your complaint as he pulled the material back to take a look at the faint tag. “These are mine.”, he concluded, eyes wide in disbelief.
You just smiled sheepishly, snapping the denim out of his hold as you flashed him your white teeth. “I know.”
The evening grew frowsy, but the vibes were too immaculate to call it a night already. So you found yourself hurled together with two of your friends, exchanging meaningless conversation that made you laugh in the ecstasy, mingling with the cold that ran through your veins while taking drags from the a cigarette you kept passing around.
Your shoulders were almost touching from the way your body tried to create a barrier from the chill and you jumped at the contact of cold polyester brushing your sensitive skin.
Dongha had draped his jacket over you, a trail of smoke following him around as he made his way back to his other group of friends.
“You know, I’m gonna keep this.”, you called over your back but to your comfort, he just dismissively shook his hand in your direction.
❀ DO SEONGMOK
puts your hair in a tie (has one around his wrist)
One thing about Seongmok that kept surprising you, no matter how often he’d proven it, was his gentleness.
You had been busy prepping food in your kitchen, when he’d rung the bell to simply announce himself before opening the front door and seating himself in one of your kitchen chairs.
He didn’t say anything (as usual), just let his gaze sweep over the arrangement of snacks you had prepared for your friends’ arrival in a few hours and grabbed a bunch, knowingly avoiding your pointy look.
After a while of cutting fruits, your hair had slipped from where you had tucked it behind your ear, crowding your vision and tickling your nose, in addition to almost dipping into your snacks.
The shift behind you was as noticeable as a man of his statue could be, shuffling behind you to gather your ends in a high ponytail. He raked his fingers around the shape of your hairline a few times to make sure he had caught each one before snapping the hair-tie around the hair three times.
He tugged on the end of the ponytail one last time, tipping your head back in the matter and you met his eyes as you faced him grinning down at you.
❀ JEON YEONGBIN
lets you copy his answers in a test
The ticking of the clock inside the classroom was starting to harmonise with the rhythm of your pen tapping against your desk—a subconscious show of the calmness that was resting in your bones.
You hadn’t bothered to glimpse down to your test in the past ten minutes, hence the questions weren’t gonna be easier to answer than they’d been the last time you checked, and the sheet wasn’t gonna be any fraction less blank either.
You had calmly giving up, when a harsh kick on the back of your chair had you jolt in your seat. The polyester scraped against the floor but it wasn’t loud enough to make anyone look up.
With a breathy sigh and a violently pumping heart, you turned, meeting your friend’s annoyed expression. Yeongbin had his eyebrows raised, muttering something along a curse as he tapped his pen against his fully scribbled paper.
While you gladly copied his answers, he held guard to check for anybody noticing.
❀ YEONGI
braids your hair after you’ve showered because she likes it wavy
Her fingers were soft where they tangled between your strands of hair, a light tug here and there reminding you what task she was up to. A familiar warmth seeped from her touch and it made your entire body shudder in delight.
“I’m gonna fall asleep like this.”, you half-heartedly complained, but your eyelids were kinda growing heavy.
Yeongi scoffed. “If you keep whining, I’m never going to braid your hair again.” You muttered a little sure, subtly shaking your head. Like she’d survive that.
With a yawn you dropped your face on one of her thighs, the foot of the bed she was sitting on steady behind your back as you leaned your weight against it.
❀ JEON SEOKDAE
offers you a piggyback ride when he notices that your feet hurt
You were walking for a while now, straight pulses of pain shooting up your legs and the way your achilles heel clung to the material of your padded shoes, you could already assume the crimson mess that would await you once you had slipped out of them at home.
Seokdae seemed less troubled with the path, his breath not as laboured as yours while he stole some glances towards you. His eyebrows were knitted and his jaw was tense, clearly, he’d been thinking.
Your friend had noticed the trouble your shoes gave you and after you declined his numerous offers to take a break, he was contemplating a new approach. You jumped when he drew his shoulders together in a mock-shudder.
“What’s wrong?”, you asked at which he just shrugged. “My back feels cold.”
The statement was so ridiculous, it pulled a laugh from you. His intentions were clear and you were too tired to tease him. “I’ll warm you up.”, you relented, already throwing your arms around his neck as he lowered himself to help you climb up.
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