8 𝓶𝓮𝓷 𝓯𝓸𝓻. 1 𝓰𝓲𝓻𝓵 ✰

8 𝖒𝖆𝖐𝖊𝖘 1 𝖙𝖊𝖆𝖒🔥 ℰ𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝓂𝑒𝓃, 𝑜𝓃𝑒 𝓈𝒽𝒾𝓅, 𝑜𝓃𝑒 𝒹𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓂, 𝑜𝓃𝑒 𝑔𝒾𝓇𝓁,🔥 𝑶𝑻8 𝑭𝒐𝒓𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 🖤

[jonghonippleattack]

𝑰𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒐𝒅𝒖𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏

Hello everyone!

You can call me Dju.

I'm not new to Tumblr but this is my first time posting fanfiction on this platform.

I hope you enjoy these stories as much as I enjoyed writing them.

𝑁𝑖𝑐𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑚𝑒𝑒𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢 ✯

[jonghonippleattack]

𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘳𝘶𝘪𝘯𝘴 𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘵 😌

[jonghonippleattack]

𝓟𝓪𝓲𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰 : Hongjoong X reader

𝓖𝓮𝓷𝓻𝓮: Erotic / Sensual

𝓢𝓾𝓶𝓶𝓪𝓻𝔂: You avoided each other. You brushed past each other. You held yourselves back. Until he confronted you and everything unraveled. One kiss, one breath, and there was no turning back.

✬✬✬✬✬✬✬✬✬✬✬✬✬✬✬✬✬✬✬✬✬✬✬✬

The door slams shut behind you with a sharp sound. You didn’t mean to. You were just… at your limit.

The silence that follows is heavy, almost tangible, like a room saturated with tension. It sticks to your skin, keeps you from breathing properly. And in that silence, you hear him. His breathing. Short, tense, restrained, as if every inhale were a superhuman effort to hold back what he’s been thinking for far too long.

“You’re really going to leave like that?”

His voice isn’t loud, nor angry. It’s low, sharp, pulled tight like a bowstring ready to snap.

You don’t turn around. Your eyes stay fixed on the door in front of you, as if it could protect you from the rest of the world and from him.

“I just need you to let me think,” you say, your voice trembling, barely audible.

He laughs. Not a joyful laugh. A short, dry, incredulous one, carrying something you don’t understand yet.

“Think?” Footsteps approach silent, but heavy with a threat. “You’ve been thinking all evening, haven’t you? Barely a glance at me.”

You inhale slowly, too slowly. Your heart hammers violently in your chest, uncontrollable.

“I didn’t want to fight.”

“Then why do you keep provoking me?”

You close your eyes for a moment. Just a moment. But when you open them again, he’s there. Hongjoong. Close. Much too close.

His presence is a burning heat surrounding you before he even touches you, a soft but inescapable pressure against your body.

His eyes are dark…darker than earlier. Not rage. Something else… a silent, electrifying danger, almost visceral.

“I’m not provoking you,” you whisper, weak, barely audible.

He tilts his head, one eyebrow raised, a faint smirk on his lips. “No?”

He steps closer. Your back meets the door. Trapped.

His hand lifts slowly not to touch you. Not yet. It lands beside your head, against the door. The closeness cuts through you, consumes you.

“Then explain… why you’ve been avoiding me for weeks.”

You open your mouth, but he doesn’t let you speak. He leans in slightly, bringing his face so close your breaths mingle.

“As if you wanted to push me to my limit,” he murmurs.

You feel his lips brush yours. A shiver runs through you, violent, uncontrollable. Your heart races. Your fingers tense against the door.

“I…” Your voice trembles. “You’re imagining things.”

His eyes drop to your mouth. And suddenly, you realize. He doesn’t believe you. He’s seen right through you. He smiles a dangerous, almost cruel smile.

“No.” His thumb brushes your lower lip. Your breath stutters. “I’m not imagining anything. I see everything.”

You freeze. Your body refuses to move. His fingers slide down your jaw, then to your throat, with slow, calculated, almost cruel precision. You tremble against your will.

“You’re trembling,” he murmurs.

“That’s because you’re touching me,” you breathe.

He laughs softly, a warm, low sound against your cheek. “I’m barely touching you, and you’re already reacting this much?”

His hand slips to your hip—hesitates—then grips firmly. The tension between you becomes almost unbearable, a thin line between desire and danger. Your body moves toward his on instinct. Impossible to fight it.

His eyes lift to yours, surprised, almost awed by your reaction. And you finally see everything he’s been holding back for weeks.

“Hongjoong…” you whisper, barely audible.

“Don’t say anything.” His forehead rests against yours. His hand keeps your hip firmly in place. Your stomach brushes his. It’s too much. Far too much.

“You shouldn’t look at me like that…” His nose grazes your temple, slides along your cheek. Light, but enough to make you shiver.

You turn your head slightly, your lips brushing his. He freezes. His hand tightens on your hip, possessive.

“Why?” you whisper, teasing.

He closes his eyes for a split second, like he’s fighting himself. When he opens them again, he looks at you like you’re the last barrier between him and a fire he can no longer contain.

“You’re playing…” he breathes.

“Maybe.”

“You don’t know what you’re getting into.”

“Then show me.”

You finish the sentence. But he’s the one who triggers everything.

In one swift but controlled movement, he pulls you against him. Not roughly. Desperately.

His kiss leaves no doubt: it’s not soft, not hesitant. It’s deep, urgent, filled with all the tension he’s held back for weeks. He bites your lip lightly, and a small sound escapes you—unwanted, uncontrollable.

Your fingers slide into his hair, pulling him closer. He groans, low, unrestrained. His hands explore your waist, the curve of your back, the line of your body, as if he wants to memorize every inch through your clothes.

Your back hits the door. Your body presses fully against his. His breath burns against your skin.

“You shouldn’t…” He kisses the corner of your mouth. “…let me…” Another kiss, slower. “…do this.”

“Don’t stop,” you whisper.

He inhales sharply, his hands roaming your body with slow, almost cruel precision. “God… you’re going to drive me insane.”

Carried away by explosive tension, you both lose control, kissing deeper, harder, more desperately. Hongjoong presses you against the door, his hands mapping every line of your body with dangerous patience. His lips devour yours, trailing down your neck, pulling shivers and soft sounds from you.

Every touch becomes more urgent, more possessive. Your breaths blend, your bodies lock together, and you know neither of you is in control anymore. You’re on the edge utterly unable, and unwilling, to step back.

[jonghonippleattack]

𝐼 𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑑 ℎ𝑒𝑙𝑝...

[jonghonippleattack]

𝑶𝒖𝒓 𝒃𝒂𝒃𝒚 𝒃𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒐𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒔, 𝒔𝒐 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒅 𝒐𝒇 𝒉𝒊𝒎 !!😌

[jonghonippleattack]

𝐺𝑎𝑚𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑙𝑖𝑝𝑠, 𝐺𝑎𝑚𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑓𝑖𝑟𝑒

𝑃𝑎𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔: 𝑊𝑜𝑜𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑔 𝑋 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟

𝑎/𝑛: 𝐽𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑖 𝑓𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑 𝑖𝑛 𝑚𝑦 𝑑𝑟𝑎𝑓𝑡𝑠

✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯

Wooyoung wore that mischievous smile that made you want to be cautious. Leaning against the table, arms crossed, he looked at you as though he held a secret he wasn’t yet ready to share.

“You know, you really should stop staring at me like that,” he said, his voice slow, mocking, yet deliciously provocative. “People might think you’ve already fallen under my charm.”

You raised a brow, an almost imperceptible smile tugging at your lips. His voice dragged, impertinent, almost insolent, and yet unbearably seductive. Wooyoung loved testing and playing with your limits. His body pushed away from the table; he approached you with calculated steps, his shadow slipping over yours until his scent unsettled the air you breathed.

“So… what are you planning to do with me?” he murmured, tilting his head slightly, his gaze fixed on your lips as though every word you spoke might undo him.

Your smirk deepened. You lifted your glass to your lips with deliciously cruel slowness, keeping your eyes locked on his. A drop lingered on your lower lip, and you caught it with a sensual flick of your tongue, fully aware of the effect it provoked.

“You should be careful what you ask for, darling,” you whispered, your voice soft but dangerous, like a caress that burned.

Wooyoung’s gaze darkened. His pupils dilated as he followed every detail of your movements, trapped despite himself. He leaned in closer, close enough for your breaths to mingle, and answered in a husky whisper:

“Oh yeah? And why?”

His gaze slowly climbed back to yours, finding again the provoking glint that defined him. A cocky smile stretched across his lips, a sign he was regaining composure—or at least trying to.

“You don’t think you can handle me?” he said, his voice laced with teasing defiance.

You let him wait, your eyes plunging into his as if daring him to look away. Slowly, you closed the distance, your breath brushing against his skin, drawing a visible shiver that made the air between you tremble. Your lips hovered a mere breath from his ear, so close that one small movement would have been enough to close the gap.

“I don’t handle brats… I tame them.”

A heavy silence fell. His lips parted as if he were about to reply, but no words came. For the first time, his cocky smile wavered, replaced by raw tension, by a hungry glint he no longer cared to conceal.

And there, with your bodies almost pressed together, the game had shifted onto new ground.

[jonghonippleattack]

𝒯𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝓀𝒾𝓁𝓁𝑒𝒹 𝒾𝓉 🔥🔥

[jonghonippleattack]

𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝒯𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒 𝒪𝒻 𝒴𝑜𝓊

𝔓𝔞𝔦𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔤: Wooyoung X reader

𝔊𝔢𝔫𝔯𝔢:  Soft romance, humor

𝔖𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: You just wanted your daily coffee — not a barista who flirts harder than the espresso machine. Between teasing, smiles, and glances that last a little too long, Wooyoung becomes your biggest disaster… and your best reason to get out of bed in the morning.

𝔚𝔬𝔯𝔡𝔠𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱: 2 𝒌

⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂

You’ve never been a morning person. Alarms going off too early, sunlight stabbing through the curtains, instant coffee tasting like divine punishment — all of it makes you regret even opening your eyes.

But since you moved into this building — what, three weeks ago? — you’ve found a more humane alternative to morning torture: the café downstairs. Small, warm, always scented with espresso and cinnamon. And most importantly, run by him.

Wooyoung.

The barista in the black shirt, the red apron, and the smile that’s way too confident. The one who asks you every morning if you want your cappuccino “with one dose of good mood or two?” Spoiler: he’s not talking about sugar.

This morning, once again, you push open the café door, eyes half-closed, brain still in sleep mode. The little bell rings above your head, and almost instantly, a familiar voice greets you:

— “Hey, my favorite customer! Still alive, apparently.”

You barely lift your head. — “It’s too early for your enthusiasm, Wooyoung.”

He laughs — that bright, teasing laugh that makes you want to throw a spoon at him and kiss him at the same time. — “So, emergency cappuccino with a triple shot of energy?” — “Just the usual. And skip the jokes, I’m fragile before 9 a.m.” — “Got it,” he says, turning away, already frothing the milk. “One dose of denial and a sprinkle of sarcasm, as always.”

You roll your eyes, but a smile betrays you. You watch him move behind the counter — smooth, focused, and far too confident with his sleeves rolled up. He’s somehow made every small gesture look like casual temptation.

When he comes back with your cup, he sets it down with theatrical flair. — “Here you go, Miss ‘I-don’t-smile-before-nine’.”

You grab the cup. — “And when do you sleep?” — “I don’t. I recharge between compliments.”

You nearly choke on your first sip. — “You’re impossible.” — “And you’re funny when you pretend I don’t get to you.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he’s already walking away, glancing back at you with that knowing look. The worst part? He’s not entirely wrong.

You come back the next day. And the day after. And the one after that.

At this point, it’s not a habit anymore — it’s an addiction. You claim it’s for the coffee — “the best in the neighborhood,” you tell your coworkers — but deep down, you know it’s for something else. For him. For his stupid humor, his crooked smile, the way he always holds your gaze a little too long before looking away.

One day, you take your usual seat by the window and notice he’s not alone. A girl leans on the counter — pretty, well-dressed, laughing at everything he says. And you feel… something. Not jealousy, no — just that ridiculous heat creeping up your neck. You look away, pretending to scroll your phone, but your ears stay open.

— “So, are you free this weekend?” the girl asks sweetly. — “Hmm… nope. I’ve got to take care of my favorite customer.”

You almost spit out your drink. The girl frowns. — “Seriously?” — “Seriously. She orders a cappuccino disaster every morning — if I’m not there, she might spill milk all over the counter. Can’t risk that.”

You hide behind your cup, heart pounding. He looked right at you when he said that. And smiled. Slowly.

When the girl leaves, visibly annoyed, you lift your head. — “That was… kind of cruel, wasn’t it?” — “Maybe,” he says, shrugging. “But it was funny. And true.”

You can’t help laughing. And he looks at you like your laughter is the best reward in the world.

The following days, your connection only grows stronger. He slides your coffee across the counter before you even order. You leave tips in the form of folded notes — silly jokes — and sometimes he writes back on napkins.

“Do you take your coffee with sugar or just your bad mood?” → “I sweeten it with your attitude. It’s enough.”

It’s become a game — a secret exchange only you two understand. And slowly, you start losing yourself in it.

One afternoon, you decide to work at the café. Big mistake. Wooyoung has decided to be extra annoying.

— “Want me to help you focus?” — “How? By being quiet?” — “No, by bringing you a free dessert.” — “Wooyoung, that’s not how productivity works.” — “Sugar helps concentration. It’s scientifically proven.” — “By who?” — “By me.”

He sets a slice of cheesecake in front of you, grinning like a proud kid. You shake your head, but grab the spoon anyway. And of course, he sits across from you uninvited.

— “What are you working on?” — “A boring report.” — “Tempting. Want me to pretend to care?” — “If you want to survive, don’t.” — “You know, you smile more when I annoy you.” — “No, I don’t.” — “Yeah, you do.”

You feel your stomach tighten — that mix of amusement and soft panic. He looks so pleased with himself, like he just won an invisible game.

Evening comes. You finally look up from your laptop — you’re the last customer. Wooyoung wipes the counter, humming tunelessly, then walks over.

— “Want me to help you pack your laptop? That way, you’ll have an excuse to come back tomorrow.” — “You think I need excuses?” — “No. But I like it when you pretend to.”

He leans in slightly, his fingers brushing yours as he closes your laptop. A harmless gesture. But your heart didn’t get the memo.

Warmth rushes to your cheeks, and you stand up quickly to hide it. — “Well, uh… thanks for the coffee. And the cheesecake. And the interruptions.” — “Anytime. Come back tomorrow — I’ll interrupt you even better.”

You leave under his teasing smile, heart beating too fast, steps too light.

Days pass. The teasing turns into habit. The glances, into quiet promises.

Until that night.

You come home later than usual, soaked from the rain. The café is still open — soft lights, slow music. You push the door, just hoping for a hot drink and somewhere dry.

Wooyoung looks up and smiles. — “You’re officially addicted.” — “To your coffee, maybe. Not to you.” — “Liar.”

You laugh. He brings you a steaming mug without asking. You sit by the counter, shivering, and he drapes a towel over your shoulders.

— “Not much, but at least you won’t look like a mop.” — “Charming.” — “I know.”

You look up at him — and suddenly, something in his expression shifts. Less teasing. Softer.

He leans against the counter, eyes lingering on you. — “You look tired.” — “That’s because I spend my mornings trying to understand your jokes.” — “Want me to tell you another one, then?”

You laugh, but his voice turns quieter. — “Seriously… you’re always alone here. You work too much.”

You shrug. — “It’s just easier that way.” — “Or safer?”

You freeze. Caught off guard by his tone.

— “What makes you say that?” — “Because you act like you’re avoiding people, but you come here every day. Like you found one place where it’s… not too dangerous to just be yourself.”

You stay silent. His words disarm you.

And for once, he doesn’t smile. — “I’m not teasing you, by the way. I just… like when you come here.”

Your fingers tighten around your cup. You search for something clever, something funny — but nothing comes. So you simply say: — “I like coming here too.”

This time, his smile is real. No teasing. He steps closer, resting his hand gently over yours. The soft spark that runs through you nearly makes you forget how to breathe.

— “So… you’ll keep coming, right?” — “Always.”

And for the first time, you realize this café isn’t just your morning refuge anymore. It’s become your favorite place— because he’s in it.

[jonghonippleattack]

𝐷𝑖𝑣𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑒𝑧 💅

[jonghonippleattack]

𝑶𝒏𝒆 𝒕𝒆𝒙𝒕 𝒂𝒘𝒂𝒚

𝑷𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 :Yunho X reader

𝑮𝒆𝒏𝒓𝒆 : Fluff and Humor (Romantic Comedy)

𝑺𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚 : You send a message to the wrong person. A mistake that could’ve been embarrassing… but ends up changing everything. Between teasing, late-night talks, and a few “accidents” that happen a little too often, you discover that some typos can lead you straight to the right heart.

𝑾𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 : 9 k

✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰

You never liked sending messages.

Too risky. Too many traps

A typo, a misplaced word, a tone misunderstood—and everything collapses.

Written words have that cruel power: they stay

And yet, tonight, you're sprawled on your bed, in that half-tired, half-disheveled posture, your hair a mess, your oversized hoodie slipping nonchalantly off your shoulder. The cold, white light of your phone outlines your face in the darkness, casting your shadow on the wall. It's late. Too late.

That hour of the night when everything seems more dramatic, more intense, more authentic.

You just want to vent.

To let out the day’s irritation, that build-up of frustration from three endless hours of communication class. And, above all, you want to talk about him. That infuriating guy—the one who’s spent half the semester contradicting you, correcting you, rolling his eyes with fake innocence every time you opened your mouth

You sigh, eyes on the ceiling.

You don’t want to admit that he’s the one still stuck in your mind at this hour.

But you can’t help it.

His face flashes before you, that teasing smile, that calm, steady voice that drives you insane every time you debate.

You take a deep breath, grab your phone, open your chat with Lina—your official outlet—and type quickly, almost in one breath:

“He’s so irritating and unbearable, he always has something to say, and the fact that he sits right next to me doesn’t help. If only he weren’t so damn handsome, it’d be easier to hate him.”

You reread it.

You wince.

But it’s honest.

And Lina knows you—she’ll laugh, obviously.So, without thinking too hard, you hit “send.”

A soft “whoosh.” Message sent. You smile faintly, already ready to put your phone away.

Until you lift your eyes to the screen. And your stomach twists instantly.

It’s not “Lina 💅” at the top of the chat.

It’s “Yunho 📚.”

Your breath catches.

Your heart skips a beat—then another.You freeze, mouth half open, unable to breathe properly.

Yunho...

Your project partner.

The hot guy.

The very one you just literally called hot.

Your phone nearly slips from your fingers.

Your hands shake.

Your brain empties—and then fills again, too fast, too violently.

You frantically look for a “delete,” “unsend,” “rewind time” button, anything.

But of course, life doesn’t come with those options.

Seconds stretch.

The silence is deafening.

And then… three little dots appear.

That cursed typing indicator—slow, cruel, merciless.

You freeze.

You whisper, “No, no, no, no, no, please…”

Your heartbeat thunders in your ears.

The screen lights up.

Yunho: …oh. I see 😏

That emoji.

The smirk.

The emoji of chaos.

You could sink into the ground.

You bury your face in your pillow, stifling a desperate groan.

You roll onto your side, blanket up to your nose, wishing you could vanish.

You seriously consider changing universities. Maybe countries. Maybe identities.

Australia, perhaps?

But you take a deep breath, trembling fingers grabbing your phone again.

You: It was a joke.

You stare at the blue text, thumb hovering over the Wi-Fi switch.

But the notification drops almost instantly.

Yunho: A joke?

You inhale deeply. Your fingers type before your brain can stop them.

You: …yeah. Of course.

You want to believe it sounds convincing.

But you know it doesn’t.

A few seconds later:

Yunho: You should try stand-up. You’re hilarious.

You let out a nervous laugh—half giggle, half scream. You hide your face in your pillow, cheeks burning.

Shame floods you, but… somewhere deep down, a small, ridiculous, romantic part of you finds the situation almost… thrilling. Not pleasant—just exhilarating. You’ve never been this aware of your heartbeat.

A few moments later, your phone buzzes again.

Yunho: I’m flattered, but don’t worry. I’m sure you only said that to motivate me to work harder tomorrow.

You just stare at the screen. He could’ve mocked you. Been cold. Awkward. But no. He went for humor. Light tone. As if to say, without saying it: it’s okay. It’s kind of cute, actually.

You let your phone fall onto your chest. The light reflects against the ceiling. Silence returns.

You breathe slowly, your heart still pounding. And then you laugh. A real laugh this time—tired, relieved, a little incredulous. And as your cheeks remain warm and your heart refuses to calm down, you realize that despite the disaster, there’s something deliciously exciting about this “mistake.” Something that makes you want to see what happens next… even if it makes you blush just thinking about it.

___

The next morning, you seriously consider being late. Or better yet—not showing up at all.

Your body is in social-survival mode. Your hands tremble as you make coffee, your brain running wild with excuses: sudden flu, alarm malfunction, mysterious disappearance into another dimension. None of them hold up. You don’t have the heart to lie—or the courage to run forever.

So you drag yourself to campus, stomach in knots, earbuds in, hoping the music can drown out the sound of your anxiety. The hallway echoes with footsteps, familiar chatter, tired students. Each step brings you closer to the inevitable. You hate how fast your heart beats—like your own body is betraying you.

When you enter the classroom, he’s already there. Sitting at your shared project table, hands wrapped around a steaming cup of coffee, eyes on his laptop.

Morning light slides over his skin, tracing the curve of his jaw and the faint shadows under his eyes. His hair’s slightly messy, like he woke up late or spent the night working.

You freeze at the door, trying to breathe quietly. Your brain panics: leave. Turn around. Pretend you forgot your bag. Anything. But he looks up.

His gaze meets yours. And your heart tightens.

Yunho gives a small nod—calm, almost natural. Not a big smile, not immediate teasing—just a casual hello. But enough to remind you of the message. That message, now hovering between you like an invisible bubble.

“Hey,” he says, voice soft, faintly amused. “Sleep well?”

You mumble a tiny “yeah,” barely audible. You sit down, too straight, fingers clinging to your bag straps. Your cheeks burn. You want to look relaxed, but your heart’s racing, and every sound in the room feels too loud.

He, on the other hand, seems perfectly calm. So calm it almost annoys you. He types on his keyboard, sipping his coffee, like nothing ever happened.

And of course, eventually, he looks up, eyes gleaming with quiet mischief.

“So,” he says, “am I still unbearable—or just handsome today?”

You nearly choke on your sip of coffee. Your brain reboots, unable to form a coherent reply.

He smiles. That smile. Not wide, not arrogant—just that small, knowing curve that sends a chill down your spine.

You roll your eyes, trying to hide your panic, but inside, it’s chaos.

“Relax,” he says, hands raised in mock defense. “I’m teasing.” “I noticed,” you mutter, crimson.

He leans back in his chair, chin resting on his hand, looking thoughtfully at you. His gaze lingers—not intense, just attentive. Which is somehow worse.

You notice the light glinting off his lashes, the curve of his mouth when he half-smiles. And your treacherous heart speeds up again.

“You know,” he murmurs, almost to himself, “it’s kind of nice.” You blink. “What is?” “That you find me unbearable.”

You stare, lost. He grins, a little more openly.

“It means I matter enough to annoy you.”

You’re speechless. A tiny silence stretches between you—fragile, almost electric. You don’t know whether to laugh, blush, or run away. Internally, you do all three.

The rest of the class passes in a blur. You take notes, underline random words, try to look focused—but your brain keeps circling back to every syllable he said. Every time his arm brushes yours, every time his pen clicks, you tense up a little more.

The professor’s voice fades into background noise. Your mind drifts somewhere between panic and fascination. Yunho seems unaffected, calm and steady, but you swear he’s enjoying this. Every now and then, when the professor makes a joke, he glances at you—as if sharing a secret you didn’t agree to keep.

When the class finally ends, you start shoving your notebook into your bag, ready to escape. But before you can stand, Yunho’s voice catches you.

“Hey, we still have to work on the presentation, right?”

You freeze mid-motion. Right. The project. The joint project that suddenly feels like a cruel cosmic joke.

You nod, trying to sound casual. “Yeah, sure. When do you want to—?”

“Now?” he offers, slinging his backpack over his shoulder.

You blink. “Now?”

He tilts his head, smiling faintly. “You’re free, right?”

Technically, yes. Emotionally, absolutely not. But you can’t exactly say no without sounding suspicious. So you smile weakly. “Yeah… I guess now works.”

He grins—soft but triumphant. “Great. There’s a café nearby. Quiet, good Wi-Fi.”

You can already imagine the smell of coffee, the low music, and the agonizing awareness of his presence across from you.

Still, you follow him out.

The café is half full—warm light, hum of conversation, clinking cups. You choose a small table by the window. The October light filters through, gold and cool. You sit opposite him, pulling your laptop closer as if it could shield you.

“Okay,” you say, opening the shared document, “we should finish the data section first.”

“Sure,” he replies, leaning in slightly to read your screen. His sleeve brushes your hand. You freeze. He doesn’t move back right away.

For a split second, you can feel his warmth—his breath just close enough for your skin to notice. Then he leans back again, like nothing happened, eyes on the document.

You hate how aware you are of everything he does. The way he frowns when he’s focused, the way his thumb taps the cup absentmindedly, the way his lips move silently as he reads. You hate that you notice. You hate that it’s kind of… nice.

“Hmm,” he says after a moment. “Your analysis is sharper than mine.”

You glance up. “You mean the part where I proved your model wrong?”

He smirks. “See? Unbearable and brilliant. Dangerous combo.”

You glare at him, trying not to smile. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

He shrugs, taking a sip of coffee. “Can you blame me? It’s not every day someone texts me a confession by accident.”

You freeze. You thought maybe—just maybe—he wouldn’t bring it up again. But of course he did.

You close your eyes for a second, inhale, and mutter, “It wasn’t a confession.”

“Oh?” he says innocently, setting his cup down. “Then what was it?”

“A… mistake.”

He leans forward a little, elbows on the table, eyes gleaming. “One you regret?”

Your throat tightens. You hate that question. You hate that your mind doesn’t immediately say yes.

You fumble for a neutral answer. “Let’s just say I regret the timing.”

He chuckles softly. “Fair enough.”

For a while, you both go back to typing. The air between you settles again—tensed, charged, but strangely comfortable. The low hum of the café wraps around you both, isolating you in your little bubble of awkward peace.

At some point, he leans back, stretching, hands behind his head. “Honestly,” he murmurs, “it’s kind of nice working with someone who argues back.”

You raise a brow. “You mean someone who doesn’t let you win?”

“Exactly,” he says, smiling. “Keeps me awake.”

You scoff, hiding your smile behind your coffee cup. For a moment, the tension eases. It feels almost… normal. You laugh at one of his sarcastic remarks, he pretends to sulk, you tease him about his graphs being ugly. And when he laughs—really laughs—you realize how different it sounds from his classroom tone. Softer. Warmer. You could get used to that sound.

Two hours later, the project is mostly done. You close your laptop, stretch your neck, and sigh in relief. Yunho watches you quietly for a moment, then says, “You know, for someone who calls me unbearable, you don’t seem to mind spending time with me.”

You glance at him, lips twitching. “You’re not always unbearable.”

“Progress,” he says, smiling.

You roll your eyes, grabbing your bag. “Don’t get used to it.”

He stands too, slinging his bag on his shoulder. “I’ll walk you out,” he says casually, as if it’s nothing. But his tone is softer than before.

You step outside together. The air is crisp, the city bathed in gold and grey. You walk side by side in silence, the sound of footsteps echoing lightly against the pavement. It’s peaceful, awkwardly peaceful.

When you reach the intersection where you’ll part ways, he turns to you :

“Hey,” he says, voice low. “About last night…”

You tense again, clutching your strap. “Yeah?”

He hesitates, then smiles—genuine this time, not teasing. “You don’t have to be embarrassed. It was… kind of flattering.”

You blink. “Flattering?”

“Yeah,” he says softly. “You could’ve said worse things about me.”

You laugh nervously. “Oh, I have worse things.”

He laughs too, shaking his head. “Good to know.”

A brief pause. The traffic light changes. You should say goodbye, but something makes you linger.

He studies your face for a second, like he wants to say more. But instead, he just says, “See you tomorrow, unbearable partner.”

You grin, despite yourself. “See you, handsome distraction.”

You both freeze for half a heartbeat. Then you laugh. Then he does.

You wave, turning away before your courage dissolves completely. Your heart hammers, your face feels like it’s on fire, and your mind replays his smile over and over.

And for the first time, you think maybe—just maybe—this “mistake” wasn’t one after all

___

The next morning, you wake up with an unfamiliar lightness in your chest. Not peace—something else. Something that feels like anticipation disguised as anxiety. You get ready faster than usual, staring at your reflection for a moment longer than necessary. Maybe it’s just your imagination, but you catch yourself wondering whether he’ll notice your new sweater. You shake your head, muttering, “Pathetic,” under your breath.

Still, you leave home with a smile.

When you enter the classroom, Yunho’s already there again. He glances up the moment you walk in—like he was waiting. That easy, effortless smile appears, and you hate how your stomach flips because of it.

“Morning,” he says. “Hey,” you reply, pretending to be busy unpacking your notes.

“Sleep well?” You glance at him, half-smirking. “Why do you always ask that?” “Because you look like someone who doesn’t.” You snort. “You sound like my grandmother.” “Does she flirt with you too?” he shoots back without missing a beat.

You blink. He grins. You look away before he can see you blush.

The lecture drags on. You’re trying to take notes, but every time he leans closer to point at something on the screen, your thoughts scatter. It’s ridiculous—he’s just explaining, but somehow his voice feels too close, too calm, too distracting.

At one point, when the professor asks a question, you both answer at the same time. Your voices overlap perfectly. He turns to you, smiling, and says quietly, “We’re starting to think alike. Scary.”

You whisper back, “More like contagious.” He laughs under his breath. “Guess I’m a good influence.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t argue.

Later that day, you both meet again at the library to finalize the presentation slides. You sit side by side, laptops open, the faint hum of the air conditioner the only sound. For once, you manage to focus. The work flows easily—ideas bouncing, jokes slipping in between. You almost forget that a few nights ago, you wanted to disappear.

At some point, while you’re checking references, you feel a gentle nudge against your elbow. You glance up. Yunho’s holding out a small pack of gummies.

“Want one?” You raise a brow. “Are you trying to bribe me into doing more work?” “Maybe,” he says, smiling. “Depends if it works.”

You take one anyway. “What flavor?” “Guess.” You pop it in your mouth and think for a second. “Peach?” He nods. “You’re good.” “I’m always good,” you reply automatically. He grins. “I noticed.”

The silence that follows isn’t awkward this time. It’s… charged. You feel it in the air, the kind of quiet that hums softly between two people pretending to focus.

Hours pass. The sun sinks. The library empties out slowly. By the time you finish, it’s dark outside. You stretch, rubbing your eyes, and let out a quiet sigh. “Finally done.”

Yunho closes his laptop, checking the time. “We made good progress.”

You nod, smiling. “Thanks for staying so late.”

He shrugs lightly. “You make it sound like I had a choice.”

You glance at him, pretending to be offended. “Excuse me?” He laughs, shaking his head. “I meant—you’re impossible to argue with. I’d rather stay late than lose another debate.”

You can’t help but smile. “Smart man.”

He watches you for a second, expression softening. Then he says, almost hesitantly, “Hey. You hungry?”

You blink. “What?” “It’s late. You probably haven’t eaten, have you?” You hesitate. “I was going to grab something on the way home.” He nods. “Perfect. I know a place near the station. My treat.”

You open your mouth to protest, but he’s already packing up, that confident, easy smile back on his face.

“Come on,” he says, glancing at you. “Think of it as a reward for all your hard work. And for not running away from me after that text.”

You groan. “You had to bring it up again.” He laughs. “It’s kind of our origin story now.”

You roll your eyes but follow him anyway.

The restaurant he takes you to is small, warm, half-hidden between two buildings. Dim lights, low music, the comforting smell of noodles and broth. You sit across from him, steam rising between you.

For the first time all week, you feel… at ease. You talk about everything—professors, dumb classmates, your favorite movies, his terrible playlist. He’s easy to talk to, in that infuriating way some people are—calm, witty, never forcing the conversation.

At one point, you mention something personal—without meaning to. A small story about how you hate silence when you’re stressed, how you always need some noise in the background.

He listens quietly, not interrupting. Then, softly, he says, “That’s why you play music when you study.” You look up, surprised. “You noticed?” He shrugs, smiling faintly. “You always have your earbuds in before you even open your laptop.”

You stare at him for a moment, unsure what to say. He looks away, sipping his drink. The silence between you shifts again—not heavy, but intimate. You feel your pulse pick up.

When the meal ends, he insists on paying. You argue for two minutes before giving up. He stands, pulling his coat on, and says, “You can repay me next time.”

You freeze. “Next time?” He smiles. “Unless you plan on avoiding me forever.”

You open your mouth, but no words come out. He tilts his head, eyes glinting with that same teasing warmth. “Didn’t think so,” he murmurs, stepping past you toward the door.

Outside, the air is cold. You walk together under the streetlights, your shoulders brushing occasionally. You try not to think too much about it. But your heart doesn’t listen.

When you reach the station, he stops, turning toward you.

“Thanks for coming,” he says softly. You smile. “Thanks for kidnapping me for dinner.”

He laughs quietly. “You didn’t fight that hard.”

You grin. “Didn’t want to make a scene.”

He takes a small step closer—not enough to invade your space, but close enough that you can feel his presence. His voice drops slightly. “For what it’s worth,” he says, “I’m glad you texted me instead of your friend.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Why?” “Because I wouldn’t have known you felt that way otherwise.”

Your breath catches. “Yunho—” He smiles gently. “Relax. I’m not asking for anything. I just… liked hearing it.”

You don’t know what to say. The city hums softly around you. He gives you one last look—something between affection and mischief—then steps back.

“Goodnight,” he says. You manage a quiet, “Goodnight.”

He walks away, leaving you standing there, heartbeat echoing louder than the train behind you.

___

The next week feels… different. You wouldn’t call it awkward. Not exactly. More like a quiet shift—something subtle, like gravity bending in a slightly new direction.

He still teases you. You still roll your eyes. But now, every look lasts a little longer. Every word feels like it carries a second meaning, one you can almost read but not quite name.

Sometimes you catch him watching you when you’re not speaking, that faint, thoughtful smile that isn’t quite teasing anymore. Sometimes you catch yourself doing the same.

It’s unnerving. Addictive. You tell yourself it’s just a crush—something harmless that’ll fade. But deep down, you know that’s a lie.

One afternoon, the two of you stay late again to practice the presentation. The classroom is empty except for the sound of your voices echoing faintly against the walls.

You’re rehearsing, standing in front of the projector, hands gesturing as you explain a slide. He’s sitting at the desk, watching you—not critically, just… attentively.

When you finish, you look at him. “Well?” He blinks, as if caught. “What?” “Feedback?” you prompt, crossing your arms. “Oh.” He clears his throat. “Yeah. It was good. Really good.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That’s it? Just ‘good’?” He grins. “I’d say perfect, but I didn’t want to inflate your ego.”

You roll your eyes. “Too late.” He laughs, standing up. “My turn?”

You nod, stepping aside. He starts speaking, smooth and confident, voice low but firm. You watch him, trying to focus on the content—but it’s impossible. He’s too composed. Too at ease. You wonder if he ever gets nervous about anything.

When he finishes, you say, “Okay, that was unfair. You sound like a TED Talk.” He chuckles. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” “It was,” you admit quietly.

He looks at you for a moment. Something flickers in his expression—soft, unreadable. Then he says, “Come here.”

You frown. “Why?” “I want to show you something.”

You hesitate, but step closer. He reaches out—slowly—and adjusts the edge of your sleeve. “You always do that,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Do what?” “Push your sleeves up when you’re nervous. Like you’re preparing for a fight.”

You blink, caught off guard. “You notice everything, don’t you?” He smiles faintly. “Just you.”

The silence stretches. Your heart beats faster. He realizes what he’s said a second too late. His eyes flick away, but you’ve already seen the hint of pink creeping up his neck.

For the first time, he looks… flustered.

You grin, voice low. “Well, well. Mr. Composure has emotions after all.” He laughs softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Don’t get used to it.”

The next day, you can’t stop thinking about it. That small, quiet moment when he said just you. You replay it a hundred times, each version sounding a little different in your head. Was it serious? Was it teasing? Was it both?

By the time you get to class, you’re a mess of thoughts.

Yunho, on the other hand, is maddeningly normal. He greets you with a calm “Hey,” offers you a pen you didn’t ask for, then spends half the lecture scribbling notes with complete focus. You start wondering if you imagined everything.

But when the class ends and everyone else leaves, he turns to you.

“You free after this?” You hesitate. “Why?” “Library again. We need to polish the intro.”

You nod, trying to sound casual. “Sure.”

The library is quiet again, the light dim and golden. You sit across from each other, the hum of computers blending with the faint rustle of pages. But neither of you says much. You’re too aware of the silence between you.

After half an hour, Yunho leans back, stretching. “I think we’re done.”

Vous regardez votre écran en faisant défiler. « On pourrait revoir la conclusion. » Il sourit en coin. « Tu cherches juste à gagner du temps. »

You blink. “Stalling what?” He meets your eyes. “Leaving.”

You open your mouth to protest, but the words die on your tongue. He’s not wrong. You don’t want to leave. And you can see, from the faint curve of his smile, that he knows it too.

He stands, packing his things. “Come on. Walk with me.”

Outside, the evening air is cool and soft. You walk slowly, side by side, the path lit by scattered lamps. You talk about small things at first—food, deadlines, random jokes—but the words fade as the silence grows more comfortable.

After a while, Yunho stops near a low wall by the campus gate. He sits, gestures for you to do the same. You hesitate, then join him.

The sky above is deep indigo, the faint hum of the city distant. He stares ahead, quiet for a moment. Then he says, “You know… I don’t usually do this.”

“Do what?” “Stay up talking. Or… notice things. People.”

You tilt your head. “You make it sound like a bad habit.” He smiles faintly. “Maybe it is.”

You wait, sensing there’s more. He exhales slowly. “I just—don’t want you to think I’m messing around. With the teasing. The jokes. The… everything.”

You blink, caught off guard by the seriousness in his tone. “I didn’t,” you say softly. He looks at you then, really looks at you, and for once there’s no trace of humor in his eyes.

“I did think about it, you know,” he says quietly. “That message. What you wrote.”

Your breath catches. “Yunho—” He shakes his head lightly. “Don’t worry. I’m not trying to embarrass you again. I just… keep wondering what you meant by it.”

You hesitate. Because you’re not sure yourself anymore. It started as frustration. Maybe even irritation. But somewhere between his smile and his quiet kindness, something changed.

You look down at your hands. “I don’t know. Maybe I meant more than I realized.”

The silence that follows is heavy—but not uncomfortable. Just full. You can hear the wind moving through the leaves, your own heartbeat loud in your chest.

Yunho’s voice is low when he finally speaks. “I think,” he says, “I liked what you meant.”

You look up. He’s watching you again, eyes soft but certain. And for once, you don’t look away.

___

The presentation day arrives faster than you expected. The room is buzzing with chatter and the rustle of papers, students fixing slides at the last minute, rehearsing lines under their breath. You feel the adrenaline building in your chest—the same nervous excitement that always hits right before you have to speak in front of a crowd.

Yunho stands beside you, calm as ever. He’s dressed neatly, sleeves rolled up, posture relaxed. You hate how effortlessly confident he looks. And how, somehow, that steadiness calms you too.

He glances at you as you check your notes. “Nervous?” You shrug. “A little.” He smiles. “Good. It means you care.”

You scoff quietly, but your heart flutters. Then, before you can respond, he adds softly, “You’ll do great. You always do.”

You glance up, surprised. He’s not teasing this time. His tone is warm—sincere. You can only manage a small smile in return. “Thanks.”

The presentation goes perfectly. The two of you move like a practiced rhythm—finishing each other’s sentences, exchanging glances, building energy together. When you speak, he nods; when he speaks, you follow. By the end, the professor smiles and says, “Excellent work, both of you.”

You exhale in relief, shoulders relaxing. It’s over. The audience claps. You meet Yunho’s eyes—and you both grin, that shared spark of victory lighting between you.

As you leave the room, he leans toward you and murmurs, “Told you you’d kill it.” You roll your eyes, but your grin gives you away. “Maybe you’re not entirely unbearable after all.” He laughs. “Careful. That almost sounded like affection.”

You bump his shoulder lightly. “Don’t push your luck.”

Later, when the day ends and everyone’s gone, you find yourself wandering back to the courtyard. It’s quiet now—the air cooler, the sky bruised with violet and gold. You sit on a bench, half-smiling at the memory of his smirk during the presentation.

You don’t even hear his footsteps until he’s beside you. He doesn’t say anything right away—just sits, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

After a moment, he asks softly, “You hiding from the after-class chaos?” You chuckle. “Maybe. You?” He shrugs. “Guess I was just looking for you.”

You blink, turning to him. “Oh. Found me, then.” He smiles. “Yeah. Lucky me.”

The silence that follows isn’t empty—it’s charged again, humming softly between breaths. You both stare ahead, the quiet broken only by the faint sound of the wind in the trees.

Finally, you speak. “So… what happens now?” He tilts his head. “What do you mean?” “I mean…” You hesitate. “After all this. The project. The teasing. The… whatever this is.”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, looking down for a second before saying, “Honestly? I don’t know either.” You laugh softly. “That’s reassuring.” He glances at you, smiling faintly. “I just know I don’t want it to stop.”

You look at him. “The teasing?” “The whatever this is,” he corrects gently.

Your chest tightens. “You’re not making this easy, you know.” He grins. “Wouldn’t be fun if I did.”

You shake your head, laughing quietly. Then, after a beat, you whisper, “You really are unbearable.” He smirks. “Still handsome, though?”

You look at him, meeting his gaze fully this time. The sunset light catches in his eyes—warm, soft, golden. You smile, heartbeat quickening. “Unfortunately.”

His grin fades into something gentler. Something that feels like the edge of a confession.

He leans back slightly, looking up at the sky. “Then I can live with that.”

You sit there for a while, neither of you speaking. Just two silhouettes framed by the dying light, an unspoken understanding hanging between you.

When you finally stand to leave, he says quietly, “Hey.” You turn. “Text me,” he says. “By accident, on purpose—doesn’t matter. Just do it.”

You laugh softly. “Careful. I might.” “I’m counting on it,” he replies, smiling.

You shake your head, walking away, that stupid smile you can’t erase pulling at your lips. Behind you, you can feel his eyes following you until you turn the corner.

That night, back in your room, you stare at your phone. The screen glows faintly in the dark. The cursor blinks in the empty text box of your chat with him.

You type slowly, fingers hovering over the screen:

“You’re still unbearable.”

You pause. Then you add:

“But maybe that’s what I like about you.”

You hover over “send” for a long moment. Then, smiling to yourself, you press it.

The “whoosh” of the message feels familiar now. Comforting, almost.

And this time, when you see the three dots appear, you don’t panic. You just wait—calm, curious, heart full.

[jonghonippleattack]

ℍ𝕒𝕡𝕡𝕪 𝕒𝕟𝕟𝕚𝕧𝕖𝕣𝕤𝕒𝕣𝕪 𝕥𝕠 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕞𝕠𝕤𝕥 𝕦𝕟𝕤𝕖𝕣𝕚𝕠𝕦𝕤 𝕘𝕣𝕠𝕦𝕡 !!!! ✭

[jonghonippleattack]

This performance will forever remain a Masterpiece ✨

[jonghonippleattack]

Feverish Devotion

Pairing: Seonghwa X reader

Genre: Dark romance

Summary: Under his gaze, the world burns slowly. Every word is a caress, every silence a secret vow he’ll never dare to speak aloud. Seonghwa doesn’t need to command — he seduces, he binds, he consumes you with nothing but a look. And as the lines between desire and danger blur, you fall… helplessly, beautifully, into his obsession

Warnings: Dark romance, obsession, voyeurism, sexual tension, yandere behavior

Wordcount: 4, 2 k

🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟

There are people who light up a room without even trying.

Not by the words they say, nor by the gestures they make, but by a silent, almost magnetic presence.

Their light is not bright or noisy — it is soft, diffuse, like a winter sun filtering through a glass pane.

Seonghwa was one of those people.

As he walked through the office door, smiling discreetly, with a cup of coffee in one hand and a back under the other arm, everyone seemed to breathe more lightly. He had this sweet, reassuring aura, almost too perfect to be true.

You'd noticed it on your first day. Maybe because he was the only one who really paid attention to you, to welcome you without the cold courtesy we reserve for new people. He took the time to show you around the floor, explain how capricious coffee machines worked, and even give you some tips to tame the boss – a man everyone feared.

— Don't worry, you'll find your marks very quickly and if you have any problems, come and see me; he said, offering you this reassuring smile, slightly tilted to the side.

You thought he was an ideal colleague, a rare type. Always willing to help, always kind. Still, something in his gaze troubled you. Not in a negative way but he had this way of staring at you with an intensity that contrasted with his calm tone. As if he were writing down every detail, every gesture, every word you uttered.

The first few weeks passed, and you learned to appreciate his presence. When your computer crashed, Seonghwa was already behind you before you even called for help. When you forgot your umbrella, he would pull one out of his drawer, like he knew you were gonna need it. When you had a bad day, he always found the right word to give you a smile.

Too perfect.

But you didn't want to think about it any more. You needed allies in this new environment, and Seonghwa really seemed to want to be your friend.

One night, when most of your colleagues had already left the office, you stayed to finish an urgent case. The light on your screen was the only one still on in the open space… at least, you thought, until you heard a soft voice behind you.

— Are you still working at this hour?

You jumped slightly before turning your head. Seonghwa stood there, jacket on the shoulder, hair a little stunned by the long day. He had two smoking cups in his hand.

"I thought you might need some coffee."

You smile, grateful.

— Thank you… You're always there to save people in distress, it seems.

He shrugged his shoulders, a little amused glow in his eyes.

— Maybe I like to look after you.The sentence might have seemed trivial, but there was a strange nuance to its tone. You put it in a corner of your head, without daring to think about it any more. After all, he probably said that to be nice.

You chatted for a moment, your voices echoing in the silence of the desert floor. He asked you questions, a lot of questions. About your family, your tastes, what you did on the weekend. Nothing too intrusive, just the air of conversation. But you noted that he was holding everything.

When you finally decided to put your things away, he insisted on walking you home.

"I'd rather make sure you get home. It's late, and this neighborhood isn't always safe."

You accepted, touched by her attention. The journey was pleasant, punctuated by laughter and light confidences. You felt like you were discovering a precious friend.

But what you didn't know was that that night, after leaving you in front of your building, Seonghwa didn't just turn around.

In the shadow of the street, at a good distance, he had waited. Wait till you see if you're really gonna close the door behind you, if you're gonna turn on the light in your apartment, if you're safe. And when at last all the lamps had gone out in your house, he had smiled, satisfied.

Because watching over you, it had become more than a habit.

It was a necessity.

The days had turned into weeks, and you had become accustomed to Seonghwa's presence in your daily life. He wasn't just your colleague: he had become your landmark. Always there to do you a favor, always pay attention to you. So much so that you started to wonder how you got away with it before you knew him.

It was in the details that he stood out.

In the morning, when you arrived tired, he was already dropping off a coffee in your place – exactly as you liked him, with the right dosage of sugar. You didn't remember ever telling her how you had your coffee. But maybe you mentioned it once, distracted, and he held it back.

One day at lunchtime, he brought you a sandwich, claiming he had “taken one too many.” But what troubled you was that it contained your favorite ingredients. Again, you couldn't remember telling him about them.

And then there was the time your phone charger broke. No sooner had you muttered under your breath than he returned to your office with a brand new charger. “I had a spare one with me,” he said.

An invisible thread seemed to be weaving itself between you. You sometimes felt like you were being watched, not in an unpleasant way, but with this strange feeling that he already knew what you were going to do before you even did it.

One evening, you went out for a drink with a friend. Nothing special, just a lighthearted evening to unwind. When you got home, a message was already waiting for you.

> Did you get home okay?

Your heart beat faster. You didn't remember telling him you were going out that night. You tapped out a hesitant reply.

> Yes... How did you know?The reply came almost immediately.

> I guessed. You seemed tired at the office, I thought you might need to get out. You know me, I'm intuitive.

A nervous laugh escaped you. Maybe he really was just... attentive. Maybe. But deep down, a little voice began to wonder if he was doing more than just guessing.

The next day, he knocked softly on your office door at the end of the afternoon.

“Are you free tonight?” he asked in a relaxed tone, almost too natural.

You hesitated.

“I was planning on doing some work at home. Why?”

His smile widened.

“Then I'll take you out to dinner. You need a break, and... I'd like to spend some time with you outside of the office.”

He said it with such simplicity, such warmth, that you didn't dare refuse. After all, he had always been there for you. And the idea of seeing him outside of work intrigued you.

The restaurant was elegant but not ostentatious, chosen with care. The dishes were exactly to your taste. Every time you mentioned a detail about yourself—your favorite movie, your favorite perfume, the kind of flowers you liked—he nodded as if he already knew.

You were confused. You could have sworn that his eyes sparkled with a different intensity, as if he were savoring your every word, as if he were engraving every expression on your face in his memory.

At one point, he leaned slightly toward you, his voice lower.

“You know... sometimes I feel like I know you better than you know yourself.”

The sentence hung between you, heavy with meaning. Your stomach tightened. You didn't know whether to find it flattering or disturbing.

As you walked home that evening, you still had that perfect smile on your mind. His kindness, his thoughtfulness... and behind it, that shadow you couldn't quite define.

What you didn't know was that as soon as your door closed, Seonghwa stopped in front of your building, his fingers sliding over his phone. He opened a discreet app, which displayed a small flashing dot on a map.

Your address. Your movements. Your exact location.

A satisfied sigh escaped him.Everything was under control.

No matter how hard you tried to keep a cool head, something inside you was starting to give way.

There was the way he looked at you, as if you were the only person in the room. His voice, soft but firm, which made you feel like he could calm you down with a single word. His body, always close to yours at the office, close enough to brush your shoulder or arm under the pretext of helping you.

You caught yourself thinking about him outside of work. Wondering what he did in the evenings, imagining his hands serving you coffee touching you in other ways. You knew it wasn't very reasonable. You had noticed his little quirks, his overly precise attentions, his too-perfect coincidences... and yet, he attracted you. Like a flame attracts a moth.

One evening, you came home exhausted. You put down your bag, turned on a soft playlist, and slipped on your favorite lingerie—the one you kept for yourself, to feel beautiful without an audience. You collapsed on the sofa, a glass of wine in your hand, the window ajar to let in the warm night air.

You didn't know that a few meters away, in the shadows of the street, eyes were following you.

Seonghwa.

He had slipped in there, almost naturally, as if he had always known where to stand so as not to be seen. His silhouette blended into the night, but his gaze was fixed on you. Your slow movements, the fabric hugging your curves, the soft light gliding over your skin... He took in every detail with an intensity that went beyond simple admiration.

His breathing quickened slightly when you started laughing to yourself as you read a message on your phone, glass in hand. He couldn't hear the sound, but he could almost imagine it. And what he imagined was anything but innocent.

His fingers clenched against the metal barrier he was leaning on. He wanted to go in, sit next to you, put his hand on your thigh and feel your warmth directly. But he held back. Not yet. You weren't ready.

The next day at the office, there was no sign of his sleepless night.

He greeted you as usual with a smile, a hot cup of coffee waiting on your desk before you even arrived. But when your eyes met, you thought you saw something darker, more intense in his eyes.

During the break, you found yourselves alone in the break room. He came a little too close when he grabbed a cup from the cupboard, his arm brushing your shoulder. You felt a warmth rise up your neck.

"Did you sleep well? " he asked in a low voice.

You blinked, confused by the question.

“Yes... well, more or less. Why?”

His smile was calm and reassuring, but his eyes sparkled in a way that made you shiver.

“I don't know. You seemed... peaceful last night.”

You didn't immediately understand what he meant. Maybe it was a coincidence. Maybe. But your heart raced despite yourself. Because a part of you, buried deep inside, wasn't afraid of this intensity. On the contrary. It called to you.

You tried to push the thought away. But all day long, every time he came near you, every time he looked at you with those burning eyes, you felt your body respond.

As if an invisible force was drawing you to each other.

You hadn't planned on accepting. When Seonghwa invited you to dinner at his place, you hesitated at first, citing fatigue and work that needed to be finished. But his gentle, insistent gaze made you give in.

“I'd like to cook for you,” he said, his voice caressing your nerves like a promise.

And how could you say no when his smile made you feel like you were the only person who mattered in the world?

You discovered his apartment that evening. Everything was impeccable, almost too much so. Elegant but not ostentatious furniture, a delicate scent of jasmine candles, soft music floating in the air. You wondered vaguely if he really lived in this setting or if everything had been carefully prepared... for you.

In the kitchen, Seonghwa bustled about with unsettling ease. He had prepared your favorite dishes, down to the smallest detail. You didn't remember mentioning all your culinary preferences, but he knew them. He knew everything.

“Sit down, relax. Tonight, you have nothing else to do but enjoy yourself.”

His voice was low, warm, like velvet. You obeyed, your gaze fixed on his skilled hands, on the line of his jaw illuminated by the soft light.

The dinner was delicious. But even more than the food, it was him that intoxicated you. His eyes sparkled every time you laughed, his fingers brushed yours as he poured you a drink. Everything about him exuded perfect control... and something darker, a desire that burned behind the polished facade.

When you cleared the table, the atmosphere had changed. It was heavier, more electric. In the silence, your eyes met and remained locked, as if the air itself were holding its breath.

He approached slowly, each step measured. His hand rested against your cheek with an almost unreal tenderness, and yet his eyes were intense.

“You don't know how long I've been waiting for this,” he whispered.

You didn't have time to answer. His lips captured yours with restrained passion, a mixture of gentleness and urgency. The kiss deepened, burning, hungry. You felt his arm wrap around your waist, pulling you against him as if he already refused to let you go.

Everything changed.

The sofa, the hallway, the bedroom... everything became blurred. There was only him, his hands exploring every inch of your skin, his deep voice whispering your name like a prayer and a possession at the same time. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you knew that it was all too fast, too intense. But you no longer had the strength to resist. You were burning with the same fire.

That night was a mixture of passion and vertigo. His gestures were both tender and demanding, his kisses filled with an obsession he no longer hid. You let yourself be carried away, unable to resist the attraction he exerted on you. And a part of you, dark and secret, didn't even want to.

---

The next morning, you woke up in sheets that didn't belong to you. Soft sunlight filtered through the curtains, caressing your bare skin. Seonghwa was lying next to you, already awake, his eyes fixed on your face with an intensity that made you shiver.

He looked perfectly calm, almost angelic. His fingers slowly slid down your cheek, tracing the curve of your jaw to your lips.

“You're even more beautiful when you wake up,” he whispered.

A shy, troubled smile came over your face. You remembered every moment of the night, his kisses, his body against yours. And despite everything you should have been feeling—fear, doubt—you couldn't ignore the desire that still raged within you.

He leaned over to kiss your forehead, then your lips, as if to seal what had happened.

The room was bathed in soft light, filtered through the curtains that were still drawn. You were now sitting on the edge of the bed, the sheet sliding over your bare skin, the memories of the night still burning in your body. Yet something inside you was tense. Something you had been trying to ignore for a long time, but without success.

Seonghwa, leaning back against the pillow, looked at you as one might contemplate a work of art. His eyes barely blinked, a vibrant intensity lodged deep within his pupils. When he spoke, his voice was a whisper, but each word fell like a stone into a tranquil lake.

“You can't imagine how long I've been waiting for this moment.”

You turned to him, your throat dry.

“Waiting... for what, exactly?”

He sat up slowly, like a wild animal awakening. His smile was tender, but something in him, in the fixedness of his gaze, belied that gentleness.

“For you to be here. In my bed. In my place. In my life. For you to finally be mine.”

You backed away slightly, your fingers clenching the sheet.

“Seonghwa... isn't it a little too soon for that? We've known each other for a while, but it's not enough...”

He let out a low chuckle that was anything but innocent.

“Oh, but I know you, sweetheart.”

Your heart raced.“What are you talking about?”

Then his words fell, slow, measured, relentless.

“I know when you leave your apartment. When you come home. I know what movies you watch at night, what you listen to when you cook, the dress you put on when you want to feel beautiful for yourself. I saw you...”

His voice became hoarse, almost vibrant.

“I saw you that night, the window ajar, your skin bathed in light, your glass of wine in your hand. You were divine. Like every other night, for that matter.”

A violent shiver ran through your body. You opened your mouth, incredulous.

“You... you were spying on me?”

He didn't look away. On the contrary, he moved closer, kneeling on the mattress in front of you. His hand rested on your wrist, firm, unyielding.

“No, I'm watching over you. I've always watched over you. You're everything I've ever wanted, and now I have you.”

Your instincts screamed to run away. You tried to pull away, but he gently pushed you back, laying you down on the bed with disarming ease. The sheet slipped further, revealing your skin beneath his burning gaze.

“Seonghwa, stop...!” you whispered, your voice broken by a mixture of fear and something else you didn't want to admit.

He climbed on top of you, his knees on either side of your hips, his hands cupping your face. His lips brushed your ear, his hot breath against your skin.

“Stop?” he whispered. “I can't. I don't want to. You're mine. From the first day I saw you, I knew.” I knew I wouldn't let anyone else have you. And now... you're here. In my arms. Nothing else exists.

His words hit you like waves, violent, inescapable. Your mind was still screaming in alarm, but your body... your body betrayed your confusion, craving once again the fever he had introduced you to the night before.

“Look at me,” he ordered softly.

Your eyes rose to meet his. And what you saw there tried to break your resistance. A consuming passion, boundless adoration, a madness that was both tender and brutal. It was too much. Too frightening, too beautiful, too absolute.

Seonghwa smiled against your mouth, victorious and tender at the same time. His hands moved down your body, rediscovering it as if he had waited a lifetime for this.

“You may try to pull away, push me away. But you won't. Because you feel it too.”

Then his lips crushed against yours with a new hunger, you closed your eyes, a sob mixed with desire escaping from your throat, and you gave in. You abandoned all resistance, letting yourself be consumed by his obsession like an inevitable fire.

Because, despite the fear, despite the shadow, you had already fallen.

[jonghonippleattack]

Why didn't anyone tell him he could stay like this?

[jonghonippleattack]

This part is so attractive 😵‍💫

[jonghonippleattack]

Forbidden shiver

Pairing: Wooyoung X reader

Genre: Smut

Summary: Yet another night when you come home late drunk and your stepfather is willing to take care of you.

Warnings: Drunk sex, questionable consent ( because the reader is drunk), Unprotected sex, fingering, cunnilingus, begging,brief mention of pregnancy

Wordcount: 3,7k

a/n: The reader is an adult but acts like a brat because she is drunk. She whines a lot for wooyoung's dick and calls him "daddy" sometimes at the beginning because he's her stepfather.

Anyway, i hope you enjoy it !!

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Wooyoung stares at the clock. It stands in a dark corner of the living room, the red numbers screaming into the night. Two hours have passed. And yet, sleep refuses to come.

His cheek rests against his palm, his body still on the couch. The house is silent, terribly silent since your mother is no longer here. The kind of silence that grates on your bones.

You, you haven't come home yet. He knows it. You never come home before dawn, not lately. You'll walk thru the door with your blouse rumpled, your light skirt stained, your blonde hair hastily tied up, rebellious strands framing your face. You won't bother to change, or even shower. You'll collapse on your bed, in your underwear... or with nothing on.

At least, Wooyoung assumes that's how it will go. Like almost every night.

He closes his eyes for a moment, pulls on the blanket placed over his shoulders, and tries to convince himself that he can still find sleep. His body is heavy, tired from his run the day before. This artificial tranquility, he would like to preserve it. But it's fragile.

A door slammed downstairs.

Wooyoung jumps up, his heart beating faster. The room suddenly feels freezing to him. He buries his face in his hands for a moment, sighs, then gets up.

A dull thud echoes, followed by a metallic clatter on the floor. His jaw tightens. Annoyance rises quickly in him when his rest is stolen.

His bare feet glide silently on the parquet floor as he moves down the dark hallway. Light filters from the kitchen. Mumbled curses, then a broken laugh escape from there.

You've been drinking again. Way too much. And yet you know how much he hates it.

Wooyoung comes down the stairs, his lips pressed into a thin line.

He finds you sitting on the floor, a glass of water in your hand. You look like a disaster. Your hair is a mess, your mascara has run, and your lipstick has smeared into the corners of your mouth. Head thrown back, you drink clumsily, letting half the contents dribble down your cleavage.

If he hadn't spoken, it's almost certain you would have fallen asleep there, on the cold tiles. His gaze lingers a moment too long on your skirt pulled up on your thigh, and he quickly looks away, gently tapping his palms against his face as if to banish the thought.

Your eyelids flutter, heavy with fatigue, and you stare at him without really seeing him.

— "Is that your bed?" Wooyoung asks, crouching down to your level. You look around, confused, a small plaintive sound escaping your lips before you exhale:

— "No... yeah?" A lazy smile distorts your face.

Wooyoung sighs, catches the glass slipping from your hands, then straightens up. He grabs you under the arms to help you stand up. You let out a small surprised sound before laughing softly, your body leaning against his.

"Is that how you were raised?" Wooyoung asks, gently pulling on your skirt to lower it, his fingers inadvertently brushing the curve of your ass. You moan softly, your head buried against his chest. Your scattered hair brushes against his jaw, tickling his skin.

"I was raised to be a good girl..." you breathe, your voice trailing off, almost sleepy, as if you were muttering anything in his arms. The word resonates strangely within him, this nickname that you hadn't used in a long time.

He forces a smile but keeps a hard, stern voice, as if not to let himself be softened.

"Well, I don't see her."

You don't seem to notice the remark. Your body relaxes against his shoulder as he lifts you up and takes you to the bathroom. He leaves the light dimmed, aware that you must already have a headache.

In his chest, a dull irritation rises: how could your friends let you come home in like that ?

He then proceeds to rid you of your makeup, a cloth stained with black and beige. Wooyoung uses three wipes before removing your barely visible lipstick, your plump and soft lips under his thumb. He feels a heaviness in his chest.

When his gaze rises, your eyes are closed.

He places a fleeting kiss on your rosy cheek.

"Are you still there?" Wooyoung asks in a hoarse voice, and you open your eyes and hum.

"I'm gonna..."

"You're gonna?" Wooyoung repeats.

"Vomit" you answer

He rolls his eyes. Of course.

"Come on." He gently tugs on your wrist, and you follow him to crouch down next to him on the floor, and he opens the toilet seat.

You shake your head, looking at the toilet distractedly. Wooyoung waits, but you do nothing. He sighs.

"You're going to stain your blouse." He unbuttons your blouse and you obey without difficulty as he takes it off your shoulders. You're wearing a transparent gray bra, the skirt askew. Wooyoung focuses on his task.

"Stick your fingers down your throat," Wooyoung orders, holding your wrist against your face. You copy him, but seeing that you couldn't manage it, he moves closer and pushes his fingers against your lips. You make a weak, protesting sound, and he clenches his jaw, feeling your warm tongue on his fingers.

A warmth fills her insides, pushing her fingers in as deeply as possible, pressing on your tongue. Your eyes widen, coughing around his fingers, your hand coming to grab his wrist.

Wooyoung bites his lip, pushes harder, causing you to gag, tears streaming down your cheeks. You scream, sob around his fingers. Wooyoung pulls back just as you lean over the toilet.

Wooyoung looks at you with shallow breaths, his palm pressing against his bulge. He frowns, looks away, and catches sight of your skirt that leaves nothing to the imagination. You're wearing panties the same color as your bra, the stain at the bottom is dark. Wooyoung groaned, seeing how wet you are.

She won't remember it, will she?

He pushes that thot out of his head as quickly as it came, his cock throbbing.

"Daddy?" you call out, but before you can turn toward him, two hands are planted on each of your buttocks. You squeak in confusion, letting yourself fall forward. A warm, wet tongue slides over your clothed pussy.

"ahh-"You moan, sensitive.

Your hands clench into fists, soft moans escape with each eager lick from Wooyoung, your thighs pressing together before being harshly pulled apart.

The beat of his warm tongue against your sensitive clitoris makes your toes curl, your knuckles turning white where they cling.

You can't manage it, your head falling onto the toilet seat as your hips rise. Wooyoung groans, pushing his thumbs into the hollow of your buttocks, gaining easier access to your dripping pussy.

Your underwear is so wet that it's uncomfortable. But the way Wooyoung works his tongue still makes you spread your thighs, drool escaping your lips.

"P-please-"

Wooyoung hooks a finger thru your panties, his tongue still working as a gush of wetness stains your panties.

You tremble, feeling your pussy tighten around nothing as Wooyoung withdraws.

He has a red face, shiny lips, and doesn't look at you.

"That's enough. It's time to go to bed."

He speaks, his voice heavy with excitement. He himself is no better, his dick incredibly hard in his pants, the pre-ejaculation stain obvious in the cold bathroom light but you protest

"I need to take a shower..."

"You can take a shower tomorrow," Wooyoung says, but you push him away.

"But I'm dirty!" you say, removing your bra with one hand. Wooyoung leaves as if he's been burned, turning around at lightning speed. Your taste still lingers on his tongue.

“Okay, okay, just do what you have to do.” He presses his forehead against the wall.

There are shuffling footsteps, the squeaking sound of bare feet dragging across the floor. Wooyoung grits his teeth, praying for his erection to go away, and then something falls to the floor.

“Daddy...”

“Yeah?” Wooyoung takes a moment to respond, his hands clasped together as he swallows.

“I can't reach the shampoo...”

Oh, damn it. Wooyoung remains facing the wall, goosebumps rising on his back. Only when another desperate call from you echoes does he turn around.

He immediately searches for the shampoo, without even glancing at you. It must be on the highest shelf. He put it there yesterday.

He's about to hand it to you when you almost fall to the floor.

Wooyoung instinctively catches you, his hands digging into your bare waist. There are hickeys on your chest, your collarbones, and he feels a possessive streak break inside him.

“What the hell is this?”

His eyes rest on you for a second.

“They're just a few bites—”

You smile slyly, one of your hands brushing the top of your cleavage.

“Can you make one too?”

Wooyoung groans. It's impossible to ignore his erection, even though he knows who he's looking at—his stepdaughter. And yet he doesn't seem to care.

He pulls you closer, his hands trembling as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. You gasp as you cling to his shoulders. All Wooyoung can smell is you and your faint floral perfume.

He plants his mouth on the hollow of your collarbone, opening his lips like a hungry man. Wooyoung lazily works his way across your warm skin, licking as if to wash away the taste of your pussy.

You press closer, your breasts pressed against your pajamas, soft and round on your chest. Your legs spread to wrap one around Wooyoung's, your warm folds staining the fabric.

Wooyoung moves his leg, causing you to let out a gasping moan.

He bites your skin, sucks hard.

“Ah, ah, fuck—”

You try to move your hips up and down, but you're practically dependent on him. He pushes you against the shower wall and rips off your shirt. His lips move upward, leaving red marks in their wake.

Until he presses against your lips, his head tilted. He rubs his thigh harder against your pussy.

His tongue finds your wet mouth and licks everything.

Your hands wriggle blindly under his armpits, weakly clutching his back.

Wooyoung plays languidly with your tongue. He circles it until he feels you shiver, sucks until you moan.

He pulls away with a heavy breath, his lips glistening with saliva. Drool runs down your chin, his eyes half-closed.

Wooyoung hooks his fingers into his waistband, pulls down his pants and underwear. His cock slaps against his abdomen, the tip wet and red. You moan at the sight.

"Is that your dick?" you ask stupidly, your eyes meeting his.

"Yes," Wooyoung says, and you seem to melt, which prompts him to reach for your waist, one hand moving up to the curve of your breast.

" You want it? "

Wooyoung runs his thumb over your large, hard nipple, his head lowering to suck on the other. You moan, fingers buried in his hair.

“Ah—Daddy”

Your thighs tremble, pressed together.

"Say my name" Wooyoung runs his tongue over your clit, and you breathe heavily.

“Wooyoung, Wooyoung—” you sing, and this excites him even more, sucking harder, squeezing his cock in his hand. His thumb moves over your slit and you moan, spreading pre-cum all over his cock.

“I'll get some lube,” Wooyoung says, heading for the sink drawer. Before he can waste any time, he's already back against you, forcing you to turn around.

You wiggle your ass against Wooyoung's hands. He slaps your cheek, watching it move under the impact. He impatiently rubs his cock against your slit, opening the lube with one hand.

“Wooyoung, please, I need you,” you complain, looking over your shoulder.

Wooyoung slides a finger between your folds, his cock throbbing. You gasp at the cold lubricant and close your eyes.

Without waiting, a second finger slides in easily as he rubs your inner walls.

You moan brokenly as Wooyoung pushes his fingers deeper into you, spreading your pussy until it sucks in a third finger.

“I'm going to cum, please—” you cry out, and Wooyoung half-gives in, slowing down until his fingers are dragging all over your sensitive spots.

“You want my cock, baby?” Wooyoung growls in your ear, and you nod weakly, your head tilted back to rest against the wall.

“Yes, yes, please...”

“You're a good girl after all, huh?” Wooyoung laughs and pulls back.

You feel your walls tighten around his fingers and you gasp, moaning until Wooyoung grabs his cock, lining it up with your soft, swollen pussy.

He rubs his head against your wet lips, sliding in easily, making you squirm and jump.

“Ah, Wooyoung—”

Wooyoung pushes inside. He groans, eyebrows furrowed, teeth clenched. You're tight and hot around him, sucking him right into your pussy. You moan with little cries as Wooyoung pushes deeper and deeper.

You cling to him and sigh with relief.

“You're opening up like a slut on my cock,” Wooyoung whispers, placing his mouth on your neck. You tremble and he smiles against your skin, slowly withdrawing and fucking you again. You gasp as Wooyoung develops a steady rhythm, his fingers gripping your wrist until he leaves a bruise.

Your sounds are far from silent, and he loves it. He loves how he makes you feel. He can't seem to get enough of you around his cock, your waist pinched under his fingers.

You press yourself against him.

He holds back a moan, a licking heat bursting deep inside him.

“Ah, princess—so tight—” Wooyoung smiles against your skin, growling as he thrusts his cock faster into your heat. You gasp, your head falling back onto his shoulder. He runs a hand over your chest and grabs your breasts.

“I feel so good...”

You moan, tears escaping from your closed eyes. Wooyoung ignores the way his heart skips a beat, looking away from your face.

“Ah, ah—” You writhe on top of his cock, your nails scratching the tile floor. You barely stand on your tiptoes, having no choice but to take his cock deeper, at the mercy of his thrusts.

Wooyoung can't think straight. He pursues his pleasure, his hands lost all over your body as he tries to stave off his orgasm—and realizes he's not wearing a condom.

“Fuck—”

His fingers trace the outline of your waist and stomach.

“I'm going to get you pregnant, baby”

You come. Wooyoung's cock rubs against your walls, squeezing so hard that his head spins. Your moans are swallowed by his lips, exchanging more saliva than tongue.

With a groan, Wooyoung pushes you against the wall. You start to squirm, sensitive, your thighs trembling at his touch.

Your pussy is even wetter than before, which makes Wooyoung's cock slide in faster, his hips slamming.

“Stop—ngh, t-too much—” you moan and try to break free from Wooyoung's grip, but he pushes his hips against yours. He thrusts deep, orgasm crashing over him so fast it makes his hips jerk forward.

Wooyoung moans, pleasure washing over him like waves, filling your pussy with his seed.

He doesn't pull out, crushing his cum deeper inside you, tears streaming down your cheeks as you sob softly.

“So good, such a good girl—” Wooyoung murmurs, addicted to the way your pussy throbs around him, your hearts beating to the rhythm of a single melody.

"Wooyoung...” You cry, your hand blindly grabbing his hips, rolling over his soft cock.

"Woo, Woo!!”

Wooyoung silences you and kisses your tears.

“I'm here, princess.”

[jonghonippleattack]

It looked at me first...I SWEAR !!!