dom/switch/sub ⓘ &team hyung line + O4z (18+) f!reader
smut ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ─── ❤︎ headcanon format, established relationship ノ multiple positions, unprotected sex, degradation (yuma and nico call reader a slut), spanking in jo’s part, oral (f & m. rec) >.< reblogs appreciated !
✴︎ ︎ koga yudai
to me, kei is the perfect switch. there are times where all he wants is to have you pinned down against the mattress, as he drags his thick cock cruel against your warm, tight walls. he likes to feel your cunt suck him in deeper, begging him to let you come. to which, he complies, as there’s nothing he loves more than finishing in time with his girl.
but at other times, especially after long schedules, all he wants is to be taken care of by his sweet girl. feeling you take control on top of him, using all of your strength to bounce on his aching cock, while allowing him to completely unravel beneath you? he loves it. he’s his most vulnerable with you, letting out the sweetest whines as you edge him—slowing your pace when you feel him twitching inside of you. he loves being reduced to a whining, pleading mess, entirely at your mercy.
✴︎ murata fuma
fuma is a dom. though i think he’s more of a soft dom. that’s not to say i don’t think he can be rough, trust me, he can. but only if you ask him. he’d do anything for his sweet girl. he’d fuck you anywhere you ask him to, any position. he loves the sound of you falling apart, from just his tongue or fingers. in fact, he could come entirely untouched from how pretty you sound for him. he’ll always encourage you to be loud, silently wishing anyone sharing a wall can hear how well he fucks you. how you’re his.
✴︎ wang yixiang
nicholas is a switch, though i think he’s more sub leaning. he likes to pretend he’s dom leaning, but you know better than that. one touch from you is enough to have him falling to his knees, finding home between your legs (because, of course, he’s a munch too) and burying himself in your dripping heat until he’s suffocating. but even then, he’ll beg to keep going. he’d go for hours before the aching in his pants is too much to bear, making him whine and plea for you to touch him. the moment your hands, your mouth—whatever, is around his cock, a switch flips and he’s taking out all the pent up desire on you. he’ll call you names, his pretty fuck-slut, just senseless babble as he fucks you like a wolf in a rut.
✴︎ byun euijoo
again, another switch. however, i think euijoo is much more dom leaning, the sub side only really presenting out of exhaustion or from your desire to dom. he knows you go weak from a moment of eye contact, though, so him being the sub is rare. i do think he’s a little vanilla though, missionary being his favorite position to fuck you in, but he has a weak spot for doggy. he just loves to see you writhing beneath him, slowing his pace when he feels you clenching around him, a smirk on his face. that tease.
✴︎ nakakita yuma
hard dom. no doubt. he loves to be cruel, almost laughing at every sound you make. he knows how much of an effect he has on you and he loves to use that. he’ll be slamming his hips, hard, against yours, his cock dragging against that sweet spot inside you—causing you to become a whimpering mess underneath him. and all he can do is laugh. call you a fucking desperate slut, made only to be fucked senseless by him.
✴︎ asakura jo
dom. i think he’d prefer to be rough with you, though, being the sweetheart he is, he’d be nervous at first. afraid to hurt you. but the moment he realises how much you like to be thrown around by him, he lets loose completely. he’ll bend you over every surface in sight, slapping your ass until you’re red and raw, aching and crying. begging. he likes to make a mess of his pretty girl, taking great pleasure in watching your eyes well up when you choke on his thick cock. and the filth that comes from that mouth of his? oh, it’s delicious.
⋮ ⌗ 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗌 : sorry this is incredibly short and a little rushed. just a little something while i finish this euijoo fic that’s exhausting me! <3
(if u write for ej) lowkey can u write where like ur he's girlfriend while as an idol (private relationship typa, u can actually write this however u want btw)
。hiii nonii ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆
yesss~ i write for all &t members, don’t worry! i loved this idea, and i hope that it's okay that i wrote this as a smut !! juju is absolutely adorable i love him SO MUCH, so ty for letting me write for him •⩊•
it was another typical busy schedule day for your boyfriend, long hours at the company, working as an mc for a show, after all those hectic hours, he still had recordings to finish by tomorrow.
this day was no different— although you decided to tag along. he warned you, he wouldn’t be around for too long without having to be on stage or in front of fans, you swore you didn’t mind having to be alone for a bit.
you didn’t expect him to mean you’d quite literally only see him for 5 minutes in between screenings.
as the long day at inkigayo slowed down, his legs spread, head thrown back against the couch. hands lazily holding his phone. letting all the built-up exhaustion rest.
his head twists to you. “can i finger you?” his tone as though he was asking for you to pass the salt. “what?” your head, which was once sleepily bobbing now shot up.
his eyes innocently stared back, body still relaxing into the couch, one hand now patting the cushion next to him, calling for you to sit.
“juju— what if someone walks in?!?” he shook his head, eyes rolling. “they won’t— no one has a reason to check on me right now.” his tone was bratty.
almost slightly annoyed at how careless he was, you reluctantly plop down next to him. “just relax, it’s supposed to release stress.” slowly kneeling in front of you, hands gently massaging your knees.
his big eyes stare up at you, that innocent puppy look. hands spreading your legs apart, his long fingers rubbing past the fabric of your panties, the other rolling your skirt up.
you bite down on your lips, trying to suppress the whines your throat choked up. “shh— you’re doing so good.” his fingers circling your clit, pushing past your panties, gently sinking them into your hole, his other hand moving to press on your thigh.
a desperate jerk of your hips, soft moans terribly muffled through your hand. “it’s okay, just relax.” his hand palming your plump thighs hard. his long fingers curling right into your soft flesh. knuckles deep, thumb lazily rubbing your swollen clit.
your body tensing, thighs begging to close, his large palm fighting it down. hips rolling against his pretty hands. the way his eyes watched you, that steady rhythm he followed, thumb pacing along your plump clit. your gorgeously wet pussy glistening in his orbs.
“juju~ i can’t—“ with every word his fingers deepening, stretching every inch he could. thumb making broad rolls. “you’re so close . . relax” his soft voice coaching.
your squirming against the couch, hand barely covering the needy whines leaving your lips, with every last hip buck you felt that knot release, body crumpling, hips stuttering, walls tightening.
euijoo’s fingers slowing the pace, gently drawing out the mess around his slick knuckles. “you did so well.” slowly removing his fingers inside of you, knee moving between your thighs, placing a soft kiss on your cheek before savoring your wetness on his fingers, tongue cleaning every drop off.
Not necessarily a detailed request but can we get a perv!Yuma fic please!
。hii cutie~ i don’t think i’ll write a full fic on this but i wrote some quick imagines and scenarios if that’s fine .ᐟ.ᐟ
💬 perv yuma is soooo in character for him— every time i see him talking about jojo or rua it’s always something either very bluntly perverted or has some pervvy undertones to it~
perv! yuma . . always touching you, his hands wandering around your body whenever you sit by him. fingers squeezing your inner thighs, followed by his hands moving to your ass, to even brushing over your chest.
perv! yuma . . stealing pieces of clothes, under garments, or even your used towels— bringing them back to his room, whenever he feels horny he jerks off on them and tossing them back into your hamper after he’s done. every time you do laundry you pull out the stiff pieces, giving a long sigh before throwing them into the washer.
perv! yuma . . he’d grind his hips against yours whenever you bend over, whether it be to pick up a piece of trash or look in the cabinets— he’d always find a way behind you, his hips rolling onto you, hands holding your waist in place until he feels satisfied enough to let go.
perv! yuma . . whenever you leave the house, he lies in your bed, sniffing your pillow, sheets, clean clothes, and dirty laundry. sometimes he goes into your bathroom, showering with your bar of soap, using your towel.
perv! yuma . . sometimes late at night you can hear his voice faintly, whimpering your name, the wet sounds traveling through the thin apartment walls.
perv! yuma . . if you ever wore a skirt or something short he always finds a way to look up it, his eyes feasting on your plump thighs, the way your legs looked all exposed. sometimes lifting the cloth— hands traveling to areas too sensitive for the situation.
perv! yuma . . he LOVES to feel up your shirt, pinning you down with one hand— your wrists wrapped by his long fingers. his other hand feeling every inch of your body as you squirm under him, only until you begged him to stop did he let go.
perv! yuma . . if you ever talked about meeting someone else romantically he’d instantly shut it down, even when you fought him on how your two independent individuals— he’d suck every last inch of your neck until you whined and cried. his voice lowering, reciting everything he wanted to do to you later— wanting to fuck you so hard until you realized you were his, and only his.
💭 ── when your younger boyfriend yuma suggested trying new kinks in bed, you refused him at first, not out of malice necessarily but out of fear of stepping out of your comfort zone. yuma, however, was not one to back down, doing everything in his power to change your mind — your refusals aren't answers he accepted.
once he had his pretty, pink lips on yours, whining so sweetly about how he'd love to make you feel good in more than one way. he told you that your denials wound him, making him feel like you don't trust him enough. yuma played with your mind like a kitten does to a ball of yarn and you were powerless to his charms, his manipulation, so you agreed.
yuma pulled out the cutest poofy maid dress with a matching headpiece, urging you to put them on. when you did, he had you lay down on the bed, partially exposed due to the lack of panties given to you. "you look so pretty, so perfect. just like a doll, baby." his tone dripped honey into your ears, melting your brain into mush as you fully submitted to him.
just like that, you were his doll.
yuma freed his cock from its confines, rubbing the leaking tip against your folds harshly before slowly feeding his length to you inch by inch. after he was fully sheathed inside of you, he started to thrust roughly. when you tried to tell him to slow down, hands pushing against his chest, he'd shrug you off. "shh, just take it like a good doll. that's all you are anymore, you're my doll, all mine for me to use whenever i want."
your sobs were swallowed by his lips pressed tightly against yours, his hands gripped your clothed waist tightly, the ruffles of the dress bouncing alongside his thrusts that seemed to pick up signaling his climax. yuma came inside you, you had no complaints about it, especially when he picked you up with ease and flipped you both over, starting round two. you wouldn't dare to stop him let alone speak since you were his doll.
classmate!euijoo whose flushed face and doe eyes immediately endeared you to him when you were paired as project partners for one of your elective courses.
project partner!euijoo who you learned had the same major as you and, to your surprise, was in your next class (and the next and the next). you were so shocked and embarrassed that you never noticed him until today, so to make it up to him in your own way, you suggested the pair of you could meet at your place for the project.
project partner!euijoo who knocked on your door exactly at the time you agreed to meet, and when you opened it to reveal his tall frame eclipsing your smaller body, you couldn’t help the shiver that ran through you. as you had walked around campus together earlier from class to class, you couldn’t miss his much taller stature, and it made you like him a bit more.
project partner!euijoo whose eyes you didn’t realise darkened as he stood quietly when you greeted him and waved him inside. he followed you, sitting down on your couch when you asked him to get comfortable while you finished dinner for the two of you.
project partner!euijoo who was so perfect and polite the entire time, you suggested you make your home the designated place to work on the project.
yandere!euijoo who had been obsessed with you for a long time. he knew everything about you, grateful that all of your social media was public and you always shared so much of yourself.
yandere!euijoo who had a hand in why you two became partners for this project, not that you would ever find out.
yandere!euijoo who smiled sweetly to hide the fact that he loved your embarrassed flush when you realised you never knew he existed until then. it wasn’t your fault— no, your course had a big attendance, and he had been waiting for the right time to introduce himself to you.
yandere!euijoo who thought it would be your fault if he got a boner when you suggested meeting at your place that night to discuss the project and to prepare a meal for him. his perverted delusions of having domestic moments with you were slowly becoming a reality.
yandere!euijoo who arrived right on time to your place. while he waited, he giggled to himself, remembering when you texted him earlier: “omg i’m sorry, i forgot to send you my address!! ~♡ it's..” cute, he thought, of course you didn’t know he already knew where you lived.
perv yandere!euijoo who was praying to every god in gratitude, but also for self-control, while he waited in your living room. you had greeted him while fresh out of a shower, your hair still wet and dripping, your nipples perfect and perky, and your ass when you turned around— he needed to calm down.
yandere!euijoo who made sure he was the perfect man you had always wanted. knowing your past relationships, what you liked, and all the time spent researching you was worth it when you suggested your home as the meeting place for this project.
all he needed now was to make your invitation permanent.
note ♡⃕. inspired by this post!! thank you @yumojitos for sharing, this one is for you. enjoyed ?! comment and reblog!
❤︎⠀⠀ another birthday, and the quiet insecurity whispered that you were getting older—but fuma was determined to remind you that getting older was only scary until you remembered he’d always be right there, loving you through every year.
( 2744 ) ── boyfren!fuma x 𝑓. reader ✶ warnings 𓋰 explicit sexual content ﹕ sweet n fluffy in the beginning, gentle sex that turns a bit rough, praise kink, reassurance, kissing, protected p in v, oral (f. rec), multiple orgasms, aftercare
lua's logs: its okay to get older. the world has given you the privilege to experience and love more. so do do. dont be afraid, it will all be okay.
( custom order ) for @hongtyong <33 happy bday !
the pokémon park in yomiuriland always smelled fresh air with a hint of new plastic and sugar.
you’d been here a dozen times, but never like this—never with fuma’s hand warm around yours, never with him steering you straight past the regular queues like he owned the place. birthday privileges, he’d said that morning, kissing the corner of your mouth while you were still half-asleep.
“i booked the whole private experience package,” he’d murmured against your skin. “no lines. no waiting. just us and every eevee plush they have in stock.”
he wasn’t kidding.
by the time you left the park three hours later, your arms were full of soft pastel merch and your face hurt from smiling. fuma had bought two matching hoodies—soft gray with tiny embroidered eevees on the chest—and insisted you both put them on immediately. he’d bought you the limited-edition umbreon backpack you’d pointed at for exactly three seconds. he’d won you a giant flareon at the claw machine on the first try (showing off, obviously), then pretended he was shocked when you squealed and threw your arms around his neck in the middle of the arcade.
he’d even dragged you into the photo booth and made you take twelve strips of pictures, pressing sticky kisses to your cheek between every flash until the staff started laughing.
“you’re ridiculous,” you’d told him, breathless, while he carefully peeled the best strip and tucked it into his wallet.
“and you’re cute when you’re happy,” he’d answered, like it was the simplest truth in the world.
now the apartment door clicked shut behind you. the bags rustled as fuma set them down. outside, the late afternoon light had gone soft and gold. inside, everything felt suddenly too quiet.
you toed off your sneakers and tried to smile when he turned around, but something in your chest had started to tighten on the train ride home. it had been growing for weeks—this low, ugly hum under your ribs every time you caught your reflection next to his.
two years.
it wasn’t a lot. people said it all the time. but lately it felt enormous.
fuma was already halfway to the kitchen, still talking in that bright, easy voice. “i’m making the good hot chocolate. the one with the little marshmallows you like. and then we can open some of the card packs we got—oh and maybe play that new switch game i got us—!”
he glanced back.
whatever he saw on your face made him stop mid-sentence.
“hey.”
he crossed the room in three quiet steps. his hands came up slowly, cupping your cheeks like you might break if he moved too fast. his thumbs brushed just under your eyes.
“what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours?”
you tried to laugh it off. the sound came out thin.
“it’s nothing. today was perfect. you’re perfect. i just…” your fingers twisted in the hem of the matching hoodie. “i keep thinking about how i’m getting older. you’re still—fuma, you’re two years younger than me. one day you’re gonna look at me and realize—”
“don’t finish that.”
his voice was soft, but there was no room to argue.
he leaned in until his forehead rested against yours. his eyes were dark and steady.
“i already look at you every day,” he said. “and the only thing i ever think is that i hope i get to keep doing it.”
your throat closed.
fuma’s hands slid down to your waist, pulling you in until there was no space left between you. “you don’t need to be insecure baby. you’re not becoming less of anything. you’re just you. the person who steals my hoodies and falls asleep on my shoulder and makes that quiet little sound when i kiss the back of your neck. i like that person. i want that person. the fact you are getting older doesn’t change anything for me.”
he kissed the tip of your nose, then the space between your eyebrows, then the corner of your mouth—slow, deliberate, like he was trying to write the words into your skin.
“you’re my favorite thing that keeps happening,” he murmured. “every year. every version of you. i want the one who wrinkles around the eyes when she laughs too hard. i want the one who starts needing reading glasses and pretends she doesn’t. i want the one who still lets me spoil her with stupid pokémon merch when she’s thirty, thirty-five, forty. you getting older just means i get more time with you. that’s not scary to me. that’s the whole point.”
something in your chest cracked open.
you made a small, broken sound and pressed your face into the soft gray fabric of his hoodie. fuma’s arms tightened around you immediately, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head, fingers gentle in your hair.
“i’ve got you,” he said against your temple. “i’ve always got you.”
you stayed like that for a long time—breathing him in, the faint scent of the park still clinging to both of you, sugar and plastic and the clean warmth of his skin. outside, the light kept softening. inside, the quiet stopped feeling sharp.
eventually fuma pulled back just enough to look at you. his thumbs stroked over your cheeks again, slower this time.
“can i take care of you tonight?” he asked, voice low. “properly?”
you nodded, small.
he kissed you then—soft at first, almost careful. just the press of his mouth against yours, patient, waiting for you to open for him. when you did, he deepened it with a quiet hum of approval, tongue sliding against yours in a slow, deliberate drag that made your knees go a little weak.
his hands found the hem of your matching hoodie and eased it up. you lifted your arms without thinking. the soft gray fabric whispered over your head and disappeared somewhere behind him. his own hoodie followed a moment later.
bare skin against bare skin felt different in the golden light. fuma’s palms mapped the curve of your waist, the small of your back, the place where your bra sat against your ribs. he unhooked it without looking, eyes never leaving yours, and let it fall.
“still the prettiest thing i’ve ever seen,” he said, almost to himself.
you reached for him. he caught your wrists gently and guided them up around his neck instead.
“let me.”
before you could answer, his hands slid lower, firm beneath your thighs. he lifted you in one smooth motion, like you weighed nothing. your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, bare chest pressed to bare chest, and the sudden closeness made your breath hitch. he carried you the few steps to the bed without ever breaking eye contact, the soft afternoon light catching on the curve of his shoulder, the faint flush high on his cheeks.
he set you down carefully in the middle of the mattress, following you down so he never left the circle of your arms. the sheets were cool against your back. his body was warm above you. he braced himself on his forearms, caging you in, and kissed you again—deeper this time, slower, like he had all the time in the world and intended to use every second of it on you.
one of his hands stroked down your side, thumb tracing the soft give of your waist, the slight dip of your hip. he pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and soft and completely focused.
his mouth found the hinge of your jaw, then the sensitive spot just beneath your ear. he kissed a slow path down the side of your neck, open and lingering, while his free hand drifted lower. fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your shorts, then your underwear, pushing both down together. you lifted your hips to help him. he tossed them aside without looking and settled between your thighs like he belonged there.
for a moment he just looked—gaze traveling over every inch of you like he was memorizing you all over again. the golden light made everything softer. his expression was almost reverent.
then he knelt between your legs like it was the most natural place in the world for him to be.
his hands settled on your thighs, warm and steady, gently pushing them farther apart. for a second he just looked—eyes dark, soft, completely focused—before leaning in and pressing a slow kiss to the inside of your knee. then higher. open-mouthed and lingering, like he was trying to memorize the exact temperature of your skin.
when he reached the soft place just beneath where your underwear had been, he paused. his breath ghosted over you. he looked up through his lashes, waiting.
“okay?”
“yes.”
fuma’s mouth found you with a quiet, almost reverent hum. the first drag of his tongue was slow—flat and thorough, from your entrance all the way up to your clit. your hips twitched. his hands tightened just enough to keep you still, thumbs stroking soothing circles into the soft flesh of your thighs.
he took his time.
soft, deliberate licks. the occasional gentle suck that made your breath catch. every time you made a sound he answered with a low hum that vibrated straight through you. he wasn’t rushing. he wasn’t performing. he was just learning you all over again, like time itself didn’t exist and the only thing that mattered was the way your fingers eventually found his hair and held on.
one finger slid inside you, careful. then a second. he curled them slowly while his tongue kept working in lazy, focused circles. the dual sensation made your thighs tremble around his head. heat pooled low and heavy. every time you started to tense he slowed down even more, kissing the inside of your thigh, murmuring against your skin.
“that’s it… just feel it. i’ve got you.”
the first orgasm rolled through you soft and deep—more a slow unfurling than anything sharp. you came with a quiet, shaky sigh, fingers tightening in his hair. fuma stayed with you through it, tongue gentle, fingers still moving in slow, soothing strokes until the last tremor faded and your body went loose against the sheets.
only then did he rise.
he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes heavy-lidded, and climbed back over you. the weight of him settling between your legs felt grounding. you could feel how hard he was against your hip, but he still didn’t rush. he kissed you instead—deep and unhurried, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. one of his hands found yours and laced your fingers together against the mattress.
“still with me, baby?” he asked against your mouth, voice rough.
you nodded.
he reached down, guided himself to your entrance, and pushed in slow. so slow you felt every inch stretch and fill you. your mouth fell open against his. he exhaled like he’d been holding his breath the whole time.
“fuuck,” he whispered. “you feel so good.”
he stayed still once he was fully seated, forehead pressed to yours, giving you time. his free hand stroked your hair back from your face.
“look at me.”
you did.
“i know what’s been sitting in your chest,” he said quietly, hips barely moving yet. “the getting older thing. the way you look at yourself sometimes like you’re already losing something.” his thumb brushed under your eye. “but you’re not. you’re just becoming more of the person i already love. and i want every version of her.”
fuma started moving—long, deep strokes that made your breath catch every time he bottomed out. the pace stayed almost lazy at first. he watched every flicker of expression that crossed your face like it was the only thing worth looking at.
“you’re so pretty like this,” he murmured. “all soft for me. taking me so well. and you’re still going to be pretty when there are lines around your eyes from smiling too much. still going to be pretty when your body changes and softens and keeps living. i already decided i want all of it.”
the sweetness started to fray at the edges after a while. his hips snapped a little harder. the hand that had been holding yours pinned your wrist to the mattress instead. when you moaned he caught the sound with his mouth, kissing you messy and open.
“still okay?” he asked against your lips, even as his thrusts grew rougher.
“yes—fuma, please—”
something in him unlocked at the sound of his name. he pulled almost all the way out and drove back in harder, the slap of skin on skin suddenly loud in the quiet apartment. his free hand slid under your thigh and hiked it higher against his hip, changing the angle until every thrust dragged against that perfect spot inside you.
you cried out.
fuma’s eyes went darker.
“that’s it. let me hear you.”
he fucked you properly then—deep, relentless strokes that forced soft, punched-out sounds out of your throat. the headboard knocked lightly against the wall. your free hand scrambled for purchase on his back, nails digging in. he groaned at the sting and leaned down to bite the side of your neck, not hard enough to mark but enough to make your whole body arch.
“getting older doesn’t make you less desirable,” he said against your skin, voice rough with exertion. “doesn’t make you less mine. doesn’t make me want you any less. i still get hard just looking at you. i still want to be inside you like this. that’s not going to stop just because the years keep moving. i know its scary right now but your age doesn’t change how much i love you.”
he slipped a hand between your bodies and found your clit, rubbing tight circles in time with his thrusts.
“come on, baby. come for me again. show me. let me feel how much you still want this too.”
the second orgasm hit harder—sharp and overwhelming, your body locking up around him as you sobbed his name. fuma fucked you through it without slowing, chasing his own release with short, desperate snaps of his hips.
“gonna fill you up,” he gritted out. “gonna—fuck—still mine. even when you’re older. especially then—”
he came with a low, broken groan, burying himself as deep as he could and holding there while he pulsed inside you. you felt every throb. his forehead dropped to your shoulder. his breathing was ragged against your neck.
for a long time neither of you moved.
eventually fuma carefully pulled out and rolled onto his side, immediately gathering you against his chest. one hand stroked up and down your back in slow, soothing passes. the other found yours again, lacing your fingers together over his heart.
you could feel the stickiness between your thighs, the pleasant ache low in your body, the way your heart was still racing.
fuma pressed a kiss to the top of your head, then another to your temple, then one more to the corner of your eye like he was trying to kiss the insecurity away.
“listen to me,” he said quietly, voice soft but firm. “getting older isn’t something you have to be scared of with me. i want the version of you that has laugh lines. the one who might need reading glasses one day. the one whose body keeps changing because it’s still here, still living, still choosing me. none of that makes you less. it just means i get more time with you.”
his fingers traced slow patterns along your spine.
“you’re not becoming less of anything. you’re becoming more of the person i already chose. and i’m going to keep choosing you. every year. every new version. okay?”
you nodded against his chest, throat tight.
fuma held you tighter, tucking your head under his chin.
“good. because i already decided. you’re stuck with me. even when we’re both older. especially then.”
eventually fuma carefully pulled out and rolled onto his side, immediately gathering you against his chest. one hand stroked up and down your back in slow, soothing passes. the other found yours again, lacing your fingers together over his heart.
you could feel the stickiness between your thighs, the pleasant ache low in your body, the way your heart was still racing.
fuma pressed a kiss to the top of your head.
“still mine,” he said quietly. “even when you’re older. especially then.”
k - frat president and golden boy. best dick game by far, considered pretty kind considering hes the captain of squad get ur dick wet. dont expect him to settle down with you though, hes super busy with nightball, dance and of course being the president of the frat. hes not really interested in relationships as hes about to graduate—but he might change his mind if you give him a reason to.
fuma - hottie vice pres !! doesnt speak a lot but can say a wholeeee lot w his eyes ~ not as bad a k when it comes to how much he fucks but when he fucks he fucks mean. he uses his nerdy personality to pull the cutest girls into his bed ! too bad he forgets ur name right after ,, graduates soon so he uses the same excuse as k. but also, may change his mind if you give him a reason to !
nicholas - social chair and flirty party animal !! best fashion, best dick (thats what he likes to say) has the biggest social circle and highest sex drive ~ loves public sex, will fuck u in bathrooms at parties in the frat house or even pull you into empty classrooms for a quickie between classes. absolutely does not commit, dont try to make him—his sex drive is too high for one person, maybe.. tip: if your sex drive is high, he might take you on as a regular
ej - house manager ,, sweet and kind ! really tried to keep things under control … his poor boys have such a bad rep so hes gotta clean up after them, but hes just as bad.. he uses his sweet persona to his advantage ! it gets him hella girls. cute smile whilst having nasty nasty sex w u ~ his soft rejection somehow always goes well, maybe its the pretty smile he flashes whilst he tells girls that hes too busy managing the frat to settle down. but hes a softie at heart, maybe a sweet girl will come along and fuck that fuck boy persona out of sweet ej.
yuma - house whore ! his rep is probably the worst out of the bunch. has a reputation of fucking girls and never speaking to them again. has been slapped on multiple occasions in the quad, frat house and even in classes.. all because he forgot what he said during sex or forgot the girls name. has amazing dick game tho, just try not to get attached ~ tip: how to be a heartbreaker
the younger brothers ⋆.˚⊹⁺
jo - joined the frat because he looks up to k ! was not expecting all the loud sex … is pretty shy but that also gets him girls ! they loveee a cute shy boy that knows how to fuck (thanks to his mentor k ! hes got good dick game~) would definitely settle down, but the others are trying to just make him a fuck boy too ,, i mean someones gotta carry on the legacy !
harua - rua has that pretty boy swag. hes cute, everyone thought he was gay for awhile until rumors started floating around that he fucked a girl so hard that he ruined her sheets and she had to toss them. hes a smooth talker, sweet talker. unless its in bed. go to rua if you need a pretty boy to put you in your place ! he’s still relatively quiet yet still pretty social-able ! thinks nicholas is super cool and joined because of him ~ not interested in relationships, just enjoys getting his dick wet lol. but that fuck boy persona hides the fact rua is a hopeless romantic at heart, you didn’t hear that from me though..
taki - belongs in the dog house, unfortunately living up to the fuck boy reputation ! on accident though,, he didnt mean to forget your name he promises ! its just hes fucked 3 different girls this week and they are all kinda blending together. fucks like a dog ofc ,, thick dick ,, mind blowing head game ! settling down seems cool to him, but maybe in a few years—hes just got so many bitches to fuck rn ! tip: walk him like a dog
maki - prettiest smile, even prettier dick. ropes girls in with the fact hes wasian, who wouldn’t want a pretty wasian boy fucking them dumb? doesnt sleep sleep around that much, has very specific girls he goes to ! u better feel lucky if he chooses you at a party though ~ might be the best dick of your college life , too bad u prob wont have it again. maki never fucks the same girl twice unless its one of his main bitches ~ maybe you’ll become one ? he did remember your name after-all
in which a sports journalist falls in love with south korea’s star defender
synopsis: when you meet sunghoon park — south korea’s calm, elite centre-back and vice-captain — during the world cup, professional interviews slowly turn into late-night conversations, gentle support, and stolen moments of connection.
as south korea pushes toward glory, so does hiding your growing feelings. through support, laughter, and quiet closeness, you discover something special that stays with you long after the final whistle.
pairing: footballer!sunghoon x reporter!reader
wc: 12.9k
warnings: none! it's mainly fluff with a tiny bit of angst at the end (good ending!!)
cw: slow-burn, mild emotional distress (sports related), talks about being under pressure, disappointments, insecurities, expectations. one kiss, strong language
a/n: SPAIN WON THE WORLD CUP!!!! i'm the happiest person on earth rn :(( i can't believe this fic started because of a silly idea i had rewatching iker casillas and sara carbonero’s 2010 world cup video for the nth time... ugh, i love my team. also, i just had to MAKE sunghoon's trading card because all the others were ai so i took care of it with my poor photo editing skills,,,,, 😁 (you know i had to take the opportunity to make him a player of my favorite team lmao)
the world cup buzzes like electricity in the air, thick and alive under atlanta’s stadium lights. the atmosphere wraps around everything, from the distant hum of distant chants to the sharp scent of fresh turf and street food vendors weaving through the crowds outside. south korea’s national team has arrived with quiet determination this time, not just as participants but as a team who trained for months in secrecy, refining a defense that feels impenetrable. their preparation whispers through insider reports and subtle leaks, hinting at new formations and unbreakable partnerships in the backline.
you step off the plane a few days earlier, notebook already full of notes, press badge hanging around your neck like a second heartbeat. mid-twenties, passionate about the sport since you first watched it as a kid in your living room, knees tucked under a blanket while your family cheered at the screen.
you earned this assignment through sharp reporting and a knack for getting players to open up, chasing stories in smaller leagues and building connections one honest conversation at a time. this is your first world cup covering the men’s side, and the pressure feels exhilarating, a mix of nerves and pure thrill that keeps your pulse quick.
sunghoon park stands out even before the tournament begins.
you know him, everybody does.
starting centre-back, atlético de madrid's star, vice-third captain of south korea's team despite being one of the younger leaders in the squad. his reputation precedes him: ice-prince composure on the pitch, elite defending that reads plays before they happen, precise tackles that disarm attacks without unnecessary force, aerial dominance in duels, and the rare ability to stay calm when everyone else loses their head. fans call him "the wall", a nickname earned through countless highlights of last-ditch clearances and steady leadership. teammates respect him because he leads by example, voice steady in the dressing room, never raising it unless absolutely necessary, offering quiet words of encouragement that carry weight.
off the pitch he carries a quiet politeness, almost shy, with sharp features and dark hair that falls just so, making him look more model than footballer sometimes, his presence drawing second glances even in casual team arrivals. but on it, he transforms into something unforgettable, every movement calculated, his focus turning the chaos of the game into something almost predictable for those watching closely.
the group stage opener arrives fast. south korea versus a tough czech republic known for physicality and counter-attacks, their players built like athletes who thrive on intensity and sudden bursts forward.
the stadium is packed, flags waving in vibrant waves of red and green, chants echoing off the sleek architecture and blending into a roaring symphony. you sit in the press box, heart racing as the teams line up, the bright lights casting long shadows across the pitch.
sunghoon wears the armband tonight as one of the captains rotates, his posture straight, eyes focused under the intense glare. the whistle blows and the match unfolds like a carefully choreographed dance, every pass and movement carrying the weight of national pride.
south korea dominates possession early, controlling the tempo with crisp passes that slice through the midfield. sunghoon organizes the backline with quiet gestures, shouting instructions that cut through the noise, his voice clear and authoritative without ever sounding frantic. when the opponent launches a dangerous cross in the 22nd minute, he rises highest, heading it clear with perfect timing, his body suspended for a moment in perfect athletic poise. you scribble notes furiously: park’s reading of the game is elite. anticipates runs before they develop. tracks shadows and feints with uncanny precision.
the first goal comes from a set-piece he delivers, his long ball finding a teammate who finishes clinically. 1-0. the crowd erupts in a wave of cheers and horns, the energy surging through the stands and into the press area, making your skin tingle.
half-time brings tactical adjustments, the players jogging off with measured steps, sunghoon’s expression unchanging, focused, a thin sheen of sweat on his brows but nothing else. you watch from your seat, analyzing every detail, the way he wipes his face with the hem of his jersey before disappearing into the tunnel.
second half tests them. the opponent pushes hard, physical challenges flying in, boots clashing against shins in audible thuds that make you wince from afar. sunghoon absorbs a heavy tackle but gets up immediately, brushing dirt from his jersey like it’s nothing, his face only shows determination. another key interception in the 68th minute prevents a certain equalizer, his sliding perfectly timed, the ball rolling safely out of bounds as the crowd holds its collective breath.
his composure never cracks, even as the minutes tick down and fatigue sets in for everyone else. south korea holds firm and adds a second goal late, a moment of clinical finishing that seals the result.
final whistle: 2-0. clean sheet. perfect start.
the stadium pulses with celebration, and you lean back in your seat, notebook overflowing, already replaying every touch from the ice-prince at the heart of it all.
the mixed zone after the match is chaotic, journalists crowding the barriers with cameras flashing and recorders thrust forward like eager weapons. the air feels humid and charged, thick with the scent of sweat, grass, and lingering adrenaline from the pitch. the players file through in waves, some pausing for quick quotes with tired smiles, others walking past with headphones on, heads down, lost in their own debriefs. you wait patiently near the designated spot, assigned specifically to sunghoon today, your notebook clutched tight and questions already mentally rehearsed.
when he approaches, towel around his neck, hair damp with sweat and slightly tousled, jersey clinging slightly to his frame from the exertions of ninety minutes, your pulse quickens despite your professionalism. he looks every bit the ice prince under the harsh mixed zone lights, broad shoulders still squared from the game, but up close there’s a subtle tiredness mixed with quiet satisfaction in his eyes, a faint flush on his cheeks that speaks to the effort he poured out.
“sunghoon park,” you begin, microphone steady in your hand, voice warm but professional, cutting through the surrounding din. “congratulations on the win and the clean sheet. you were instrumental at the back tonight. how did the defense hold up against their physical attacks?”
he stops fully, turning toward you with deliberate care. his gaze meets yours directly, polite and attentive, dark eyes steady without any hint of evasion. a small, shy smile touches his lips, the kind that barely shows but feels genuine, softening the sharp lines of his features for just a moment. “thank you. the team prepared well. we communicated a lot on the pitch, stayed compact. it’s a good start, but we know every match gets harder.”
you nod, following up smoothly, the words flowing as the crowd noise fades into background static. “your aerial duel win in the first half was crucial. and that long ball leading to the first goal — was that something practiced in training, or instinctive?”
“a bit of both,” he answers, voice calm and low, carrying that measured tone that makes every syllable feel intentional. “the coaches drilled set-pieces endlessly, but reading the moment… that comes with experience and trust in your teammates.” he shifts slightly on his feet, still looking at you, water bottle in one hand, the towel draped casually.
then you ask the tougher one, the kind that makes some players defensive or curt. “some analysts said before the tournament that the backline might struggle with pace. how do you respond to that after tonight?”
sunghoon pauses briefly, considering, then lets out a genuine laugh — soft, surprised, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a way that lights up his whole expression. it’s rare post-match, especially after a high-stakes opener, cutting through the usual post-game formality like a breath of fresh air.
“you came prepared with the tough questions, didn't you?” he teases lightly, tone playful but not mocking, a hint of warmth threading through. “i think we showed tonight that we can handle it. pace is one thing, but positioning and timing matter more. we’ll keep proving it match by match.”
you smile back, the chemistry instant and easy, a natural rhythm settling between question and answer. the interview flows naturally after that, a few more questions about team spirit and his leadership role as vice-third captain. he answers thoughtfully, adding small details that most players gloss over — the specific calls he made during transitions, the way the defenders rotated coverage to blunt counters, little insights born from hours on the training ground.
when it ends, he gives a slight bow of his head, respectful and understated. “good questions. thank you. see you.” his eyes linger just a second longer than necessary, holding yours with that same quiet intensity from the pitch, before he moves on down the mixed zone.
you stand there for a moment amid the continuing chaos, replaying the laugh in your head, the way his voice dipped on certain words. "he's handsome, but you're professional. remember the boundaries", you remind yourself firmly, even as your notes feel heavier with more than just match analysis. but the spark is undeniable.
back at the team hotel later that night, the lobby hums with subdued celebration. the space feels alive yet restrained, players and staff moving between rooms in quiet clusters, some heading to recovery sessions with ice baths and physio tables waiting, others grabbing late snacks from the discreet buffet setup in the corner. the hotel is modern, luxurious but secure, with sleek marble floors, towering glass windows overlooking the atlanta night, and strict curfew rules for the squad enforced by attentive staff. you’re staying on one of the lower floors, same as some media and support staff, close enough to the team’s area for convenience but separated by careful zoning that keeps interactions professional and contained.
jet lag keeps you awake, a restless energy humming in your veins, so you head to the lobby lounge for a quiet coffee, laptop open as you type up your match report, fingers flying across the keys in the dim glow. the lights are dimmed low, casting warm pools across the plush seating, soft piano music playing faintly from hidden speakers, a gentle melody that blends with the occasional murmur of conversation.
you’re halfway through your notes, capturing the rhythm of the defense and the weight of sunghoon’s contributions, when movement catches your eye near the entrance.
sunghoon walks in wearing a simple black hoodie and sweats, hair still slightly damp from a shower, the fabric of his clothes loose and comfortable after the intensity of the pitch. he looks younger like this, less captain, more guy in his early twenties carrying the weight of a nation on broad but unassuming shoulders. he spots you almost immediately, hesitation flickering across his face for a brief second before he approaches with measured steps.
“are you still working?” he asks quietly, voice gentle so as not to disturb the quiet space, his korean accent wrapping around the english words comfortably, smooth and familiar.
you look up, surprised but pleased, a small smile tugging at your lips. “yeah, i couldn't sleep. jet lag plus post-match adrenaline. you? should you even be down here this late?”
he gives that small shy smile again, the one that softens his sharp features, and sits in the armchair across from you after a subtle nod seeking permission.
“brief recovery session ran long. and yes, technically within limits if i don’t stay too long.” he glances at your screen with mild curiosity. “are you writing about the match?”
“i'm trying to capture it right. you made it easy with that performance,” you reply, closing the laptop slightly to give him full attention, the screen’s glow fading. conversation starts light, about the game, the flow of possession and the moments that stood out. he talks about specific moments — the tackle on the 68th, how the roar of the crowd affected concentration and forced quicker decisions, the way the backline shifted as a unit to snuff out threats.
you share observations from the press box, how the team’s shape looked solid from above, the defensive lines holding like a well-oiled machine even under pressure. the words come easily, trading perspectives that deepen the understanding of the ninety minutes.
“the jet lag is brutal,” he admits after a pause, leaning back into the cushions, his posture relaxing just a fraction. “it feels like my body is still somewhere over the pacific, caught between time zones. but nights like tonight make it worth it, the win settling something in the chest.”
you nod, sipping your coffee. “i get it. first world cup for me covering like this. the energy is addictive, but exhausting. what helps you unwind? besides perfect defending, obviously.”
he chuckles softly, the sound warm and low in the quiet lobby, a rare unguarded moment. “music sometimes. or thinking about simple things back home. korean food, especially. samgyeopsal after a win would be perfect right now. or even just ramyeon, spicy and comforting. the hotel options are good, but nothing beats street food at home late night after training.”
“ramyeon sounds heavenly,” you agree, smiling as the memory of your own recent meal surfaces. “i had some earlier from a local spot nearby. spicy, just right, with that perfect chew. if you get a chance off-schedule, there’s a place a short drive away that does authentic versions, the noodles are great. though i’m sure team nutrition has you on lock with carefully balanced meals.”
he listens intently, eyes brightening with quiet interest, nodding along as details unfold. the talk drifts naturally — small recommendations for hidden spots, funny stories about travel mishaps like delayed flights and lost luggage in past tournaments, how the world cup atmosphere feels different from league play, more electric and heavy with expectation. he asks about your reporting background, genuinely curious, leaning forward slightly. you tell him about covering smaller leagues first, the grind of rainy pitches and modest crowds that built your eye for the game. he shares a bit about balancing football with everything else, the pressure of being a leader despite his age, the quiet moments needed to stay grounded.
time slips by. maybe twenty minutes, maybe thirty, the lobby emptying further as staff dim the lights even lower and the piano music fades to a softer hum. neither wants to end it abruptly, the conversation weaving comfortably, but reality lingers in the back of both minds.
“i should head up,” he says eventually, standing slowly, stretching with subtle care for his body after the match. “i have a curfew and all of that. but… this was nice. unexpected, but nice.”
“yeah,” you reply, meeting his gaze steadily. “good talk, sunghoon. rest up. next match comes quick.”
he pauses before leaving, that shy smile returning, warmer now in the low light. “goodnight. and thanks again for the interview earlier. you made it… interesting, and easier.” his words carry a little extra weight, the small spark from the mixed zone flickering brighter here in the soft lights of the lounge.
you watch him walk toward the elevators, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands in a casual gesture, footsteps quiet on the marble. alone again, you reopen your laptop but type slower, mind replaying the conversation in fragments. professional. friendly. nothing more. yet the easy chemistry lingers like the aftertaste of good coffee, warm and subtly persistent.
-------
the days after the opening win settle into a rhythm that feels both exhausting and electric. south korea’s second group match arrives, and the team looks even sharper under the georgia sun. the next days settle into tournament rhythm, a steady pulse of preparation and anticipation that fills the air around the venues. training sessions you observe from afar, positioned along the sidelines with other accredited media, notebooks ready and cameras clicking discreetly. press conferences hum with questions in multiple languages, analysis fills late nights back at your temporary workspace. south korea prepares with focused intensity, the squad sharpening transitions and set-piece routines.
sunghoon leads defensive drills with quiet authority, voice steady as he directs younger defenders, demonstrating positioning with precise gestures and calm corrections. his movements remain fluid even in practice, reading imaginary attacks before they unfold, adjusting lines with a few words that carry across the pitch. you catch his eye once across the green during a water break, the brief connection unexpected amid the bustle of cones and passing sequences. he offers a small nod, almost imperceptible, but it warms something in your chest, a quiet acknowledgment that lingers longer than it should.
back in the hotel, paths cross again briefly — a hallway hello in the early evening, his damp hair suggesting another recovery session, your arms full of notes and a coffee cup. another shared elevator ride with staff present, where conversation stays light and public, comments on the weather, the quality of training pitches, nothing that draws attention. the spark simmers beneath the surface, subtle glances and polite smiles building something unspoken match by match.
the second group game arrives under the stadium lights once more. another win, 3-1 this time, the scoreline reflecting growing confidence in the squad. sunghoon marshals the defense like a conductor, his voice cutting calmly through the noise. two key tackles in the first half snuff out dangerous counters. a perfectly timed interception in the 55th minute sparks a fast break. sunghoon scores the opener from a corner, powerful header that sends the ball rocketing into the net, his timing impeccable as he rises above the defenders. composure intact even as teammates pile on him in celebration, the stadium erupting in a sea of red and cheers that shake the stands. you watch from the press box, fingers flying over your keyboard, noting how his positioning seems almost predictive.
post-match mixed zone, you’re the one they send for the team interviews again. when sunghoon reaches you, jersey still on, towel draped around his neck, he lingers. the interview starts professional — questions about the clean sheet streak, his leadership, the set-piece organization, how it felt contributing at both ends. “feels good for the team. defense first, always, but if i can help attack too… it adds something extra.” he answers with more ease now, small smiles appearing. the tease comes again when you ask about a near-miss. “you notice everything, don’t you?” that laugh returns, genuine and rare, soft and crinkling the corners of his eyes, shared just between you amid the surrounding chaos.
the moment stretches comfortably, his answers thoughtful as before, offering insights into the team’s adjustments at halftime and the way the crowd’s energy fueled the second half push. as you wrap up, he pauses instead of moving on immediately.
“you’re becoming the regular,” he says quietly, almost teasing. “it's good to see a familiar face.” his eyes hold yours a second longer before he nods politely and continues down the line. you keep the questions sharp yet fair, the rhythm between you flowing smoother with each exchange, that easy chemistry threading through the professional exchange like a hidden current. the warmth from the brief laugh carries you through the rest of your notes that night.
that night in the hotel lobby, the coffee area is quieter. you’re there with your notes when he appears again, hoodie up, looking refreshed but still buzzing from the win.
“mind if i join?” he asks. this time he seeks you out more deliberately, crossing the quiet lounge with purposeful steps and sitting longer in the armchair across from you. you gesture to the seat across.
conversation flows easier this time. he shares a funny story about a younger teammate’s celebration in the dressing room. you tell him about a chaotic press conference earlier. talk turns to korean food recommendations again — he describes his favorite spots back in seoul with quiet enthusiasm, making you imagine the crowded streets, and the perfect balance of flavors that remind him of home after tough matches.
“are you still craving that ramyeon?” he sends a subtle glance toward the hotel menu.
“always,” you laugh.
you swap travel stories, laughing softly over delayed flights and unfamiliar customs in distant stadiums. jet lag conversations deepen slightly into dreams and why this sport matters, the shared passion for the game threading through late-night reflections. the spark feels warmer, comfortable, hovering in the pauses between words.
by the third group match, a dominant 2-0 victory seals top spot in the group. clean sheets stacking up, a testament to the defensive solidity built over months. sunghoon’s leadership shines through every organized line and timely command on the pitch. he scores the first goal from a corner kick, rising powerfully to head it into the net. his celebration is restrained — a fist pump, quick hug with teammates — but you catch the rare wide smile. his defense remains elite, another strong performance with crucial blocks.
the post-match interview flows like you're old friends now, easy banter mixed with sharp analysis under the mixed zone lights. you’re now the unofficial go-to for the team.
“you’re making my job look too good,” you joke lightly, microphone steady but tone warmer than strict professionalism. sunghoon’s answers come thoughtfully, but he lingers noticeably after each question, adding small extras just for you.
“or you’re making me look good,” he replies softly, eyes warm with that subtle crinkle at the edges, the response quick and genuine. “that goal felt good for the fans,” he says, then softly after the mic dips, “thanks for the steady questions. keeps me grounded.”
the chemistry is obvious to anyone watching closely, but nothing improper. just easy rapport.
the hotel becomes your shared in-between space. quick hallway greetings turn into short conversations when paths cross. one evening after training, you’re heading back to your room when he appears around the corner.
”long day?” he asks. you nod. he walks with you partway, voice low. “we appreciate the fair coverage.”
that night’s lobby meeting stretches further into the quiet hours. recommendations turn personal — favorite movies for recovery days, the ones that distract the mind without demanding too much attention, music playlists that help settle the adrenaline.
your hands brush reaching for drinks from the low table between you, a small touch that sends a small jolt through the air. the eye contact lingers a beat longer each time, charged yet restrained. nothing crosses lines, but the connection feels real, slow-building, like extra time in a tight match where every second carries weight.
late nights in the lobby or coffee corner grow. you talk about pressure, how the tournament amplifies everything.
he admits quietly, “it helps having someone outside the team bubble to talk to. makes it feel less heavy.” you share your own experiences covering high-stakes matches. nothing crosses lines. just comfort. mutual understanding. a crush that simmers beneath polite words.
group stage wraps with top spot secured. advancement feels earned. sunghoon’s clean sheets and that set-piece goal make headlines. you write positively, balanced. you and sunghoon exist in this careful space — reporter and player, budding friends, something warmer underneath the surface of every exchanged word and glance. the ice prince thaws just a little for you in these stolen moments, and you find yourself looking forward to every post-match moment more than you should, the story and the person behind it intertwining in ways that feel both exciting and dangerously delicate.
-------
round of 16 hits on day 13. the atmosphere around the stadium crackles with higher stakes, the air thicker with tension and the roar of fans who have traveled far for this knockout stage. the opponent is tricky, technical, a side known for quick combinations and clever movement that demands constant vigilance. the match is tighter, every touch and challenge carrying the weight of potential elimination, the pitch bathed in bright lights that cast long shadows across the players.
sunghoon shines again, his presence at the back a steady anchor amid the intensity. a spectacular sliding tackle in the 40th minute prevents a goal, his body extending fully with perfect timing, the ball cleared safely as the crowd gasps and then erupts in relief. he organizes relentlessly, voice cutting through the noise with calm instructions, gesturing to teammates to maintain shape, reading the flow of the game with that trademark composure. south korea wins 1-0, a late goal sealing it in dramatic fashion. the clean sheet streak continues, another hard-fought shutout that speaks volumes about the defensive unit’s resilience and cohesion.
post-match, the mixed zone is busier than ever, journalists pressing closer to the barriers, cameras flashing in rapid bursts, the energy electric with the thrill of advancement. voices overlap in a dozen languages as players make their way through, some pausing for brief comments, others moving with exhausted determination. when it’s sunghoon’s turn with you, he lingers the longest yet, his jersey still marked with grass stains and sweat, hair damp and slightly tousled from the battle.
“it was a tough one today,” you say on mic, keeping your tone professional yet warm amid the surrounding chaos.
he answers thoughtfully, detailing the defensive adjustments and the importance of staying compact against their technical threats, his words measured and insightful as always. then, after the formal part winds down and the recorder clicks off, his voice softens, eyes meeting yours with quiet sincerity.
“i know i say this a lot, but… your questions help me reflect properly. see you around the hotel?” the invitation is casual, professional on the surface, but layered with that familiar spark.
that night, the elevator moment happens in the quiet hum of the team hotel. the lobby has mostly emptied, soft lighting casting gentle glows across the marble floors as staff move discreetly in the background. you both end up in the same car after curfew hours, the doors sliding shut to leave just the two of you inside for a brief ride. he presses his floor, you yours, the numbers lighting up softly on the panel. the space feels smaller, more intimate, with the faint scent of his post-shower freshness mingling with the neutral hotel air.
he glances at you with a small grin, the expression boyish and relaxed after the high of the win. “technically we're not breaking rules if it’s just elevator talk, right?” his tone is light, teasing in that understated way.
you laugh quietly, the sound echoing softly in the enclosed space. “team rules are strict. but i won’t tell if you don’t.”
he chuckles, the sound low and warm, filling the brief silence as the elevator ascends smoothly. “good. wouldn’t want to get the reporter in trouble.”
the ride is short but charged, the two of you whisper-joking about imaginary coach surveillance cameras hidden in the corners, trading playful exaggerations about what the staff might think of late-night elevator rides. his eyes crinkle with amusement, the tension of the match melting away in these stolen seconds of normalcy.
when the doors open on your floor, he says softly, “sleep well,” his gaze holding yours for a lingering moment before the doors begin to close behind you. you step out into the hallway, the warmth in your chest blooming brighter, carrying you toward your room as the elevator continues upward.
texts begin the next day. the mixed zone buzz still echoes in your mind as you wrap up another solid interview with sunghoon, the post-round-of-16 energy lingering in the air like static. you give him your number after the formal questions end and the recorders are away, framing it casually as “professional follow-up if needed for quotes or any clarification on comments.” your voice stays steady and professional, but your fingers brush lightly when you hand over the small slip of paper with the digits neatly written. he takes it with a small nod, that shy smile touching his lips again, eyes flicking up to meet yours for a beat longer than necessary.
“thank you. i’ll keep it professional,” he says softly, tucking the note carefully into his pocket.
his first message comes that evening, the notification lighting up your phone screen while you sit in your hotel room reviewing notes. it is a simple photo of his dinner plate with a perfectly arranged meal — grilled protein, colorful vegetables, and a small portion of rice — caption “hotel version of home food. still not as good as ramyeon.”
you smile immediately, the image capturing the quiet discipline of his routine even after a big win. you reply with a meme about strict diets and athlete life, something light and relatable that pokes gentle fun at the sacrifices. he sends back a laughing emoji — rare for him, you imagine, given his usual reserved nature — followed by a single “exactly” that makes your grin widen.
from there, the messages stay light, comforting, a gentle thread connecting the tournament days without crossing into anything overt. he sends silly pitch-side observations during training breaks: “jay almost tripped over a cone today. classic.” the photo attached shows a blurred moment of near chaos on the practice field, his dry humor shining through in the sparse words. you send encouraging articles about south korea’s impressive run or funny football memes that capture the absurdity of the world cup bubble, ones that make him reply with “this one’s accurate” or a simple thumbs up that somehow feels warmer than it should.
there's nothing flirty on the surface. just connection. mutual crush energy that both of you feel but respect the boundaries around, keeping exchanges safe and supportive amid the mounting pressure.
hotel moments multiply in the days that follow, the shared spaces becoming familiar territory for these careful interactions. late-night lobby talks stretch longer, the soft piano music and dimmed lights creating a private world away from the team’s stricter routines. one night on day 15 he brings a small herbal tea from the team area (within rules), the warm cup steaming gently as he sets it down on the low table between you. “thought you might like this. helps with the late nights,” he says quietly, his voice low enough to blend with the ambient hum of the lounge.
you talk about life outside football — his interests in ice skating from younger days, the way the rhythm on the ice once felt like an escape before football took over completely, describing the cold air and smooth glides with a rare nostalgic softness. you share your journey into sports journalism, the early struggles of proving yourself in press boxes filled with veterans, the thrill of finding stories that go beyond the scoreline. hands brush when passing the cup back and forth, the fleeting contact sending small sparks up your arm each time. eye contact lingers, dark eyes holding yours across the table with quiet intensity, the air feels charged but controlled, heavy with unspoken understanding as the hours slip by unnoticed. the conversations flow naturally, deepening the connection without rushing it, each word and glance adding another layer to the careful space you both navigate.
-------
quarterfinals arrive around day 18. the stakes feel heavier in the air, the stadium packed with fans whose chants create a wall of sound that vibrates through every seat and press box. the match is intense, a real battle against a formidable side that matches south korea’s determination with sharp attacks and physical duels. every minute stretches, the tension thick on the pitch under the bright lights.
sunghoon is everywhere — key tackles that stop dangerous breakthroughs in their tracks, precise interceptions that shift momentum, and steady leadership in extra time when fatigue threatens to creep in. his voice remains calm yet commanding, organizing the backline with gestures and short calls that cut through the roar. they win 2-1 in a dramatic finish, the late goal sending the entire bench and crowd into frenzy. the team erupts in joy on the pitch, players hugging, jumping, the relief and pride visible in every exhausted smile and raised fist. advancement to semifinals secured, a milestone that echoes through the night.
the hotel celebration that night is big but contained — music pulsing softly in the common areas, players laughing in groups, sharing stories of key moments from the match, staff joining in with congratulatory claps and snacks passed around. the atmosphere buzzes with pride and cautious optimism, lights a little brighter than usual, but everyone mindful of the next challenge looming. you observe from the edges as a reporter, keeping professional distance, notebook in hand and a quiet smile as you absorb the scene without inserting yourself into the core festivities.
later, when things quiet and the main areas begin to empty, sunghoon finds you outside near the hotel gardens, away from the main buzz. the paths are softly lit with low lanterns, the greenery lush and fragrant under the clear seattle sky. the stars are bright overhead, scattered across the dark canvas, the night air warm and still, carrying faint traces of desert breeze and blooming flowers.
“big win today,” you say as he approaches, his steps quiet on the stone path, still dressed in comfortable post-celebration clothes, hair slightly tousled from the long day.
he nods, sitting on the bench beside you with a comfortable distance that still feels close. “the team deserved it. everyone gave everything out there.”
after that, conversation flows deep and unhurried, it comes naturally. he talks about the pressure of the knockout stages, how every match feels like the last, the weight of national expectations sitting on his shoulders alongside the physical demands. his voice stays low and reflective, sharing small vulnerabilities about staying focused when the world watches.
you share how covering it has been a dream but emotionally draining too, the rollercoaster of emotions from the press box mirroring some of the intensity on the field, the responsibility of capturing moments fairly while feeling the pull of the story. an hour passes easily under the stars, time slipping by as words weave between match analysis, personal reflections, and quiet laughter at lighter memories from the tournament so far.
at one point your hands brush again while gesturing animatedly about a particular play, the contact warm and lingering. neither pulls away immediately, the touch extending a second or two longer than accidental. prolonged eye contact follows — his dark eyes soft, searching, reflecting the garden lights and something deeper. the almost-moment hangs in the warm air, charged with crush energy that peaks in the silence, hearts beating a little faster in the quiet night.
he clears his throat gently after a beat, the sound soft and respectful, pulling back just enough to keep the line intact. “i’m glad you’re here for all this. it makes the nights easier, you know?”
you smile, warmth spreading through your chest. “me too, sunghoon.”
he doesn’t push further. respect keeps the line intact, boundaries honored even as the connection deepens. but the friendship has grown, your bond is undeniable in these stolen moments of calm. as you both head inside separately, walking toward the entrance at a respectful distance, the tournament feels brighter, the stars a little clearer, the shared moments adding layers of comfort amid the beautiful game’s relentless pace.
-------
the semifinal week hits like a wave. south korea’s run has captured hearts back home and around the world. media pressure mounts daily — press conferences packed with reporters, questions sharper and more insistent, expectations heavier with every passing hour. training sessions stretch longer under the los angeles sun, tactics refined with extra repetitions, fitness pushed to the limit. sunghoon leads with that signature calm, directing drills and encouraging teammates, but you notice the subtle signs of strain in his shoulders when he thinks no one watches. as vice-third captain, he shoulders quiet responsibility, guiding younger players through tough sequences, voice steady even as fatigue sets in.
you feel the pressure too. your reports gain traction, interviews with the team sought after by bigger outlets. every day brings new deadlines, analysis pieces, and the growing awareness that this story — both the team’s and the one quietly unfolding between you and sunghoon — feels bigger than expected. you keep boundaries professional in public, but the hotel has become a sanctuary of sorts, a place where conversations breathe easier away from the cameras.
one particularly grueling training day ends late. the team disperses for recovery, bodies tired but spirits high. you’re walking the designated paths near the hotel, notebook in hand, reviewing notes under fading light when sunghoon appears. he wears team-issued sweats, hair slightly messy from the shower, a fresh scent of soap following him. a quick glance around confirms the area is quiet, within allowed boundaries for light activity.
“do you mind if i join for a short walk?” he asks, voice low and gentle. his eyes carry that familiar shy warmth, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
you nod, closing your notebook. “of course. rough day out there?”
he falls into step beside you, the path winding gently around landscaped gardens, away from main entrances but still visible enough to stay appropriate. “yeah, long one. legs feel heavy, but we needed it. that drill where the cones kept falling — your face was priceless when you were watching from the side.”
you tease softly, a light laugh escaping. “don’t remind me. you looked so focused, and then everything just tumbled. the younger guys won’t let it go, huh?”
he chuckles, the sound easing the day’s tension, shoulders relaxing a fraction. “no, they keep replaying it in the dressing room. i told them to focus on their own mistakes next time.”
gradually the conversation deepens as the sky turns deep blue, stars emerging one by one overhead. he talks about pressure first, voice thoughtful. “it builds differently in a tournament like this. every mistake feels like it could end everything. as captain… even vice… you feel it for the whole squad. not just for yourself.”
you listen closely, the gravel path crunching softly under your steps. “i can see it in how you carry yourself. what keeps you going when it gets this heavy?”
he thinks for a moment, steps slowing. “dreams from when i was younger. playing at this level, bringing pride home. and… smaller things now. quiet moments like this. reminders that there’s life beyond the pitch.” he glances at you, the air feels thicker. “honestly, you’ve become one of my favorite parts of this crazy tournament. talking to you after matches, the texts, these walks… it makes the pressure feel less lonely. like there’s something steady.”
your heart skips a beat at the admission. you look at him, the words hanging gentle between you under the starlight. “same for me, sunghoon. covering this has been incredible, the biggest assignment of my career, but getting to know you has made it special. in a way i didn’t expect. your perspective after games… it helps me see the match differently too. it makes me better, even.”
he nods, a soft smile appearing. “i’m glad. sometimes after a tough session i look forward to what you might ask next, or what meme you’ll send. it keeps things balanced.”
neither pushes further. hands brush once as you both gesture toward a nearby bench, the contact warm and lingering a heartbeat longer than necessary. prolonged eye contact follows under the stars — his dark eyes soft, searching, full of unspoken feelings. tension coils warmly, but respect holds strong. you sit briefly on the bench, the wood still holding daytime heat.
“tell me about seoul,” you say quietly. “what do you miss most when you’re away like this?”
he leans back slightly, voice warm with memory. “the streets at night, family meals where everyone talks over each other, my little sister teasing me. the quiet ice rink i visit off-season. it feels freeing, just gliding without thinking about the next match.”
you share your own stories in return. “my hometown had this small park where we’d kick a ball around as kids. football was always the escape, even before i started writing about it. now being here, covering your run… it brings that feeling back.”
the walk ends too soon, the hotel lights drawing closer, but the connection sinks deeper, roots forming in these simple, honest exchanges. you part ways near the entrance with quiet goodnights, the warmth of the conversation carrying into the night.
-------
semifinal day arrives heavy with anticipation. the opponent is formidable, a european side with attacking flair and experience in high-stakes matches. the stadium pulses with energy, south korean fans loud and proud, waving flags that create a sea of red across the stands. you sit in the press box, nerves alight as the match kicks off, heart pounding in time with the roar that greets the first whistle. sunghoon anchors the defense, composure like ice even as attacks rain down in waves. early chances for both sides keep everyone on edge. he makes a crucial block in the 18th minute, sliding perfectly to deny a shot, his body a wall that refuses to break.
the first half ends 0-0, tense and locked, both teams probing for weaknesses without success. you scribble notes furiously, the press box filled with the sound of typing and whispered analysis.
second half explodes with action. south korea scores first on a counter, sunghoon’s precise pass starting the move with perfect vision. celebrations are wild, players piling on each other as the stadium shakes. but the opponent equalizes quickly, the drama building with every minute. yellow cards fly, tempers flare, and extra time looms like a shadow. in the 82nd minute, sunghoon wins a vital aerial duel, clearing danger with powerful timing. the team pushes forward relentlessly. in the dying moments of regulation, a dramatic goal from a set-piece they practiced all week seals it.
2-1. south korea reaches the final.
the stadium erupts in pure ecstasy. players collapse in joy and exhaustion on the pitch, embracing, shouting, some dropping to their knees. sunghoon’s face shows rare pure emotion — relief, pride, tears barely held back as he hugs teammates tightly, the ice prince mask cracking in the best way. you watch from above, heart full, a lump in your throat at the magnitude of the moment.
mixed zone post-match is electric, buzzing with louder voices, brighter lights, and the raw energy of a team one step from history. when sunghoon reaches you, sweat-drenched and glowing with exhaustion and triumph, the interview carries extra weight. you ask about the resilience, his leadership, that final clearance, keeping your voice steady despite the rush of feelings.
he answers thoughtfully, voice steady for the cameras, detailing the defensive shape and the belief within the squad even when the score was level. as it wraps, he leans slightly closer to the mic, eyes on you with subtle softness that feels intimate amid the chaos. “thank you for being here,” he says quietly, almost under his breath but picked up on audio. “through all of it.”
the words are professional on the surface, but the delivery and his gaze carry more — warmth, gratitude, and that deeper connection built over weeks. fans and viewers notice immediately. social media lights up with theories about the “vibe” between south korea’s ice prince and the reporter.
he lingers afterward, as always, a stolen smile shared when cameras shift away for a moment. “we did it,” he murmurs, voice low and tired but happy, stepping just a fraction closer.
you nod, pride evident in your expression. “you did. incredible performance. that clearance in the 82nd… everyone in the press box held their breath.”
for a brief second the mixed zone noise fades into background static. he opens his arms slightly in a quiet offer, and you meet him in a quick, careful hug — nothing overt, just a brief, warm press of shoulders and arms, his jersey damp against you, the scent of grass and effort and victory surrounding the moment. it lasts only a heartbeat or two, respectful and hidden in the bustle, but the tension spikes sweetly, hearts beating harder in the small space between you. his hand rests lightly on your back for that instant, steady and reassuring, before you both pull away, cheeks flushed.
“get some rest,” you whisper, voice soft. “you earned it.”
he nods, eyes lingering on yours with that searching softness. “talk soon. hotel later if you’re around?” the words carry quiet hope. you smile, the almost-moment hanging in the air like the roar of the crowd still echoing outside. the connection feels stronger than ever, charged with everything unsaid, yet still carefully contained.
-------
the following days blur with celebration and preparation for the final. the hotel atmosphere buzzes with a mix of joy and focused energy, players moving between recovery sessions and light meetings, laughter echoing down hallways but tempered by the knowledge of the ultimate test ahead. sunghoon’s texts increase slightly in frequency, still light but warmer, carrying a quiet affection that makes your phone feel heavier in your hand each time it lights up.
a food pic arrives one evening with the caption “recovery meal. missing home flavors… and good conversations.” the image shows a neatly plated dish, simple yet carefully arranged, the kind of balanced food that fuels but never fully satisfies the craving for something familiar. you reply with an encouraging article about the final and a meme about dramatic semifinals that perfectly captures the chaos of extra time. he sends back “exactly this” followed by a laughing emoji, the rare sign of his amusement that always brings a smile to your face.
tension builds in beautiful, restrained ways throughout the week. stolen smiles across the lobby when eyes meet from a distance, quick and private amid the staff and players milling about. inside jokes during brief hallway passes — references to the falling cones or that memorable elevator ride — whispered in passing with soft chuckles that linger in the air after you part. these small exchanges become anchors in the busy days, tiny moments of normalcy that recharge both of you.
one evening he finds you in the coffee area again, the lounge quieter than usual after a long day. you’re typing up notes, shoulders tight from hours at the laptop, when he approaches with that familiar shy warmth. he sits across from you, voice low. “long day for you too?”
you nod, closing the screen slightly. “deadlines never stop. but watching you all out there makes it worth it. how are your legs holding up after that semifinal?”
he smiles, leaning back. “sore, but manageable. don’t burn out yourself. this final… we’ll need your steady questions after. you always make me think clearly when i answer them.”
the support flows naturally between you. you listen as he shares the weight of the upcoming match, offering quiet encouragement in return. “you’ve carried so much already. the way you lead the younger guys, the composure under pressure — it shows. rest those shoulders tonight, okay? ice them like the physios say.” he chuckles softly at your gentle teasing about resting his legs, the sound warm and easy, but underneath simmers deeper feelings — mutual crush evolving into something tender, real, built on weeks of understanding and respect.
another quiet moment near the gardens happens on a cooler evening, shorter this time due to stricter schedules and earlier curfews. the paths are dimly lit, the air carrying the faint scent of night-blooming flowers. hands brush again while walking side by side, the contact sending a familiar spark up your arm. neither pulls away right away. eye contact holds, his dark eyes soft in the low light.
“whatever happens in the final… i’m grateful for these weeks,” he says softly, voice sincere and a little vulnerable. “the talks, the texts, even the quick hallway jokes. it’s helped more than you know. having someone outside the team bubble who sees me as more than just the defender.”
you feel the same, words careful but heartfelt. “i’m grateful too, sunghoon. covering this run has been a dream, but getting to know you — the real you behind the ice prince reputation — has made it unforgettable. you’ve helped me stay grounded too, reminded me why i love the game in the first place.”
no lines crossed. just deepening connection, slow and respectful, hearts leaning closer as the biggest match approaches. you part ways with a quiet goodnight, the warmth of his words carrying you back to your room.
the week ends with the team focused and bonded tighter than ever. you prepare your notes for the final, mind full of sunghoon — the defender, the leader, the person who’s quietly become so important through shared laughs, supportive words, and those stolen moments of understanding. the final awaits, but this connection feels like its own victory already, a beautiful thread woven through the chaos of the tournament.
-------
the final week feels like the world has narrowed to a single point. south korea against a powerhouse european side — technically brilliant, physically strong, full of world-class attackers who can change a game in one moment. the hotel is quieter now, heavier with focus. players move through the halls with serious faces. laughter still comes, but it is softer, shorter. training is sharp, tactical, almost silent except for sunghoon’s calm instructions. he stands tall on the pitch, directing the backline with steady words, but you see the weight he carries.
media pressure peaks. every interview, every press conference asks about destiny, about making history, about what it would mean for the whole country. cameras follow the team everywhere. questions get harder. you feel it too, your own reports read by more people each day. but in the middle of all this, you and sunghoon steal small moments. a hallway smile when no one else is looking. a text at night that says “rest well. big day soon.”
the deeper connection from the semifinals carries them both. tension waving underneath, but they keep it light and supportive. inside jokes about elevator rules and ramyeon cravings ease the nerves when things feel too heavy.
the day before the final dawns clear and warm. new york’s sun rises early, painting the hotel windows in soft gold. you wake up with butterflies already dancing in your stomach. today is the last full day before everything reaches its peak. you know sunghoon must feel it even more. as vice-third captain, the expectations sit right on his shoulders. you spend the morning in the press area, typing notes and preparing questions, but your mind keeps drifting to him.
around midday, after the morning training session ends, you see him in the hotel lobby. he looks tired but composed, hair still damp from the shower, wearing simple team sweats. his shoulders seem a little tighter than usual. when his eyes find yours across the space, he gives a small nod. you walk over casually, keeping your voice low.
“hey,” you say softly. “how are you feeling today?”
he glances around to make sure no one is paying too much attention, then sighs a little. “honestly? i'm nervous. more than i thought i would be. this is the final. everything we worked for. what if i make a mistake out there? what if the team needs me and i am not sharp enough?”
his voice is quiet, almost a whisper. you see the worry in his dark eyes, the way he rubs the back of his neck. the ice prince mask is slipping just for you. you step a little closer, not touching yet, but near enough that your presence feels warm.
“sunghoon,” you say gently, “you have been incredible this whole tournament. that sliding tackle in the round of 16, the header in the group stage, the way you read the game in the semifinal. everyone sees it. the team trusts you. i trust you. one match does not erase all the good you have already done.”
he listens, eyes softening as he looks at you. “thank you. it helps hearing that from someone outside the squad. the coaches say the right things, teammates too, but sometimes it still feels heavy. like the whole country is watching.”
you nod, understanding. “it is heavy. but you do not carry it alone. not really. and tomorrow you will go out there and do what you always do — stay calm, read the play, lead by example. that is who you are.”
a small smile touches his lips. “you always know what to say. makes me feel steadier.”
the conversation flows easier after that. you walk together toward a quieter corner of the hotel, a small seating area away from the main bustle. no one bothers you. the moment feels private even in a busy place. you sit side by side on a comfortable couch. your knees brush lightly. neither of you moves away. the contact is simple but comforting, a quiet reminder that you are here with him.
“remember that time in the elevator?” you ask, trying to lighten the mood with an inside joke. “when we joked about coach cameras everywhere?”
he chuckles softly, the sound low and warm. it relaxes his shoulders a bit. “how could i forget? you said you would not tell if i did not. best deal i made all tournament.”
you laugh together, the sound mixing nicely. for a few minutes the final feels farther away. you talk about ramyeon again, what you would both eat right after the match if you could. he describes his favorite spot back in seoul in more detail this time — the spicy broth, the way the noodles feel, the late night vibes with friends. you share stories from your own travels, funny moments from smaller matches you covered before this big one. the talk helps. his voice grows calmer. the nervous edge fades little by little.
later that afternoon, after some recovery work, he texts you. the message is simple. “coffee area in twenty minutes? if you are free.”
you reply quickly. “see you there.”
when you arrive, he is already waiting with two cups of herbal tea. he hands one to you, fingers brushing yours on purpose this time. the touch lingers. you both sit close, closer than before. your arm rests near his on the table. the lobby is quiet enough that it feels like your own small world.
“i keep thinking about the first match,” he says after a sip. “how everything started. you were there with your questions. now here we are. final tomorrow. it feels fast and slow at the same time.”
you nod, turning to face him more. “it does. i have watched you grow even in these weeks. not just as a player. as a person. you let me see the real you. that means a lot.”
he looks at you, eyes steady and warm. “you let me see the real you too. not just the reporter. the person who loves the game, who works hard, who cares. it has been nice. more than nice.”
the words hang between you, full of meaning. tension builds again, the good kind that makes your heart beat faster. you lean in slightly. he does the same. your shoulders touch now, a gentle press that feels safe and exciting. his hand rests near yours on the table. fingers brush, then stay close, almost holding but not quite. the almost is sweet. it stretches the moment, makes it deeper.
“are you scared?” you ask quietly, wanting to give him space to share more.
he thinks for a second. “yes. a little. not of playing. but of letting everyone down. the fans, my family, the team…” then he adds, whispering, almost as if he was scared of pronouncing those words. ”what if i am not enough tomorrow?”
you turn your hand and gently squeeze his fingers for a brief moment. the contact is warm and reassuring. “you are enough, sunghoon. you have already proven it. tomorrow you will play like you always do. strong, smart, calm. and no matter what, i will be proud. the reporter part and the friend part.”
he squeezes back, just as gentle. his thumb rubs a small circle on the back of your hand before you both let go, aware of the surroundings. but the touch stays with you. his eyes look softer now, less nervous.
“thank you,” he whispers. “really. these talks… they help me breathe better. you help me.”
the rest of the afternoon passes in similar small moments. you walk together again near the gardens when schedules allow. the sun is lower, casting long shadows. this time you walk closer, arms brushing with every step. he tells you more about his younger days, the ice skating dreams, the pressure he felt even as a kid. you share your own fears about big assignments, how you sometimes doubt if your writing captures the real feeling.
“you do,” he says firmly. “your questions always make me think deeper. you see things others miss.”
the compliment warms you. you stop near a quiet bench. he sits first. you sit right beside him, thighs touching. the closeness feels natural now. his arm rests behind you on the bench, not quite around you but close enough that you can lean back into the support. you do. your head rests lightly against his shoulder for a few seconds. he does not move away. instead, he leans in too. the contact is soft, comforting. you stay like that for a minute, breathing together under the fading sky.
“whatever happens tomorrow,” he says quietly, voice close to your ear, “i am glad we had this. the connection. it is special.”
“me too,” you reply, heart full. “very special.”
you pull back after a while, but the warmth remains. he walks you partway to your floor later, the elevator ride shared again. this time it is just the two of you. no jokes about cameras. instead, quiet talk. his hand finds yours for a short squeeze as the doors open on your floor.
“rest well,” he says, eyes holding yours. “i will see you after the match.”
“you rest too,” you answer. “you will be great. i believe in you.”
that night the texts continue.
he sends a simple message. “can't sleep yet. thinking too much.”
you reply right away. “what is on your mind?”
“the final. the team. you.” the honesty makes your chest tight in a good way.
you send back encouragement. “you have prepared perfectly. tomorrow you step on the pitch and do what you love. i will be watching every move. cheering in the press box even if i stay professional on the outside.”
he sends a photo this time — just his hand holding the team badge on his sweatshirt, nothing fancy. “this means more with good support. thank you.”
the conversation goes on for a while, light and deep mixed together. he tells you a funny memory from training camp to ease his own nerves. you share a silly story from your first big assignment. laughter comes through the phone even if you can not hear it. slowly his messages slow down. “starting to feel tired. thanks for talking. goodnight.”
“goodnight, sunghoon. sleep well.”
the day before the final ends with you lying in bed, mind full of him. the way his shoulder felt under your head. the gentle squeeze of his hand. the nervous look that softened when you comforted him. the connection has grown so much closer, physically and emotionally. touches that linger. words that mean more. respect still holds everything together, but the tenderness is real. hearts leaning in as the biggest night of the tournament waits just ahead.
-------
the next morning comes early. you see him briefly at breakfast from across the room. he looks focused but calmer. when your eyes meet, he gives a small smile, the kind meant only for you. you smile back, sending silent support. the final is hours away, but the bond you built feels strong enough to carry through whatever comes. sunghoon is still nervous deep down, you know that. but he also knows he is not alone. your words, your presence, your gentle touches — they have become part of his strength. and for you, watching him chase history while sharing these quiet moments has become the most beautiful part of the whole world cup.
the hours before kickoff pass in a blur of preparation. you review your notes one last time in the press area. sunghoon sends one more text in the afternoon. “final walk through done. feeling ready. your words from yesterday helped a lot.”
you reply quickly. “you got this. go out there and be the wall they need. i am proud already.”
his answer is short but warm. “see you on the other side.”
as the team bus leaves for the stadium later, you watch from the hotel entrance. he catches your eye through the window for a brief second. the small nod he gives carries everything — gratitude, nerves, connection. you wave subtly, heart full. the day before the final has brought you closer than ever. touches, talks, comfort, shared silence. the final waits, but this quiet story between you already feels like a win worth cherishing.
-------
the stadium is a cauldron of noise and color long before kickoff, fans from both nations filling every seat, waving flags, singing chants that echo for miles. the air feels electric, thick with anticipation and the weight of history. you take your place in the press box high above the pitch, heart pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat. your notebook sits open, but your eyes keep drifting to the field where the teams warm up.
south korea in their iconic red shirt, sunghoon is wearing the captain’s armband tonight, standing tall among his teammates. his expression is focused, that ice-prince calm masking the storm you know is inside after all the quiet talks and shared moments. he moves with purpose during the warm-up, stretching, touching the grass, talking quietly with younger players. you watch every step, remembering the way his shoulder felt under your head, the gentle squeeze of his hand, the nerves he let you see the day before. national anthems play, voices rising strong and proud. sunghoon stands straight, hand over his heart, eyes distant but determined. the whistle blows and the final begins.
the match is a chess game from the start.
both teams circle each other carefully, probing for weaknesses without giving much away. south korea defends resolutely, staying compact and organized. sunghoon is everywhere at the back — reading runs before they develop, winning aerial duels with perfect timing, distributing the ball calmly from the back to start attacks. you lean forward in your seat, eyes locked on him, scribbling notes but mostly just watching the way he commands the defense. his voice carries across the pitch even from your high position, steady instructions cutting through the roar.
the european side presses high, trying to force mistakes, but the defense holds firm. chances come and go. a shot from the opponent is saved brilliantly by the keeper. a dangerous cross is cleared by sunghoon’s powerful header, his body leaping high, timing exact. the crowd roars with every tackle, every clearance. you cheer loudly from the press box every time he wins a duel, your voice joining the thousands of korean fans, heart swelling with pride and worry at the same time. “come on, sunghoon,” you whisper under your breath when a striker gets too close.
0-0 at half-time. the players jog off, faces tired but focused. sunghoon claps teammates on the back, saying quiet words of encouragement. you can see the tension in his shoulders from afar, the way he glances toward the press box once, searching briefly. you hope he feels your support even from this distance.
second half mirrors the first. intense, cagey, every ball contested like it is the last. sunghoon makes a heroic block in the 60th minute, throwing his body fully in front of a powerful strike. the impact looks painful. pain flashes across his face for a split second, but he rises quickly, brushing dirt from his jersey and waving teammates into position, voice strong again. you stand up in the press box, cheering wildly, hands clapping until they sting.
“that’s it! keep going!” the fans around you roar in agreement. he looks toward the stands, toward you, for just a moment, a tiny nod almost imperceptible, but it warms you through.
the game stays locked. legs start to tire as the minutes tick down. extra time begins, the stadium even louder now, the pressure mounting with every pass. sunghoon keeps organizing, never stopping, even as exhaustion shows in slower movements. he wins more duels, makes more key interceptions, leading by pure example.
you watch him the whole time, heart aching with every challenge he faces, proud of how he pushes through. the connection you built makes every moment feel personal. you want this for him so badly. you want him to be happy.
in the dying minutes of extra time, the 118th, disaster strikes. a quick counter from the opponent catches the defense stretched. a through ball splits the line perfectly. sunghoon lunges desperately, sliding with everything he has left, but the striker rounds the keeper and slots it home.
0-1. south korea is losing.
the stadium erupts in the opponent’s favor, their fans exploding in joy. heartbreak crashes down on the korean side like a wave. the clock ticks away the final moments. south korea pushes desperately for an equalizer, throwing numbers forward, but time runs out cruelly.
sunghoon stands motionless for a second on the pitch, hands on his hips, chest heaving. then he turns his head toward the press box again and again as the whistle approaches. he searches for your face in the crowd, eyes scanning desperately through the sea of people. devastation etches his features clearly now — the pain, the disappointment, the exhaustion. but he stays composed for the team, moving to clap teammates on the back, head high even as the reality sinks in. you cheer his name loudly through the pain in your own chest, voice raw, willing him strength across the distance. “sunghoon! i'm so proud of you!”
the final whistle confirms it.
defeat. 0-1.
the european side celebrates wildly, piling on each other, jumping and shouting. south korea’s players drop to the grass, exhausted and emotional, some covering their faces, others staring blankly at the sky. tears start to flow for many. the weight of coming so close only to fall short hits hard.
sunghoon gathers them slowly, moving from player to player with purpose even as his own eyes glisten.
he puts an arm around the younger ones, pulling them into huddles, voice steady despite the tears he is fighting back. you see him wipe his eyes quickly with the back of his hand, shoulders shaking once before he straightens again. he consoles them with quiet words, hugging tightly, letting some cry on his shoulder while offering comfort in return. they console him too — teammates patting his back, sharing the pain, reminding him how far they came together.
the group stands close in the middle of the pitch, a circle of red jerseys bonded through the heartbreak, sunghoon at the center, leading even in defeat, tears falling freely now as he lets the emotion show while still holding the team together. the moment is raw and beautiful, full of pride mixed with sorrow, the end of an unforgettable run.
medal ceremony follows under the bright stadium lights. the atmosphere is a strange mix of celebration for the winners and quiet pride mixed with sorrow for the runners-up. silver medals hang around necks, gleaming against the red jerseys. sunghoon steps up to receive his with quiet dignity, head held high even as his eyes glisten with unshed tears.
the crowd gives warm applause for the south korean team, chanting their names in appreciation for the run that captured so many hearts. he claps for his teammates, a small, bittersweet smile on his face, but you can see the weight in his posture from your place in the press area. the journey meant everything, and ending here still hurts.
media duties come next. the mixed zone feels somber this time, the usual buzz replaced by quieter voices and heavy emotions. players move through slowly, some with red eyes, others forcing smiles for the cameras.
when sunghoon reaches you, his eyes are teary, shoulders heavy with exhaustion and disappointment. his hair is damp, jersey still marked from the battle, the captain’s armband still on his arm. you keep the interview professional at first, but your voice is gentle, full of care.
“sunghoon, a heartbreaking end after an incredible run. what does this silver mean to you and the team?” you ask, microphone steady but tone soft.
he swallows hard, voice thick but clear as he answers. “it means a lot. we gave everything we had out there. i am proud of the journey, the fans who supported us, the fight we showed together. we will learn from this and come back stronger.” his eyes stay locked on yours the whole time. tears threaten to spill over. the professional facade cracks slightly, the ice prince letting the emotion show more than usual. the moment feels intimate even with cameras rolling.
as the camera holds and the interview continues for a few more questions, you cannot help it. under the barrier, your hand reaches out briefly for his arm, a quick but affectionate squeeze of comfort on his forearm, fingers lingering for a second longer than strictly necessary. the touch is warm and reassuring, right there in public where anyone could notice. he squeezes your hand back gently with his own, eyes saying everything words cannot — gratitude, shared pain, the depth of the connection built over these weeks. the affection is clear in the way his fingers press softly against yours before you both pull away, careful but meaningful. fans will dissect the moment later on social media, replaying the clip, but right now it is just for the two of you, a small anchor in the heartbreak.
you continue with one more gentle question about the team spirit. he answers thoughtfully, voice a little steadier thanks to the touch. “the guys fought so hard. i am proud to lead them. we came so far together.”
the interview ends. he lingers longest with you, teary-eyed and reluctant to move on. you reach out again quickly, this time touching his arm openly for a moment, a light, comforting rub along his sleeve, right there in the mixed zone. “you were amazing out there,” you whisper softly, eyes full of pride and care. “the whole tournament. i mean it.”
he nods, leaning slightly into the brief contact, his own hand covering yours for a heartbeat. “thank you,” he whispers back, voice cracking just a little. “for everything. the talks, the support, being here. it made a difference. really.” his eyes are still glistening, but the small smile he gives you is real and warm, full of affection that goes beyond the game. the public touch feels bold but right in this emotional moment, a quiet way of saying i am here with you.
he finally moves on after one last lingering look, shoulders a little lighter, the comfort from your touch and words carrying him forward. you stand there watching him go, heart full despite the loss, the connection between you stronger than ever even in defeat.
-------
hours later, when the stadium empties and the bittersweet hotel celebrations wind down, the corridors grow quiet. music fades, laughter turns softer, and players slowly retreat to their rooms to process the loss in private. you sit in a quiet corridor near the team floors, away from everyone, the area dimly lit with soft wall lights casting gentle shadows. the air feels still after the chaos of the day. you are replaying the match in your mind, the pride and the pain, when footsteps approach.
sunghoon finds you there. he has changed into a simple black hoodie and sweats, hair messy from the shower, eyes still red from the tears on the pitch and the emotion that followed. he looks tired but real, the captain’s mask completely gone now. you stand up slowly as he approaches, heart beating faster.
“hey,” you say softly, voice barely above a whisper.
he stops close, closer than usual, looking at you with raw emotion that makes your chest tighten. his dark eyes search yours, glistening again under the low lights.
“i kept looking for you out there. in the final moments — when the goal went in, when the whistle blew. seeing you in the press box helped more than you know. it kept me going. it also reminded me why we fought so hard.”
silence stretches between you, heavy with everything unsaid over the weeks — the late night talks, the gentle touches, the shared laughs, the comfort you gave each other. the corridor feels like your own private world, far from cameras and teammates. he takes another small step closer, the air thick with tenderness and vulnerability.
“we lost the cup tonight,” he says, voice low and sincere, cracking just a little. “it hurts. a lot. but… i already won. having you here these weeks — getting to know you, talking after every match, those late nights in the lobby, the garden walks, your support when i was nervous. you made this whole journey feel like a win. even in defeat. i don’t know what happens when we go home, when the tournament ends and real life starts again, but i’d really like to keep seeing you. properly. no more careful lines. no more crazy boundaries. no more hiding how i feel.”
your heart swells so much it feels like it might burst. tears prick your own eyes as you look at him, this man who led with quiet strength through the entire world cup.
“sunghoon… i feel the same. you’ve been the best part of this tournament for me too. not just the football. the real you. the way you listened, the way you let me in, the way you made me laugh even on hard days. i don’t want this to end either.”
he steps even closer, almost closing the distance completely. the air thickens with all the built-up tension from weeks of slow glances and gentle touches. you smile through the emotion, trying to lighten it like you always do, voice soft and teasing.
“you know… i was half expecting you to kiss me right here, like iker casillas did with sara carbonero back in 2010 after the final.”
sunghoon blinks for a second, processing the words, then lets out a genuine laugh — surprised, warm, and full, breaking through the sadness in a beautiful way. his shoulders shake lightly as he chuckles, eyes sparkling despite the red rims and the loss.
“casillas did that because he won the world cup,” he points out, still chuckling softly, the sound echoing gently in the empty corridor. “he was champion. i'm not. i lost. so… bad timing on my part, huh?”
the silly joke lands perfectly. both of you start laughing quietly together, the sound mixing with the leftover emotion, tension easing into something sweeter and lighter. you reach out and touch his arm, squeezing it affectionately, feeling the warmth through the hoodie sleeve. he covers your hand with his own, holding it there, the contact grounding and tender. the laughter fades slowly into soft smiles, but the closeness remains.
he reaches up gently with both hands, cupping your face with careful, warm palms. his thumbs brush your cheeks softly, wiping away a stray tear you did not realize had fallen. “but if it’s okay… i’d still like to kiss you now. not because of a trophy. not because we won or lost. just because of you. because of us. these weeks meant everything to me.”
you nod, heart racing, whispering “yes” with a smile that trembles a little from the emotion.
the kiss is soft, tender, full of all the weeks of slow-burn tension and respect. his lips meet yours gently at first, sweet and unhurried, tasting of shared heartbreaks and quiet joys, of late night talks and comforting hugs. one of his hands slides to the back of your neck, fingers threading lightly into your hair. you lean into him, hands resting on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart under the hoodie. the kiss deepens just a touch, still respectful but full of affection, pouring out everything you both held back for so long. when you pull apart, foreheads resting together, breathing softly in the quiet corridor, he smiles, eyes shining.
“we’ll win the next one,” he murmurs, voice warm against your skin. “together. whatever comes after this.”
you nod, smiling back, fingers tracing his arm gently. “together sounds perfect.”
the tournament ends in silver, bittersweet but proud.
but for sunghoon and you, it marks the beginning of something golden. friendship blossomed into more, slow and steady, just like extra time in a tight match — worth every minute, every glance, every touch, every quiet conversation that led to this moment in the dim corridor.
the future waits, but right now, in each other’s arms, the loss feels a little smaller.
Am I too late to request?? Hehe maybe Jungwon and reader having so muchhhhhhh tension that neither of them can't get it but others do
hell yeah a jungwon request!!!!
warnings: heavy sexual tension, very suggestive, jealousy, mutual pining, kissing, making out, light dry humping, possessiveness if you squint!
the practice room feels smaller whenever jungwon is in it with you.
you stand near the mirror, adjusting the strap of your top while jungwon runs through the choreography again. his white t-shirt clings to his skin from sweat, hair falling into his eyes as he moves. every sharp turn of his body, every precise roll of his hips makes your throat feel dry. you try to focus on the music, but your eyes keep drifting back to the way his muscles flex under the fabric.
jungwon catches your gaze in the mirror and holds it for a second too long. something electric passes between you. he falters for half a beat in the choreography — something that almost never happens.
“sorry,” he mutters, stopping to catch his breath. “got distracted.”
you swallow hard. “yeah. me too.”
the other members are scattered around the room, and every single one of them notices. jake raises an eyebrow. sunghoon smirks behind his water bottle. even ni-ki whispers something to heeseung that makes him chuckle quietly.
but neither you nor jungwon seem to realize how obvious it is.
later that afternoon during a break, you sit on the floor stretching your legs. jungwon drops down beside you without a word, closer than necessary. his knee brushes against your thigh and stays there. the warmth of his skin makes your pulse jump.
“you’ve been working really hard lately,” he says softly, voice low so only you can hear. his fingers absentmindedly trace a small circle on the floor near your hand. “i’m proud of you.”
your breath catches. “thanks, wonnie.”
he looks at you then — really looks. his eyes drop to your lips for a fraction of a second before flicking back up. the air feels thick. you’re both frozen, caught in that heavy moment until jay clears his throat loudly from across the room.
“you two good over there?” jay asks, amusement clear in his voice.
jungwon pulls back slightly, ears turning pink. “yeah. just… helping with stretches.”
you nod quickly, face warm. the members exchange knowing looks again.
the tension follows you everywhere.
during dinner at the dorm that night, jungwon sits directly across from you. every time you reach for something, your hands nearly brush. when you laugh at something he says, his eyes soften in a way that makes your stomach flip. he keeps refilling your water before you even ask, and his fingers linger every single time.
“you guys are disgusting,” sunoo says suddenly, grinning as he pokes at his food. “the tension is so thick i can’t even eat.”
you blink. “what tension?”
jungwon looks equally confused. “we’re just eating.”
the whole table bursts into laughter. heeseung shakes his head. “you two are actually hopeless.”
later that evening, you’re helping jungwon with some lyrics in his room. the door is cracked open, but the space still feels too intimate. you’re both sitting on his bed, papers spread between you. his shoulder presses against yours as he leans in to point at a line.
“what do you think about this part?” he asks, voice quieter than usual.
you turn your head to answer and suddenly your faces are inches apart. neither of you moves. your eyes drop to his lips. his drop to yours. the tension feels suffocating, delicious, unbearable.
“jungwon…” you whisper.
his hand comes up slowly, fingers brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. the touch sends electricity down your spine. for a moment you think he might kiss you.
then jake walks past the open door and whistles. “yo, leader! stop eye-fucking your best friend and come play games with us!”
jungwon pulls away instantly, cheeks flushed. “we’re not— i wasn’t—”
you both avoid eye contact for the rest of the night.
the breaking point comes three days later.
after a long schedule, the group gathers at the dorm for a movie night. you’re exhausted and end up falling asleep halfway through, head eventually landing on jungwon’s shoulder. he freezes at first, then slowly relaxes, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you closer.
the members pretend to watch the movie, but they keep stealing glances.
“they’re so stupid,” ni-ki whispers loudly. “just date already.”
“shh,” sunghoon says, but he’s smiling.
when the movie ends, everyone starts heading to bed. jungwon stays perfectly still, not wanting to wake you. but when you stir and blink up at him sleepily, the tension snaps back into place stronger than ever.
“hi,” you whisper.
“hi,” he replies, voice hoarse.
his eyes are dark, fixed on your lips again. his hand is still on your waist, thumb stroking small circles over your shirt. you’re both breathing a little heavier. the room is quiet now that the others have left.
“i should… go to bed,” you say, but you don’t move.
“yeah,” jungwon agrees, but his grip tightens slightly.
neither of you moves.
then suddenly his hand slides up to cup your cheek. “fuck it,” he breathes, and kisses you.
the kiss is desperate, months of built-up tension exploding at once. you climb into his lap, hands fisting in his hair as he groans into your mouth. his hands grip your thighs tightly, pulling you closer until you’re straddling him properly.
“been wanting this for so long,” he pants between kisses. “you have no idea.”
you roll your hips against him and he hisses, head falling back. his hands slide under your shirt, gripping your waist as you grind down again.
the tension that everyone else could see for months finally breaks right there on the couch.
jungwon kisses you like he’s starving, tongue sliding against yours while his hands explore your body with barely contained hunger. you moan softly into his mouth and he swallows the sound, hips bucking up to meet yours.
“we’re so stupid,” you whisper, smiling against his lips.
“so fucking stupid,” he agrees, pulling you back down into another deep kiss.
your roommate walks in on you masturbating… whoops?
pairing: dom!nicholas x sub!reader || wc: 3k || cw: smut! kissing, making out, masturbation, use of toys, accidental walk-in, breast play, fingering, oral (f rec.), p in v, unprotected sex (don't.), creampie, multiple orgasms, cum play(?), light spanking, dirty talk, use of petnames, strong language || warnings: +18 content, mdni! || a/n: i missed writing for &team and mr yixiang has been looking extra fine lately
nicholas and you have been sharing a house for almost eight months now. and, against all odds, the arrangement works surprisingly well. the two of you clicked from the very first viewing — easy conversation, shared playlists, similar senses of humor that turn late-night kitchen talks into laughing fits over nothing. he’s respectful, funny, and surprisingly tidy for a guy in his mid-twenties. you cook together sometimes, argue over which reality show is the most unhinged, and split groceries without keeping score. it feels like a genuine friendship, comfortable and low-pressure.
you find him attractive, sure. tall, sharp jawline, dark hair that falls into his eyes when he laughs, and that quiet confidence that makes him effortlessly magnetic. but that’s it. no butterflies, no crush, no romantic feelings. just pure physical appreciation. you’ve caught him staring more than once — eyes lingering on your cleavage when you wear loose tank tops around the apartment, or dropping to your ass when you bend over to grab something from the fridge. he always looks away quickly, cheeks faintly pink, and you pretend not to notice.
it’s harmless. mutual, even.
what isn’t harmless is how unbearably horny you’ve been lately.
it’s been months since you last had sex. your last situationship ended messily, and between work stress and just not wanting to deal with dating apps, you’ve been in a long dry spell. your vibrator has been working overtime, but it’s not the same as being touched by someone else — skin on skin, weight pressing you down, hands that aren’t your own. the ache has been building for weeks, a constant low hum under your skin that makes you restless.
nicholas mentioned that morning he’d be gone most of the afternoon — some errands across town, then meeting a friend. you waved him off with a smile, already mentally planning your solo session. the second the front door clicked shut, you let out a long breath. the apartment was finally yours.
you start slow and indulgent. you run a warm bath, adding your favorite lavender-scented bubbles. you light a couple of candles on the bathroom counter and dim the lights, soft r&b playing from your phone speaker. you soak for nearly forty minutes, letting the hot water loosen every tight muscle. your fingers trail lazily over your body under the water — circling your nipples, sliding down your stomach, teasing between your thighs without rushing. by the time you step out, your skin is flushed and your core is already throbbing with need.
wrapped in just a towel, you move to your bedroom. the leds are set to a deep red-purple glow, casting everything in a sultry light. you put on a slow playlist — the weeknd, sza, daniel caesar — and let the music fill the room. you drop the towel and climb onto your bed, completely naked, pillows arranged behind you so you can recline comfortably.
your hands start exploring immediately. you cup your breasts, squeezing gently, rolling your nipples between your fingers until they pebble. a soft sigh escapes you. “fuck, i needed this,” you murmur to yourself. one hand slides lower, tracing your inner thighs before dipping between your legs. you’re already wet, slick coating your fingers as you spread it over your clit.
you circle slowly at first, teasing, building it up. your hips twitch. “mmh… yes…” the words slip out naturally. you’ve been alone long enough that you don’t hold back anymore. you push two fingers inside yourself, curling them, pumping steadily while your other hand keeps working your clit. the wet sounds mix with the music. your breathing grows heavier, moans rising freely.
“god, i’m so fucking horny,” you whisper, voice breathy. “i need to cum so bad…”
you pick up the pace, fingers thrusting faster. your back arches off the bed. the first orgasm hits you hard after a few minutes — sudden and intense, thighs shaking as you ride your hand through it. you cry out, loud and unrestrained, “fuck— yes, right there— oh my god…”
you don’t stop. you keep going, drawing it out, then switch to your vibrator. it’s a strong one, the kind with multiple settings. your best friend was the one who bought it for you, "just in case a man disappoint you!" she said.
you click it on medium and press the buzzing head directly against your swollen clit. your whole body jolts.
“shit— too much,” you gasp, but you don’t pull it away. instead you spread your legs wider, knees bent, giving yourself full access. the vibrations send sharp pleasure shooting through you. you push the toy lower, sliding it along your folds before pressing it inside just a little, then back to your clit. your moans get louder, shameless.
“fuck… i wish someone was here to fuck me properly,” you pant, talking to the empty room. “need a cock so bad… been so empty for months…”
the second orgasm builds faster. your free hand pinches your nipple hard. the vibrator hums relentlessly. you’re writhing on the sheets now, hips grinding against the toy.
“i’m gonna cum again— fuck, i’m cumming—!” your voice breaks into a loud, drawn-out moan as the second climax crashes over you, even stronger than the first. your legs tremble violently, pussy clenching and gushing. you keep the vibrator pressed there through the aftershocks, riding every wave until it becomes too sensitive and you finally switch it off with a shaky hand.
you lie there panting, chest heaving, a blissed-out smile on your face. the room smells like candles and sex. your body feels loose and satisfied for the first time in weeks. you close your eyes, letting the music wash over you, completely unaware of the front door opening.
nicholas had come back earlier than expected. traffic was lighter than he thought. he stepped inside quietly, kicking off his shoes, and heard the music coming from your room. then he heard the moans.
at first he froze, thinking maybe you were watching something. but the sounds were raw, real. your voice — loud, needy, saying things that made heat rush straight to his groin. he stood in the hallway for a minute, conflicted, but when another loud cry echoed and then suddenly cut off, worry spiked. what if something was wrong? you sounded like you were in pain… or something like that.
he knocked softly. no answer.
he knocked again. “hey… are you okay in there?”
still nothing. the music was still playing, but no response. genuine concern took over. he turned the handle slowly and pushed the door open.
the sight that greeted him stopped him dead.
you sprawled on your bed, naked, legs still slightly spread, skin glistening with sweat, vibrator lying beside your thigh, your fingers shiny with your own arousal. your eyes fly open at the sound of the door and lock onto him in pure horror.
“oh my god—!” you scramble desperately, yanking the comforter over your body, face burning crimson. “nico! what the fuck— get out! oh my god, i— i didn’t hear you—”
you’re mortified, pulling the blanket all the way up to your chin, heart hammering so hard you feel dizzy. this is your housemate. your friend. the guy who makes you laugh over burnt toast. and he just saw you like this — legs open, mid-afterglow, talking filth to yourself.
nicholas stands there for a second, eyes wide, but then his expression shifts. the initial shock melts into something darker, amused. a slow, low laugh rumbles out of his chest.
he doesn’t leave. he leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, that familiar smirk playing on his lips.
“damn,” he says, voice a little rough. “if you needed it that bad, you could’ve just asked for my help, you know.”
your brain short-circuits. you stare at him, mouth open, cheeks impossibly hotter. “i— what?”
he steps inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. his eyes rake over the blanket-covered shape of you, lingering like they have so many times before — only this time there’s no pretense.
“i’ve been trying not to stare too obviously,” he admits, still chuckling softly, but there’s heat in his gaze now. “but fuck… hearing you moan like that? saying you need cock? baby, i’ve been hard for you for months every time you walk around in those tiny shorts.”
you’re still flustered beyond words, clutching the blanket like a shield, but his words send a fresh wave of arousal through your oversensitive body. the embarrassment mixes with something else — excitement.
nicholas tilts his head, watching you with dark, hungry eyes. “so… are you gonna kick me out? or do you want me to help you with that problem you were complaining about?”
the air in the room feels thick. your dry spell, the way he’s looking at you, the fact that he just watched you fall apart twice… everything crashes together.
you bite your lip, heart racing, and slowly loosen your grip on the blanket just a little.
“close the door properly,” you whisper, voice shaky but certain.
nicholas’s smirk widens. he locks the door for some reason — it's not like someone else could come inside, given that only you two live there, right? you snort. your laugh dies when you see him pull his shirt over his head in one smooth motion, revealing the toned body you’ve only ever glimpsed before.
“good choice,” he murmurs, crawling onto the bed toward you. “now let me take care of you properly this time.”
you swallow hard, heart pounding against your ribs as nicholas crawls onto the bed, shirtless, muscles shifting under smooth skin. the comforter is still clutched to your chest like a lifeline, but your body is already betraying you — nipples tight, core clenching at the sight of him. he looks at you with that lazy, knowing smirk, eyes dark with want.
“you don’t have to hide anymore,” he murmurs, voice low and warm. one hand gently tugs at the edge of the blanket. “i already saw everything. and fuck, you looked so good falling apart like that.”
your face burns, but the embarrassment is fading fast, replaced by pure need. months of frustration bubble up. you let the blanket slip down slowly, exposing your breasts, then your stomach, until it pools around your waist. nicholas’s gaze drops immediately, hungry.
“beautiful,” he breathes. he reaches out, palm skimming up your side, thumb brushing the underside of your breast. you shiver. “been thinking about these for weeks every time you walk around without a bra.”
you let out a shaky laugh. “pervert.”
“guilty.” he leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your collarbone. then another lower, lips closing around your nipple. the wet heat of his mouth makes you moan instantly. he sucks gently, tongue flicking, while his hand squeezes the other breast. your fingers thread into his dark hair, holding him there.
“nico… fuck,” you whisper. it feels different when it’s someone else’s mouth. better.
he moves lower, kissing down your stomach, hands spreading your thighs wide. you’re still slick from your earlier orgasms, pussy glistening. nicholas groans at the sight.
“so wet already. all that from your toys?” he teases, breath hot against your inner thigh. “let me taste how desperate you’ve been.”
he doesn’t wait for an answer. his tongue drags slowly up your slit, licking up your arousal. your back arches hard, a loud moan tearing from your throat. he chuckles against you, the vibration sending sparks through your body.
“be loud again,” he murmurs approvingly. “don’t hold back. i wanna hear everything.”
nicholas eats you out like he’s starving. his tongue circles your clit with perfect pressure, then dips inside you, fucking you with it in shallow thrusts. two fingers slide in easily, curling against that spot that makes your toes curl. you’re loud — shamelessly loud — moaning his name, hips grinding against his face.
“yes— right there, oh god— nico, your tongue feels so good,” you babble, head thrown back. he sucks your clit into his mouth and hums, fingers pumping faster. the wet, obscene sounds fill the room alongside your cries.
your third orgasm hits fast and hard. thighs clamping around his head, you shake and gush against his tongue, moaning brokenly. he keeps licking you through it, gentler now, until you push at his shoulders, oversensitive.
he sits up, lips shiny with you, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. his sweats are tented obscenely. you reach for him, palming his cock through the fabric.
“i want you,” you say, voice hoarse. “been needing a real cock for so long.”
nicholas groans, pushing his sweats and boxers down in one motion. his dick springs free — thick, long, flushed dark at the tip and already leaking. you wrap your hand around him, stroking slowly. he’s heavy and hot in your palm.
“careful,” he warns, hips twitching. “i’ve been hard since i walked in and heard you moaning about needing to be fucked.”
you stroke him faster, thumb swirling over the head. “then fuck me already.”
he flips you onto your back, settling between your spread legs. the head of his cock nudges your entrance, sliding through your wetness. he pushes in slowly, inch by inch, stretching you open. you both moan loudly at the feeling.
“so fucking tight,” he hisses through gritted teeth. “been saving this pussy for me?”
“shut up,” you gasp, but your walls flutter around him. when he bottoms out, hips flush against yours, the fullness is overwhelming. perfect.
nicholas starts moving — deep, steady thrusts that make your bed creak. he leans down, kissing you messily, tongues sliding together as he fucks you. one hand pins your wrist above your head, the other grips your hip, pulling you into every stroke.
“feel so good,” he groans against your mouth. “better than i imagined. so warm and wet for me.”
you wrap your legs around his waist, heels digging into his back. the angle lets him hit deeper, grinding against your g-spot with every thrust. your moans mix with his — raw, needy sounds that echo in the bedroom.
he picks up the pace, pounding into you harder. skin slaps against skin. your breasts bounce with every thrust and he leans down to suck marks into them.
“cum on my cock,” he demands, voice rough. “let me feel you.”
you do — loudly. the fourth orgasm rips through you, pussy clenching rhythmically around him. nicholas curses, fucking you through it, then pulls out suddenly. he strokes himself fast, spilling hot ropes of cum across your stomach and tits with a deep groan.
you both pant, catching your breath. he collapses beside you for a moment, then reaches for tissues on your nightstand, cleaning you up gently.
“that was just round one,” he says with a wicked grin, tossing the tissues aside. “you’ve been horny for months. i’m not letting you leave this bed until you’re satisfied.”
you laugh breathlessly. “bold of you.”
but you discover pretty quicly he really means it.
he pulls you on top of him next, hands guiding your hips as you sink down onto his cock again. you ride him slow at first, grinding in circles, hands braced on his chest. nicholas watches you with hooded eyes, thumbs stroking your nipples.
“fuck, look at you,” he murmurs. “so pretty bouncing on my dick.”
you pick up speed, slamming down harder. he meets you with upward thrusts, hitting deep. your moans turn into cries again. he sits up suddenly, wrapping his arms around you, mouth latching onto your neck as you ride him. the new position presses your clit against his pelvis with every roll of your hips.
you cum again like that, shaking in his arms. he flips you onto all fours after, gripping your hips and fucking you from behind. his hand reaches around to rub your clit while he pounds into you, relentless.
“say it again,” he growls, spanking your ass lightly. “tell me what you were moaning earlier.”
“need your cock— fuck, nico, harder— i've been so empty,” you sob into the pillow, pushing back against him.
he gives you what you want, hips snapping fast. the bed shakes. another orgasm tears through you, and this time he follows, burying himself deep and filling you with cum.
you collapse together, sweaty and spent. nicholas pulls you against his chest, arms wrapped around you. his fingers trace lazy patterns on your back.
“you okay?” he asks softly, pressing a kiss to your temple. the dominant heat from earlier fades into gentle care.
“more than okay,” you mumble, smiling against his skin. “that was… exactly what i needed.”
he chuckles. “good. because this doesn’t have to be a one-time thing. whenever you’re horny and i’m home… door’s open. literally.”
you snort, lightly slapping his chest. “housemates with benefits?”
“something like that.” he tilts your chin up, kissing you slow and deep. “no pressure, no strings. just… helping each other out when we need it.”
you nod, already feeling the low thrum of arousal returning as his hand slides down to cup your ass. the afternoon stretches long. he goes down on you again in the shower later, water cascading over both of you while you lean against the tiles and moan his name. then he fucks you against the bathroom counter, slow and deep, making you watch in the mirror as he takes you apart once more.
by evening you’re both exhausted, tangled in your sheets again. nicholas orders takeout while you lie naked against him, his fingers idly playing with your hair.
“this changes nothing between us, right?” you ask quietly, tracing a finger over his abs. “still friends. still housemates.”
“exactly,” he agrees, squeezing your waist. “just… a really fun bonus now.”
you smile, content. the dry spell is officially over, and living with nicholas just got a whole lot more interesting. as the sun sets and the leds glow softly around the room, he rolls you under him again, lips brushing yours.
“ready for round… whatever we’re on now?” he teases.
its always reader giving the guy head or a handjob while gaming but ik damn well taki or yuma would have a field day playing w reader while she games YUP. only yuma would do it to be a little shit and taki would do it bcs he's horny and needs u to be too.
Oh...Oh yes. (18+)
✩ Taki does it because he's fucking insatiable. He's the one on his knees under your desk, his head buried between your thighs like a man on a mission. For a little while, he's not even being that horny about it; all he does is nuzzle into your thighs, peppering kisses and nibbles into the flesh. It escalates when he gropes your ass greedily and pulls you directly on his mouth, making out sloppily with your center and pushing his tongue past your entrance; all the while, you moan and whine at him for making you lose focus. He can't exactly hear you, though — your thighs are pressed too hard around his ears, and he's too lost in the sauce, anyway. As soon as you cum once, he'll let you go.
Or, at least, that's what he says. You know damn well that he's eating that until you're kicking and fussy, and even then he's asking you to sit on his face. It's less work for you!
✩ Yuma does it purely for the love of the game. He slides behind you and plops you into his lap, feeling you up with absolutely zero shame even as you snap at him to quit it. He asks about the game and finds immense pleasure in the way you cut yourself off with soft, needy noises. "Keep going," he urges. "I need to know the storyline!" You'd tell him if you could, but you're too busy being bounced on his lap to focus properly. His hips grind into yours slowly, only snapping when you've gone too long without crying out for him. You can't escape it — he holds you down effortlessly and lets his strong thighs do all the work. This is the best view, in his opinion; he can hook his chin over your shoulder, watch your tits bounce, and hear you moan. Score!
Eventually, he dares you to turn your mic on. You refuse, which he's fine with, but nothing makes him harder than the idea of you wailing his name directly into your microphone while your friends listen to him railing you on the other side.
𝙎𝙮𝙣𝙤𝙥: the biggest thrill at your college is the underground street races run by frat boys every friday night. you usually hated tagging along with your friend; until nicholas, one of the campus heartthrobs behind the wheel, offers you a ride home that changes everything.
or, in which your hot street racer crush rails you on the hood of his car ♡
𝙂𝙚𝙣𝙧𝙚: strangers to lovers, college au, street racer!nico, fratboy!dom nico, ft. street racer!yudai, a plot with porn lol
𝙏𝙖𝙜𝙨: use of pet names :3 sloppy kissing(duhhh), fingers in mouth(fem rec), choking, fingering, aggressive hair pulling, pinv sex, sliiight overstim, rough, intoxicated sex, slight exhibitionism, outdoor sex. getting bent over and fucked on the hood of a McLaren 765LT :D
𝙬𝙘: 5k
𝙘𝙬: nico is a tinyyyy bit of a mean dom + mentions of drinking n smoking weed :p
𝜗𝜚 𝙋𝙡𝙖𝙮𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩: 𝜗𝜚
𝒊𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒕𝒐𝒐 𝒔𝒉𝒚, 𝒍𝒆𝒕 𝒎𝒆 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 - 𝒕𝒉𝒆 1975
𝑯𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒐𝒖𝒕 - 𝒕𝒉𝒆 1975
𝑫𝒊𝒆𝒕 𝑷𝒆𝒑𝒔𝒊 - 𝑨𝒅𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒐𝒏 𝑹𝒂𝒆
𝑺𝒕𝒓𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒔 - 𝑫𝒐𝒋𝒂 𝒄𝒂𝒕
𝑩𝒂𝒄𝒌𝒔𝒆𝒂𝒕 - 𝑫𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒆𝒍 𝒅𝒊 𝑨𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒍𝒐
𝑫𝒓𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒂𝒏𝒆 - 𝑫𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒆𝒍 𝒅𝒊 𝑨𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒍𝒐
𝘼 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙚: this has been in my notes forever…street racer nico?! :d yes please~ as always, hope u luv it! luv uuu - vivi ~ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆
late post for weno day! <3 i love my precious boy~ ₊˚⊹♡ ˚⋆ ┊͙ ˘͈ᵕ˘͈
⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ‧₊˚🖇️✩ ₊˚⊹♡ ⋆˚࿔ ⋆｡⋆ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆
The lake glittered beneath the floodlights the frat boys had dragged out; its calm surface a cruel contrast to the chaos ashore. Cars lined the sand like predators, headlights cutting through the dark. Music pounded over crashing waves and revving engines.
Students crowded the beach, pressed to the shoreline, waiting, as if the water might swallow the losers whole.
“I’m glad you finally got all dressed up this time, maybe one of the guys will actually hit on you for once” your friend Zoe, playfully hits your arm.
You always had your head in the books, but you couldn’t just let your scholarship go to waste; even if it meant giving up most of your social life.
“Fuck offff, I’m just here cause exams are stressing me out.” You laugh with a weary sigh. “I needed a break from studying.”
But as the bass of the music vibrated in your ears, the smokey haze of the car exhaust mixing with cigarettes and dust, and the girls spilling beer and secrets by the shoreline… you felt like you had to be missing out.
You stare out onto the road, it hugs the edge of the lake closely, winding around the water in a perfect circle. The boys position their cars, smoking and shit talking one another as they prepare to race. You scan over them briefly, and there he is.
Shaggy raven hair falling into his eyes, black converse and sparkling silver chains dangling from every available orfice.
He leans against his midnight colored McLaren, a narcissistic grin rested on his plump, pink lips, waving to the girls calling his name in the crowd.
You almost scoff… until you realize how long you’ve been staring. Then he looks back.
Your eyes meet for a split second, you aren’t even sure if it’s you he’s looking at.
Then he smiles, keeping his eyes locked on you for a second longer.
You feel the heat creeping onto your cheeks, but you smile back, hoping you don’t look awkward.
You’re knocked out of your trance by Zoe screaming K’s name, blowing him kisses.
“You got this babyyy! Go kill them out there! Wooooo!” She squeals, grabbing onto you as leverage.
“Did you..see that?” You blurted, eyes widening softly as you turn to your friend.
Her focus is locked on her racer boyfriend, who’s cheesing in her direction holding up heart hands. This time you scoff, annoyed at the scene.
Ugh, when is this race gonna start..
Your question is quickly answered when you notice the boys getting in their cars, the loud thump of bass ringing in your ears lowers momentarily.
“Okay guys let’s get this shit started, who’s ready to see some action!!” You hear someone yell through the speakers.
The crowd goes crazy with screams and chants echoing through the beach. People rush to the road for a better view, tripping over each other and dropping their beers.
Zoe grabs your hand, pulling you into the choatic crowd of groupies. She books it to the empty space in front of K’s car, jumping and waving like a crazed fan girl. You giggle at her eagerness.
“Start your engines boys!” the announcers voice surges through crowd, lighting them up like fireworks as they burst into cheers.
“3! 2! 1!, GO!!!” The crowd, announcer and Zoe all shout in unison.
And as soon as they do, the cars veer off into the distance.
Dust pierces the air, mixing with the gas exhaust to create a smokey haze as the chants grow louder. You chant along, molding yourself into the crowd as the race goes on.
When the boys make their first lap around the lake, you catch his eye again.
Time slows incomprehensibly. His car flies down the winding road before his eyes find yours. His lips form a lopsided grin, and he winks, subtly. Almost too quick to even process it.
The entire scene pauses.
Just for a moment, then drops you back into reality abruptly as you feel your heart fluttering against your chest, butterflies trailing from your stomach to your chest. His car whips down the road in a dark blur.
The music replaces the anxious thumping in your in ribcage as the crowd fades back into your consciousness.
A giddy warmth crawls over your face.
Maybe tonight would be a little different.
~~
Their engines revved, one last wave of smoke rising into the air as the crowd once again goes wild.
And as the dust settles, the winner is clear. A mix of cheers and applause wave over the crowd, the announcers voice rings through the speakers once again.
“Alright fuckers, I think we have a winner!!! Give it up for Nicholas Wang!!Woooo!!” The announcer shouts enthusiastically, a direct contrast to Zoe’s scrunched face, arms folded tightly around herself as she rolls her eyes.
“What the fuck, K lost? He never loses, how could he let that Nicholas guy beat him?” She asks, genuinely baffled as she pads to her boyfriend before the crowd of girls could get to him.
“What are you talking about, Nico’s beaten K plenty of times…like at least six, do you even watch the races?” Your eyes squint perplexingly, following her lead through the crowd.
“okay well I was really counting on yudai winning tonight. I told him I had a little present for him if he did.” she wiggles her brows, smirking.
“Okay okay, that’s all I need to know. Just give it to him anyway who cares, he still came in second.”
They’re all leaned back casually against their luxury cars, talking over the race and plotting their revenge on Nicholas for the next one. He grins at the envious remarks, taking a hit of K’s cigarette as he speaks up.
“Hey don’t be mad bro, just pick up the speed a little bit next time” he laughs, shaking K’s hand in agreement.
“I couldn’t be mad if I wanted to man, I had a winning streak going.” He shrugs. “You were bound to break it at some point, not like I’d let anybody else beat me….oh, Zoe! Over here baby!” He brightens, noticing you and Zoe approaching from the crowd.
He smiles sweetly, gesturing the two of you over. Nicholas side eyes him playfully as he puts the cigarette out in the pavement.
“There’s my favorite cheerleader~” K purrs, stretching his arms wide as Zoe runs into them.
A compilation of kisses, giggles and sickeningly sweet exchanges ensues as you feel sick to your stomach, lowering your gaze to the ground.
“You two..ugh, I need a drink.” You laugh weakly, scanning your surroundings for some sort of escape from the awkward third-wheeling.
“Me too,” Nicholas grins, peering over at you. “C’mon, let’s ditch them.” His voice lowers as he leans into you, as if he was plotting something.
“What?” You pivot to the dark haired boy, face scrunched in confusion. “Let’s?”
“Yeah…” his cold, shadowy eyes drag down your figure. “Let’s.”
You stare up at him as the moment swallows you whole. The blaring music sinks beneath your racing heartbeat, lights smearing like an oil painting, body’s pause in motion around you.
“Yo zo, I’m stealing your friend for a lil bit.” He shouts to the couple as they drift into their own little world, completely ignoring you.
His hand finds yours, pulling you into the crowd abruptly.
“We’ll find something. Just follow me.” His lips curve tenderly as he gazes down at you.
The faint scent of vanilla and bourbon hangs in the air between you as you push through the crowd.
Nicholas was so captivating, in such a perplexing way.
A deep electric blue in a sea of flamboyant red; tantalizing and magnetic, drawing you in with little to no effort at all.
Your cheeks heat up as his warm, calloused hand rests against your lower back, sending shockwaves over your skin.
“You know your way around here?” He ducks his head down to yours, speaking up over the music.
“Honestlyyy..not really” you reach a line of coolers situated at the corner of the beach.
A colorful dreamy haze blankets the surrounding landscape; bright and serene, almost entrancing. you reach a line of coolers situated at the corner of the beach,
He grabs a beer out of a blue cooler, cracking it open with a warm smirk.
“That’s alright, you got me now.” His chin lowers, staring through his lashes with an alluring gaze. Tastefully reserved, yet scandalous.
The same way he had been staring at you all night. Like he was piecing together some inconspicuous image in his head every time your eyes met.
“I’ll be your personal navigator for the night. If you want.”
You grab a drink of your own, before returning his gaze.
“Yeah..I’d love that..”
You bit your lower lip, burying your uncertainty in the small, physical ache of it.
Then his hand reaches for yours. Carefully, wrapping a pinky around yours before threading your fingers together delicately.
“Alright..let’s go.” His expression is quiet, gentle, making your breath stagger in your throat.
Your eyes drift upward at the little cosmic diamonds cutting through the navy sky as you fall in step behind him.
The pale silvery glow of the moonlight kisses his face as he holds your hand, guiding you across the beach.
~~~~~~~~
“So how does a girl who’s scared to drive end up at a street race? Sounds like that’s not really your thing.” He chuckles lightly, feet kicking up sand as you arrive back at the coolers.
About an hour passed as you converse, cruising the beach at leisure. Your speech betrayed you repeatedly, flustered at his words, laced with lust and attraction.
“Well like I said, I’ll try anything once.” Your locked hands swing together between you contently as you smile up at him.
“You’ve been here like, every race though.” He stops in place, eyes meeting yours.
“Well..yeah..I don’t know, they’re cool I guess.”
“Did you..come to see me?..” a wide grin crawls over his face as he nudges you playfully.
“Oh my god, hush.” You giggle, pushing him away. “No I didn’t..maybe.”
“Thought so. But I’m glad you do.”
A thumbs wisps over your hand. “I like seeing you too.”
Zoe and the party nearly slips your mind completely as he narrows in on you. The butterflies dance in your chest again.
That is, until you notice the thick crowd of students has lessened significantly across the littered sand.
“Looks like everyones are leaving now..probably to go hit that after party K is throwing.” He lets go of your hand briefly to check his phone.
“Yeah I think you’re right..I wonder where Z is..” you scan the beach for your friend. “Hold on a second, let me try to call her.”
You take out your phone, swallowing the forming panic in your voice.
And to your dismay, she doesn’t pick up, even after 3 missed calls.
“That’s..fucked up. I bet she left with yudai.” He scoffs, brows furrowed as he peers around the beach. “Why wouldn’t she say anything?”
“I don’t know..I can’t believe she just left without me, how am I supposed to go by myself.” You sulk, head drooping with a soft pout.
“You’re going to the party too?..”
“Well, I was. it’s fine, I’ll just take an uber home. Thanks for the tour though.” You smile weakly as a burn tickles the back of your throat, scrolling away on your phone.
His expression shifts again. His cold, dark eyes melt, shifting to a warm, decadent chocolate.
“I’m sorry about your friend, she’s kind of a bitch honestly..” he trails off, a subtle lift in his tone. “But I mean..you don’t have to go alone..”
“What? What do you mean?..”
He laughs, interlocking your hands again as he begins walking. “I’ll take you. Or I can take you home if you’re not feeling up to it, completely up to you.”
“Awe, really? I mean, you don’t have to..I can just call an uber or something..” you giggle quietly, stumbling in step behind him as he strides to his car insistently.
“Pft, yeah, really. Why would I let you take an uber?” He raises a brow at you, barely glancing at his keys before his sleek black McLaren 765LT chirps at you from the curb.
Even parked, it looked impatient; glossy black finish with an iridescent pink peeking through the rims. The engine revs, a daunting mechanical hum echoing through the night.
The thought, along with the sight of his flashy sports car, made your heart pound double time in your chest.
Showing up to the drag race after-party without her? with the winner? Priceless. You couldn’t wait to see the look on Zoe’s face.
“You know what? Sure, if you insist~ I’ll take the ride.” You coo sweetly as he rounds front the car, opening the door for you charmingly.
The butterfly doors swing open, grazing the sky gracefully, revealing a black leather interior with pink contrast stitching, matching the magenta brake calibers.
It’s ridiculously luxurious, yet understated.
Something no college student should be trusted driving, let alone racing in.
“Well then I insist.” He chuckles warmly. “we can ride around the lake for a little bit before we go, it’s beautiful out here.”
“Let’s do it.” You grin, confidently, as you slip into the car.
Maybe it was the drinks you had on the beach. Maybe it was hazy atmosphere.
Maybe it was his deep, onyx colored eyes locked on you, stripping you down with ravenous intent.
But the warm, buzzing sensation coating your body lit a tempestuous flame inside you, gnawing at your inhibitions. It almost made you shiver. Your eyes lower as you feel the heat flicker over your skin.
He eases into his seat, buckling his seatbelt.
“You ready?” His tongue ghosts over his lower lip as he turns to you.
“Mhm.” You return his expression, scooting back as the matte carbon seats engulf you. “Let’s go~”
He pulls out of the beach parking lot, flicking the stereo on as he veers down the road winding the lake.
~~~~~
“I was nottt staring at you..I was just, watching the race like everyone else.” You roll your eyes as he laughs, lighting the blunt perched between his lips.
“Riiight..sure you were, cause you love watching the races.” He grins after a sharp pull, blowing the smoke out as he speaks.
The dim streetlights suspended above the car paint a warm, amber glow over his features, catching in the wispy smoke like sun rays.
“Whatever Nicholas.” You grin, sweeping over him. “Maybe I like looking at you a little, so what.”
“Nothing. I thinks it’s cute.” his voice lowers as he passes the blunt to you, eyes dropping to your lips briefly.
“Thanks…” you take a drag of it, inhaling sharply through your teeth as a familiar sting collects in the back of your throat.
You pass it back to him, staring out the window as the headlights cut through the trees and mist.
He glances over as your reflection flickers in the glass, soft and unsure.
“You always this quiet?” He takes another hit, studying you.
“Only when someone’s staring at me.” You smile faintly.
He laughs under his breath, eyes flicking back to the road. “Can’t help it.”
Silence again. Weighted. Charged.
That same flickering flame threatens to tear through you as soft bass rumbles in your chest, drowning out your quickening heart rate.
He turns the volume down. “You smell good,” he says casually, almost to himself.
You blink, caught off guard. “That’s..um, thanks.”
“What is it?”
“Cherry something, can’t remember what…” You laugh quietly, looking into your lap.
“Figures.” He takes another hit. “Sweet and simple..hard to forget..” he stares ahead of him, lips curling into a soft smirk.
“A lot like you, huh?..” you murmur as he passes it back to you.
“Something like that…I’m not that sweet though.” He meets your eyes again, low and tempting. “That’s all you. You’re such a good girl y/n.”
He pauses, eyeing you up and down again with an insatiable curiosity. Your eyes flicker over his as your breathing shallows.
“I know I’m probably not your type but..I want you.” his hand snakes over your thigh, caressing it gently. “I’ve wanted you for a while now..I don’t know if I can keep staying away from you..”
You stare innocently, the weightlessness slowly creeping into your senses. The heavy tension and weed smoke coalesce, a sensual fog hanging over you tantalizingly.
“Well..” you breathe out, goosebumps scattering across your skin. “What if I don’t want you to stay away?..what if..I said I wanted you too?..”
His attention is unwavering, head tilting slightly as a lazy grin tugs at his lips.
“…you sure?..” he gazes drops to your lips, before dragging back up to your eyes
You nod as you watch his hands, careful fingertips grazing your inner thigh. “I’m..more than sure, promise..”
“Then come here..” the temptation rolls off his lips menacingly.
You begin to lean in to him before his lips press into yours suddenly. You gasp into the kiss, his lips supple and fervent as he cups your face, pulling you in.
Seconds lasted for centuries as your lips melt together in a desperate, drunken haze. His hands move around your heated body erratically, pawing and groping at you.
His lips part from yours, breath tickling your face as your eyes flutter open.
You pant softly, planting a hand on his chest as he leans over the seat.
“You probably been thinking about this forever huh?…” he thumbs your cheek sweetly, his voice a plunging velvet.
You nod slowly as you stare, dazed and doe eyed.
His hot discs of coal burn into you, body buzzing with a scathing desire.
he pulls you back in harshly, crashing his lips into yours.
your hands find their way through his hair, arms draped around his shoulders as you melt into him. Your tongues tangle together sloppily, soft groans and whimpers slipping into the humid air between you.
“Fuck, y/n..” he says as he pulls away from you. “Didn’t think you’d be so good at that..”
“Oh fuck offff” you push him playfully as he laughs, the corners of his eyes crinkle gently.
“we uh…we can just head over to that party now, if you want..” he says, grabbing your hand and interlocking it with his, slightly averting his gaze. “..unless you wanna finish this now..”
he bites his lower lip as he looks at you, his heated, half lidded eyes were shadows in the darkness, enthralling and corrosive.
the heat sprawling over your skin is only fanned by his wandering hands, traveling between your thighs.
A surge of confidence rips through you, pulling him into you by his shirt, smashing your lips into his hungrily.
His hands find your waist again, letting out a low groan at your sudden action. His touch grows hasty and reckless as he explores your mouth, tongue twirling around yours.
You writhe in your seat as he breaks away from your lips to pepper kisses down your neck. He sucks on the skin gently as he grips your hips, breathing raggedly.
“I want you so bad right now..you don’t even know..” his voice drips with lust as he whispers in your ear. “We don’t have a lot of room in here though..”
“Mmh~ maybe we could just..go back to my place?..” you purr, lips mere centimeters from his.
“Or you could just, get out..” his salacious grin widens, fingers dipping stealthily between your thighs, just above your blazing core.
“w-what?…” your weighted lids stretch open in disbelief, snapping up in your seat. “And go where?”
He just stares, chin tilted down as his free hand reaches for your face. His brushes a thumb over your puffy, searing lips. He licks his lips, slowly, before slipping his thumb past your lips, padding over your tongue gently and dragging your lower lip downward.
He watches your mouth intently, eyes completely clouded over with a twisted inclination. You shiver under his hands, pupils blown wide like a full moon.
“You said you’d try anything once, right?..” his words were constricting, wrapping around your brain and
draining you of any common sense you had left.
You fumble with the door, pushing against it clumsily as you blindly search for a nonexistent handle. You exhale through your nose, abashed and evidently flustered.
“h-how do I even get out of here?” A strained, shaky laugh leaves you timidly.
“The button baby.” He grins.
“What? Where?”
He leans across you, one hand braced against the seat as his fingers press the small release near your shoulder.
The door eases upward. You stare up at the little pull handle at the corner of the door, with a small button right beside it.
“I..didn’t even see that..” you giggle softly, trailing off before you feel his rough finger tips guide your face back to his, lips rushing into yours, tongue sinking into your mouth again like a matter of instinct.
His hand shoves into your hair, pulling your head back with an apathetic grip. His tongue traverses your mouth like a wild jungle, twisting and twirling around yours hungrily. Drool spills past the corners of your lips as he fucks your mouth, tugging at your scalp as low, gutteral groans flow over your tongue.
“Mmh~ nicholas..” you slide a hand into his lap, deliberately, nails gently grazing his lengthy, rock hard cock, throbbing through the distressed denim. You gasp softly, a prickly sensation creeping over your furnaced face.
“Yeah?..fuckk you’re so cute..c’mon.” He parts from the kiss, a glassy line of drool dribbles down your lips. He wipes it away, unbuckling your seatbelt along with his. He gives you one last cheeky glance before he steps into the crisp summer night air.
You pull up the peculiar door, stepping out. He meets you on your side, hands immediately attaching to your hips as he clicks the door shut.
The sudden breeze of the frigid night air felt abrasive against your already sensitive skin. The area was tucked discreetly beneath the trees, a single streetlight casting a dim light just to the left of the car, giving you just enough visibility to see one another while remaining hidden to passersby.
You didn’t get the chance to process whether he’d chosen the spot on purpose or not. His touch was needy and attention seeking, whisking over your aching frame lasciviously.
He pins you against the cool metal, lips attacking your neck in cruel bites, sucking and nipping at soft skin as he snakes a hand between your thighs, palming your dampness. He glides two digits up and down your folds, circling them around your clit through the thin, satin fabric.
Your arms link around his neck lazily, soft, subdued whimpers dripping from your parted lips as your head falls back.
“fuckk..nicholasss~~”
“Mhmm?..what baby?..”
You pant faintly as he presses his forehead to yours, gazing into your eyes with a tender warmth, laced with condensation. You whine quietly in response, your breathing shattering as you grip his leather jacket.
“You sound so pretty saying my name like that princess...” he pecks your lips, before pushing your panties aside, curling two fingers into your slippery, sizzling cunt languidly. He pumps into you like he has all the time in the world, slowly unraveling the tightly coiled knot of pleasure twisting in your stomach.
“Say it again..” he husks, picking up his pace gradually.
His fingers work artfully, the other hand gropes your breast, kneading and pinching through the thick cloth. You yelp as his face buries into your neck again, teeth sinking into your collarbone lightly.
“Nicholas~~ u-ugh~, fuckk..” you mewl, tracking a hand down his chest.
“That’s a good girl…so wet for me princess…” he coos, lifting your leg up gently for better access. He plunges knuckle deep into your sopping pussy, the liquid desire coating his fingers as your whines drown out the lewd noises.
The pleasure coursing your body was electric, scattering over you in titillating bursts. His tongue flutters over your bruised neck again, sucking restlessly, set on claiming you. Your hips rock against his skilled fingers, yearning for the blissful release.
“Mmm, not yet baby..” his teeth tug at his lip as he lowers your leg, slipping his fingers out of you. You whimper at the loss of contact, your vision hazy and unfocused as you glimmer up at him.
“n-nicholas, please~..” you rasp as your pulse races, watching him back up and unbuckle his belt in a swift motion.
“Patience princess..” he glances up at you as he unbottons his jeans. He wraps a hand around your throat abruptly, pulling you into him carelessly with a tenacious grip. His fingers bury into the sides of your neck, lips hovering over yours with a devilish smirk.
“So fucking needy..you want this cock baby?..”
Your head bobbles as you nod your head rapidly, batting your eyelashes as the vulgar dizzyness flutters through your senses. He pecks your lips sweetly, before spinning you around, forcing you over the icy carbon fiber steel, hands latching onto your hips greedily.
He yanks the heated pipe out of his boxers, rubbing it over your clothed ass menacingly. You gasp, breathing utterly abandoning normality as he pulls your dress up over your ass, tugging your panties down to your ankles promptly.
“You need it? Say it. Tell me you need me princess…” he growls lowly into your ear as he fists your hair, pulling your head back against his chest. He glides his stiff, lengthy cock between your folds tortuously, your back arching as you brace onto the car.
You let out a loud, choked moan into the night, biting your lip dangerously hard as your eyes roll back.
“I..I need it, nicholas~ I need you so bad..f-fuck me nicholas~..use me, p-please..” you choke out, breath lagging in your throat before you release it.
You shudder, a white hot desire overtaking your senses as his thick cock slams into you. He loosens his grip on your hair as he fucks into you wildly, hips snapping against yours in quick, precise thrusts.
“f-fuck!~ oh my- ugh~ n-nicholas~~” your words slur together in a drawn out, high pitched whine.
“I know babyy~..be good for me..” he coos tauntingly, curling a hand into your hip as he rams into you with a merciless rhythm.
His low, nefarious tone turns your legs to jello, buckling beneath you helplessly as you collapse onto the obsidian steel, goosebumps sprawling over your searing skin.
The knot in your stomach tightens to dizzying degree; you almost feel sick, your senses give way completely as his giant cock stirs inside you. He adjusts himself, deepening his thrusts with a raspy, depraved string of moans. He curses beneath his breath as it splinters.
“I-I..c-can’t take it..i-it’s so m-much..ffuckkk~ nicholas~~” you whine, eyes rolling to the back of your skull.
“Yes you can princess..” he bends over you, burying to the hilt inside you as he kisses your scalp tenderly. “You were made to take this cock baby~..you can do it..”
The filthy noises drift into the night as you cry out for him, his hand reaching around and palming your numb, dripping cunt. He rubs deep, soft paced circles onto your swollen clit as he pounds you.
“Mm…almost there huh?..don’t let me stop you baby..” he husks as you tremble beneath him, face pressed to the hood of his car. You wail incoherently as you bobble defenselessly, body twitching with every brutal thrust.
He plants a hand down on your spine, rolling his hips into you, his thrusts growing urgent and misguided. His unrestrained moans shift into gutteral grunts and groans as he sucks the air through his teeth, his looming desire threatening to reach its zenith.
“Fuuuck..that’s it princess~..cum for me baby girl, give it to me.” He growls through heavy breaths.
Your body obeys his order as the bliss cuts through you. A static heat tears through your body like lighting through a storm, the buzzing, blistering ache cascades down your tremoring frame, exploding between your thighs as the gush of pleasure laves his cock.
“Oh my god- nicholas!~~” you sob loudly as he bottoms out inside you. A whiney, slutty set of blaring moans cut through the night air. He hums contently as you ride out your cruel orgasm, wincing and groaning as your fleshy, soaked walls swallow him deep, bringing him to ecstasy.
“Fuck..you’re perfect y/n..you’re so- ugh~ fuckk..so good baby..” his breath hitches in his throat as his hips suddenly jerk violently against yours in a vigorous final thrust. He pulls out, fisting his pulsing cock as he leaks onto the ground beside you, eyes screwed shut.
You feel a few stray spurts of his hot, milky seed drip onto your leg, along with a string of curses and groans from behind you. You laugh quietly.
“That..was amazing nicho..thank you..” you grin sheepishly as you stare back at him. He stares back, eyes heavy and glossed over.
“What? No, thank you. Never thought I’d get the chance.” He chuckles softly as he puts himself back together.
“Sooo…did you still wanna hit that party? Or are you too worn out? “ he jokes as he helps you up. He smoothes out your hair, nails grazing your scalp soothingly as you adjust your clothes, legs wobbling.
“Yeah, why not.” You beam up at him as he holds your face in his hands, thumbing your cheek. He peppers kisses all over your face with a soft smile.
“Okay okay, let’s go.” He opens the door for you as you climb in clumsily, legs still regaining function.
The soft glow of the street light illuminates his cheesy grin as he meets you in the front seat. He flicks the stereo back on after a moment,
gazing at you with a newfound glimmer in his eyes. He grabs your hand, stitching your fingers together once again.
“Hey..I hope you know this wasn’t just a hookup…not for me, anyway..” he trails off, rubbing tiny circles onto to your hand. “it’s too soon to call you mine but..here.”
He slips his signature leather jacket off his arms, setting it in your lap with a sweet kiss to your temple.
“Take that. Wear it to the next race.” He grins as he looks forward, fastening his seatbelt.
You stare into your lap as a giddy expression crawls over your face, mumbling a quiet “okay”.
He peers over, winking dramatically, earning a soft giggle from you.
He lifts your chin, giving you one last deep kiss.
“Alright..let’s crash this party. Ready?”he laughs, starting the engine with a mischievously wide grin.
“I’m so ready.” You smirk at his reflection in the window as you roll it down, the chilly breeze flowing through your hair. “Let’s do it~.”
You two ride off into the night, speeding down the empty city streets as the lights paint a collage of bright neon into the faded asphalt.
Every second of the night felt like a fever dream; you were in for more than a wild ride.
Your heart pounds in your chest as a smile stains your lips, hands curling around the smooth leather in your lap.
hiiiii kinda nervous requesting but can i ask for an ej fic w noona kink in it😭 idk i js have this vision he calls reader noona but yes, that's all tyyy (thoughts and prayers if this get noticed but yessir)
💬 hi nonii~!!! i hope i didn’t leave a bad impression getting to this late. i also hope you know— you never have to be nervous or scared to request anything!! love, wanii ᢉ𐭩
【 ⠀ · just my puppy 𓇿ㅤㅤ he loves you so much! · ⠀】
💭info -> noona kink, boyfriend juju, implied age gap, blow job, reader can’t cook for shit, face fucking, degrading, swallowing, choking, gagging, hair pulling, fem reader。 ·
✉️ a/n . . . this was so fun to write ~ i felt like i had to add a little comedic break with reader burning butter, nothing can ever be too serious around here >w< enjoy!!!!
ֹ · ❤︎ ⸝⸝ ──── · x reader ⠀ | smut w plot⠀ 〔+18〕 ॱ ✉️ ִ
ej was your little golden retriever boyfriend; he followed you around with that same glimmering attitude of a clueless puppy.
he was never one to question you; his ears were too perked at the way your voice sounded, ringing inside him, burying your words deep within his head without meaning.
whether you asked him to clean the dishes, to take the trash out, or even just asked for opinions on drama, his eyes would gleam back at you, sparkling no matter the situation, with the same familiar attitude of a golden retriever.
you thought some higher power had chosen to bless you with such an amazing boyfriend, one who had an unwavering love for you.
one small issue… well, maybe issue wasn’t the right word— but he was one hell of a tease, no, seriously!
well, it wasn’t done intentionally.
from the beginning of your relationship, you couldn’t put your finger on it at first and brushed it off as early-stage jitters. trying to ignore the way your thighs pressed together every time his voice repeated that one cursed word.
“noona!!! i’m back, i got your favorites again!!”
his voice called out from beyond the hallway, the sound of his shoes kicking off to the side, rustling from the plastic grocery bag followed.
it was an involuntary response; your body felt that familiar wave of electricity jolt through you, crackling down to your inner thighs once more until you snapped yourself out of it. left with the stiff, weak sensation, trying to bite down on your lip for stability.
his feet padded along the tile floors, echoing behind you until they nuzzled right next to you, fingers laced over your waist, chin lowered to you. the thin scent of his perfume followed, wrapped around your neck as it intoxicated you, a fresh, warm linen that you grew accustomed to.
your hands faltered at the vegetables once again, gripping the knife until it trembled against the half-cut carrot.
the only thing that held this one-sided tension together was the sizzling butter burning on the stove. a heavy scent of milk that broke the drunkenness of his perfume.
his proximity to you felt unreal— as if he wasn’t your boyfriend but rather your crush; you felt as if you were just an innocent schoolgirl once again.
your body tensed, feeling his chest rise and fall just centimeters from you. heat radiating past the warmth of the stove. hearing the way his smile dropped, his hands falling to his side as the rustling bag hit against his thighs.
“noona? are you okay?” his gentle voice was wary, shaking the concerned etch into your heart. he placed the bag near his feet, more kicking it to the side as his arms met back to your waist.
every second you held your breath, it felt like time was suffocating you.
you dropped the knife; the chime rang against the wooden cutting board. breaking the long-held silence.
he froze, arms that tightly wrapped you now slowly unfold around your waist. “noona?” his voice that was once easy going now shook against the shell of your ear, his fingers lingered over the curve of you before letting go. “are you okay? you’ve been acting weird every since i got home, did i do something?” he peered his head over you shoulder, breath hitching with every graze of his touch. you couldn’t stop yourself now; the urge was too great to ignore.
your fell to your knees, not in the dramatic stage moment way, but instead a quick turn to face him, hands pushing him back against the kitchen counter. cornering his endearingly terrified self.
“noona?” once again, the same word that got him into this mess— now he still repeats it unknowingly.
you pulled down his jeans in a swift motion, belt clattering against the cold kitchen floors. his eyes widen, hands anxiously grab the countertop beside him. never an attempt to stop you, or escape, just the oddly silent acceptance.
over the course of your relationship, your sex life had never been this sporadic. it was an unspoken promise that one of you would voice it beforehand, giving small signals before bed, being overly touchy, the things that alerted the other. never had you once just pulled down his pants without warning.
now you had fully removed his pants with zero words, the raw thirst that burned in your belly. your eyes meet the tent, bulging just barely through the slick black fabric.
“noona?…” he paused, eyelashes fluttering as the realization hit him. “is that what’s been bugging you?” his lips slightly parted, voice dropping.
your hand massaged his bulge, slow, deliberate circles over his soaked boxers. you were tunnel-visioned on one thing, never paying any mind to the small sobs that he cried. every one of his words was disregarded, all except for the way his tongue flicked over “noona”.
ej’s hips stutter, low whimpers that shake out of his plump lips. his eyes darkened, watching your palm trace over the outline of his shaft. you pull his boxers down with one swift motion, joining the jeans below his feet.
his cock sprang against his stomach, a thick, loud smack that caught your glistening eyes. the tip was swollen and flushed, dripping precum over the sheer, dark fabric of his shirt.
your eyes stared in awe, the plump pink tip staring back at you.
he bit down on his lips, blood rushing into the press of his teeth, drawing the deep red over his k9’s.
you couldn’t stop yourself from wrapping your fingers delicately over the thickness, his throbbing veins pulsing against your hand; every touch sent sparks over his blurred vision, followed by that familiar whiny tone “noona— nghh… stop i’m too sensitive~”. every plea was met with deaf ears. now that he knew your weakness, it almost felt like he only repeated it to tease you. watching the way your throat gulped, deterring the moans ripping from within you.
before your lips could meet his flushed tip, you smelled it, that burnt scent of butter— the stove.
you had been so caught up in sucking his dick, you forgot you've been on high heat melting butter. you rushed, feet stumbled over in a clumsy mess of uncoordinated panic. your hands jumped to the nob, 3 clicks that rang in your ears. your knees pressed and dragged along the kitchen ground, cold that seeped against your skin, pressing into the bone in a chilling shiver.
all ej could make out was a faint giggle, a nervous, wary giggle as his cock still dripped unsteady streams of precum.
as you pull yourself back to him, the sort of seductive, needy illusion dropped in an awkward curtain pull. now you knelt in that same spot, but the heavy, intimate foreplay seemed to have lost its feeling on you. you felt more like a rock than a seductive siren.
despite this heavy weight of energy, you persevered, swatting away those shameful thought bubbles that clouded your brain.
your eyes found their prey, the pink-flushed tip of his cock. fingers following the same wrap over his shaft once more, this time you didn’t hold back, no more gentle rubs to hear his whimpers. one objective, to make him beg inside of you, cram your mouth with every inch you could take.
you stuck your tongue out, lapping it over the swollen head, long deliberate circles, mixing your saliva with the slickness. his moans ripped deeper from his throat; the shaky softness edged through. “noona~?” his eyes gazed down at your skilled tongue. rolling his hip deeper into the warmth of you, pushing the tip past your lips, as his control slipped, crumbled into dust.
without a warning, he stretched your mouth around his dick, a long thickness that ached your jaw. the size was absurd, the sort of girth and length that made your eyes roll back rather than stare back into his.
the length filled your mouth, veins cramming against your hollowed cheeks. the slick sounds of him thrusting into you echoed through your ringing ears. with ever pound, he pushed his tip deeper, rewarding his ears with that pathetic, filthy whimper and gag that followed. “noona, you're taking it so well~” his words were slurred, fighting the urge to fuck you harder.
the passion, pain, and pleasure stung through your eyes, welling at the corners until they poured down your cheeks, in a slow drag that synchronized with his hips.
he slammed into you, never letting your mouth take control, forcing his way into the depths of your throat. hitting your limit as if it wasn't an inanimate object.
his hips jerked forward, hand fisting your hair through his fingers, choking you deeper along the length until he was met with a gentle whine.
your eyes stung, a painful stream of clear crystal cut along your cheeks, tears falling under your chin.
with every last bit of his little strength, he pushed farther forward. the slick, filthy sounds of your whimpers and stuffed mouth only drove his cock into your with merciless force.
his cock twitched; with a last, loud, pathetic whimper, he shot thick, hot ropes down your throat. “nghh— fuck… noona~.”
painfully gagging against his throbbing, twitching cock as you held the seed in your cheeks. your eyes that’s once avoided him like the plague now stare at his messy face, the pinkish hue that sat under his beaded sweat. his eyes brows that’s knotted together, tighter with every pump.
he filled you with every last milk he could get; his hips shuddered against your flushed cheeks, every sensitive buck sent excessive force in your throat, flooded with the salty yet sweet taste of him.
he slowly dragged his cock along your tongue one last time, feeling the stretching slide pull out sluggishly. with a slick pop, you feel the rawness of your tongue, hyper aware of the unconscionable overflow of his milk.
it glides between your teeth in a thick, cloudy slither. coats itself over your sore mouth, salty and hot, held in your throat until you nearly choke on it.
ej stood over you, eyes heavy with lust, thirsty and hungry to watch you swallow him whole. his cheeks painted a textured pink, rushing down his sweaty neck.
his lips stuttered; his mind still buzzed from his blow job. “n-noona…” he pouted, fighting his own self to speak.
his lips curl, that likeness of his innocent smile. “be good and swallow for me— but not just yet.” his hands detangle your hair, wrapping to your heated, red cheeks, brushing his soft thumb over them tenderly. it came off as teasing and playful, even if the intention was to be seductive. your own lips curled, a soft smile that held his overflowing cum in your mouth, drops that trickled out of your lush lips.
his thumb brushes over the stray drops, running them over your lip like gloss. his eyes were affectionate, glowing black orbs that sparkled under the kitchen lights.
the faint smell of burnt butter still lingered, undertones of the long-forgotten carrots.
with a small nod of his tender approval and the faint nuzzle of his palm against your cheek, you swallowed the salty taste in a sluggish gulp. feeling the hot liquid seep over the back of your mouth, your bruised and swollen throat that still ached from his pounding— lingered the feeling, a faint ghost of his tip hitting the back of it.
he smiled down at your, a genuine, delicate smile as he hummed, “you’re doing so well, noona~.”
your werewolf fics have changed my brain chemistry! I was thinking about reader as Kei's baby mama and Maki wants to steal her out from under him cuz he knows he can give her better
obsessed with this dynamic i am going to work on this one right now whew can you imagine being fought over by maki and yudai? they are both relentless. it's totally different from nicho and euijoo. i'm gonna make this one good istg thank you for the idea!
