[hyunsluv]

# ﹙ ㅤ𝓝   ۪ ⠀၇୧ ﹚

𝆣𝆣 𝃞 і ᥴᥲᥒ g᥆ ᥲᥒᥡᥕһᥱrᥱ і ᥕᥲᥒ𝗍 ︵ ͏ 𝓇

၇୧ ᥣᥱᥱ ⠀ׂ sһᥱ / һᥱr

rᥱ𝗊ᥙᥱs𝗍s ᥲrᥱ ── ᥴᥣ᥆sᥱძ ⠀ׂ

꒰ ࿇ ȷᥙs𝗍 ᥒ᥆𝗍 һ᥆mᥱ  ︵

ᥴ᥆ᥒ𝗍ᥱᥒ𝗍s ── ᥲ). 𝗍һᥱ ᥴᥲ𝗍ᥲᥣ᥆gᥙᥱ ᑲ). rᥙᥣᥱs .ᐟ ᥴ). 𝗍ᥲgᥣіs𝗍

ძі᥎іძᥱrs ᑲᥡ @chrisssiren ©hyunsluv ⠀ׂㅤ ᥲᥣᥣ rіgһ𝗍s rᥱsᥱr᥎ᥱძ.

[eyerisiris]

Bloodlines

summary | daemond needs to marry and you're at the top of his list.

pairing | daemond targaryen x (f)cousin!reader

wordcount | 1k

warnings | 18+, MINORS DNI!, very light smut

edited. i updated some of the valyrian!

You never expected your cousin to be here with you on your island of Valyria, much less dining at your table and feasting on your food. You watch as he takes another forkful, his plate nearly empty. He wipes his mouth with a cloth.

You barely touch your meal. The room feels small and intimate despite its grandeur. Heavy stone walls adorned with ancient Valyrian tapestries tell tales of dragons and conquest. While a large chandelier made of dragon bone casts a warm, golden glow across the table. The open doors allow a gentle breeze to drift in from the beach, the sound of waves crashing against the shore tightening the knot in your stomach.

You glance back at Daemon. He hasn’t changed much, though his silver-white hair is now cut short. The last time you saw him, it had fallen past his shoulders, but you find yourself liking this look more. It frames his sharp features, and the dangerous glint in his eyes.

Daemon is dressed in deep, shadowy leathers, perfectly tailored to his lean form. You watch the silver clasps and embroidered dragons shimmer subtly in the low light.

Your own attire feels too revealing under his gaze. The soft, flowing fabric of your gown clings to you, draping in ways that accentuate every curve. Deep hues of blue and green—house colors—wrap around you like a second skin. The slight chill of the evening makes your exposed shoulders prickle beneath his watchful eyes.

“Is there something on your mind?” Daemon’s voice cuts through the air. Casual as he leans back in his chair, swirling his wine. “Cousin?”

You push your plate outward. Your attendant immediately steps forward to clear it.

“Leave us,” you command, your voice steady. The servant quickly departs, leaving only the two of you.

You tilt your head, studying him for a moment, memories swirling. “It’s been quite some time since I last saw you.”

“Three, four years,” he replies with a lazy shrug, “give or take.”

You look away, a warmth growing across your cheeks. “Hm.” You lean back slightly, your fingers brushing against the smooth wood of the table. “You haven’t changed at all.”

Daemon’s eyes sharpen, trailing over you in a way that makes the air you breathe feel heavier. “You have.”

A heavy silence settles in. The moment stretching out as his gaze lingers over you. 

“All grown up now,” he muses, his voice low, almost teasing. He takes another sip of his wine, his eyes never leaving yours.

You chew your lip for a moment, holding back your retort. “You didn’t come here just to visit after four years. A Valyrian steel dagger, no less. A fine gift, even for you.”

Daemon chuckles, the sound rich. “Can’t a man visit his family without suspicion?”

“You?” You raise an eyebrow, the corners of your lips pulling into a wry smile. “Never.”

His amusement deepens as he stands, his movements fluid, every step deliberate. He paces slowly around the table, fingers gliding across its surface. As he walks, his gaze briefly flicks upward to the ceiling. There lingering, is a painting of Valaryian lovers entwined beneath dragon wings.

“You always did see through the masks people wear. I admired that about you.”

He stops in front of you, his hand lifting as if to touch your chin, but you tilt your head away.

Your voice is steady as you speak. “What do you want, Daemon?”

He lowers his hand, though the smile doesn’t fade. “I must marry.”

A small grin tugs at your lips. “I’ve heard the rumors about you and Rhaenyra. If they’re true, why not her?”

Daemon’s smirk widens, amusement flickering in his eyes as he looks back at the ceiling. “Rumors,” he says softly, “are often more fun than the truth.”

His eyes lock onto yours, sharper now. “But you and I both know what strengthens Valyria.”

“Keeping the bloodline pure?” you offer, your voice firm but tinged with curiosity.

His silence answers you.

“Hm.” The sound escapes your lips as you push your chair back and rise. Standing so close, you feel the heat radiating from him, his breath fanning your face. 

Your hand presses against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath his armor-like clothing. His hand finds your waist, gripping you with a possessive firmness. “What if I have eyes for another?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper-- the challenge clear.

Daemon’s dark chuckle sends shivers down your spine as he leans in close, his breath brushing against your ear. “Nyke daor gīmigon skoros vestri iā ōs.” he whispers in Valyrian, his voice like silk and steel combined.

Don’t forget what I did to you four years ago.

He pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, his lips almost touching yours, his eyes burning with the same fire you’ve tried to suppress for years.

Your heart pounds as you feel the weight of his words. You remember how he deflowered you—rocking into you like a piston, kissing your lips, biting at your skin—setting your body on fire. The memory fades.

You meet his gaze head-on, your lips parting as you murmur in Valyrian, “Nyke daor gīmigon.”

I could never forget.

His eyes darken, the grip on your waist tightening. Daemon’s other hand finds the curve of your neck, his touch slow and deliberate, gliding down to the material of your sleeve. With a smooth motion, he slides it off your shoulder, your bare skin to the cool air.

Your eyes flicker from his lips back to his intense gaze, the air between you electric. You feel the steady rhythm between your thighs quicken as his fingers slide down from your chest. Daemon hitches up the material of your gown. His fingers make their way between your thighs. The pads of his fingertips brush against you and you fall forward onto his shoulder. 

You breathe harshly. His fingers are cool and should be foreign. But the way they sink into you, you know it’s all too familiar. You let out a moan as he stills.

The hand on your waist moves up to your shoulder and then to your chin. He holds you, bringing your face to look at him.

“Nyke jaelā ao.” 

I want you.

You let out a soft moan as his fingers spread inside you.  “Ērīninna nyke.” 

Then take me.

Without hesitation, he closes the distance. His lips capture yours in a kiss that ignites every spark between you, consuming you both in a fire that’s been smoldering for far too long.

[hyunsluv]

⠀⠀⠀⠀4:00 ᥲm

၇୧ ⠀ׂㅤ һyᥙᥒȷіᥒ ᥊ 𝖿.rᥱᥲძᥱr

rᥲ𝗍ᥱძ ᥱ ᥕᥲrᥒіᥒg ⠀ׂㅤ established relationship, use of crude language, edging, overstimulation, fingering. ᥕ᥆rძ ᥴ᥆ᥙᥒ𝗍 ⠀ׂㅤ1k ᥒ᥆𝗍ᥱs ⠀ׂㅤcopying or translation for this fic isn't accepted. the character/s in this writing is a work of fiction, it doesn't connect to how the individual will act in real life.

it was too late, no, too early for you to be awake. the clock on the nightstand showed a light 4:02 am, and the apartment was in silence except for the faint hum of the a/c. the room should have been quiet too, with you tucked into hyunjin’s side the way you always were, hair messy and breath even.

but you weren't asleep.

not when hyunjin’s long fingers were buried knuckle deep inside you, curling just right, rubbing againt that gspot that made your thighs shake and your voice ache.

“hyunnie— ahh—” your voice cracked, not in that typically low way you talk to him, but in something high and breathless, each whine trembling out of you like you were barely holding on. your hand clutched at the sheet, twisting the fabric, useless against your ethreal boyfriend next to you.

hyunjin, sprawled half over you, nose pressed to yourcheek, didn’t seem to be in any rush. he hummed like he was painting, soft and patient, lips brushing over your soft skin. every few moments, he pressed a kiss. just below your eye, along the bone of your cheekbone, at the edge of your jaw, like he was soothing you.

“shhh,” hyunjin whispered, his breath warm against your ear. “don’t fight it. just let me.”

but you couldn’t just let him. your body was held too tight, thighs shuddering around hyunjin's arm, your chest rising and falling. you knew you were doomed the moment his thumb found your clit, pressing, but not circling.

“p-please,” you gasped, your voice breaking. “please, hyunnie, i— ahh—” your hips bucked helplessly, trying to chase the feeling, but hyunjin’s free hand pressed firm against your stomach, keeping you pinned to the mattress.

the cruelest part was how pretty hyunjin looked while doing it. his hair fell forward, tickling your temple, his lashes low, his lips pink from kissing too much. he didn’t look like someone who had been working you open for nearly an hour, pulling you to the edge over and over again. he looked angelic, serene.

“you sound so pretty like this,” hyunjin murmured, tilting his head to nip your cheek before soothing it with another kiss. “so sweet.”

you whimpered, eyes screwed shut. your hands found the pillow besides your head, gripping the fabric.

hyunjin curled his fingers again, deliberately, watching you arch off the bed, legs trembling so hard, hyunjin was a little concerned. his nose stayed pressed to your skin, his lips moving, marking you with little open-mouthed kisses.

“you gonna cry for me, muse?” hyunjin asked, and it wasn’t really a question. you already were. your lashes were wet, cheeks flushed, a few tears clinging to your skin that hyunjin kissed away with aching sweetness.

“c-can’t—” you sobbed, your body jerking when hyunjin slowed down, easing the rhythm, pulling you away from that edge once more. you groaned, gripping at hyunjin's wrist, trying to grind up but hyunjin just tutted, holding you still with his free hand.

“you can,” hyunjin whispered against your ear, voice as soft as the kisses he pressed. “you can, baby. i’ve got you. just a little longer.”

you groaned, the sound caught between frustration and need. your thighs were trembling again, every muscle tight, your body aching for more, more, more. you hated it, how good it felt, how badly you wanted the relief hyunjin wouldn’t give yet.

every thrust of those long fingers was deliberate, designed to drive you mad, pulling sounds out of you he didn’t know you could make. your voice went high and shaky, breaking into sobs when hyunjin deliberately slowed down again.

“hyunnie, i c-can’t— please, let me—”

hyunjin tilted his head, kissed the corner of your mouth. “not yet, angel. you’ll cum when i say so.”

the words broke something inside you, your hips stuttering, a loud, helpless cry breaking out. your thighs were clamping down around hyunjin’s arm, shaking uncontrollably, your whole body pleading for release.

hyunjin just kissed you again, soft, his nose brushing your tear tracked cheek. “you’re so beautiful like this. in my bed, cunt soaking wet.”

it went on like that, minutes stretching unbearably long. you getting right at the edge, pulled back down, getting up again until you were sobbing openly, your voice raw from crying. hyunjin never paused, never stopped peppering your face with kisses, his whispers so gentle you almost forgot you were on earth.

finally, when you were shaking so hard you could barely breathe, hyunjin gave in. he shifted, pressed his body closer, his lips finding your ear.

“alright, baby,” he whispered. “cum for me, hm?”

the words were all it took. you let go, body arching as your release hit you like an impact to your chest. you cried out, loud, hyunjin gently placing a palm over your lips as your thighs clamped tight around his arm. your voice was gone, high and choked.

hyunjin didn’t stop kissing you through it. his lips were everywhere, murmuring praise between each kiss. “that’s it. that’s my pretty girl. let go, i’ve got you.”

your body convulsed, tears spilling again, until you finally sunk back into the bed, completely done for tonight. your chest was heaving, skin damp with sweat, your thighs still twitching weakly around his arm.

hyunjin eased his fingers out carefully, kissed away the tears still clinging to your face, and brushed your bangs back with a soft, lazy hand.

“you did so well,” he whispered, pressing one last kiss to your cheek. “so, so well for me.”

you could barely answer, just a sleepy little hum, leaning into hyunjin’s mouth as if you couldn’t live without it. and maybe you couldn't.

hyunjin smiled softly, curling himself fully around you, pulling the blanket up over you both. his nose found its place against your cheek again, warm and gentle.

the room was quiet again, except for the sound of your uneven breaths, still coming down from your orgasm. and hyunjin stayed there, kissing you through the high, whispering gentle words as you drifted between sleep and consciousness.

you felt something hard press against your thigh.

hyunjin smiled.

⠀⠀⠀⠀𝗍ᥲgᥣіs𝗍 : @lavenoreern | @jijisuung | @stronglychanbiased | @svmvcc

ძі᥎іძᥱrs ᑲᥡ @chrisssiren ©hyunsluv ⠀ׂㅤ ᥲᥣᥣ rіgһ𝗍s rᥱsᥱr᥎ᥱძ.

[exblondecharm]

I lowkey can’t stop thinking about hiccup who is whiny and is talking you through it the first time yall have sex

Is that something you would write about?

hiccup haddock x reader nsfw oneshot (f!reader)

a/n: yesss love some man moans and whinessss 😩, side note: while i was writing this i got about 80% done, saved my work, and when i opened it up again it was alllll gone. that really tested my will to live, and i feel like it was better before, but alas my brain could not string the same words together twice... i'm being lwky dramatic though, i think it turned out good and i hope you all enjoy :)

MDNI

It wasn't either of your first times, but it was the farthest you'd gone together. Of course in the past there had been heavy petting and mouths on bodies, but Hiccup had always made sure not to go too far. He didn't want to rush your comfort or scare you off, but gods did it leave him needy for you.

You had been making out pretty intensely, moving from where you had been sitting in his hut up to his bed. It started out innocently enough- quiet time, with you reading a book and Hiccup working on new saddle designs for Toothless- yet somehow you ended up bare-chested against each other. You were running out of ideas of things you two could do together that didn't end like this.

"Oookay," he pulled away from your lips, "I think I need to stop here, otherwise I'm not sure I'll be able to." He smiled, flushing pink, raising an arm to scratch the back of his head.

You were panting, and slightly annoyed from the interruption.

"Yeah... um, Hiccup? I think... I'm already at that point."

He narrowed his eyes at you, studying your expression.

“Are you serious?” He attempted to keep his tone even and nonjudgmental, trying (and failing miserably) to hide how excited he was at the prospect.

“Well if you don’t want to…” you lilted, knowing he had been ready for quite some time but had been attempting to remain ever the gentleman.

"Nonono I mean I didn't want to pressure you or anything- but I'm totally down- I mean as long-"

You sat up, meeting his lips once again, while your hands quickly got busy trying to pull his dick out of his pants.

You broke from the kiss, beginning to lower yourself down to him, but he grabbed you by the shoulders.

“Hold-hold on for a second here, I want this to be nice.”

You gave him a puzzled look, eyebrow cocked.

“It’s not like we’ve never done anything before."

"I know but, I want you to enjoy it." "C'mon Hic, you know I like to do this for you," rolling your eyes at his chivalry, but this really was not the time

He didn't release you, so you went on, "Would I convince you if I told you how fucking horny I am for you right now?"

His mouth fell open, hands loosening at your boldness, and with that, you wouldn't hear another word before breaking from his grip, moving back down, and licking him from base to tip.

He made a sound like he was choking when you first made contact with your tongue. You'd given him head before, and he always made sure you were taken care of, but you loved that no matter how many times you did it, he made noises like it was his first time. He was so vocal with all the pleasure you gave him, it was nice knowing that he was confident enough to not hold it in (or that you were doing such a great job he was unable to stop himself).

You were gentle, teasing him slightly, which earned the most sweet moans from his lips. Hiccup loved to sing your praises when you did this for him, but he was devolving into a whiny mess this time, moaning out things like "oh just like that" and "mmm you're so good at this."

He got to the point where he knew he wouldn't be able to last much longer, so he made to pull you up again- gods, he was strong- and captured your lips in a kiss.

He climbed down on top of you, pining you to the bed, continuing his attack on your lips.

You were already wet enough to not need anything more, so you reached a hand down, guiding his dick to your entrance. He broke away from your mouth, needing to hear you say again that you wanted to do this, before he pushed in ever so slowly and gently.

When you gave him the nod that you were ready for him to move, he started to set a slow, but deliberate pace. He was going so deep you thought you would start seeing stars. You let out a breathy moan of his name, and he whined again, upping his pace slightly.

You pulled him back down to kiss you more, his pace not slipping, and you went on like that for some time, with both of you getting increasingly more flustered, and closer to climaxing.

You began to buck your hips against him, finally reaching your orgasm, and he almost came right there feeling you clench around him. The stimulation, couple with how deep he was going was too much for him to take.

"I-I think I'm going to-"

"On me!"

He sputtered, so flustered he sped up his strokes dramatically, "Are you for real?"

"Yes Hiccup, please, do it on me," you moaned out.

He was so turned on by how fucking horny you were for him, so who was he to not give you all you wanted and more? He pulled out and stroked himself with his hand a few times, before cumming across your chest and stomach.

You leaned up to kiss him again, and caught him off guard enough to wrap a leg around him and flip him over. You now sat on top of him, pinning your legs to either side of his hips, and once again reached for his (still-hard) cock.

You positioned yourself until you were comfortable, keeping a hand on his chest to keep him down, not that he wanted to interrupt what you were about to do, and slowly started to ease down onto his dick.

He whined out so loud you were sure they could hear him from the other side of the island. His noises turned you on, letting out content moans and you started to fall into a rhythm of up-down-up-down.

"Gods, do you know what you're doing to me?" He thrusted into your grinds before letting out another big whine, "oh you're going to be the death of me."

You laughed, which turned into a moan as you fell back down onto his cock, getting lost in the pleasure of the moment. He kept encouraging you with praises, each time you bounced, and he could tell you were getting close again by the way you started to whine.

"That's it milady, keep going, you're doing- ahh- soo good for me."

"Hiccup, mhm, fuck, Hic.." You could only form variations on his name, your brain having turned off the part which would have normally come up with some witty response to his desperation for you.

"Yes pretty girl, I'm so close, fuck you're gonna make me cum again," he whined out, really thrusting up into you now.

He moved a hand up to pinch your nipples, while his other made contact with your clit, giving you the extra stimulation you needed. You braced your hands against his chest, grinding into him as hard as you could, until you felt yourself fall off the edge into your release.

As you rode out your climax, still pressing your hips down onto him, the tightness was once again to much for poor Hiccup. He sat up, eye level with you, and thrusted a few more times up into you, until he came with a moan and was fucking his cum into your cunt.

He was kissing all along your clavicle, telling you how amazing it was, and how happy he was, emphasizing his words by lightly grinding into you.

When you finally climbed off of him and made your way to clean yourself up, he was quick to put you back into bed and get a washcloth for you.

"I really don't know what I did to deserve you," he placed a chaste kiss to your cheek.

You looked at him, with his red face and tousled hair, and thought he had never looked better than he did right now. "I'm the one who owes the gods for bringing you to me."

credit to @cafekitsune for dividers <3

[3racha-agustd]

Hyunjin will eat his cheeks

[skzophreniic]

NO NUT NOVEMBER

*°࿐ cw: explicit sexual content (MDNI), fingering, dry humping, grinding, penetration

a stupid bet, a sugar-sweet kitchen, and a boyfriend who wants you way more than he’s supposed to.

*°࿐ notes: as part of emmie and attie's secret stay writing event for the talented, beautiful, amazing @emmiesoverthemoon. i was sooo hyped to see that i had been assigned to you i couldn't wait to post this lol. hope you like it, you deserve the world!!

Hyunjin kisses you like he’s got nowhere else to be.      

There’s a slow, unhurried weight to it. The TV is still on in the background, some drama muttering away to itself in soft, unsubtitled chaos, but the sound is blurred under the rush of your own pulse and the little wet catch of his breath every time your mouth moves against his.    

You’re folded into the corner of your couch with him, half on, half around him. At some point you’d started the night sitting side by side; now his back is pressed against the armrest and you’re straddling his lap, knees bracketing his hips, hoodie riding up in the back. One of his hands is anchored at your waist, fingers spread, thumb tracing absent circles into the thin cotton of your t-shirt. The other is splayed between your shoulder blades, holding you steady each time you lean in and kiss him a little deeper.      

This is familiar. This is easy. You know the way his mouth moves, the way he always starts soft and then forgets himself. The way he chases you when you pull back to breathe, lips parting, eyes half-open and almost offended that you’d dare put distance between you.     

You tilt your head, kiss him again, slower this time. He makes a sound in his throat—quiet, pleased—and his fingers tighten almost imperceptibly on your waist. You can feel the tension coil in him, the way his chest expands under your palms, the little hitch when you let your teeth graze his bottom lip before soothing the sting with your tongue.      

He tastes faintly like hot chocolate and something minty. You’d shared a mug an hour ago, knees knocked together on the coffee table, laughing at some ridiculous scene on screen. Now the mug is forgotten, abandoned on the coaster.     

“Hyun,” you murmur against his mouth, not really meaning anything by it. His name comes out as more exhale than word.    

“Mm,” he answers, equally articulate, and drags you a fraction closer.      

His hoodie is soft under your hands, but the strip of skin it doesn’t quite cover at his waist is warm, a different texture entirely. Your fingers slip lower, tracing the hem, feeling the way his muscles jump beneath your touch. You’ve been here a hundred times—on this couch, on his bed, in the backseat of his car on nights when you’re both too impatient to make it inside. There’s a well-worn path from “this” to “more”, a map your bodies know by heart.  

You start to follow it without thinking.    

Your hips shift, just a little. Just enough to settle more firmly over him, to close the last bit of space between your stomachs. The movement drags the seam of your leggings against him and you feel, very distinctly, the way his breath stutters. The hand at your back flexes. His fingers press into you like he’s grounding himself on your spine.    

You do it again, slow, barely there.   

This time the reaction is sharp. His jaw tightens. A sound escapes him, low and almost pained, and for a second you think, triumphantly—got you.   

Then he breaks the kiss.     

One moment his mouth is moving with yours, hot and open and eager; the next, his lips are gone and his forehead is pressed to your shoulder instead, breath gusting hot through the fabric of your shirt. His hands haven’t moved—he’s still holding you like he’s afraid you’ll slide off his lap if he lets go—but the rest of him has gone very, very still.      

You blink, dazed, heart thudding. It takes your brain a second to catch up with the fact that he’s not kissing you anymore.     

“…Hyunjin?” you say, after a beat.

He groans. Not sexy this time—just a long, miserable sound from somewhere deep in his chest.   

“Okay,” he says into your shoulder. “Okay. Wait.”   

You freeze. A tiny, cold flicker of something unpleasant touches the back of your neck. You sit back just enough to see his face, hands sliding up to frame his jaw.    

“Did I do something?” you ask, searching his expression. “If I hurt you or—”    

His eyes fly open. “What? No.” He looks horrified at the very idea. “No, no, you didn’t do anything. You’re—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenching, muscles working like he’s biting down on the rest. “…too much, actually. That’s the problem.”    

You stare at him. He looks wrecked in a way that has nothing to do with you and everything to do with whatever is going on inside his head. His hair is mussed from your fingers, his lips are pink and kiss-bruised, and there’s a faint flush high on his cheekbones. He also looks like he’s in physical pain.   

You’re not sure whether to be flattered or offended.    

“You kissed me first,” you point out, because you’re not above stating the obvious. “On my couch. With zero warning. While I was minding my business.”      

His mouth twitches like he wants to smile and can’t quite manage it. “Yeah,” he says, voice rough. “That part was extremely stupid of me.”     

“Okay, now I’m confused.”      

You tilt his face up a little more so he has to meet your eyes. He does, reluctantly, like a school kid being called on in class when he definitely did not do the homework.      

“Something happened today,” he says. “At the practice room. With the guys.”      

“Is this the setup to a horror story?”     

“Honestly?” He scrubs one hand over his face, fingers dragging through his hair. “Yes.”    

You wait. He watches your mouth for a second too long, then drags his gaze back up with visible effort.   

“Promise you won’t laugh?” he tries.   

“Absolutely not,” you say immediately.      

He winces. “Okay, but hold your laughter internally, at least.”  

“No promises.”    

He presses his lips together like he’s bracing for impact. “We made a bet.”   

Of course they did. You can already feel your eyebrows climbing.    

“Go on,” you say slowly. “What kind of bet?”      

He hesitates. Looks at the wall over your shoulder. The ceiling. Anywhere but your face. When he finally gets the words out, they’re muttered like he’s ashamed of them.     

“No Nut November.”     

Silence.      

You blink once. Twice. Somewhere in the apartment, the fridge hums. The drama on TV hits a particularly dramatic background music swell that feels almost intentional.      

“I’m sorry,” you say at last. “You’re going to have to say that again, because my brain auto-censored it.”  

He drags his gaze back to you, eyes wide, lips pushed out in a sulky little pout you’d find adorable if you weren’t so busy processing.    

“No Nut November,” he repeats, enunciating each word clearly like he’s in class. “You know. That stupid internet thing? We… monetized it.”     

“You—” You clamp your mouth shut, because the laugh is right there, bubbling in your chest. “You and the boys made a No Nut November bet.”    

He nods, miserable.  

“For money.”     

He nods again.            

“You voluntarily signed up,” you say slowly, “for thirty days of self-inflicted suffering. While you have a girlfriend. Who lives ten minutes away. Who you routinely climb like a tree the second you walk through the door.”      

His shoulders lift in the closest thing to a defensive shrug he can manage with you still on his lap. “When you say it like that it sounds dumb.”  

“That’s because it is dumb, Hyunjin.”      

“I know,” he says, defeated. “But there’s a cash prize.”      

You have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling. “How much?”      

He tells you the number. It’s not nothing; they clearly took this seriously. You do the math quickly in your head and still can’t restrain your snort.      

“Hyun,” you say, softening despite yourself, “you’re already rich. That is, like, two pairs of shoes to you.”    

“It’s not about the amount,” he protests. “It’s the principle. And the bragging rights. And—” He pauses, eyes flicking down to your mouth before dragging back up again. “I was going to spend it on you.”      

That short-circuits your sarcasm for a second. “…What?”     

“If I win,” he says, pushing past his own embarrassment in a rush, “I’m taking you somewhere stupid romantic. Mountains, or a beach, or that resort you sent me with the heated pool and the really fluffy robes. The money we all put in would cover the whole thing. It’d be, like, a victory trip.”    

You blink. Your chest does an inconvenient little squeeze.    

“You could just… book that now,” you point out, a little more gently. “You don’t need a bet to take me on vacation.”     

He smiles, small and stubborn. “Yeah, but it feels different if I earn it. You know? Like, ‘look what I suffered through for us.’”    

You stare at him. At his earnest face, his messed-up hair, the way his hands are still sitting so carefully on your hips like you’re made of glass and temptation at the same time.      

“You are insane,” you decide, affection curling through the exasperation. “Romantic, but insane.”      

“Is that a yes to supporting my insane romantic quest?” he asks, hope creeping into his voice.      

You sigh, dramatically, just to watch his mouth twitch.       

“Let's recap,” you say. “You and your idiot bandmates shook hands on a no-sex, no-anything deal for the month, and you want me to be, what, your moral support? Your… chastity coach?”  

He laughs, finally, the tension in his shoulders easing by a fraction. “Please never call yourself that again.”  

“I’m serious.”      

“I know.” His fingers flex, thumb brushing the hem of your shirt, quickly pulling back like he forgot he wasn’t supposed to.

“It’s just us,” he adds, more carefully. “The boys. I’m not asking you to… sign a contract or anything.”

“How generous,” you deadpan.

“I’m serious,” he says, and he is. You can hear it—threaded under the teasing, under the mortification. “You don’t have to change anything. I’m the one who signed up for torture.”

“Then why,” you ask, narrowing your eyes, “do I feel like I’m about to get drafted anyway?”

He hesitates. It’s tiny, but you feel it, the way his hands tighten on your hips for half a second before he makes himself relax.

“Because,” he says slowly, “if you keep doing… that—”

“Doing what?” You blink at him, the picture of innocence. You are still in his lap. Your shirt is still slightly crooked. Your mouth still tingles from his.

His gaze drops from your eyes to your mouth, then lower, like his own body is answering the question for him. His tongue darts out, quick, almost nervous, before he catches himself.

“Existing like this,” he mutters, giving your waist the faintest, helpless squeeze. “Sitting on me. Making those little noises.” His voice dips, embarrassingly earnest. “Looking at me like that.”

You feel your cheeks warm. “I was literally just kissing my boyfriend.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Exactly.”

The corner of your mouth twitches. You want to be annoyed on principle—because you were very much enjoying yourself five minutes ago—but the way he’s looking at you makes it hard. 

You drop your hands from his jaw, smoothing them instead over his shoulders, down the line of his hoodie. He lets out a slow breath, like your touch isn’t making anything better, but he’s too gone on you to pull away.

“You’re really going to try,” you say.

“I am,” he says. And he means it. For all his dramatics, there’s steel underneath. “I have self-control. I can do this.”

You hum. “With me around?”

He turns his head, meets your gaze. That stubborn spark flares again. “Especially with you around.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Bold of you to say when you just almost combusted because I moved my hips an inch.”

His ears go pink. “That was… an adjustment period.”

“Mm.”

“Warm-up,” he insists. “I’ll get used to it.”

“You’ll get used to… not having sex with me,” you say flatly. “For a month.”

A shadow of uncertainty flickers across his face, there and gone. He swallows.

“Well, when you put it like that,” he says faintly.

You feel the tiniest, petty part of you preen at that. Because there it is, laid bare between you: it’s not sex in general he’s missing. It’s sex with you. It’s your laugh in his ear, your fingers in his hair, your teeth on his shoulder.

You drag your thumbs over his cheekbones, smoothing the faint flush you put there. “You know this is going to be harder on you than me, right?”

“How do you figure?” he asks, wary.

“You’re the clingy one,” you say. “You’re the one who turns every movie night into a makeout session. You’re the one who can’t sit next to me without holding something—my hand, my leg, my entire body.”

His mouth curves, despite everything. “You love it.”

“I do,” you admit. “Which is why I don’t understand why you’re doing this to yourself.”

“Because I’m competitive,” he says. “And stupid. And I like the idea of saying, ‘I survived No Nut November while dating you.’ It makes me sound strong.”

“Or deranged.”

You sigh, long and theatrical, and for a heartbeat his eyes soften like he thinks you’re actually upset. You’re not. Annoyed, a little. Wound up, definitely. But underneath it there’s a thread of fondness that won’t loosen no matter how hard you tug.

“Fine,” you say at last. “I will… attempt to support your deeply questionable life choices.”

His whole face lights up, relief washing over his features so visibly it almost knocks you back. “Really?”

“Really,” you say. “I will try not to sabotage you. I will not seduce you on purpose. I will, to the best of my ability, refrain from climbing into your lap at every opportunity.”

His gaze flicks down to where you are currently planted. “Starting when?”

You pause. Consider the logistics. Consider the way his hands tighten when you shift even a little, the way his pupils are blown wide already.

“…Tomorrow,” you say.

He laughs, bright and helpless. “You’re impossible.”

“You love me.”

“Unfortunately,” he agrees. “Yes.”

You lean in and press a quick, closed-mouth kiss to his lips—just a peck, nothing that could be construed as dangerous, even if he still chases it faintly when you pull back.

He exhales, like he’s been holding his breath since the moment he said the words No Nut November out loud. His hands slide up your back, palms flattening between your shoulder blades, and he pulls you in, just enough to tuck you against his chest.

A few days pass, and for the most part, it’s… fine.

You see him in little pockets of time carved between schedules—quick coffee before practice when he’s already in sweats and a beanie, a rushed goodbye in the lobby when his manager honks from the curb, a FaceTime call with his hair still damp from the shower and his voice soft with sleep. The bet lives in the background of everything, like a bad inside joke. There’s a running tally in the boys’ group chat he shows you once, all ugly emojis and worse nicknames.

You make fun of him every time he mentions it. He rolls his eyes and kisses your forehead. It’s almost easy to forget that there’s a line between you now, even if it’s one he drew himself.

By the time Friday crawls around, you’re exhausted in a way that feels low and heavy. The kind of tired that turns your bones to sand. You spend the evening cleaning in lazy bursts—loading the dishwasher, half-folding laundry, wiping crumbs off the coffee table—and then give up around eleven, flopping onto the couch with a blanket and your phone.

He texts you sometime after that.

HYUNJIN: done late today 🥲 HYUNJIN: leaving now, might be closer to 2 HYUNJIN: don’t wait up if you’re tired okay

You send back a half-assed heart emoji and stubbornly decide you’re going to stay awake anyway.

You don’t.

Sleep sneaks up on you the way it always does—slow eyelids, heavier blinks, the show you were pretending to watch turning into background noise. You curl onto your side, phone slipping from your hand to the cushion, the apartment washed in the soft blue light of the TV. The last thing you remember is thinking you should get up and brush your teeth.

The next thing you’re aware of is the soft metallic click of your front door.

You surface slowly, in layers. The dimness of the room. The quiet shuffle of shoes being toed off. The low, familiar murmur of his voice as he whispers something to himself and drops his bag by the wall.

You don’t move right away. You’re warm and heavy under the blanket, lungs rising and falling in a slow rhythm. Footsteps pad across your floor. A shadow passes between you and the TV.

“Baby?” he says quietly.

You crack an eye open.

Hyunjin stands at the end of the couch, hoodie half-zipped, hair damp and curling around his forehead. There’s a mask hanging from one ear and a plastic bag looped around his wrist. The digital clock on your cable box informs you, unhelpfully, that it’s 2:14 a.m.

“You’re late,” you mumble, voice thick with sleep.

He smiles, the kind of soft, crooked thing that makes the trip worth it. “Hi to you too.”

He sets the bag down on the coffee table carefully, like it’s precious cargo. Something inside clinks faintly—takeout containers and chopsticks knocking together. The smell hits a second later, warm and savory, oily in the best way.

Your stomach flutters in vague interest, but the rest of you is too tired to respond.

“I brought food,” he says, needlessly. “In case you were hungry.”

“ ‘M not,” you mumble, letting your eyes fall closed again. 

He glances at the phone wedged between you and the back cushion, screen dark. 

“I made it to…” You blink, brain scrambling for a landmark. “Some guy got slapped. Might’ve been episode one. Might’ve been a commercial.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “You’re adorable.”

You feel the couch dip as he sits down near your feet, the springs sighing under his weight. The rustle of the plastic bag, the little rip as he tears open the knot. The sharp, plasticky snap of chopsticks split apart.

You peel your eyes open again, just enough to see him through your lashes.

He’s turned sideways, one knee up on the couch, container balanced on the coffee table in front of him. The screen light catches on his jaw, on the damp strands of hair clinging to his neck. He looks tired in that way you’ve learned to read—creases at the corners of his eyes, shoulders slumping for the first time all day—but there’s still a fizz of energy under his skin. The schedule high hasn’t completely worn off yet.

“You’re not going to sleep?” you ask.

“I’m starving,” he says around a mouthful of rice. “Also, I have news.”

You shift a little, tugging the blanket up under your chin. “Good news or stupid news?”

“Both,” he says cheerfully. “Han lost.”

That wakes you up more effectively than the smell of food.

“Already?” You blink at him. “It’s been, like… what, five days?”

“Four,” he says. “And it was technically last night, so three and some change.”

You snort. “What happened?”

He grins, eyes lighting up with the kind of glee reserved for watching your friends suffer consequences.

“Apparently he had a dream that started off all innocent and then—” Hyunjin makes an unhelpful, vague hand motion. “—turned into a lot of things very fast. Woke up already… you know.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Already?”

“That’s what he said.” Hyunjin shrugs, then takes another bite.

“So Han’s out,” you say, prodding. “What about you?”

His gaze flicks to you, amused. “I’m great.”

“You’re really going to sit there,” you say, “and claim this is easy?”

He lifts a shoulder. “Hasn’t been that bad so far.”

You study him, skeptical. He looks… okay, actually. Still a little keyed up from work, but not feral. His leg is bouncing a bit where his foot rests on the rug, but that might just be habit. His eyes skitter over you once—messy hair, oversized sleep shirt, blanket burrito—and then obediently return to his food.

“Huh,” you say. “So you weren’t lying about self-control.”

He pretends to preen, shoulders squaring. “Told you. Mind of steel. Also, practice has been insane. I barely have the energy to think about sex.”

You hum. “Must be nice.”

His mouth curves, just enough. “Are you suffering?”

You give him a flat look. 

He reaches over with his free hand, fingers searching blindly under the blanket until they find your ankle. His palm is warm where it closes over your skin, thumb rubbing absent circles over the bone. It’s casual, familiar, easy in a way that doesn’t immediately set your nerves on fire.

“Have you…” He trails off, lashes dipping as he looks down at the food again. “You know. Been okay?”

You tilt your head. “You mean, am I climbing the walls without your dick?”

He chokes on a grain of rice.

“Don’t say that while I’m chewing,” he wheezes, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth. His grip on your ankle tightens in affronted self-defense. “I could’ve died.”

You smile, lazy and mean. “You walked into that.”

He recovers with a theatrical sigh, shoving another piece of chicken into his mouth like he needs to occupy it with something other than words.

You think about giving him a real answer. About the way your brain keeps replaying little moments from before the bet, about the heat that hums under your skin when he hugs you from behind, about the way you’ve caught yourself staring at his hands more than once this week. But he looks tired and proud of himself in the same breath, so you just shrug.

“It’s been… fine,” you say. “You’re busy. I’m tired. I’ve been mostly falling asleep before my brain has time to be annoying.”

He seems relieved by that, tension in his shoulders loosening a fraction.

“Good,” he says softly. “I didn’t want this to feel like—” He makes a face, searching for the word. “Like I’m withholding something from you.”

“You kind of are,” you say lightly. “But it’s consensual withholding, I guess.”

“Sexy,” he mutters. “Love when my girlfriend talks about things like a lawyer.”

You nudge his calf with your toe. “You’re the one who turned your sex life into a contract.”

“Don’t remind me.”

For a while, the apartment settles into a sleepy kind of quiet. The TV murmurs to itself in the background, all dim colors and looped soundtrack. Hyunjin eats, methodical and unhurried, and you watch him with half-lidded eyes, floating in that strange in-between space where you’re too tired to get up but not tired enough to sink all the way under again.

He looks at home here, in a way that makes your chest ache a little if you think about it too hard. His socks are mismatched—one black, one gray—and his hoodie rides up when he leans forward to grab another piece, exposing a sliver of pale skin at his waist. There’s a small stain on the cuff. His bag is half unzipped by the door, phone charger peeking out.

He catches you staring eventually.

“What?” he asks, chopsticks pausing halfway to his mouth.

“Nothing,” you say. “Just looking.”

“At my chewing?” he says doubtfully.

“At my boyfriend,” you correct.

The expression that crosses his face is almost comically soft. His shoulders drop, eyes going warm at the edges, mouth curving in that way that says you could ask for the moon and he’d at least google how to get it.

“Come here,” he says quietly.

“You’re already here,” you point out, but you scoot anyway, pushing yourself up and crawling the short distance until you’re within reach.

He abandons the food for the moment, wipes his fingers on a napkin, and lifts the blanket in invitation. You tuck yourself against his side, head finding the familiar spot on his shoulder, one leg thrown over his thigh. He settles an arm around you automatically, palm spreading over your upper arm, thumb tracing slow, soothing lines.

This isn’t new. You’ve done this a hundred times. In other months, on other nights, this is the position that leads to wandering hands, to his mouth finding yours, to something more tangled and breathless and messy.

Tonight, it doesn’t.

You feel the awareness of that hovering between you like a held breath. The way his fingers pause for half a second on your arm before resuming their pattern. The way his chest rises and falls under your cheek, maybe a bit deeper than usual.

“You’re being very well-behaved,” you murmur, eyes slipping closed again.

He huffs a soft laugh, the sound rumbling against your ribs. “I told you. I can do it.”

“This is only the beginning,” you remind him. “Don’t get cocky.”

You fall quiet after that, lulled by the steady motion of his hand and the low, steady noise of the TV. Sleep creeps up again, heavier this time. Your muscles go slack one by one, your thoughts dissolving into half-dreams. Somewhere above you, Hyunjin’s voice blurs into a comforting hum as he narrates his day.

Eventually, his words start to slow. He finishes the last bites of his food one-handed, sets the empty container back in the bag, and leans forward to tie it closed, careful not to jostle you too much.

When he settles back, you make a small, unconscious sound and burrow closer. His arm tightens around you automatically, his other hand coming up to smooth over the back of your head.

“Go to sleep,” he murmurs into your hair. “I’ve got you.”

You could say the same—about him, about this stupid bet, about the next three weeks that are going to test both of you more than either of you realize. But right now, it’s still easy. Right now, it’s just his voice, his warmth, the soft press of his lips against your forehead as the room blurs out.

You let your mind go quiet, let your body sink into his.

For week one, at least, cuddling really is safe.

It’s a Tuesday when you head to the dorm after work, the hallways too bright and too quiet at the same time. Changbin opens the door with a fork in his mouth and a hoodie half on, half off his shoulder.

“Oh,” he says around the fork, then catches himself and pulls it out. “Hey. He’s here—just showering.”

“Hi,” you smile. “Whatchu eating?”

He lifts the plastic container he’s demolishing. “Protein.” Then, because he’s not actually a monster, “There’s more in the fridge if you want. I picked up extra.”

“I’m okay.” You toe your shoes off. “I’ll get out of your hair.”

He waves you down the hall, already turning back toward the kitchen. “Make good choices.”

You snort and leave him to his protein and plausible deniability.

Hyunjin’s room is the same it’s always been—two plants clinging valiantly to a windowsill, a paint-smeared tote hooked over a chair, a candle he probably isn’t supposed to have tucked half-behind a stack of books. You sit on the edge of his bed and listen to the water shut off, the muffled thump of the bathroom door, the soft slap of bare feet down the hall.

He comes in toweling his hair, damp shirt clinging in places you’re trying not to think about. There’s a drop of water clinging to the hollow beneath his ear; you feel it like a physical tug somewhere deep and unhelpful.

“Hey,” he says, and it’s stupid how much better the room feels just because he’s in it. “You got here quick.”

He tosses the towel onto the chair and crosses the room in two long steps, leaning in to press his mouth to your forehead. The kiss is quick, chaste, the kind that shouldn’t do anything to you at all.

It does.

You try to hide it by reaching for the ends of his hair, tugging at damp strands to fluff them. He ducks his head obligingly, that lazy, pleased sound rumbling in his chest.

“Long day?” he asks, and he’s close enough that you can see the damp darkening his lashes, the tired creases at the corners of his eyes.

You shrug, noncommittal. “Fine.”

His mouth tilts. “Liar.”

“I am attempting nonchalance,” you say primly.

“Terrible attempt,” he says, even softer. His hands slide to your hips like they belong there—because they do—and then stop, a tiny check you feel more than see. He studies your face for a beat, all the easy teasing peeling back. “Talk to me.”

You look away. The words feel ridiculous even inside your head. You’re fine. You are. It’s just that every time he looks like this—clean and warm and a little undone by the shower—your body sings a single, unhelpful note and refuses to shut up about it.

“I’m… tired,” you say, which is true. “And you look like that.”

“Like what?” He follows your gaze down the curve of his own throat, as if he might discover the problem alone. When he looks back up, he’s smiling, but it’s gentler now. “Come here.”

You go easily, because you always do. He pulls you up the bed and sits back against the wall, legs long and relaxed, and you settle sideways into his lap, your shoulder to his chest, your knees tucked beside his ribs. His hand finds its way under the hem of your shirt without fanfare, palm spreading warm over your stomach, the other arm bracketed around you, a cage you have never wanted to run from.

For a minute, you let the room be small and quiet. You listen to the city mutter through the window and the dorm’s ancient heating rattle like a ghost down the vent. His thumb moves in slow circles at your waist. Your breath takes its cues from his.

It would be easy to leave it here. It would be smart.

You shift.

It’s small. An inch, maybe less. A recalibration that has you closer to the heat of him, to the clean smell of his skin, to the damp line of his jaw when you tip your head back to look. He doesn’t move when you do it. He doesn’t even breathe, for one held second. You feel the restraint in the stiffness of his shoulders, the way his hand flattens against your stomach like he can anchor both of you to something that isn’t this.

“Baby,” he says, and it’s not a warning so much as an acknowledgment. A you’re not wrong, I feel it too.

You swallow. “I know.”

His eyes skate over your face. Whatever he sees there makes a decision for him. He exhales through his nose and dips his head, pressing his mouth to your temple, your cheekbone, the corner of your mouth. Kisses that are careful, not cold. Kisses that say I want to and I promised myself I wouldn’t in the same breath.

You catch his jaw with your fingers when he tries to duck away from your mouth again. He goes still under your hand, eyes flicking to your lips.

“Hyun,” you say, and you hate how rough it sounds. “I’m really… I’m not trying to make this harder, but—”

“I know,” he says immediately, like he’d been waiting to hear that. He cups your face, thumb skating under your eye. Up close like this he looks a little wrecked himself, damp hair curling, mouth soft and pink, pupils a little too big. “I can tell.”

Your cheeks heat, humiliation and relief tangling together. “It’s stupid.”

His mouth flickers like he wants to argue with that on principle. He doesn’t. He leans in, nose brushing your cheek, voice dropped low.

“Do you want me to help?”

You go silent. The question hangs between you, honest and easy. He’s not teasing. He isn’t trying to talk you out of anything. He’s offering.

“Help… how,” you ask, and your voice breaks exactly where his eyes do.

“However you want,” he says, like it’s simple. His hand leaves your stomach and slides to your hip, not pulling, just there. “I can take care of you. Just you.” His mouth quirks, apology-soft. “Let me.”

The worst part is how fast your body answers for you. Heat rushes bright and immediate under your skin; your breath catches and you feel yourself lean toward him on a string you didn’t know you’d given him.

“That’s not—” You stop. Try again. “It’s not fair.”

“It’s not about fair,” he says, and he means it. “It’s about you.”

You search his face for the crack in the offer, the place where it costs him too much. All you find is want and patience layered over it like gauze. He’s careful even in this—like his own restraint is something he can set down for a second if it means you get to breathe again.

Your hands have found the back of his neck without permission. Your thumb strokes a damp curl flat, the kind of thoughtless, tender touch that should make this easier and doesn’t at all.

“What if you—” You stop, because saying it out loud feels like tempting fate. Your eyes flick to his mouth and back. “What if this makes it worse for you?”

His smile is crooked and honest. “It already is worse for me.” He tips his forehead to yours. “But I can live with worse if it means you sleep.”

You press your lips together, a small, involuntary pout he sees and promptly chases with a soft kiss, like he can kiss the indecision off your mouth.

He murmurs against your lower lip, “Say the word.”

The room narrows to his breath and your pulse. To the way his fingers curl at your hip, not urging, just steady. To the warm, damp smell of his t-shirt and the faint thread of citrus in his hair. You could nod. You could fall into the shape of the offer and let him handle it, and you know with a weird, fierce certainty that he’d be devastatingly good and even more devastatingly gentle.

You want it.

You want him.

And yet there’s a stab of stubbornness you didn’t know you had, something that says later, not like this, not when he’s already walking a tightrope for you both.

“I…” You exhale and press your face to his throat, buying a second against his skin. Your voice comes small. “If you start, I won’t let you stop.”

He swallows, the motion brushing your cheek. “You don’t have to.”

“Hyun.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and when he speaks again it’s a soft capitulation, not to the bet but to you.

“Okay,” he says, and kisses your hair. “Okay. Then let me do something else.”

Before you can ask, he shifts, easing you down the bed. He lies on his side and tucks you in against him, your back to his chest, his arm heavy over your waist. His knee slides between yours, not indecent, just there, a solid line to lean into. His mouth finds the angle of your jaw, the place below your ear that makes your whole nervous system light up, and he kisses you slowly, like he has time to spare, like he can bleed the ache out by degrees.

You melt, traitorously. His hand spans your lower belly, the heel of his palm applying the gentlest pressure in time with your breath, a rhythm that asks and asks until your body answers by unclenching.

“Better?” he whispers after a while, voice gone husky with concentration.

You nod, the movement dragging his mouth along your skin. “A little.”

“More?” he asks, and even now it’s a question.

You find his hand where it rests at your waist and bring it lower. No coyness—your fingers slot between his and you guide, decisive, until his knuckles meet the inside of your thigh. His breath catches against your jaw.

“Here,” you say, already breathless. “Like this.”

He doesn’t make you show him twice. His palm curves over the heat of you through your leggings, a careful pressure that has your hips tilting before you can stop them. He follows the shift without comment, mouth moving at your neck in slow, coaxing kisses while his fingers learn the shape of what you need—broad strokes, then tighter, then right where you’re aching.

“Tell me,” he murmurs. “I want to get it right.”

“You are,” you manage, and then you’re not managing at all because he is, the heel of his hand catching exactly where the ache peaks. You exhale a small, helpless sound into his shoulder. He swears under his breath, almost reverent.

There’s the faint, traitorous scrape of the bedframe when you roll your hips into his hand. He stills for a heartbeat, listening; from the living room comes the distant murmur of Changbin’s TV and a laugh that might be at a meme or a dog video or nothing at all.

Hyunjin’s mouth ghosts your ear. “Quiet for me, yeah?”

You nod too fast, the motion tugging a gasp from your chest when his fingers press a fraction harder. It’s not enough; it’s too much; it’s perfect. You grab his wrist and push—just a little more, just there—and he groans like the simple trust of it does him in.

“Okay,” he says, voice wrecked-soft. “Okay, baby.”

He works you through the fabric until it’s damp, heat pulling heat, your thighs clenching around his hand like you could keep it there forever. You can’t think in full sentences; your world narrows to the steady drag of his palm and the way his lips keep finding you—temple, jaw, the corner of your mouth when you turn blindly toward him. Every time he feels you shiver he makes one of those low, encouraging sounds that never fails to set you off.

It still isn’t enough.

You catch his wrist again, firmer, and tug his hand under the waistband. He goes without protest, breath stuttering as his fingers slip against you, nothing in the way now but your own restraint. The first touch is shockingly gentle; the second has intent behind it. He finds slick heat and then slides lower, tasting the whine you can’t swallow.

“Like that?” he asks, barely there.

“Mm—” Your head tips back against his shoulder. “Yeah. More.”

He gives you more. Two fingers, careful at first, easing you open, his palm angling so his thumb can circle right where you want it. The sound you make is embarrassingly soft and he swallows it with a kiss to your cheek, then your mouth, then back to the place below your ear that makes your knees go loose even though you’re lying down.

You don’t realize you’re grinding until he breathes a shaky laugh at your shoulder. “That’s it,” he whispers. “Use me.”

You do. You rock into his hand, chasing what he’s giving you, and something in him slips its leash.

“God—” His fingers tighten on your hip like he’s steadying himself, then he’s moving you with him, guiding the grind, setting the rhythm he wants from you—long, deliberate strokes that land you right over his thumb every single time. His breath saws against your neck, hot and uneven. “Look at you. Fuck.”

You try to be quiet. You try. But the way he angles his wrist, the way his fingers curl just right and stay right, drags a sound out of you that’s too loud for the thin dorm walls.

He clamps a palm over your mouth before it’s even fully out, reflex-quick. “Shhh,” he breathes, voice frayed. “Baby—quiet. Please.”

It should be mortifying; it only makes your pulse ricochet. You nod against his hand, eyes fluttering shut, and he rewards you by pressing in deeper, circling faster, like he’s losing the map and loving it.

“That’s it,” he mutters, almost to himself. “That’s it, that’s it.” He’s gone pink high on his cheeks; his pupils are huge, swallowing the brown. He can’t keep still—hips twitching once behind you before he forces them flat to the mattress with a strangled noise. His jaw flexes like it hurts. “You feel so—” He cuts himself off on a quiet groan when you clench around his fingers. “Please. Do that again.”

You do, because you’re helpless for him, because his hand is relentless and every soft, wrecked little sound he makes sinks straight to where you’re aching. He slips a third finger in only when you drag his wrist down and ask for it with a needy roll of your hips; he swears into your shoulder and gives it to you, patient for exactly two strokes before his control frays again and he’s driving you through it, thumb never leaving the spot that’s turning you inside out.

Another moan swells; his palm seals your mouth a second time, more desperate now, his fingers splayed across your cheek. “I know,” he whispers, nearly panting. “I know, I know—be good for me. I’ve got you.”

You are far past good. Your nails bite at his forearm; the bed gives a perilous creak. He presses closer to muffle it, chest flush to your back, forearm banded across your waist to hold you right where he wants you. You can feel the tremor in him, the fine shake running through his shoulders. You can feel him hard and ignored, pressed hot against the curve of you, and the quiet, broken sound he lets out when you grind back by mistake is the hottest thing you’ve ever heard.

“Don’t—” His warning shatters into a laugh that’s barely a breath. “Don’t do that to me, I’m hanging on by a thread.”

You’re not sure if you apologize or whine; it dies under his hand either way. He kisses the hinge of your jaw like thanks, like apology, like please. Then he sets himself to finishing you—no mercy, no pause, just intent, the pads of his fingers dragging the way he knows drives you crazy, his thumb ruthless and steady.

The wave hits fast. You try to tell him—his name, the word close, anything—but all that comes out against his palm is a panicked sound, so you grab his wrist and squeeze, nails digging in.

“I know,” he says, strangled. He buries his mouth against your shoulder, breath scorching. “Let go. Let me have it.”

Two more circles and you break—silent first, too much for sound—and then a gasp rips free anyway, high and wild. His hand holds firm over your mouth, muffling it; his other arm pins you tight while you shake through it, fingers never letting up until the aftershocks start to make you twitch away.

“Okay, okay,” he murmurs, easing you down, slowing, softening. His palm leaves your mouth to cradle your cheek, thumb stroking back and forth while you find air again. “Good girl. So good.”

You float for a moment, boneless, every muscle unspooling at once. He slips his fingers free with ridiculous care, tugs your waistband gently back into place, then brings his hand up and licks his fingers clean.

You turn in his arms and see it: how ruined he is. Hair a damp mess, lips swollen, pupils blown, a flush licking down his throat. He’s breathing like he just ran stairs. He’s buzzing—the kind of taut, vibrating restraint that makes your post-release brain go soft with something feral and fond.

“Hyunjin,” you whisper, reaching for him.

He catches your hand and threads your fingers together to stop you from going anywhere dangerous, laugh cracking on the edges. “Don’t. Don’t touch me or I'm going to nut in my fucking pants." 

He’s laughing when he says it, but it’s wrecked—too high at the edges, too close to something he doesn’t trust.

He scrubs a hand over his face, drags in air, then blows it out slow like he’s extinguishing candles. “I need a… God. I need a colder shower.”

“You literally just—”

“A colder one,” he bites, already peeling himself away from you like you’re a live wire. He kisses your forehead in apology and swings his legs off the bed. “Two minutes.”

You watch the way he stands—careful, like any wrong move might undo whatever thread he’s got left—and you’re a little in love with him for choosing distance when everything in him is screaming closer.

You let him go, because you love him, because you’re sated and soft and this is the part where you be kind. He crosses the room in long strides, hooks his thumbs in his sweats, and—because modesty has never been a thing with you two—shucks them and his briefs in one smooth, catastrophic motion. Stark naked, he’s all flushed skin and long lines and want he’s trying to pretend isn’t chewing through him. You watch his back flex as he grabs a towel and a spare tee from the chair, then he’s out the door with a muttered “two minutes” like a promise to both of you.

Week three arrives with sugar in the air and Hyunjin starfished on your kitchen rug like a defeated prince.      

You’re at the counter with a mixing bowl, scraping browned butter down the sides while the oven hums to temp. He’s in sweats and a wrecked ponytail, one sock on and one sock nowhere to be found, forearm over his eyes. Every so often his ankle bumps your cabinet. Thunk. A soft hum. Thunk.      

“You’re going to dent my cupboards,” you say, dropping vanilla into the mixing bowl a slow, amber ribbon.      

“Mm,” he answers, noncommittal.     

“You’re staying for the christmas party, right? Next month? I’m not doing sugar-cookie assembly line by myself.”      

“Mm.”      

“I’m thinking two kinds. Classic trees and those little star sandwiches with the jam. You’ll be on sprinkle duty.”     

A quiet smile in his voice. “Mmhm.”    

You flick a glance down. “This is a conversation, you know.”      

He slides the forearm off his eyes. Blinks hazily at you from the floor. “I’m participating,” he says, deadpan, then ruins it by softening, gaze raking you slow like he forgot he’s supposed to be alive and not a ghost. “You’re pretty.”  

Your first instinct is to preen. Your second is to throw flour at him. You settle for a smug tilt of your head. “You say that now. Wait till I’m covered in powdered sugar.”   

He huffs a laugh that buzzes the rug. “Can’t wait.”      

You hold up the whisk. “Do we like gooey or crisp?”      

“Mm. Gooey.”    

“Okay, king of strong opinions.”  

He smiles up at the ceiling. Another thunk. Another hum.      

You pour the butter-sugar mix into the flour. Fold. Breathe. The apartment feels small and warm and very, very you—his hoodie drying on a chair back, a reusable tote on the knob, your playlist low on your phone. For a minute, he’s content to be a warm obstacle on your floor, soaking you up.

He speaks without moving his arm. Almost conversational. “Hypothetical.”

You glance down, fighting a smile. “Hit me.”

“What if,” he says, voice too even, “I put the tip in.”

Your wrist doesn’t even pause. “Tip of what?”

Silence.

You scrape around the edge of the bowl, utterly absorbed. “Like—piping tips? For the cookies? I told you, we don’t need the fancy snowflake nozzles, they’re so annoying to clean—”

“Baby,” he says, and his forearm finally slides off his face.

You still don’t look. “Or did you mean baking tips? Because, sure, here’s one: don’t eat all the dough before it hits the tray—”

“Babe.”

You sigh like he’s interrupting something deeply important and set the whisk down. “You’re going to have to be more specific, Hyunjin. I’m not a mind reader.”

He’s already looking at you like you are, eyes dark in a way that doesn’t match the lazy sprawl of his body. He pushes himself up on his elbows, ponytail sliding over his shoulder, gaze dragging from your bare legs to the hem of your shorts and back up.

“The tip,” he says slowly, like he’s testing every word before he lets it out. “Of my dick. In you.” A beat. “Hypothetically.”

You blink once. Twice. “Ohhh.” You click your tongue. “That tip.”

His mouth falls open. “You are insufferable.

He’s up before you can reply, a shadow at your back, hands sliding under your elbows to the counter so you’re bracketed, caged, warmed. His mouth finds the angle of your jaw like muscle memory.       

His mouth opens against your pulse on a sound that isn’t quite a laugh. He sets his hands on your hips and moves you—one step forward, one to the side—until your thighs kiss the counter and the mixing bowl wobbles. He steadies it with one hand without taking his eyes off you, then slides it out of reach, batter-slick whisk clinking in the sink.

“Hands on the counter,” he says.

You look over your shoulder, innocent. “Why?”

“So I don’t break your stupid mixing bowl.”

“Responsible,” you say, even while your fingers are already spreading on the laminate, flour dust ghosting your skin.

He crowds in, chest to your back, palms skimming down your hips like he’s fitting you to a blueprint only he can see. The oven clicks; the air smells like butter and sugar and the cold outside dying in the radiator. He bends to your neck. Kisses. Bites once, soft. Breathes out like he’s been underwater for days.

His voice drops an octave you feel in your knees. “I want to get off on you,” he says, every word deliberate. “I want to grind against you raw on this counter until I forget my own name, and then I want to fuck you.”

Heat hits you so fast you have to grab the edge of the counter to steady yourself. Your laugh comes out thin. “Are we still speaking in hypotheticals?”

“Hypothetically,” he agrees, and then he’s doing it—tilting your hips, slotting his thigh between yours, the rough press of his sweats catching the thin cotton of your sleep shorts as he drags you back along him. The first grind is exploratory; the second has purpose. He uses your waist like a handle, sets the tempo he wants, long, mean drags that line his length over the place you’re already burning.

You try to be smug, to keep the pretense, but your breath betrays you, breaks jagged on the exhale. Flour dust jumps off the counter with each push, lighting the air like static. His ponytail has half-escaped; a damp strand falls into the hollow of your shoulder as he noses there, breathing you like oxygen.

“Hyun,” you manage, warning, plea, everything.

“Yeah,” he answers, a torn sound. His hands are big and careless and perfect where they grip, thumbs digging into soft skin so he can pull you back harder. “Yeah, baby. Take it.”

He’s not gentle. He’s not cruel. He’s something feral in between, a man who’s been good for weeks and finally lets himself be selfish. He steers you so your belly meets the counter edge; the leverage is obscene. You arch, helpless, and he goes a little unhinged at the sight—hips stuttering, breath breaking hot against your neck.

“God—look at you.” He groans into your skin, the sound strangled. “This is what you do to me. You hear me? This. Every night.”

You push back, meeting the roll of him with greedy, short little rocks that make the cabinet rattle. He laughs—wrecked, disbelieving—and tightens his grip until all you can do is let him use your body to chase what he needs. Your thighs tremble; slick heat soaks through cotton; the room narrows to the rhythm, to the knock of the cupboard, to his voice unraveling in your ear.

A moan swells before you can catch it. He grins into you neck. “Thats it. Let me hear you,” he whispers, ragged, like prayer. “Be good for me.”

You are good. You are ruined. Your lashes stick from the heat. He ruts through the damp mess he’s made of you, the drag so precise you see stars at the edges. He says your name like he can anchor himself in it.

The oven beeps ready; neither of you moves. He presses you deeper to the counter, one hand flat beside yours, the other spread over your belly to feel every desperate twitch while he works you. His pace goes tight and deliberate—grind, drag, pause; grind, drag, pause—until you’re slipping, chasing, whining.

He breaks first.

“Fuck the bet,” he says, sudden, hoarse. “I’m done. I’m done.” His mouth finds your ear and his voice is all teeth. “Say yes.”

“Yes,” you gasp into his palm, wrecked. 

He’s already there—sweats shoved low enough to free him, the quick-rough sound of cotton surrendering. Your shorts follow with a jerk, no ceremony, just the urgent rustle of fabric and the brief, cool kiss of air on your skin before he’s there, hot and heavy and real against you.

“Spread,” he says, and his knee knocks yours wider, his hand guiding, uncaring of flour handprints and sugar smudges. He drags the head of himself over you once, twice, slicking himself in what you’ve already given, and then does it again—slower, meaner—like he’s trying to memorize the way you go soft against the counter when he catches your clit on the upstroke.

“Hyun—” It’s barely a word.

“I know.” His voice is dark honey, ruined at the edges. He slots himself between your thighs and ruts there, bare skin to bare skin now, the length of him sliding through the mess he’s made of you. No thrust yet—just long, grinding passes that smear heat everywhere and light up each nerve he touches. His grip on your hips is possessive, fingers denting flour into your skin. “Let me use you,” he breathes, almost reverent. “Let me—”

He guides your pelvis so you ride him back, makes you take his rhythm: drag, press, catch, shiver. Your belly bumps the counter each time; a dusting of sugar lifts into the air like static. You’re wet enough that it’s obscene, the glide slick and noisy in the warm quiet of your kitchen. His ponytail snags in the nape of your neck; he noses under it, inhales like he’s starving.

“Look at this,” he mutters, half-crazed. “Look at what you do to me—feel what you do to me.” He rocks up so the head grinds just under your clit and you jolt, a strangled sound tearing loose. “That’s it. Be sweet.”

You are, because you can’t be anything else like this. Your thighs clamp; you chase every pass without pride, cheeks hot. He’s shaking behind you—actually shaking—hips stuttering once when the underside of him slips just right against you.

“Fuck—” He laughs, hoarse and unbelieving. “I could cum like this. I could—” He cuts himself off with a hiss, throttling the thought. “No. Not before I—” His teeth find the hinge of your jaw, a quick bite that lands more like a kiss. “I need in.”

You nod so hard your forehead taps the cabinet. He shifts his hand from your mouth to your jaw, turning you just enough to catch your profile with his lips, a messy brush that says sorry and thank you and mine all at once.

“Tell me,” he says, words breaking, the tip riding your clit on purpose now, cruel. “Say it.”

“Inside,” you gasp, shameless. “Hyun, inside—please.”

“Yeah?” He lines up, the head nudging your entrance, pushing and retreating in tiny, maddening presses that make you see white. “Just the tip,” he promises, like a liar and a saint. “I’ll be good.”

You feel the tremor in his thighs when he finally breaches you: slow, steady pressure and then the hot, perfect give of your body taking him. He stops with just the crown nestled inside, jaw locked, breath a ragged shudder against your shoulder. Your fingers claw at the laminate.

“Jesus,” he says into your skin, awed and wrecked. “You’re—I forgot how good you feel.”

You try to move; his arm bands across your waist, pinning you. “Don’t,” he grits, almost laughing at himself. “If you move I—” His hips twitch, helpless. You whine, crushed under the wanting.

He holds there for two, three breaths, like a man at the edge of a cliff telling himself not to jump—then the cliff gives. He eases a fraction deeper, a slow, shallow roll that feeds you a few more millimeters and steals the air from your lungs. You gasp; he groans raggedly like your reaction hits him straight in the spine.

“Just—” Another tiny push, another desperate bite of his lip. He’s barely inside, and somehow it feels like everything. “Just the tip. I swear.” He nuzzles your cheek, voice a trembling whisper. “Let me have this.”

You do. You let him have you: let him set the smallest, filthiest rhythm—out a breath, in a breath—each shallow press a tease that builds pressure until you’re shaking against the counter. He never leaves you; he never takes more than an inch. It’s torture cut into lace, and he’s falling apart in it with you, muttering praise and nonsense into your skin.

“Perfect. Perfect. Taking me so good—there you go—” His thumb sneaks lower to feel where you’re stretched around him and the sound he makes at that is shattered, reverent, almost boyish in its wonder. “You’re making a mess of me.”

You are. He is. You feel him pulsing, the restraint a live wire under your hands. Your body clamps down, greedy, and his control howls.

“Okay,” he says, like a surrender and a warning braided together. He presses a kiss behind your ear, soft as sugar. “One more. Just—” His hips roll, deep as he dares, shallow as he can stand. The head nudges that spot again, deliberate, and your vision goes sparkly at the edges. “Just like that.”

Then suddenly, something in him snaps—audible, almost—and the careful, pretty rhythm you’ve been holding together goes feral. His grip bites, his hips lurch, and he slides in a rough, shallow stroke that punches a sound out of both of you. Another, tighter. A third that’s barely anything at all, just the thick, blunt head grinding where you’re slickest, and he’s gone.

“—ohhhh, fuck—” The word breaks on a groan. He bites into your shoulder as the noise tears out of you, forehead dropping to your shoulder, body strung bow-tight as it hits him. Heat floods; his hips stutter and lock, jerky little pulses betraying him while he tries to stay buried only that impossible inch.

You feel him shake through it, every tremor telegraphing to your spine: weeks of restraint burning up in seconds. He slams home and finishes inside of you, messy and hot, fingers clenched tight around your hips.

For a heartbeat it’s only breathing—his, wrecked and ragged; yours, caught under his palm in quick, shocked pulls. The oven timer chirps again, unbearably cheerful.

He blinks back into himself by degrees. The hand at your mouth slides to your cheek, thumb stroking once like apology. He leans his forehead to the nape of your neck and laughs once, breathless, incredulous, doomed.

“I lost,” he says into your skin, like a eulogy. Then, with immediate, dramatic conviction: “This is your fault.”

He doesn’t move. If anything, he melts closer, chest sealed to your back, nose buried under your ear like he could crawl inside your skin and be done with it.

“My fault?” you echo.

“Absolutely,” he says, kissing the line of your jaw like penance. “A conspiracy. You, butter, sugar, tiny kitchen. I never stood a chance.” Another kiss. Another. He’s clingy in that way that makes you gooey—hands roaming with nowhere to land, mouth greedy for reassuring you’re-here-you’re-mine pecks that trail from your temple to your cheek to the corner of your lips. “I was strong until you did the—” he gestures vaguely at your hips, voice cracking into a helpless laugh, “—that exact thing.”

You tilt your head back, catching his mouth. “Poor baby.”

“Savage temptress,” he counters, already nuzzling, already smiling against your skin like he’s high on you. He finally peels away an inch to grab a paper towel, wipes you and the counter with gentleness that makes your throat sting, then tosses it and wraps himself around you again like the clingy, overheated octopus he is.

“Hyun, the timer,” you remind, soft.

He groans theatrically and still doesn’t let go. “I’m emotionally compromised.”

You bump his hip with yours; he gasps like you shot him and tightens his arms. “Okay! I’m going. I’m going.”

He peels himself off you in slow inches, fingers dragging along your waist until the very last second, like Velcro that refuses to unstick. The oven timer chirps again, smug. He mutters something rude at it under his breath and grabs an oven mitt.

You watch him cross the kitchen: sweats low on his hips, ponytail half dead, cheeks still a little pink. He looks wrecked and soft and yours, and something hot and fond curls under your ribs.

He opens the oven, a blast of heat puffing his hair back, and wrestles the tray out. “Look at that,” he announces, setting it on the stovetop with a hiss of metal on metal. “Perfect. Unlike my failure.”

You snort. “You act like you didn’t sprint to failure the second you had an opening.”

“Defamation,” he says, affronted, but his eyes are laughing. He leans on the counter next to the cookies, shoulders heaving once in a leftover shiver, then glances at you with the expression of a man who just remembered something terrible. “Oh, fuck.”

“What?”

“The group chat,” he groans. “We have to tell them.”

You blink. “We?”

“We are in this together,” he insists immediately. “If I go down, you’re my accomplice.”

You wipe a thumb through a stray streak of flour on the counter. “Or,” you say, “you could… not tell them.”

He blinks. “Not… tell them?”

“Not tonight,” you amend. “You can confess your tragic downfall in the morning. When you’re less—” you wave a hand at his whole flushed, wrecked self “—like this.”

He considers that, chewing his lip. Then he sighs, dramatic. “Postponed execution. I’ll allow it.” He chucks his phone onto the table without unlocking it and steps back into your space like a magnet snapping home.

You squeak when he scoops you up by the waist, spinning you lazily once before setting you on the counter beside the cooling tray. His hands find your hips again and stay there, thumbs rubbing little circles over the fabric.

“Hyun,” you laugh. “Cookies are hot.”

“So am I,” he says, completely straight-faced. “Equal threat level.”

You roll your eyes, but your fingers are already in his hair, loosening the half-dead ponytail, combing through the strands at his nape. He melts, actually melts, tipping his forehead into your shoulder with a tiny, content sound.

For a minute, that’s all it is: his arms around your waist, your nose tucked into his damp hair, the kitchen warm with butter and sugar and the soft tick of the cooling oven. His heartbeat is a steady thump against your ribs. The sharp edge of earlier has dulled to something slow and syrupy.

He speaks without lifting his head. “Just so you know,” he mumbles into your shirt, “I’m taking you anyway.”

You stroke the back of his neck. “Hm?”

“The trip.” He turns his face so his cheek is pressed over your heart, words softer, clearer. “I still want to go. With you. Even if I lost like, spectacularly.” His mouth quirks. “Maybe because I lost spectacularly.”

You huff a tiny laugh. “You don’t need an excuse to take me on vacation, you know.”

“I know,” he says, and there’s no bravado in it now. Just that earnest, stupid-sweet honesty you’re a little bit addicted to. “I just… liked the story in my head. Suffer all month, win the pot, whisk you away with my noble restraint.” He tips his chin up to look at you, eyes soft. “But I think ‘couldn’t keep my hands off my girlfriend while she was making cookies’ is a pretty good story, too.”

“A little embarrassing,” you correct.

“Still vacation-worthy.”

You search his face. “You’re sure?”

He leans in, kisses the corner of your mouth, slow and certain. “I’m sure,” he says against your lips. “I wanted the trip with you. The rest was just… decoration.”

Your chest does that inconvenient squeeze again. You thread your fingers with his where they rest on your thighs, squeezing.

“Okay,” you say quietly. “Then we’ll go.”

His whole body relaxes, like he’d been waiting for you to say it. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He grins, bright and boyish and a little relieved, then tucks back into your shoulder, arms cinching you closer until you’re basically welded together.

He smiles against your collar, and the kitchen, your stupid cookies, the ruined bet—all of it settles into something small and sweet and yours. No charts, no prize money, no rules.

Just Hyunjin, sticky with sugar and soft with relief, promising you a vacation he was always going to take you on anyway, and you, letting him hold you there on your own counter until the only thing left humming in the air is the certainty that he’d lose a hundred bets, and choose you, every single time.

taglist: @emmiesoverthemoon @makeitworse @katdish @firelordtsuki @hynjinnnnsmuse @madirye062 @d4ily-s-nsh1ne @dazzlingjade @stayville-citizen @joenjenny @eyes-ofhell @veronica123 @four_eyes13 @madebybec @thisisnotjacinta @aaassshhhaaa @a-brilliante-mariposa @vember77 @soechangbinsrightboob @meloncremesoda @sweetley @ima-jellybeanz @elenas-kaleidoscope @starlostjisung @bahngarang

[hyunsluv]

hi gng, so i highkey forgot i had tumblr—

[sailorracha]

Seat 14B

nsfw ahead, 18+ only ⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚

pairings: sleepy!han jisung x fem!reader, established relationship

tags/warnings: nsfw, smut, teasing, begging!jisung and sleepy jisung, jisung is very needy, desperate and whiny, begging, bj, public sex (more or less), riding, nicknames, humour, sleepy voice, turbulences, food

note: thank you guys so so much for the love that my first fanfic received, i was so surprised!! Also to everyone that voted on my poll (thank you!): i went with what got voted for more honestly. Sooo because i liked both ideas a lot i can still make a strangers version if yall want to, i’d just change it a bit, please let me know!!

word count: like a bit over 4k

On a late-night flight, you sit next to your boyfriend Jisung, who’s half-asleep, flustered, and already desperate, making your heart race. Between turbulence, cramped seats, and the thrill of not getting caught, the long flight quickly becomes an intimate game of teasing and tension.

⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚

Walking down the aisle, you and jisung were searching for your seats, silently hoping not to spot any babies along the way, a twelve-hour flight with screaming and crying would be a nightmare. Not to mention that your boyfriend would go mental, he’s already nervous enough.

You even offered to buy him some cheesecake at one of those overpriced cafés and the airport, hoping it would help him calm down but he turned it down. Han Jisung saying no to cheesecake. What the fuck?

When you finally reached your row, you point “here - 14 A, B, C.”

“Oh, thank God, middle of the plane,” he muttered, visibly relaxing as he slid into 14B. “That’s, like, the safest part statistically, right?” You laughed, dropping your bag under 14C and sitting down beside him. “You’ve clearly done your research.”

“I may or may not have watched three documentaries about airplane engineering last night,” he mumbled, fumbling with his seatbelt. You shook your head, smiling. “You’re hopeless.” But seeing jisung so adorably nervous makes your heart skip a beat.

He glanced over, eyes flicking to the small seat label near you - 14C- and a grin started to form, the nervous edge melting into something playful.

“14C, huh?” he said, leaning a little closer with that familiar spark returning to his eyes. “Yeah… makes total sense.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Ji, what are you talking about? It’s a seat.” But you could tell by the look in his eyes that he’s about to say something so cringy.

He tilted his head, eyes twinkling, and gave a little grin with a wink. “It fits perfectly… because you’re the one (1) for (4) me… and a total Cutie.”

You groan, covering your face. “Really ji? That’s your airplane pickup line? You’ve officially lost it”, you say while shaking your head, still you can’t help a smile escaping your lips.

Jisung fidgeted beside you. “Twelve hours in this seat… hope you’re ready for all of me.” Little did you know, that by all of him, he meant all of him.

Luckily seat 14A remained empty, so the both of you had more room for your bags for example. Yeah, your bags.

The flight attendant walked down the aisle, demonstrating seatbelts and safety instructions, catching both of your attention. Jisung’s eyes followed every move, wide and slightly panicked.

A few minutes later, looking over to him you can see him putting on his headphones, you guess he put his favorite atrists on, their songs always help him relax. A few minutes later the plane took off and the 12 hours flight began…

⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚

At some point during the flight you must have fallen asleep. Glancing at your phone the screen reads 1:00 am. You groan, stiff from sitting too long, these plane seats are really uncomfortable. Looking to your right you can see jisung fast asleep. Mouth slightly open, cheeks puffy, head slightly tilted in your direction. It takes everything in you not to just squeeze his whole face and place a thousand kisses on it.

Needing to stretch (and, you admit, a quick bathroom break), you carefully stand up, trying not to wake him. Just as you step into the aisle, turbulence hits. You lose your balance for a moment - and before you can react, you stumble right onto him.

Your body lands awkwardly across his thighs, one hand instinctively shooting out to steady yourself and presses against the front of his pants, right over the bulge of his cock, feeling the sudden warmth and firness beneath the fabric as it twitches under your palm.

He shifts under you, still half-asleep, eyes barely open and clouded with confusion. “U-uh wha- what? What are you uh doing?” he mumbles, voice thick and sleepy. God his sleepy voice. That hardness in his pants swells noticeably against your hand, pulsing with a lazy throb as if even in his fogged state. A soft pink spreads across his cheeks, eyes unfocused and blinking slowly, trying to make sense of the warmth of your body draped over him.

He shallows thickly “I-” he mumbles , voice trailing off into a quiet sigh. He stays there, still zoned out and flustered, not moving away, just letting you be pressed against him for a moment. “y/n-” he tries again but you cut him off, not looking into his eyes out of embarrassment “i’m sorry I- I- the turbulences they- and then I slipped and-” but before you can say even more his hips twitching faintly upward, pressing his thickening length more firmly into your grip while he remains lost in that sleepy, flustered daze, too out of it off to pull away or push you off. You froze, not knowing what to say or do.

The airplane's hum and the lingering turbulence fade into the background, leaving only the warmth of your body against his and the insistent press of his cock straining harder in your palm. He looks utterly gone, chest rising and falling in slow, even breaths, but then a low rumble escapes his lips, barely audible over the engines.

“Ugh- yes, y/n..” he mutters, voice a whisper, thick with drowsiness. His hips shift lazily, grinding his thickening shaft into your hand without any real intent, just instinctive need bubbling up from his subconscious. He let’s out a soft needy “mmmm” as your fingers squeeze gently around the bulge, feeling it twitch and pulse under the fabric.

The sight of him like this makes you drool, bed hair, mouth slightly open, pinkish cheeks. You guess he doesn’t take much liking to airplane seats either, because the side of his tummy is exposed (from shifting around you guess) and you can see his tattoo. You gulp, tattoos are your weakness. And his especially, the way they linger around his toned abs, you’re definitely gonna convince him to get even more.

God, he doesn’t know what those tattoos do to you, you could get yourself off just by looking at them. Thinking about the noises he made while getting them. Jisung whines easily, it doesn’t matter if it’s in pain or pleasure. Sometimes you resist on kissing him during sex, so you could hear his noises. If only he knew that they drive you insane.

He doesn't wake, doesn't completely open his eyes, but his body responds - thighs parting slightly, inviting more contact. Another breathless mutter slips out "feels sooo good mmm don't stop" his cheeks flush deeper, a rosy heat spreading down his neck, and his free hand twitches at his side, fingers curling.

And to your surprise you wanted this. You wanted to see how far you can push, how bold he can remain knowing you’re stuck for another 6 hours on this plane. You press your thighs together. Unsure of what to do.

Before anything else can happen, you hear footsteps coming from down the aile towards you, you pushing your hands off, looking up seeing a flight attended coming your way. Sliding out of the row, cheeks burning, pretending as if nothing happened, trying to act casual, while your panties are dripping wet and you don’t know how to calm down again. “This is going to be a long flight” you mumble under your breathe, as you closed the WC door.

⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚

2.30 am. You couldn’t sleep. You wrapped a blanket around yourself, luckily you took one with you, who knew airplanes could get so chilly at night. Scrolling through instagram, thinking it will eventually make you tired and distract you from the heat building between your legs.

You took your panties off when you were in the bathroom, they were so slick and wet there was no use in wearing them anymore. You stuffed them into the pocket of your sweatpants and left them there.

Suddenly you hear a soft sleepy murmur from jisung “hnn..mmm”, his hand lazily drifts to rub his face as he shifts, still half-asleep.

“Can’t sleep baby?”, he asks, his eyes barely open, and he shifts slightly in the seat.

“Yeah.. can’t sleep” you admit, cheeks heating.

“Mhmm.. me too, i had this dream and it felt so realistic. You were there and then you mhmm and i didn’t want you to stop but you did and now i can’t think straight and going back to sleep is impossible i’m so hard can you touch me?” he rambles in one go. Cheeks slightly pink, voice deep, sleepy and desperate.

The confession hangs in the air, raw and unfiltered, his body betraying him completely - chest rising and falling quicker now, a faint sheen of sweat on his brow.

You wanted to be the smarter one here. You’re in an airplane anyone could see if they woke up or a flight attendant came across. But your body’s betraying you. You’re so wet it’s unbearable.

“Ji-” but before you can say more he leans closer, head on your shoulder, his breath tickling your neck, you shiver slightly and then he whispers, raw and sleepy.

“Please baby, it won’t take long i promise. I’m already so hard i could cum any moment…please just help me out a bit. I won’t make any noises, no one’s gonna know i swear please just- just touch me, i need you.”

You shallow. You don’t know what to do. Just when you were about to tell him that this isn’t a good idea, you turn to look at him and see him staring at you with those lustful sleepy boba eyes. How could you ever say no to them?

“Fine, but be quick okay, i really don’t want us to get caught” you mutter slightly embarrassed.

“Yes yes baby don’t worry i’ll be so quick you won’t even remember that this happened thank you thank you thank you”he whispers and gives you a quick kiss on your cheek.

Your fingers curl around the outline of his cock through his sweatpants , squeezing gently as his rambling words fade into a needy whimper. Jisung's eyes flutter half-shut, his body slumping back into the seat, too sleepy “p-please” he whispers voice whiny and thick, lips parting on a shaky breath.

You glance around - the seats are dim, most passengers lost in sleep - and put the thin blanket over both your laps, creating a shield. Your hand slips under the fabric,sliding his waistband down a little, he helps clumsily, lifting his hips just enough for you to tug it down enough to free his cock from his boxers.

It springs out, hot and heavy in your palm, the shaft veined and throbbing, pre-cum already beading at the flushed tip. Jisung's breath hitches, a quiet whine slipping out as you wrap your fingers around him, stroking from base to head in slow, firm pulls.

“Mmmph... y-yes, like that” he mumbles, head against the headrest, his free hand gripping the armrest to keep from thrusting too obviously. The blanket slightly over his lap, hiding the way your fist glides up and down his length, slicking him with his own leaking cum. His cock pulses in your grip, growing even harder, the sleepy haze making his reactions lazy but desperate “don’t t-tease”, thighs trembling.

He tries to stay quiet, but soft, whiny gasps escape him with each stroke, his face twisting in flushed frustration as he fights the urge to moan aloud. The plane tilts slightly, making a soft creak, but Jisung’s attention is elsewhere, caught up in the heat.

After a few minutes of your steady pumping, his hand finds your wrist under the blanket, squeezing weakly. “N-not enough p-please, I need- I need your mouth baby” he begs in a sleepy, whiny plea, eyes glassy and pleading as he looks at you. His cock twitches in your hand, begging for more, and you feel the shift in him - the sleepiness fueling his boldness, making him push for what he craves.

Heart pounding, you nod, sliding off his lap with careful movements, the space between seats so cramped your knees press against the seat in front.

You duck under the blanket, the fabric pooling over Jisung's spread thighs like he's just adjusting for comfort. It's tight down here - your shoulders brush his legs, the air warm and musky with his scent- but you manage, knees digging into the carpeted floor as you position yourself between his knees. His cock stands rigid before you, tip glistening, and you lean in, parting your lips to take him inside.

Jisung's hand flies to his mouth, muffling a whiny groan as your tongue swirls around the head, tasting the salty pre-cum before you sink down further, lips stretching around him. You suck steadily, hollowing your cheeks, your head bobbing in the confined space while one hand strokes what you can't fit.

He tastes thick and urgent, his shaft pulsing against your tongue with every wet slide. Above the blanke, he looks completely messy - hair all over the place, cheeks flushed, legs spread out, but innocent enough, like he's just resting uncomfortably.

“Oh God... s-so good” he whimpers softly, voice barely audible, his hips twitching upward to fuck shallowly into your mouth. Muffled whines escape him, his free hand tangling in the blanket's edge to anchor himself. You're careful, keeping the rhythm discreet, saliva coating him as you take him deeper.

Then, footsteps approach down the aisle, and a soft voice cuts through. “Sir? Are you alright? You look a bit flushed - do you need anything? Water, perhaps?” the flight attendant leans in, her shadow falling over Jisung's seat.

Jisung freezes, his cock buried halfway in your mouth, throbbing wildly as panic flashes in his eyes. “I-I'm f-fine” he stammers, voice strained and whiny despite his effort to sound normal. He clears his throat, forcing a weak smile. “Just... just couldn't sleep. Turbulence earlier, you know?”

Before she can respond, the plane jolts hard - turbulence hitting without warning. Your body shifts forward involuntarily, driving Jisung's cock deep into your throat in one unexpected thrust. He chokes on a gasp, eyes widening as the tight heat overwhelms him fully, your gag reflex kicking in but holding as you swallow around him. “Ahh-” the sound comes out as a strangled cough, his hand clamping over his mouth again.

The attendant pauses, concern showing on her face. “Are you sure? That sounded rough. Let me get you some te-”

“N-no, really, I'm good” jisung manages, voice pitching higher, whiny edges weakening his composure as you pull back slightly, only to suck him deeper on the rebound from the shake. His cock leaks steadily now, pulsing against your tongue, and he bites his knuckle to stifle the moan building in his chest. Sweat beads on his forehead, his sleepy desire and the fear of being caught clash inside him, making every word feel like a struggle “th-thanks, though. Jus-Just.. need to rest”.

She nods hesitantly, lingering a second longer before moving on, her footsteps fading. Jisung exhales shakily, his hand dropping to press the blanket down, hips jerking once as the adrenaline spikes his need. “F-fuck... don't stop please baby, you’re unreal” he whispers desperately, voice a needy whine.

Your mouth works him relentlessly under the blanket, tongue pressing flat against the underside of his cock as you bob faster, the tight space forcing you to angle your head just right. Jisung's thighs tense around you, his whiny breaths escaping him. “C-close... oh God, ‘m gon- gonna-” he whimpers softly, voice speepy, hips stuttering upward in shallow thrusts that push him deeper into the wet heat of your throat.

The first burst hits without warning, thick ropes of cum flooding your mouth as his shaft pulses hard. “Aaah- ‘mmm gonna uhhh babyyy” you swallow greedily around him, the salty bitterness coating your tongue while you milk every drop with firm sucks, your lips sealed tight to catch it all. Jisung's body shudders, a choked whine escaping as he grips the seat edge, knuckles white, his cock twitching until he's completely done, softening slightly in the aftermath. You pull back slowly, licking him clean with a final swirl, the blanket shifting just enough to let you resurface, face flushed and lips swollen.

He slumps deeper into the seat, eyes heavy lidded and dazed, but that needy spark lingers in his gaze as it drops to your lap. The blanket's still draped over you both, and in the dim cabin light, he notices the way your thighs press together, the subtle dampness seeping through your sweatpants. “Y-you're... wet” he murmurs, voice whiny and thick. "I can see it - you're soaked. Let me... please?" Before you can respond, his hand slips inside the waistband, bold and insistent.

His fingers brush against your bare pussy, and he freezes for a split second, eyes widening. “No panties? Fuck, you're killing me” he breathes, his voice a desperate rasp, head falling back. The realization hits him hard - your slick folds exposed, dripping from the thrill of sucking him off right there in public. His cock twitches in his pants again, already half-hard despite just cumming.

“Baby you’re sitting here next to me bare underneath, sucking me off while soaking your sweatpants?” he continues “baby i can feel it, how wet you are… let me... wanna make you feel good too. P-Please?” he begs.

Jisung's fingers dive in without hesitation, parting your wet lips and sliding along your clit. He circles it slowly at first, then presses harder, his touch needy and uncoordinated from sleep and lust. “Gonna make you feel good too mmmm” he murmurs, leaning close so his breath fans your ear. “You deserve it after that. So wet for me... please, let me finger this pretty pussy y/n”

You bite your lip to stifle a gasp as he pushes two fingers inside you, curling them just right to hit that spot that makes your thighs clench. “Ji…” you murmur breathless. The plane's hum masks the soft, wet sounds of him thrusting in and out, but every whimper that escapes his lips feels dangerously loud. He's desperate, hips shifting subtly as he works you, his free hand gripping the armrest.

“Jisung, shh” you whisper, glancing around at the dozing seats. But he doesn't stop - his fingers pump faster, thumb rubbing your clit in frantic circles. His whines grow louder, sleepy pleas tumbling out. “Feels so good... you're clenching around me. Ne-need to be inside you. Please baby just the tip. It'll feel amazing baby, I promise. Won't move much, just... f-fuck, I need your pussy on my cock please y/n” he says in a desperate voice.

His begging turns into full-on whimpers, high and needy, as he begs to fuck you right there in his seat. 14B. “Quietly, yeah? No one will know. Just slide down a little and let me push in. Please baby, i’m so hard again. It'll be quick, make you cum so hard, you deserve it please baby” his fingers twist deeper inside you, and you feel your walls flutter around him.

The convincing works, his sleepy begging too endearing to deny. Heart racing, you nod, glancing around the dark cabin - no one's stirring at this hour.

“Just the tip" you murmur, echoing his earlier beg, but taking control. “Yes baby just the tip” he repeats voice deeper than usual. You tug his pants down, freeing his hardening cock, still slick from your mouth. It's thick, the head flushed and leaking.

Shifting in the cramped seats, you straddle him carefully, the blanket tenting over your joined bodies. Your sweatpants are shoved down enough to expose your bare pussy. Looking at jisung’s eyes still sleepy but he’s eyeing you up and down, shallowing, lust growing in them. You hover above him, guiding the tip of his cock to your entrance, rubbing it along your slit to tease. “D-don’t” he whispers. Slowly, you lower yourself “y-yeah, like that” he breathes, voice a needy whine, hands on your hips guiding you down just enough to let the head breach you, stretching your entrance with a delicious burn.

You sink onto just the tip, rocking shallowly, the blanket hiding the intimate connection as his thickness teases your walls. Jisung bites his lip, stifling a groan, his sleepy eyes rolling back at the tight grip of your pussy clenching around him. “F-fuck, so warm... k-keep going, feels amazing baby” he whispers. “Just like this yeahhh baby, ride the tip” his voice is needy, eyes rolling back.

Then, without warning, the plane jolts violently - turbulence hitting like a sudden storm. The cabin shakes, seatbelt signs flickering on as the aircraft dips and bucks. In the chaos, your balance falters, and you drop fully onto him, his entire cock slamming deep into your pussy in one unintended thrust. The sudden fullness rips a gasp from your throat, your walls clenching around his full length.

Jisung's eyes fly open wide, a loud, unrestrained moan bursting from his lips “Ah, f-fuck! S-so deep” his voice carrying too far in the quiet cabin. The turbulence tosses you both, but his hips buck up instinctively, burying himself even harder as the plane levels out. Panic surges through you, a few heads nearby stir, murmuring about the bump.

Jisung's face twists in overwhelmed pleasure, sleepy whines mixing with the plane's groans as he fights to stay silent, hips bucking up instinctively to chase the friction.

“Jisung!” you hiss, clamping a hand over his mouth, but he's lost in it now, whines turning into desperate, throaty cries muffled against your palm. “Too much... y-you're taking all of me, y/n. Can’t-t fuck, gonna c-cum already.” his cock pulses inside you, thick.

Heart pounding, you snatch the damp panties from your pocket - the ones you'd removed earlier, soaked with your juices - and put them into his open mouth mid-whimper.

Jisung's eyes go wide, muffled moans vibrating against the fabric as he sucks on them instinctively. The taste of you on the cloth only makes him hornier, his dick slamming into your pussy harder now, desperate to please. You grind down on him, the confined space making every movement intense.

His hands dig into your ass, pulling you down as he thrusts up, the turbulence forgotten in the haze of lust. You bounce faster, clit grinding against his base. Jisung's body trembles beneath you, his gagged whimpers growing frantic, cock swelling as he nears the edge. You rub your clit furiously, the pressure building until your orgasm crashes over you - walls spasming around him, milking his length as you bite back your own cry.

He follows seconds later, hips jerking wildly as he floods your pussy with hot cum, thick spurts coating your insides. The panties soak up his excess drool and muffled sounds, his body going slack as you both pant through the aftershocks. Slowly, you lift off, his spent cock slipping free with a wet pop, cum trickling down your thigh. You pull the panties from his mouth, damp and stretched, and he licks his lips, dazed and sated.

“Fuck... that was insane” he whispers, voice wrecked, putting himself together again and head on your shoulder. Still sleepy.

He grinned, hair a total mess, you decide to tease him a bit “so… still nervous about flying?” you ask with a shy smile

He laughs softly “guess turbulences aren’t so bad after all”

“Next time, we’re using the bathroom,” you mumble, adjusting in your seat with a groan. “These seats are way too small.”

His lips curve into a sleepy grin. “Next time?” he teases, voice low and rough with exhaustion.

Your face heats instantly. “Shut up,” you mutter, swatting his arm before curling back against him.

He chuckles quietly, eyes already fluttering shut. “Wake me up if they serve snacks, seat 14B” he whispers, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“It’s not even four am why would they serve snacks now sungie?” you mumble, glancing at him - but he’s already drifted off, mouth slightly open, breathing soft and steady. You sigh, smiling to yourself before finally letting your eyes close too.

[hyunsluv]

You will be my girl...?

[hyunsluv]

Please write for Felix ;(

yess :( i have a fic coming up for him, don't worry!!

[hyunsluv]

hi, just wanted to let u know that the link for "she knows what i think about" you chan fic isn't working on your masterlist

shit, yeah, i noticed haha— i fixed it up! thanks for letting me know tho 🤍

[hyunsluv]

..... will there be a part 2 of 'but you belong to me'.... pretty please...

hii! so i think you're confusing the chan fic "you are my angel" with that title bc none of my fics has that title. but if you're talking about that one, then maybe? rn my exams are coming up, so i'm spending most of my time on that!

[hyunsluv]

₊˚ʚ ♱ ☘️ ₊˚ ୨୧ ﾟ. — 𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: chan x fem!reader

𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐄: fluff, smut

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆: cussing, thigh riding, established relationship, implied fingering and penetration, chan being dominant then soft in 0.5 seconds

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 1.1k

𝐑𝐐 𝐁𝐘: this story has been brought by the author.

𝐈𝐌𝐏𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐓: this is a complete work of fiction, nothing interpreted in the fic is how the person acts or talks.

𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐓𝐒: @chrisssiren for the dividers!

𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: on my knees for silver chan, yes please. lmk if u guys are down for a part two!

it was earlier that day when you noticed the silver in his hair. at first, you didn't know what to say. it was new, utterly new. the way it framed his face, hugged his neck, it was too much. you didn't know if you wanted to tug hard enough to elect that moan you always ached to hear or run your fingers through it to mess it up.

either works for you, as long as you get to touch it.

so when he sat down that day on the couch, phone in hand, concentrating, your fingers ran through his silver strands. he paused for a second, shifted, then relaxed, sighing into the bliss of your touch. you smirked faintly.

you were gonna have fun with this.

dinner had been… normal. too normal. you had sat across the table like you didn't just play with chan's hair earlier, eating quietly, adding your own thoughts in here and there, smiling whenever chan looked at you — which only made chan more suspicious.b

by the time he was back in his room, hoodie on, hair damp from a quick shower, chan thought maybe it had just been you being, well, you.

until his door opened again.

you didn’t knock. you just wandered in, hands in the pockets of your hoodie, eyes fixed on chan like he’d been waiting for the right moment all night.

“thought you’d be asleep,” chan said, not even looking up from his laptop, his fingers typing something on the keyboard while his other elbow rested on the table, his index pressed to his temple.

“nope,” you replied easily, already coming up behind him. your fingers found chan’s hair again — warm from the shower, softer now — and began combing through it slowly, gently. “still growing it out?”

chan let out a soft sigh. “you’ve got a thing for this or something?”

you only hummed, leaning down so close chan could feel your breath against his ear. then — without warning — you swung a leg over, settling yourself in chan’s lap like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“y/n–” but whatever protest chan had was swallowed when your hands slid into his hair again, tilting his head back just enough for your lips to find the side of chan’s neck. the first kiss was slow, lingering — more testing than anything. the second was firmer, your smirk curling against chan’s skin.

“you didn’t answer me earlier,” you murmured between kisses, your voice dipping low. “do the fans like it?” chan’s hands found your waist automatically, not sure whether to push you away or hold you there. his pulse betrayed him either way.

your lips ghosted over his jawline, his smirk widening. “guess i’ll find out myself.”

chan’s eyes stayed glued to the screen, jaw tight as he tried to type through the distraction.

“y/n–” another kiss.

“stop, i’m–” another kiss, this one closer to the jaw.

“i’m working–” you didn’t even bother replying this time. you just kept going, lips pressed against chan’s skin, hands in his hair like you owned it.

“baby–“ something in chan’s voice finally got you to halt — just enough to make you hesitate. and that’s when chan moved.

his hand came up, catching your jaw firmly, pulling your face back until your eyes locked. chan’s grip was rough, in control, his thumb pressing just enough to still your smirk.

“what the fuck is your problem?” chan’s tone was low, slow, almost dangerous. your breath hitched, a flicker of heat breaking through your eyes. “i’m working,” chan repeated, leaning in just close enough for you to feel his breath, “and you’re fuckin' with me.” you swallowed, hands frozen on chan’s shoulders now.

chan’s lips twitched — not a smile, but something more dominant. “if you're so eager for it, use it.” the silence that followed was heavy.

you sink down onto chan’s thigh, letting the heat between you press against him, hips tilting lazily at first. his hand rests on your waist, grounding you, but the warmth and weight of him beneath you is enough to make your breath hitch. every subtle movement drags a soft groan from your lips, the friction too much, teasing.

his hand leaves your jaw, intertwining fingers, and he watches you with hooded eyes, a low hum vibrating through his chest. you tilt your hips in slow circles, teasing both of you. you know his patience varies. you can feel the slow burn building, each roll against him making your lips part, every small friction sending shivers racing down your spine. your nails dig lightly into his shoulders, grounding yourself, and chan’s low, approving hum grows into a breathy laugh.

“feels good, doesn’t it, baby?” he murmurs, voice soft, chest pressing lightly against yours. your hips move faster, rolling harder, teasing, testing. he groans, voice cracking, and the sound alone drives you higher, faster. you grind down harder, almost frantic, nails scratching his skin, moans filling the dark room, hips rolling desperately against his thigh.

chan’s hands tighten on your waist, pulling you flush to him, whispering encouragement and low praises, his deep voice wrapping around you like heat. his hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing over your cheek as he leans down to kiss the top of your head.you’re riding him, trembling, gasping, shivering — soft and frantic all at once. he presses his forehead to yours, groaning low in his chest, hand sliding down to your hip to steady you. his voice is soft next, your chan slipping out.

"love you so much, my love.”

you almost cry.

he smiles, pulling back gently. “you like my hair, baby?" you don't even have to answer, you just whimper softly and he knows he's got his answer from that. he hums, hand coming up to trace your jaw as you bucked up faster, desperate for that relief only chan can give you. he watched, the way your thighs parted around his thigh, the way your hands gripped his shoulder, your collarbones jutting out perfectly and bending with some movements. you were art.

he cursed under his breath, hand reaching down to cup your pussy through your panties. "you want it?”

you stare at him like he's your math teacher giving you a weeks worth of homework, panting softly. “is that even a fucking question?”

he snorts lightly, slapping your thigh. “just for that smart ass answer, you're not getting my fingers or getting fucked by this cock before you come undone on my thigh.” he leaned back against his chair, hands on your waist softly. gently.

“get to work.”

you were gonna fucking strangle him.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆: all rights reserved to @luvlve , please do not copy my work.

taglist 🔖: @luviedovie | @lavenoreern | @jijisuung | @havennz | @stronglychanbiased

[hyunsluv]

₊˚ʚ ♱ 🎸 ₊˚ ୨୧ ﾟ. — 𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐋, 𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 – 𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄𝐑

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: hyunjin x fem!reader

𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐄: fluff, slight angst, smut

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆: mention of a one night stand, cursing, nudity, smoking, implied second round, finger sucking (just the thumb, cuh).

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: around 800

𝐑𝐐 𝐁𝐘: this story has been brought by the author.

𝐈𝐌𝐏𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐓: this is a complete work of fiction, nothing interpreted in the fic is how the person acts or talks.

𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐓𝐒: @luviedovie for the pics & @cafekitsune / @chrisssiren for the dividers!

𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: i just saw hyunjins extensions for their performance and thought of this! it's just a teaser so far but i'll be working on it overtime <3

the first thing you notice is the headache. a dull, throbbing ache behind your temples that makes you squeeze your eyes shut tighter, searching for darkness. the second thing you notice is warmth. not the thin hotel blanket tangled around your legs — but skin. hot, smooth, pressed against yours like it belongs there.

you jolt, breath catching, and the sheet slips down your bare breasts. naked. you’re naked.

and he is too.

hyunjin.

specifically hwang hyunjin. he’s lying half on his stomach beside you, hair falling into his face, lips parted ever slightly so. the sunlight cuts through the thin curtains and paints him gold, every curve of lean muscle standing out, beautiful and unreal. his jacket — leather, of course — is thrown across a chair. his jewelry sits in a pile on the nightstand. and your tee and jeans is on the floor, crumpled near his boots.

what the fuck.

you curse under your breath, getting out of bed too fast, too hurried. too soon. you grab your panties from the other side of the roon, quickly slipping them on before searching for your bra. the last thing you can remember is hyunjin's hands on your thighs, lips pressing to your nipple as you let out a harsh moan. it all halts there.

you curse again, searching every corner of the room for your bra, trying to be quiet as to not wake up that fucking man on the bed. “fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck–” you curse over and over, finally finding it thrown under the desk besides the lamp hyunjin had put down for more space for his devices.

you quickly clip it on, struggling, but managing to. you grab your tee, slipping it on and that's when you hear it. a small chuckle from behind you, sleepy. tired. sexy.

you turn your head slowly.

and there he is, now on his back, head turned to the side lazily with a soft, sleepy smirk. the room smelt faintly of sex and linen, the blanket falling just under hyunjin's hip bones. “running already?” he asks, voice hoarse, teasing.

your throat is dry. “i shouldn't—”

“cute.” his smirk sharpens, though his eyes stay soft, half awake. “it’s fine. happens alot.”

the casualness in his tone makes your chest tighten. to him, this is nothing new. just another night, another warm body. you’re not special — you’re just convenient.

the thought hurts, even if just slightly. he sighs, reaching for his pack of cigarettes from the nightstand, lifting one up to settle between his lips. you swallow, slowly lowering your tee. he notices. he smiles.

"come here.”

and it's the way he says it that has you obeying him, walking up to the edge of the bed with your heart pounding by your ribcage. the room goes still again, heavy with the kind of silence that isn’t awkward but charged, like both of you know this wasn’t supposed to mean anything — but it probably does.

his phone buzzes on the nightstand, vibrating against the wood. he ignores it. just shifts closer, pulling you back down onto the bed, with him, into his lap. and it feels too warm for you to get up. he lights his cigarette, taking a slow drag as the smoke circles the air around you.

“one more hour,” he whispers, like he’s bargaining with himself more than you. “then you can run if you want.”

and that’s when you realize — this doesn’t feel like a one-night stand. not at all.

“mm.” his voice is soft against your shoulder, still heavy with sleep, but his hand is already sliding down your stomach, fingertips skating over your skin like he owns it. “baby is all worn out. did my cock stretch you out that good? or was it the oral that had you wanting more?”

your face twists slightly, and you tilt your head almost automatically. you should not be doing this, you should not be getting yourself caught up with a celebrity like this. but he has thousands of fans who'd die to be in the same room as him, let alone touch him, and you're the one who got fucked by his cock yet you want to run? ironic, huh. but it's the only thing that feels sensible right now.

too bad your brain isn't working.

he seems to read your mind, his fingers gently cupping your jaw before sliding his thumb into your mouth, smiling softly when you start suckling gently. “look at that,” he whispered softly, watching. "sweetheart. you want this cock, darlin'?”

you nod.

of course you fucking nod.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆: all rights reserved to @luvlve , please do not copy my work.

taglist 🔖: @luviedovie | @lavenoreern | @jijisuung | @havennz | @stronglychanbiased

[hyunsluv]

THIS POOR TEASER— HELP— considering posting the actual fic or not now—

[hyunsluv]

WHAT??? OOMG I DIDN'T EXPECT THIS ONE WOULD GET SM LOV WTHELLY. I LITERALLY WROTE THIS AT LIKE 5 AM RUNNING ON 2 HRS OF SLEEP WTF.

IM SO SO GRATEFUL OMG, THANK YOU TO ALL THOSE WHO READ IT HERE OMG IM SHSJSJSJ HAHAHAH THIS IS SO AMAZING!!!

[hyunsluv]

Idk if your requests are open, but how do you feel about writing a Minsung fan fic ? Like maybe they fuck backstage or something

hey! so, unfortunately, my requests r closed at the moment for other reasons and second, my blog is mainly fem!reader x skz, i don't write for member x member. i view them as brothers and it's pretty disgusting and wrong for me to write about them like that. please do be sure to read my rules before sending in requests. thank you!

[jj-one]

getting cracked by chan?

this was sent like a month ago but i’m writing this now so better late than never i suppose 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️ anywho, i’m tryna get fucked by chan rn who else agrees ???

so imagine chan fucking you in a mating press right, and he’s so goddamn big and heavy that once he’s got you folded under him, you not going absolutely anywhere. his hands gripping the back of your thighs, pushing your knees so far up your chest it’s like your lungs don’t even work right anymore. he’s sweating already, hair clinging to his forehead, his voice low and dirty in your ear like, “stay just like that, baby. wanna fuck you deep, yeah?” and then he does. over and over and over again. every stroke deep as hell, balls slapping against your ass, the whole room sounding wet and messy.

he’s nasty as hell with it too. always spitting in your mouth while he’s fucking you, holding your face still with one big palm under your chin, growling “open.” like he owns your mouth too. you don’t even get the chance to swallow properly bc he’s already kissing you, licking into your mouth like he’s trying to taste his own spit in your throat. tongue fucking your mouth while he’s pounding you as if it’s the last time he’ll ever get to, whispering the filthiest shit while his abs flex and his thick thighs press against your hips.

he just uses your body. makes it his. doesn’t even let you catch your breath. when your legs start to shake he holds them wider. when you try to turn your head he grabs your jaw and keeps you looking at him. “look at me when i’m fucking you.” his tone is rough, demanding. he fucks so hard your whole body jerks with it, tits bouncing, moans turning into broken gasps. you feel everything. every inch. every stroke. his cock is thick and veiny and god, you feel so full. stuffed and stretched and ruined. and he loves every bit of it.

chan’s so into your body it’s almost scary ngl. like he’s praising how good your pussy feels, groaning when your walls squeeze him, saying shit like “you were made for me, fuuck, this cunt’s mine” he’ll slap your clit while he’s still deep inside, just to watch you cry, just to hear that choked out moan that makes his hips rut faster. doesn’t stop even when you’re whimpering that it’s too much bc he knows you can take it. “c’mon, baby, take it all. you’re doin’ so good for me, fuck, so fucking pretty like this.”

and when he finally cums it’s always deep— grinding into you while he groans through his teeth, holding you tight so it stays inside. leaves you shaking, dripping, his cum leaking down your thighs when he finally pull out. and he just grins, licking your sweat off your collarbone before whispering, “think i wanna go again.”