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✿ ࣪ . ‘01 baby! ─ ˚ ❤︎ chris bang’s wolfcub.

[linopilled]

⟡ ︵ 🐾 🐶 🎀 paws off, mutt ! writer ⁺ rec blog.

call me mimi. early 20's. she/him prns only. bangchan luvr. ❤︎ hobbyist author. reading recs, reviews, && pieces from urs truly! ᯓ ✿ ⁺₊

minors, blank blogs, && ageless accounts do not interact. i block indiscriminately.

check the tags, i swear they're useful. navi u/c. follows from ihearthesun. :*

due to very unfortunate circumstances, i do not answer anonymous asks. that privilege has been revoked. if you want to send an ask, feel free to as a public account, but keep in mind my boundaries still apply && personal questions && things unrelated to skz or any other group i enjoy will not be answered. ((:

i write for ᝢ stan ... stray kids, nct(dream), aespa, loona, red velvet, ateez, seventeen, etc. etc. my memory's awful. you'll see when i post about them ^_^;

yes i write dead dove, unorthodox kinks/fetishes, amongst other things. don't like it don't read it. it's really not that hard. either block me or move on. i know the difference between fiction and reality, i simply write for others enjoyment, not my own.

sporadic posting because i absolutely don't have anything to say outside of writing && mutual interactions. i'm busy 90% of the time so i can't be here as often as i'd like to. ]:

thx for reading, linopilled nation !

[plumppies]

I’m going to say this once and never again. If you don’t agree with me, you’re more than welcome to unfollow and block me. I’m also not a chicken and will be tagging exactly who I’m talking about because this is honestly ridiculous.

I’m going to preface this by saying this isn’t to cause drama or get likes. My account is garnering plenty of engagement from my writing and my personal posts already. This is merely for educational purposes and to shed light on an issue that’s infested the internet for years. This is also NOT just about the MJ fandom but I’m using it as an example because it’s happened here. Again, if you don’t agree with me, unfollow or block me!

I recently followed an account under the impression that they were a black owned blog. Their layout, use of AAVE and black oriented reaction pictures made me believe that I found another black writer to support. But I learned that the owner is a white women.

I want to follow more black writers here to uplift them in a space that is heavily biased against black fans. Situations surrounding belittling black writers in the MJ community have been rampant for a while now so I take it upon myself to support and follow fellow black writers who represent me and many black MJ fans who have felt underrepresented in the fandom.

Back to the issue. Finding out that this account is a white woman behind the scenes upset me quite a bit. I genuinely believed she was one of us and was combating the racial problem within the fandom. That being said, I’d like to point out why this is more than just a ‘I feel scammed’ situation and more about digital dishonesty.

Digital blackface is a massive issues in online communities across the internet. It’s a conversation that has been ongoing for years now, even before I was on the internet. Many people outside of the black diaspora have downplayed it as a problem, stating that free speech shouldn’t be considered black fishing or harmful towards black communities. However, I would like to point out that Digital Blackface is more than just using ‘black media’ to express yourself, it directly impacts how the world views black peoples as a whole.

Accounts on Tumblr and other platforms have popped up pretending to be black people since conception of social media. They use Ebonics and black reaction pictures/gifs as a means of communication which often time leads to real black-owned accounts believing that they are interacting with black people. In hindsight, one would merely say “well it’s not their fault you thought they were black,” and that is exactly the problem.

As I said before, I follow black blogs to uplift my people. The internet is riddled with racism directly impacting black communities. We get called the hard r, monkeys, ghetto, nasty, undesirable etc and platforms don’t bat an eye. Racism towards us is so normalised that it’s bled into every internet fandom. So you see why black people online gravitate towards each other? Because we want a safe space for ourselves. We want to appreciate each other, dote on each other, love, respect and support each other’s art.

How do black folk know that an account is black owned? We use Ebonics, black media and black phrases that only we would know. So you can imagine how disheartening it is to find out that an account using such media would be a white woman behind it.

Nonblack POC or white person reading this might not understand the gravity of this situation but I implore you to read up on it and take time to fully understand why it’s upsetting.

Terms like ‘the saxophones are getting louder” “goofy ahh” “I’m crine” “unc” “Deadass” are AAVE/Ebonics. Finding them on TikTok and incorporating them into your online vocabulary when you’re not apart of that community is a form of digital blackface and cultural appropriation. It’s not Gen Z slang or TikTok slang and it’s not a funny audio just for vibes. It’s BLSCK AMERICAN language.

I’m not BA and I do use Ebonics here and there but I avoid incorporating it into my speech when I don’t understand how to use it properly. And I don’t use much of it because, again, I’m NOT black American. Black Americans have been kind enough to even let black people outside of the United States use their language and I don’t even want them to think that I’m being irresponsible with that privilege.

Now in regards to this situation. I don’t want to hear things like “Michael was for everyone.” Although that was true, you would be really stupid to believe that Michael didn’t understand that black people were/are the most marginalised and racially abused people on the planet. This man grew up in undoubtedly the most racially divided time in USA history. He even spoke out about the industry steals from “especially black artists”. He was aware that black art is abused for white financial and political gain. Black media (whether it be music or simply reaction photos) is art.

So why position yourself in a way that make you appear to us as a black woman @michaelmuse ? Your entire aesthetic is based in a way that draws in a black audience. You use black faces as reaction pics and Ebonics but you draw the line at reblogging black fanfics when you know that this site favours reblogs over comments and likes.

Your previous username (ebonymuse) in itself is indicative of the issue I’m discussing here. ‘Ebony’ is a term primarily used to describe black people. Urban dictionary defines it as “the essence of dark skin that is enriched and plentiful with melanin. greatness. beauty”. It’s even a common term used to define a porn category for to black people. Now the term itself is constantly being critiqued for bordering on being a fetish term, however, you see how it’s for black people? Dark skin people to be exact?

So why is a white woman with white ass skin using that term in their username? I’m a black woman with albinism and even I wouldn’t use that term. Why? Because it isn’t not for my pasty self.

I’ve read some of your fics and this has nothing to do with me wanting diversity or inclusion from you, nor is it to hate on your work. You do use Ebonics in your work so I’m sure you knew that your fics would attract black readers to your blog. Your behaviour (whether you did it intentionally or not) was deceptive and potentially harmful to my community. You need to educate yourself on the contents of this conversation to fully understand how bad this situation actually is. There’s no way you’ve been on the internet and didn’t know that black Americans have been begging nonblack (especially white) folk to stop using their media as your own or as ‘a silly tend’ or to be relatable.

I’ve seen a few black British blogs come to your defence and I’m bewildered to see them pandering for a white woman about something that affects black people as a whole. I myself am not Black American but I will stand by them when their culture and language is diluted and turned into a ‘trend’ for everyone else to steal and appropriate. It’s wrong and it impacts us all. White people (even other POC) don’t separate us. They see one fake black account say stupid things and assume that’s how all of us feel/act. I understand that the UK is differently set up but your low racial self esteem is affecting us all. You let white Brits walk all over you and your culture and you just laugh along like it’s funny. This is why racism there will never end. You let white footballer wear braids, let white folk use AAVE and flat out call your Afros messy and you think it’s not that serious. Stand up. Immediately.

You guys really need to do better. Stop misconstruing Michael’s words to get away with disrespecting black people. You’re becoming just as bad as those who racially attacked him.

With love.

[hyungszn]

thinking about being in bed with ur bestie and they just… reach over play with your clit because theyre there and they can

[linopilled]

bro...

[linopilled]

maybe don't post your nudes in the smut tags... especially without a spoiler or a warning

[yestodayys]

✮⋆｡°✩ pipe dream - college au!song mingi x fem reader

⋆ ˚｡𖦹 song mingi is a lot of things. he’s top of the class you hate the most, a mutual friend of your roommates, probably the best dressed guy on campus… and now he’s haunting your dreams, too.

⋆ ˚｡𖦹 smut 18+ MDNI, angst, reader has insecurities, EMOTIONAL CONSTIPATION, everyone smokes weed it’s a college au but it’s also kind of all they do, that being said college kids = drinking, brief toxicity? if you squint

⋆ ˚｡𖦹 wc 26.6k

⋆ ˚｡𖦹 a/n: here is a college stoner romance comedy mingi fic fueled with insanity. it means a lot to me so i hope you like my brainchild. furthermore this is for my dear @sungbeam college collab and i had so so much fun with it & also meeting such lovely ppl thru it <3!!! ALSO hm to @minkieater for the hard fucking banner she's goated and also thank u for telling me not to scrap this fic. OK ENJOY AH

⋆ ˚｡𖦹 a lot of graphic wet dreams it’s the whole plot, so much dirty talk bc i headcanon he’s a talker, daddy kink (sorry), but freak4freak like mingi’s technically dom but they’re both dirty freaky, pervy reader pervy mg, dry humping, so much praise, oral (f rec), vaginal fingering, size kink he’s big, big dick!mingi (he knows it), fingering (f rec), unprotected sex, oral (f rec), unprotected p in v including creampie

It starts off like any other dream. 

You’re lying on your bed, comfortably spread out with the same old pyjamas you had on when you fell asleep - a t-shirt stained with hair dye and shorts that have worn elastic, sagging down over your hips. The air’s a little dense at first when you try to move, like you’ve been doing some heavy lifting and your limbs haven’t quite started to work again, and it takes you a moment to come into yourself, fighting through the haze.

Immediately, it feels more real than your dreams normally would. Smoking weed before bed means that you don’t often get any dreams at all, really, and your two best friends-turned-housemates are loud enough at all points of the day that your sleep can be interrupted at regular intervals. However, you can feel the softness of your sheets, the lilac floral set you put on when you got home from class, and you rub your feet against it. It’s nice, comforting, and so normal that you quickly forget what it is - a dream.

A soft brush against your side, and you feel like a fish out of water. There’s someone here with you. On your bed. It’s rare for San and Wooyoung to sit there, and this person definitely isn’t either of them. 

It’s blurry initially, so hazy that you can’t quite focus on his face, but his long limbs are splayed across your bed like he’s been here a million times before. The touch was his fingers, and his hands are big too, dexterous and clad in bulky silver rings and drumming a beat you can’t recognise against your skin. It’s too comfortable, familiar in a way that feels almost too vulnerable - it’s almost like you’ve dreamed about this before.

He speaks, and you can’t make out what he’s saying. His voice is a deep, gravelly tone, making you feel like you’re drifting asleep all over again. With insane willpower you blink rapidly, forcing yourself to look at his face. 

You finally see him. He’s staring at you like you’ve done something silly, plump lips curled up with the hint of a smile, and his hair is messy and dark and cascading over his forehead. You can just about make out two beauty spots on his honey toned face. He’s not wearing much, not really, clad in a tank top and baggy, below knee shorts for ultimate comfort, lensless glasses sitting on a sharp nose. 

He blinks at you rapidly, scrunching his nose into a silly face to get your attention, lips forming a line, and all you can think is pretty, pretty, pretty. 

“Are you listening to me, baby?” He says again, and you hear him this time, loud and clear. Baby. It makes a chill run through your body. He’s your type - steady, cool, teasing and big and… he’s so handsome, soothing your skin with his fingertips as if he knows you, has known you for a while and-

“Mingi,” You croak, unable to help yourself. It’s Song Mingi from your economics class, that tall, cool kid who’s always late to class but still really fucking smart, gets amazing grades; unlike you. He dresses really nice, chic, lots of bulky rings and these big chains, like the one he’s wearing now. You think you’ve heard San and Wooyoung say they were friends before, and if you think harder it’s like you’ve seen him drive San home before, but have you ever really paid attention? 

Song Mingi from your economics class who is your mutual friend and also… your boyfriend? Right, yeah. That feels right. “Sorry, honey. What were you saying?”

“I was saying,” He sing-songs, but it’s raspy, like he smoked just before he came over. “It’s always nice being here with you. You’re beautiful, you know that? But it makes me…”

His eyes move to your lips. You think you know what he’s going to say, and maybe it’s a little cliche, straight out of a show you’ve seen, but the butterflies still flitter in your tummy. 

You rub your feet against the blanket again - it’s exciting, sue you. “Makes you what?” 

Mingi’s leaning in before he speaks again, shuffling across your blanket until his breath is tumbling across your face. He’s closer now, but it’s not intimidating, it’s exciting. If you focus you swear you can smell him, something like cedar and vanilla, sweet but enriching and you want more of it, now.

His hand moves to your hip, just barely dipping underneath your sleep shorts. Is he going to kiss you? Even better, is he going to touch you? Your mouth feels dry, and his hands are a little calloused on your skin. He goes to the gym, you remember through the fog. San goes with him sometimes - it’s from the weights. You feel dizzy, head spinning, inching even closer.

“It makes me want more,” he breathes tentatively, “I want to do more with you, if you’ll let me.”

“I’ll let you.” You blurt, and he smiles. He wriggles his way on top of you, your arms closing around those broad shoulders - he is big. While your cunt starts to slick up dumbly at the first sign of a big, strong man, he finally kisses you, a sweet peck to the corner of your lips before a deeper, proper one, tangling his tongue with yours, and it feels so fucking real. Letting out a keen, you squirm underneath him, managing to pull away from his lips to speak. “I’ll let you, please,” you whimper against his lips, messy, “more, Mingi-”

He groans in disbelief, kissing you sloppy again, again, again, finally moving his hand down, cupping your pussy through your sleep shorts and balancing on one forearm. His lips slide against yours a little messily but it’s still amazing, making you whimper when his tongue moves against yours, more than igniting that fire in your belly. You can feel the pressure of his fingertips against your core, sure that nothing’s ever felt like this in your life. “So pretty. You sound so fuckin’ pretty, baby, saying my name like that, shit-”

His fingers slide underneath your shorts, and of course you haven’t got panties on. He meets your pussy bare, slick and sensitive under his touch, and he starts to rock against your fucking leg before he can even get a finger in.

He feels big, from what you can make out, pressing into your thigh. Big, hard, and god - does he leak too? Is he getting so worked up that he can’t help but soak a pool in his boxers? You try to reach down to them, but he pins your hands back to the pillow with one big palm.

You can feel the cold metal of his rings biting against your hole when he adds a second finger. He finds your g-spot effortlessly, curling his long digits upwards, and tap tap taps until your eyes cross. 

“Like this,” He murmurs, cheeks flushing. His lips part and his eyebrows knit in admiration when he looks back to your face and sees the way your own expression can’t be controlled in your haze of lust, mouth falling open, letting out a wrecked whimper. “Can you cum like this? Drench your fucking shorts and let me suck ‘em clean after?”

He talks frantically, viciously almost, fucking into your pussy faster, trying to give you more stimulation. It’s filthy and you can’t believe it’s happening to you, hurtling into an orgasm that you know is going to be unsatisfying because he hasn’t even brushed your clit but fuck, you want to be good. Is he doing this deliberately? His spare hand cups your breasts, palm jiggling the flesh with a noise of disbelief.

“I can! F-fuck, I can,” You hiccup, and he pushes your thighs back, uses his thumb and finger of his other hand to pinch your clit in such a way that you think you might cry. It would normally be not enough but it’s the sight of him, the way he pants on top of you from just humping your leg and wants you to cum so badly - you’re done for. 

Digging your nails into his shoulders, you seize, crying out - and you wake up in a pool of your own sweat. 

Your pyjamas are sticking to you, shorts drenched between your legs and you’re not sure where you are. For a second you think you’re still high, or even still dreaming, but now this is definitely real. 

Alone in your room, your chest heaves as if you’ve run a marathon, and when you slide your feet against your blanket it doesn’t feel as good as it did before. What the fuck was that? You just had a sex dream about a guy that you’ve spoken to maybe twice, and it was so real. The surroundings of your room feel like an entirely different dimension, even though you were just there, with him, with his scent and his large presence, almost too overwhelming.

Are you going crazy? Are you smoking too much weed? Probably the latter, but that doesn’t change how that felt. You groan, rolling over to reach blindly for your phone. Knocking over a few things on your bedside table, you finally find it, and the time reassures you. 

7:02. Still two hours until class, two hours to sort yourself out. 

It would be great if it wasn’t a Wednesday. Your first class is economics, where you normally sit just a few seats over from the main character of your all consuming dream. Can you ignore him for the whole class? Shit, could you just skip it? Did it really matter?

No, you’re close to failing that stupid class already. It’s too complicated, it just doesn’t go into your brain. It would be hard to get a tutor when everything costs money, too, and you’re committed to spending a large part of your student loan on getting high and ordering pizza with Wooyoung and San.

With yet another loud groan, you swing your legs over the side of the bed and bring yourself to go to the bathroom to wash up. In the mirror, your hair is sticking multiple different directions and you have that recently fucked look, eyes half lidded, t-shirt hanging off of one shoulder. 

Is this rock bottom?

“What’s up with you today?”

Wooyoung’s gaze feels like the sharpest daggers shooting into your face. Considering you walked from your house together and managed to converse quite well until you got to class, you’re not really sure what you did wrong. You even complimented him on his bleached hair that he did himself at midnight because it really did look good. Despite that he still doesn’t look happy, plump lips pursed in a scowl and fingers tapping on the table.

He sits to your left, and only three seats to your right is his seat. He hasn’t shown up yet, he’s always late, but you already feel like the class is getting a little too hot. You’re determined to persevere, despite the fact that your jeans feel too tight and even though you’re wearing them, it still feels like your legs are sticking to the plastic chair. 

Clutching the signature banana milk you always get from the vending machine outside, you grumble - even the delicious taste isn’t helping.

“Nothing. Nothing’s up,” You mumble, licking sugary milk and banana flavouring from your lips, “Woo, should we just go?”

“Baby, you’re nearly failing,” He coos, rubbing his thumb over your shoulder. You don’t know why he’s talking, because he hasn’t even got a bag with him, only a single sheet of paper from your notebook and one of your sparkly pens. Looking at the big clock on the wall, you sigh deeply - he’s going to be here soon - and your friend nudges you under the table with his knee. The movement jostles your milk and you scowl. “What’s the matter? Seriously.”

“I’ll tell you later, but it’s fucking stupid and you’ll laugh.”

Wooyoung seems satisfied with this, grinning and ruffling your hair, but it’s then through messy strands that you see him. Well, the professor walks in first, but Mingi trails in behind her as if he’s got all the time in the world, and you frantically smooth your hair down. 

His chains jingle with his movement, and his bag hangs off one shoulder. He looks confident, prepared, probably with books and his laptop in the bag. He’s smart, you know he is, he’s top of the class, probably going to have a really stable analytical job after college that you’d never be able to comprehend. Thinking about it makes you want to giggle like a schoolgirl, and you wish Wooyoung knew what was going on so he could slap you awake.

You drink your banana milk diligently.

The professor begins the lesson while Mingi’s walking to his seat, taking no notice of him as she arranges her things on the stand, and when he sits down you realise no one’s sat between you this time. Low attendance, you suppose, looking around the entire room to see that not many seats are filled at all. He doesn’t even look at you when he sits down and throws his bag to the floor. You’re not sure why you expect him to, but you take the time to analyse him fully.

He never dresses casually. Shrugging off his leather jacket and letting it drape over the chair, the cheap plastic creaks with his movement, and the light glints off the bulky silver rings adorning his long fingers. 

It’s suddenly getting really hot now, and your banana milk is doing nothing to cool you. Your eyes scan over his hands and up his arms to his chest. His black turtleneck is tight on firm muscles and such a contrast to his silver chains, so pleasing to your eye. Mingi’s dark hair drapes over his eyes, but you can still see them, chocolate brown and striking and narrowing at you. 

At you? You blink, and no, really, he is looking at you, and you’re not sure what to do. He doesn’t give you a chance, thankfully, because he gives you a small smile and a little wave and turns to listen to the lecture. 

Wooyoung practically chases you out of class by the end of it, even launching your carton in the bin for you. You manage to get him to a bench outside and once he’s situated, you clear your throat. He has his head in his hands, waiting, foot tapping against the floor. He’s never been good with patience; San always teases him about the time you told him you’d tell them something in class the next day and he didn’t sleep all night.

“I had a wet dream last night.”

Wooyoung groans loudly, kicking you in the shin. You squeal, falling onto the bench with an affronted stare, and he scowls at you. “Is that it? I probably have a wet dream every other night!”

“Woo, listen- listen to me. It was about Mingi. Your friend, Song Mingi. Be honest, is it over for me?”

His eyes light up. His face straightens, and then he leans forward, and you know you’re done before he even starts laughing, but the noise is still so loud that it makes your ears ring when he’s off. Multiple people in the quad turn towards you both, making you scowl at your housemate. He claps a few times in joy before he’s done.

“That’s- that’s probably the funniest thing I’ve ever heard, baby,” He giggles, hitting your shoulder playfully. “Have you spoken to him? At all? You never come to our friends’ parties. Not one, actually, now that I think about it.”

The birds in the campus trees tweet a rhythm mockingly. Your eye twitches. Wooyoung’s lips curl again.

“Maybe once or twice, in passing,” You frown, voice soft and timid, “Woo, it’s not my fault. We don’t choose our dreams, it’s your subconscious or something. Y’know scientists have literally said that?”

“You don’t even know what you’re talking about, do you?” He’s still smiling, and you shake your head. He’s right, you don’t, but you’re still sure you read that somewhere. “I guess you’re right though. Maybe- oh my god, maybe you do have a crush on him or something, a repressed one, and now it’s coming to the surface because it’s time. Like fate or something.”

You hum, thinking, deciding that Wooyoung’s insane. “Still, it felt real. Like, insanely real, Woo. It was better than anything I’ve had in person, and now I feel like I’m seeing him differently.”

Wooyoung raises his eyebrows, but still rubs your knee comfortingly. You’re thankful that he’s still being nice despite finding it very amusing. “It’s just a dream anyway. I don’t think you have to worry about it that much, baby, you’ll forget about him in a few days. I’ve had dreams that have given me crushes before too.”

“What if I don’t? You don’t get how intense it was.”

“Well, then we can talk to him,” He nods confidently, nudging you. “I can put a good word in, get you your dream boyfriend-”

“That is literally the worst idea you’ve ever had,” You deadpan, shaking your head, “I have a solid two friends for a reason, I’m not a people person, I am just trying to get through college with zero problems. And he’s- Woo, he’s… cool. Like you two. I don’t get cool guys.”

“You got us, didn’t you?” He pulls you into his side, kissing your forehead, then adds, “and we love you. You’re our best friend,” It comforts you enough to quell your insecurities for a moment. He checks the time on his phone and whoops triumphantly, “let’s go home. San will be back from the gym and we can smoke and order food. My treat. Oh also, can I tell him?”

“... I don’t think I have a choice.”

“No, you don’t. There's three of us in this relationship.”

Despite the fact that you fall asleep in some form of a puppy pile with Wooyoung and San in the latter’s bed, it happens again. 

This time, you’re on the sofa in your living room. Mingi’s positioned underneath you, in a black compression shirt and grey sweatpants like an anime character you’d fantasise over, and you’re on his lap. 

What are these fantasies? 

Has your brain taken note of outfits he’s worn before?

You know it’s him from the size of his body and the way it feels, intense and all consuming, although you haven’t managed to see everything yet, still fuzzy at the edges with sleep. The sweat drips down your collarbone already, and he seems just as wrecked from the squirming he’s doing, moving upwards into your body while he pulls you down against him by your hips. His hands move up your oversized t-shirt, settling on your flushed skin.

“Feels so fuckin’ g-good,” He huffs, “even just- just like this,”

His deep voice makes your head spin, and when you see his face it feels like a relief. His cheeks are flushed, lips kiss bitten, and you place another few pecks on his lips for good measure. He’s yours, after all, your boyfriend. “Is your little hole wet? Can you feel it, b-baby, drenching these cute little panties?” He whines, nosing into the crook of your neck, licking over the skin, “Is it begging for me? F-fuck, talk to me, please.”

He babbles incoherently but you can make out that it’s filthy, and you can’t fucking believe it. Is he like this, really? Your hips grind down against him sharply, needing more, because he’s right. Panties drenched, too delirious to even think about it, your hands scramble against his shoulders. You can see everything in that t-shirt, the way his biceps bulge against the fabric and the way his chest clenches as he ruts himself against you, nipples poking through, tempting. He’s got that expression again - eyebrows furrowed, lips parted, but this time he’s looking directly down at where you’re connected, bottom lip slick with spit. The pressure of his cock against your core in his sweatpants is so much, and you can’t help it, eyes rolling back to your head.

“Want you, want you so bad,” You pant. It feels like the most honest thing you’ve ever said. He nods, thrusting harder. He wants more, wants you to say more, his hands pulling you down against him. It’s a dirty rhythm, a sinuous grind. “I want it so fucking bad, Mingi, you don’t even-“ you buck, whining, “-don’t even know how bad, please, please-”

“Yeah? Did you touch your little clit thinking about me?” He pushes you upwards, still letting you move against him but slipping his hand underneath his waistband to rub over his cockhead. He’s desperate too, teeth biting into his lower lip. He wants it just as bad. You feel wet, and you look down to see you’ve leaked right through your panties onto his sweatpants. Have you ever been this fucking wet before? “Did you think about my cock stretching you open, ruining you until you can’t even remember your own- own fucking name?”

“I d-did, fuck,” You can’t move, eyes fixated on where his hands move under the wet fabric. “Fuck, Mingi, baby, please show me, I’ll do anything, please.”

His hand pauses, and your gaze flits back up to his face. His eyes narrow at you, just like they did in class, and his teeth have released his lower lip so that he can smirk at you, teeth white as snow. It’s promising, but it’s like a threat, and your hands feel a little sweaty against his broad shoulders. 

“Really, pretty thing?” His voice is hopeful, and his other hand begins to move his waistband down. You see the beginnings of his dark smattering of pubic hair and almost shaking, you whimper, nodding eagerly. “You’ll do anything for me?”

“Anything, I promise, please, fuck.”

Your eyes shoot open on a particularly loud snore from San. His leg and his arm are both slung over you, head resting on your shoulder with a steady stream of drool pooling on your t-shirt. When you glance at him, he sniffles out a snore, nose scrunching up and thick eyebrows knitting together. He’s lucky you love him. 

Once you’ve spluttered yourself awake enough, the warm light of the desk lamp bathing the room catches your attention, and you see Wooyoung sitting on the chair by San’s desk. He’s eating something, and the smell of bacon is the next thing that you register, slowly unwrapping yourself from the older man to crawl towards the younger at the desk. 

He’s already clocked you, a smile pulling at his lips as he loads the fork. “Good morning, sunshine.”

You snatch the fork from his fingers, munching before you can even talk. Eggs and bacon, and you wonder who Wooyoung learned to cook from. You make a mental note to ask, because it’s delicious. After you swallow, you mumble, “time?”

“Nine in the morning,” Relaxed as ever, he stretches out on the chair with an overpronounced yawn. He’s still scrutinising you, and you know for sure that you haven’t gotten away with it. “Two nights in a row, huh?”

“How’d you know?” You raise an eyebrow. Wooyoung looks pleased with himself and takes the fork back from you, continuing to eat his meal. Is it your hair? Were you… God, were you making noise?! He still hasn’t said anything! “Oh my fucking- Wooyoung?!”

“All I’m saying is I’m surprised Sannie didn’t wake up with all that squirming,” He finally responds, and the mentioned man grunts in his sleep at being mentioned, always alert, but goes back to snoring almost immediately after. “Don’t worry, it was cute. I think you do have a crush. Subconsciously and all that.”

“I hate you,” You grumble, and he sighs, patting his lap. You still climb onto him, and he hums until you start to doze, stroking your hair in rhythm to San’s snores. It would make you laugh if you weren’t nearly falling asleep again, but every time your eyes flutter shut you see big hands and a sharp nose and those beautiful dark eyes. Sighing, you stretch your legs out to wake yourself back up, “Wooyoungie, I think I’m going crazy. I don’t even know the guy.”

“It’s okay,” He coos, and you can hear how amused he is. Still, he entertains it. “He’s kind, very loyal. Smart, as you know. Sometimes he’s a little unsettling, but it’s endearing, in a way. A little like you.”

“I can’t tell if you’re being serious or not.”

“Well, I love you both dearly, if that counts for anything.”

Still, this doesn’t solve your problem, “Wooyoung, what do I do?”

“I think it’ll surprise you how easy this is going to be.”

It is a surprise to find yourself done up in a cute dress at a party not ten hours later, San and Wooyoung on each arm. You knew they knew people, sure, but they’d been such good friends to you that they’d sworn to be by your side through college, so you’d never bothered to ask to be introduced to their other friends. 

From what you can gather, they’re not frat boys but normal college students, too - Wooyoung told you that the two guys that live here are some of their good friends, and that makes you feel a bit better about arriving uninvited. It’s quaint but well decorated, with music memorabilia on the walls, but you don’t get a chance to take it all in because the house is absolutely packed. 

San waves and hugs a few people as he walks through, and you see Wooyoung smiling at a group of people that you think must be in his dance classes, because they look as cool and sculpted as him. Still, they pull you through the throes of people into the kitchen, tipsy and stoned and honestly, a content smile on Wooyoung’s face that he finally got you in this position.

You’re not even sure who’s party this is, but the boys help themselves to drinks and San keeps a comforting hand on your lower back, leaning in close so that you can hear him while your other friend pours you a drink. 

“You’re sure you’re okay?”

“Sannie, I have been to parties before, I’m not a total shrew,” You tease. He pulls you into a sort of half-hug and you smell him, something earthy with a hint of jasmine, comfortable and grounding, familiar. Different to… you’re trying not to think about that.

The younger man hands you both the finished drinks, a concoction of something purple, and well, liquid confidence you suppose. You knock half of it down before you can think. He seems satisfied with this, but you hiss at the aftertaste, sticking your tongue out. “I’m definitely a smoker, not a drinker. This is fucking nasty. You guys drink this stuff all the time?”

“He does, I kinda hate it too,” San huffs, swirling his cup in his hand and watching the liquid move. 

Wooyoung scoffs, “that and you can’t handle your drink. You pass out after a few.”

San’s already flushed, but you swear he gets redder, shooting Wooyoung a dirty look with a too-cute pout before turning back to you. “Refresh me on the situation again by the way. You had a dream about Mingi? Song Mingi?”

Right, Wooyoung had caught him up over the course of the day while you napped and attempted to study. You lick your lips, trying to somehow clean yourself of the drink’s bitter aftertaste but only getting a mouthful of sticky lipgloss. 

“Two dreams,” Wooyoung corrects, pointing at San, smiling so wide you can see his teeth in the dim light of the kitchen. They’re practically shouting over the music, and you want to tell them to be quiet but you are in a quieter area.  No one can hear you, you hope, groups having filtered into the back garden, bedrooms and the living room. “And I think she liked him before. Fate, science - look, you had to be there. Anyway, we should go talk to him.”

“Wooyoung, I do not know this man.”

“We know him,” San smiles. He’s too easy. “Hey, this is cute! Is this your first crush? He’s a good guy.”

You swat him away when he tries to pinch your cheeks. “Not my first crush or my first party. You have literally met some of my exes. I also don’t think this is a good idea.”

“First, all of your exes were assholes so I didn’t like them and therefore they don’t exist. Second, you have to think it’s a somewhat good idea because you did come - to the party, I mean,” Wooyoung grabs your hand, pulling you to the back door. “I think they’ll probably be out here.”

Wooyoung’s right, about both things. All of your exes were assholes, men that only cared about getting their dick wet and their own feelings and not at all about yours. You’ve always thought it would be nice to have a man who takes notice of the things you like, the way you feel; the longer life dwindles on it seems to become less attainable. 

He’s also right that you came to this party with the idea that your friends were setting you up. You don’t expect them to be subtle about it though - a fact that daunts on you as they lead you through the kitchen.

As soon as the back door opens, you’re hit with the sight of what seems to be a much cooler, more private party. The smell of weed and the sound of softer, less overwhelming music are the first things you can process and yeah, okay, this might be more your type of scene. There’s a cute, shorter guy wearing flared jeans and a shiny tiara, chatting with a group of people enthusiastically; surely it must be his party. 

You’re pulled over to a section of outdoor seating where there’s a few people sitting down. There’s a small fire going, contained in a silver pit, and the warmth is welcomed on your skin, cold from the outside air biting at your skin in the cute dress you’re wearing. Really, you don’t clock him at first, but Wooyoung and San are eager to take you over to that area and there can only be one reason why.

“Yunho!” Wooyoung’s way too chipper, but Yunho falls for it, springing up from one of the chairs to wrap his arms around the shorter male. San’s hugging someone too, and from the corner of your eye you see it’s fucking Mingi, and you’ve never felt so betrayed in your life. 

“Fancy seeing you here, huh?” San says, way too exaggerated, and you hover in confusion as he continues, “we finally brought our cute friend, look.”

Cute friend? Suddenly all of the attention is on you. Yunho and Mingi are both peering at you, and Mingi is - he has to be assessing you, eyes scanning your frame. You can’t see them properly due to the sunglasses. Does he recognise you? You’ve only spoken once or twice before, in passing. He probably doesn’t even know your name. 

Yunho seems to know who you are, grinning from ear to ear and pulling you into a hug before you can even introduce yourself. You can’t help but laugh, throwing your arms around him while avoiding spilling your purple drink on his white satin shirt.

“It’s so good to meet you!” He shakes you happily. Mingi still hasn’t said anything, but he’s clutching a bottle of jagermeister and a cup with a different drink, looking at you as if he’s waiting for the moment. You try not to be uncool right in front of his eyes, smiling at Yunho politely. “Wooyoungie kept talking about you, all nice things, I promise. You have some good friends here.”

“I can’t really get rid of them, kinda like the plague,” You smile, and you’re glad Yunho detects your sarcasm and lets out a loud laugh, a bit too loud to be normal. He ushers you all to sit down, and when everyone’s situated the only available spot left is next to Mingi. 

How convenient. 

In your peripheral vision, you can see your best friends have already roped Yunho into a conversation, leaving the subject of your fantasies free and still fucking looking at you. 

Hesitantly, you sit down. The fire is nice you suppose, warming up your legs quite quickly, and you keep your knees firmly planted together and far away from him. The other three chatter away, preoccupied in such an intentional way that it makes your blood boil. It’s time to consider rooting through your bag in a way that looks like you’re doing something.

He says your name, and it feels like time stops. He’s speaking to you. This is the worst possible situation, how are you even meant to talk to him? Slowly, you turn to look at him. He’s in a black zip up jacket, bottle of Jagermeister in hand, sunglasses pushed down to the end of his nose. Those chains glint in the light again, and he leans forward, saying your name again, pushing the sunglasses onto his head. They push his hair back in the most delicious way that you shiver. No. Not right now. “It’s nice to finally meet you. You’re in my economics class too, right? You sit with Wooyoung.”

He knows you. “R-right,” You blurt, smiling nervously. “I am. Mingi, right?”

“You sit just a few seats over from me, with Wooyoung. I wanted to say hi to you, but to be honest, I never knew how,” He scratches the back of his neck. He’s cute, a little shy despite how big and scary he looks. Just like Wooyoung said. It feels like that makes it all even worse - he really is a dream, delightful traits rolled all into one. “It’s good to all get together though, right? I don’t think I’ve seen you at one of these before.”

“Oh, no. I don’t really get out much, to be honest. I’m a homebird,” You say, and cringe inside. What the fuck are you saying? You need to be cool. 

But Mingi only smiles, letting out an ‘ah’. “Me too, to be honest. I’m an anime in bed guy, but I live here, so I have to leave my room. It’s really sad.”

Not only is he actually so easy to talk to, but he reassured you quickly - he’s the same. Wooyoung was right again.

He lives here, though, which means… Wooyoung and San brought you to a party at Mingi’s house? This is some sort of next level interfering that you never even considered, but you have to act normal, so you clear your throat.

“You live with that guy wearing the tiara, then?”

“His name is Hongjoong,” Mingi laughs. “You don’t know who’s house you’re at?”

Fiddling with the clasp of your bag, you look down at your lap. “I told you, I don’t normally go to parties. I got dragged to this.” White lie. 

“It’s fine, I’m only kidding. Anyway, you know me,” He grins playfully. You flush, suddenly too warm from the fire, a little too awkward but also with such deep desperation in your belly. His zip-up slips from his shoulder and you see a bit of tanned skin that makes you inhale. “So you drink. You smoke too?”

You laugh. “Oh yeah, I smoke.”

Mingi’s eyes narrow at you again, perceiving you. Is he impressed? Flustered? He’s still smiling, like he knows something about you, but you’re not sure what. 

The conversation is interrupted by Yunho, who’s pulling a bong out from by the side of the table with a loud cheer. Wooyoung’s already dragging the bong from his lap. San has fallen asleep next to him, cheeks flushed and shoulders slouched over. Wooyoung doesn’t take any notice, giggling as he readies the pipe. He spills some weed on his lap but doesn’t look bothered. 

You point at San. “Is he okay?”

Everyone chimes in at once - “He does this”.

Mingi leans closer to you, and you manage not to tense up when he speaks easily, “What are you drinking?”

You motion at the plastic cup of Purple Concoction on the floor, and he sucks his teeth, shaking his head. While the others carry on, Mingi leans down and you immediately seize up.

“I’m not drinking jager,” you panic, “that’s way too-“

He chuckles and hands you his plastic cup, with a liquid not dissimilar in appearance to coke, and you want to laugh in his face. 

Is this like… inadvertently sharing spit? 

Reaching for the cup, you take a sip of the drink, and he watches you, waiting for your reaction.

It’s surprisingly nice. A lot better than whatever the fuck the guys gave you in the kitchen, and definitely not jager. It’s some sort of rum with coke and you hum at the taste, handing the cup back to him. He’s still watching you, keeping eye contact as you swallow the liquid down. 

When he lets you get this close, you notice the two beauty spots on his face from your dream, one by his eye and one on his cheek, and it makes your heart soar. He’s so cute, despite the way he dresses, rough and raw on the exterior and kind and gentle inside.

“Much better, right?” 

“Much better,” You agree. For a second, the ugly, rearing insecurity appears in your head again - what are you doing? He’s so out of your league. 

Before it can fester, Mingi clicks his tongue, taking a sip himself. “See, you should stick with me tonight,” he leans back, then smiles, “I’ve got the good stuff, and I’m cooler than San. He’s fallen asleep already.”

Stick with him tonight. Just as you think there might be something there, a little flickering of intrigue in his eyes as well as yours, the guy with the flared jeans rushes over out of nowhere.

“Mingi-ah, I’m so sorry, but someone’s throwing up in the living room and I need your help.”

The gentle voice brings you both out of your trance, and he immediately spins his head to the other man. Hongjoong, you think you remember him saying. Mingi all but rolls his eyes - does he look disappointed? - but swings his legs over the edge of the seat, leaving you with the nice tasting drink.

“Sorry, I better go,” He says, and Hongjoong gives him a look full of something that you can’t work out. Mingi looks awkward, eyebrows raising in expectation for you to say something, so you nod politely and he shoots you a grin. You think you’ll replay that grin forever, late at night when you’re trying to remember all of the angles of his face. “I’ll see you in class, yeah?”

“Yeah.” You nod, licking over your lips. “it was really nice talking to you, Mingi.”

He shoots you a smile that looks a little too upset, but he’s off then, housemate in tow; Wooyoung wordlessly passes you the bong, eyes pink and limbs stretched over the sleeping San. It’s hard not to go over the events with the sudden silence and your clammy fingers wrap around the cup he left you, taking another gulp of the alcohol as it pops into your head.

Apologetic.

Hongjoong looked apologetic that he was interrupting you both, and you want to tell your friends and deepen that and make it more than it is; but you’re reminded that in reality, you’re just another girl Mingi was talking to at a party.

It’s been a couple days with no dreams now, which feels good, because you only saw him in passing again during the party. You have thought about him, in fleeting thoughts where you’ve gone over the events of the party, but it’s good not to let it linger. Just two dreams, that’s all it was, and you sit in economics class the following Wednesday with a relatively clear head and a nice skirt on, determined that you definitely do not have a crush.

Additionally, another decision - you will not fail this class. Two simple resolutions; last week was just a minor setback.

He walks in, and sits in his seat, and there’s actually people sitting between you this time. This is reassuring because you can’t focus on how his thighs fit in those jeans, or how nice his hands look when he types, or how his hair falls over his forehead in such a mysterious way-

No. You stare at your notes, flicking over the pages. It’s good to refresh before the professor starts, you think, and you really think it works when she begins her lesson and does a brief recap… before she starts talking about a test a few weeks after break. Huh?

“Since it’s the last week before fall break, I thought I’d give some of you a chance to study and get your grades up,” She explains, and you think you see her glance towards you and Wooyoung. Everyone groans, and she tuts, laughing. “This test isn’t that hard, I’m being really nice to you guys!”

You zone out again. Now you’re going to have to do a stupid test on something you don’t care about, and you’re either going to let yourself down or just not show up to do it at all, to be honest. You sigh and huff and puff, scribbling a doodle on your page.

To everyone, you included, the bell ringing after the rest of the boring lesson is a welcome sound. You huff when you put your books into your bag, you huff when you sling your bag over your shoulder, and you’re still huffing at Wooyoung as you both walk out of the door. 

That is, until a firm hand stops your path and a very clear, deep voice says your name.

Looking up, you see Mingi, lensless glasses on his nose again and that little shy smile on his lips, and the last few days of progression are forgotten. 

How could you ever forget how pretty he is? Love songs start playing in your head, intricate violins and piano, and it’s jarring how nervous you feel all of a sudden, uncertain of yourself. He’s so beautiful and he dresses well and he’s smart and kind and easygoing, but you still have that looming feeling of it’s never gonna happen, hopping from foot to foot in your boots.

Wooyoung keeps walking, pretending to be occupied on his phone, and you realise you’re staring at Mingi and not saying anything. “Mingi. Hi!”

“Hi, it’s good to see you again,” He seems a little flustered himself, fingers pulling at the collar of his t-shirt and you can’t help but smile. He’s so endearing. “How have you been since the party?”

“Good,” You shrug easily, like it hasn’t been destroying your nerves for the past few days, “I’ve been good. I- you’re good too, I hope?”

Inwardly cringing, you flush, but Mingi seems to find it amusing, lips curling up. “I’m great. Hey, listen, couldn’t help but overhear you’re not doing too well in economics, and well, I’m not too bad at it myself,” he snaps his fingers, and your eyes widen. No. “I can study with you for the test, if you want.”

“Is that a good idea?” You’re straight to the point, and Mingi offers a pout, confused, and you want to cry. “I mean, Mingi, I would just take up your time-”

“I want to study with you,” He seems to straighten up then, and you remember how big he is, towering over you. “No offence, but I know you’re not doing too well, and I want to help you,” He seems determined, and you can’t work out why, but he continues, “We could bump your grade up a little if you do well on the test.”

You let out a strangled noise, tapping your foot. “… Fine.”

“I- I could come to yours later on today? If you’re free, that is.”

You stare. That’s the second worst fucking idea you’ve ever heard, next to Wooyoung’s that got you talking to this tall, beautiful man in the first place. Why not the library? But you’re going to have to, aren’t you, because you can’t deny that face anything, and what other choice have you got? 

The idea of being in close proximity to him like that and being able to trace every single line and dot on his face with your eyes is anxiety and arousal inducing and he’s staring at you hopefully, waiting for an answer-

“Mingi, I’m bad at this class,” You blurt. He only tilts his head in question. “I could bring your grade down, distract you so badly by asking so many questions that you end up at the bottom just like me.”

He’s quick to respond, as if he can’t miss this opportunity. “That’s a bit extreme,” he breathes out a laugh, “very unlikely. Anyway, call it helping a friend out.”

A friend. Of course.

“Right, well…” You rub the back of your neck. 

It would be stupid to pass this up. If studying with him could really help your grade, and stop you retaking this dumb class, you’re sure you can reign in the horny demons inside of you for a few nights a week. You look down at the floor, but get caught at his legs. 

In the rips of his black jeans, you see a slither of muscled thigh. Your eye twitches.

Shit, can you reign it in? Fuck, you’re gonna have to. “Okay. I’ll work really hard. I’ll be a really good study partner, like, the best.”

“I know you’ll be good,” He grins, and god, did he mean the way that came out? He’s already pushing his phone into your hands for you to put your number in, and you send an emoji to yourself so that you have his too. “Cool. I’ll text you, let you know when I’m on my way.”

By the time he’s walked away, somehow Wooyoung is right behind you again, giggling in your ear about fate. 

But that’s how you find yourself in your room not five hours later, unfortunately not high and staring at Mingi, sitting contently in front of you. San and Wooyoung had greeted him in the hallway, mumbling too quietly for you to hear - to your dismay - and now you’re in your room. Your plushies and girly things would be embarrassing if he didn’t immediately pick up a fuzzy teddy bear and place it on his lap, cooing and pulling softly at his droopy ear. 

He’s so cute, and the more you think about it the more it’s got you scowling in your loungewear. A matching set, in the hopes that he’d think you look nice.

He’s talking about something, you think, but god you feel like you’re in those dreams you have again with how he’s on your bed and you’re dizzy with it - except you’re not. It’s real, he’s there, perched on your mattress next to you in a zip-up jacket and joggers for comfort with textbooks set beside his lap. He kicked off his shoes in your hallway, and he’s in a spare pair of San’s slippers, two sizes too small. 

You focus back in when he waves his fingers in front of your face teasingly, and all you can do is mumble sorry there’s no desk in my room.

“What? That’s fine, it’s better to be comfortable anyway,” He laughs, finally placing the teddy bear back in its spot. He pats his head. You want to scream. “Do you have any idea what you want to start with? We can keep it pretty basic at first and work our way up. She said the test won’t be too bad - if you actually listen to me, you’ll be fine.”

It’s said pointedly, with a little grin like he knows you’re not going to listen.

“Cool, cool,” You smile with way more confidence than you feel. Your entire body hums like a live wire at the proximity. “So I’ll be top of the class when the grades come out, right?”

He narrows his eyes at you playfully, grabbing a textbook from the pile. “Relax. I’m top of the class.”

Oh.

You stare at him, smirking like you’re not the slightest bit affected, even though you really are. He often rides on the line between confident and cocky, like he’s daring you to call him out. Like he knows something you don’t, always one step ahead.

Scooting a little closer, you scoff, accepting the challenge. You can play ball. “Top of the class doesn’t mean you’re good at tutoring. What if you can’t make me any better?”

Mingi glances up at you, playfulness in his eyes, that slow smile forming like it has all the time in the world. His jaw clicks when he speaks, “You’re being cheeky, y’know that? I guess I’ll have to show you what I can do.”

“That-?” You swat him, and he catches your wrist easily, making you gasp and pull back sharply. Heat crawls up your neck. “Let’s- okay, let’s just start.”

He chuckles, low and easy, satisfied at how flustered you’ve gotten. You wonder for a moment if he can feel it between you too, but he leans closer, resting his elbow on his knee as he opens the textbook between the two of you. There’s a decent amount of distance, but you swear you can feel the heat radiating from his thighs - you have to squeeze yours together to calm down. Not now. 

“You’re already not paying attention, are you?”

It’s hard to because he smells like warm cologne and something familiar, vanilla and cedar and you’ve smelled this before, you swear, in your dreams. His leg brushes yours like it’s no big deal, like you’re not looking at how much bigger than you he is, like he doesn’t notice how you shiver every time he gets this close. Does he?

He taps a paragraph on the page, saying something about how this part is important, and we should go over this too, but his voice is softer now, almost tender. “You’re not even looking at the book. What’s up? Have you really just got a mental block for this?”

No, you’re just too attractive and it’s overwhelming. “Yup, think so,” you exhale, rubbing your sweaty palms on your leggings, “hey, what if we smoke before we study? I think I might focus better.”

Mingi seems to consider it. He scratches a nail down the page in thought - you notice he’s got some letters painted on his nails, and you want to ask. Eventually he shrugs, shutting the book and throwing it to the side. Your jaw drops that he gave up that easily, but he’s rummaging through his bag all of a sudden with ring-clad hands before he pulls out a little plastic bag. 

“I planned for this.”

It’s your turn to grin. 

“I mean, if you insist,” You tease, nudging him with your foot, and Mingi chuckles, low and sexy. The thought pops into your head again - you and him. It’s so easy, bantering back and forth, the nerves only electrifying you more. You remind yourself very quickly that this is nothing more than a study session, or preparing for one at least. 

Passing him the rolling tray from your bedside table, because you’d be damned if you were rolling with his stuff, you settle back on your pillows leisurely. He immediately begins to roll, pulling papers out of his zip-up pocket, and you want to ask him things rather than stare at his hands. Get to know him. Sue you, he’s pretty. “What do you major in?”

“Music production. So does Hongjoong, that’s how we know each other,” He answers easily, and you’re shocked initially, but actually… It makes sense. He’s relaxed and sometimes shy, but he can ride the line between confident and cocky - like he has two personas, the Mingi you see and the Mingi you actually get. It’s fun. “What about you?”

“English, believe it or not,” You say, and Mingi hums. “So you make music?”

He licks the paper, sealing the joint. “I’m not surprised. You seem smart like that,” He seems confused on where to smoke it, but you pass him an ashtray and he throws you a thumbs up as he lights it, inhaling deep and filling your room with the funky-smelling smoke, “but yeah, I make music. I’m a rapper.”

A rapper? So he’s good with his tongue. You shiver, “Right.”

“Oh, do you? Write, I mean?” He smiles at his own joke, eyes already half lidded and a little pink, handing you the joint; you’ll never admit you giggled at it too.

You take a few diligent tokes, ashing in the tray when necessary. “I do, sometimes, but I don’t get much free time anymore.”

“Mm, I bet,” You’re already a little giggly, and you hand the joint back with a warm feeling on your cheeks and limbs feeling a little slower, less in control. “I could… maybe show you a song I made. Only if you show me something you wrote. That would be cool, I think.”

You can’t believe you’re in here smoking with him, and he’s telling you things about himself, too. You can build on this. 

No - you’re getting ahead of yourself again.

“I’d be down,” You smile softly. He hands you the joint again, another quarter smoked, his lips now with a permanent curve of bliss. He’s high, and he looks so pretty when he’s high, fixing his dark shaggy hair with long, ring clad fingers. He lays on his side in front of you, grabbing your teddy bear to hold at his chest while he leans on his hand, comfortable. There’s one burning question in your mind as you examine him, his zip-up slipping off his shoulder, “honestly, I’m surprised you don’t major in fashion. You dress really cool.”

That slow, lazy smirk forms again, ear to ear. You almost choke as you inhale, but you manage to keep it in. “You think I dress cool?”

You shrug, suddenly aware of how hot it is in your room. “I mean… yeah.”

“Thanks,” He says, then adds, almost too casually, “I think you’re really pretty.”

It lands harder than he expected. Your breath stutters, and he licks his lips, eyes widening like he thinks he’s gone too far. “Is that-“ he hesitates, “-okay? Can I say that?”

You nod, still catching your breath. “Yeah, you- yeah, you can say that.”

Now it’s his turn to look nervous, teeth worrying at his lip but this time like he’s trying not to smile too wide. He thinks you’re pretty? Really pretty? The compliment loops around in your head. You hand him the joint back, meaning to follow it up with a question but he simply puts it out in your ashtray, the finality causing you to pause. 

He moves into a sitting position with a quiet sigh, and rifles through his bag a little. Just as you’re about to speak, he pulls out his laptop - the screensaver is one of him, Hongjoong and Yunho from a holiday, you judge by the background of the shot, but he clicks away and types his password in too fast for you to examine it fully.

“Anyway,” He says, too deliberately normal, clicking on a file, “I’ve got some material from the professor. It should help clear things up.”

Just like that, he moves on like the compliment was nothing, like it didn’t linger between you. You assume you should too. 

Friends compliment each other, right? He’s already pulling the file up, dexterous fingers quick and practiced clicking on the pages he needs and your head spins pleasantly from the weed, rubbing your clammy hands on your legs again.

A few clicks of his cursor, and he motions you closer, utterly unaware of how intoxicating he smells this close - you’re pooling in your panties again. Your knees touch and this time it sends a shock through you, but you catch the gasp in your throat before it leaves. 

“Alright,” he says softly, voice deep, “take a look at this…”

Focusing on anything else feels impossible, but you push through it, determined - for him.

It’s only gotten worse.

Rather than the dreams just being sexual, now they’re something more homely and serious than your heart can handle. You’ve had no more study sessions, although you’re due one today, and you’ve had these godforsaken dreams almost every night. 

Mingi cooking you dinner in your kitchen, smelling of oil and something delicious. Mingi holding your hand, safe and sure, as you walk through the city at night. Restaurants with Mingi, him pouring you another glass of wine and giggling when your nose scrunches up at the taste.

It’s getting domestic rather than primal, and you’re not sure how to deal with it. It’s made you want him more, while the times you actually see him only remind you that he doesn’t see you like that. At least, not in real life.

To make matters worse, Mingi insisted you continue your study sessions - along with now sending you some motivational GIFs over text during the week to make sure you’re on top form, like that was meant to help your sick little crush - and now you find yourself sitting waiting for him in the library, heart already fluttering something stupid.

A carton of banana milk slides across the desk. 

You squeak and barely manage to catch it before it tips over, glad that the campus library is pretty much empty due to fall break and you can make however much noise as you like. The librarian would typically tell you off for saying one word, but she’s got her own nose in an old, weathered book, her eyes fluttering shut from sleep.

A big body drops into the seat across from yours, the weight of him making the table feel smaller. Mingi looks entirely too pleased with himself, nodding pointedly at the carton.

“That’s it, right?” He snaps his fingers, “that’s the one you like.”

You stare. It's the same exact one you get from the vending machine in the building where your economics class is every week, but given that you’re now on break you haven’t had a reason to go there. It had been hard, trying to do any form of studying without your banana milk, but… how could Mingi have noticed that you get this one? 

“How…” You shake your head. “How did you know?”

His eyebrow raises, looking confused, opening his laptop. 

“I always see you with one,” He says, as if it explains everything. Your gut clenches, and you feel something tingle in between your legs too, like all it takes is a carton of milk, making you feel nothing but desperate - it’s more than that, though. He noticed. 

A few clicks, and then he digs in his bag again, setting a carton of strawberry milk down for himself and a set of papers next to you both. Your heart flutters. “I brought worksheets too. I know, not really fun, but at least I can see what you know since you know… we weren’t exactly productive last time,” he tuts at you playfully, “bad influence.”

You gasp dramatically. “Excuse you. We studied after, and it was your weed.”

He nudges your ankle softly with his shoe. “And I brought you a banana milk,” he slides the papers over, “now do the sheets for me, you’re wasting time again.”

For him, you’d do anything. Your pencil scribbles across the paper as you write your name with a heart next to it, as if you’re not his only student. Mingi doesn’t notice - he takes the time to do something on his laptop. You wonder what, because he pulls his headphones over his head and starts working dutifully. It’s hard not to simply watch him at work and ignore what he asked you to do; he clocks in so quickly, eyes narrowing at the screen and lips mouthing words you can’t decipher. He’s comfortable in baggy jeans and a hoodie, chains and rings catching your attention but he looks amazing, like everything he wears is straight from a fashion show.

Shaking your head, you turn to the paper - but you read a total of one question before realising that you really have no idea what the fuck is going on in this class.

“Mingi,” You say finally, tapping your pencil on the page, “I need help.”

To your surprise, he pulls his headphones off his dark hair quickly and leans over to you, eyes flickering to your sheet. It takes everything in you not to kiss him then and there. 

“… That’s the first question,” He looks at you, taking in your blank expression, then exhales a laugh. “Okay, I’ve seen you in every class - do you just not focus at all?”

Flailing your limbs around dramatically, you groan, “it’s boring as hell. The lecturer is also boring as hell.”

He snorts, but instead of teasing you more like you expect him to, he pulls his chair around properly, close enough that your knees touch. A shiver wracks through your spine. 

“Alright,” he says gently, voice calmer, more soothing, “forget how she explained it. I’ll do it my way.”

He takes your pencil, fingers brushing against yours, sketching quick boxes and arrows across the page. 

“Okay,” he begins, “economics is just people making decisions but with maths.”

You blink. “I don’t think that’s correct.”

He grins, sharp nose scrunching, clearly pleased that you’re actually interested for once. “No, seriously. It’s people making choices because they want something and don’t have enough money or time for it. All we have to do is sound smart when we talk about it.”

He sketches two simple lines with your pencil, next to the questions on the sheet, a curve sloping upwards and another sloping down right next to it. You recognize it immediately, which makes you a little proud.

“Supply and demand,” You mumble, pointing at the page. His eyes brighten.

“See? You do know things,” He says softly, like it’s a secret. His shoulder brushes yours as he leans closer, and you remember the party, how close he was then, and you forget everything you’ve ever learned. Fuck.

“So this,” He taps the downward curve, your cat-shaped eraser bobbing comically on the edge of the pencil, “is demand. People want less of something when it’s expensive, more when it’s cheap - dramatic, but predictable, right? Of course we do.”

“And supply,” He continues, tapping the other line, “that’s the opposite. Producers are greedy. They’re willing to sell more when prices are higher.”

He freezes, glancing sideways at you. “You still with me? That’s like, basic basic.”

You nod a little too fast. It makes sense, but fuck, are you allowed to kiss him yet? He’s so patient, so kind, and so cute that even his fucking teeth are cute. “Yeah. I’m here.”

His mouth twitches like he doesn’t quite believe you, but he lets it slide and draws a small dot where the lines intersect.

“Equilibrium,” You say, and he nods.

“The sweet spot,” He murmurs, and you shiver. This has to be some sort of fucked up joke. “Everyone’s equally unhappy here. Price equals quantity demanded equals quantity supplied. No shortages. No surplus.”

He leans back just enough to look at you properly. You’re not confused, rather determined, staring at the sheet. 

He fiddles with the eraser, rings glinting in the light. “So what part loses you?”

“All of it,” you admit, “but especially those shifts…? Why do things move?”

His expression softens. You wonder if he’s finally realised you’re hopeless, but he starts speaking again, more determined.

“Okay, so,” He flips to a clean section of the page and starts again, slower this time, drawing the same silly diagrams and the same silly dots and scribbles. His plump lips curl in focus, making him look so handsome that your hands unclench and clench in your lap. “Think of demand shifting like your banana milk.”

Your heart flutters.

“You don’t always want it, right?” He says casually, like he hasn’t just seen you so viscerally. “Like if it’s hot outside, or you’re stressed, or the lecture was particularly boring, then you want it more. I bet you’d even pay more.”

He’s right, you think, but why does this all make sense now, with him? He rubs at the page with your cat-shaped eraser and shifts the curve, oblivious to your internal plight. “That’s a demand increase. Same price, more quantity demanded.”

You stare at the page, then at him. “You’re using me as an example.”

“Well,” he shrugs, too nonchalantly for how you feel looking at him. “You’re the first thing I thought of.”

Your fingers tighten around the edge of the paper. He’s still got your pencil so you can’t fidget, but you can smell his cologne, mixing with the scent of books in the library. It feels way too intimate and the furthest you’ve gone is your knees touching. You want more, but you have to focus.

“And supply, then… if things get cheaper, or easier to produce, you can make more so supply increases,” You try, quieter and uncertain, but he nods encouragingly. “I think this actually makes some sense when you explain it.”

Something unreadable flickers across his face - pride, perhaps. “Good,” he says, softer, “I want you to get it.”

You smile, taking a sip of your banana milk that has you humming with glee. Tasty. He mirrors you and takes a sip of his, sliding the worksheet back towards you, his fingers lingering just a second too long to tap on the words printed. He’s got the same letters written across his fingernails again. 

“Try the next question,” He nudges you. “I’ll stay here.”

It takes you a second to decode, but you start to scribble down things here and there, trying to make heads or tails of the question. Mingi is silent the whole time but you feel him watching what you’re doing, and you feel the weight of his arm when he lays it on the back of the chair behind you.

Within a few minutes you seem to have written something of note, and you slide the paper back to him silently. 

He clicks his tongue without saying a word and leans forward closer to the desk. Dark eyes narrow at the page and read over the few lines you’ve written, before he side eyes you with a satisfied smirk.

“Good girl,” It’s said teasingly, and he smooths your hair, too casual. Your tummy flips but his grin is content, unknowing, his eyes forming crescents, “see, I told you you’d get it. Try the next one.”

Somehow, it starts to seem easier with him around, and over time, he has to help you less and less. It doesn’t quell the burning in your gut, only igniting it to the point it starts to get unsufferable, and all you can do is try to ignore the flames. 

The next time he’s between your legs in your dreams is in your room again, and it feels so much more vivid now that you know more about him, about the way he speaks to you, the way he acts. 

“What a pretty fucking pussy,” He muses, eyes fixated directly on your core. He uses his thumbs to pull your lower lips apart, and you can see those letters on his nails. He watches your folds stick together with arousal once he lets go, groaning, running his fingertip up your slit - the contact makes you gasp, hips bucking tentatively for more. “Does she always get this wet?” he spits down on your mound, watching it drip, “fuck- fucking creamy, baby, shit.”

He lets out a little moan before he’s diving in. You can’t get any relief, trying to squirm away - his broad shoulders are spreading your thighs apart as well as pinning them, and his hands are still playing with your pussy while he tongues over your slit.

“Tasty too, good girl, mmf-“ he whines, moving to pull you closer by your ass instead, his rings biting into your skin. He says it the way he did in the library, and your cunt gushes so wet his lips click against it; the moan you let out is like you’re in distress, hand gripping onto the headboard. 

How does he know you like this? His lips suck over your clit and you wail, reaching down with your spare hand to push his head in. 

“Fuck, Mingi,” you gasp, writhing, “so fucking good, please-“ 

Yanking at his hair, you can’t help but grind your hips into his face. He doesn’t stop you, hands gripping you and pulling you in rhythm against his tongue, and you think he’s gonna make you cum already. It’s too quick, debilitating as you hump his fat tongue to your orgasm and you pull at dark strands, looking down your body to see dark, narrowed eyes staring right up at you and he groans deep against your folds, you’re so close, almost there-

This time you wake up horny but beyond fed up, almost ignorant to the throbbing between your legs. It’s quick and easy to make yourself cum with your fingers, sticking your hands down your pants to rub one out while thinking of soft lips and rapid rapper tongues, and after that it’s just another day of being haunted by him, you suppose. 

Except this time you have a study session at Mingi’s house, and you haven’t been there since the party. 

It may have been the excitement and nerves surrounding the plans that caused the dream, but you’re too tired to care about it, yawning over exaggeratedly and stretching the sleep away from your limbs. You’ve studied hard, had a few more sessions with him that weren’t romantically charged and watched countless videos online. You’ve even read some books, some that he gave you and some that you found yourself - you’re ready to impress him, glancing over at the many papers and folders in your bag.

However, despite the attempts to gain his praise, you’re beginning to accept that you’re doomed to a life without Mingi, or worse, a life with Mingi just as your friend. 

Every single time something appears to click between you, or you have what Wooyoung would call A Moment, something interrupts or distracts one of you. Then, the moment evaporates, and nothing happens. While you’ve been sitting on pins for days, waiting for something to happen - you’re also unsure something will happen.

You’re unsure if you’ve read the entire situation the wrong way, and he really is just a good, kind friend, and your insatiability has just driven you to blur the line between fantasy and reality.

When you finally get ready and go downstairs after doomscrolling on your phone, Wooyoung and San are both looking at you like the cats who got the cream. They’re standing in the kitchen, heads fully spun towards you while you hover in the doorway in your nice jeans with a tote bag on your shoulder. If it surprises either of them that you actually have books in your bag, they don’t say anything, only smiling wider when you bounce from foot to foot. 

You crumble first. “Okay, why are you guys staring at me?”

San answers your question with a question, sipping at his mug of coffee, “Where are you going?”

“You know where I’m going,” You scoff, crossing the kitchen to fill your water bottle up. Wooyoung parts from the sink to let you get there, but his smile doesn’t fall, so pleased your blood starts to boil. “It is not a big deal. We’re just friends.”

“Sure,” Wooyoung says finally, and you groan, stomping your feet. “He’s wasting his time helping you study for a test you’re gonna fail anyway because he’s a good friend.”

You scrunch your nose up, “Wouldn’t you guys do that for me?”

“No,” they reply at the same time, and you screw your water bottle lid on, scowling.

“Wooyoung, you said he was kind. This is him being kind.”

“He’s trying to get in your pants, like, romantically,” San says, and you want to launch your water bottle at him. “Have you tried asking him? Kissing him, maybe?”

“He is tutoring me, Choi San.”

“You need to be tutored in more than economics if you’re this stupid.”

You gasp, affronted, “Since when could boys and girls not be friends?”

Wooyoung snorts, “Since the boy and girl in question both like each other and are being stupid about it.”

It pisses you off even more. They don’t know the situation you’re in, the moments the two of you have had where you think something might break through and every single time, nothing happens, and you’re reminded that it will never happen. It feels like they’re mocking you, and you mumble a “Whatever, goodbye,” that seems to be enough to placate them.

They wave you goodbye, and you choose not to tell them the extent of your hangout to avoid teasing - you’re going to his house. If they caught wind of this, they’d be buying wedding outfits and booking venues.

However, this could really prove catastrophic for you. The dreams were realistic already, but now if you have the information of what his bedroom looks like stored inside your brain, they’re only going to get worse - more variety, more realistic.

You think pathetic horny thoughts the entire walk there, nervous and excited at the same time, hands smoothing down your hair over and over as if the gentle fall breeze was going to make you look effortlessly cool. Not only are you going to his house - his room - you’re hyperaware of your body, of every movement you make, the ache between your legs that’s been lingering since you woke up; it all feels a little too much. 

When you knock on the front door, it swings open almost immediately.

“Mmm- hey, girl,” Mingi says, tall and looming, hair a little messy and curling at the ends, glasses on. His oversized tee is loose on his frame like he just woke up and threw it over his massive shoulders. He looks domestic, like he could be your real boyfriend - it’s exactly the version of him your dreams have been conjuring, and it’s getting to you before you’ve even walked through the door. “You’re right on time, look at that!”

“Hey,” Your voice is small, knees feeling weak.

He steps aside to let you in, and his place smells faintly like weed and, well, that scent of Mingi that you’ve been focused on since you met him. You can smell what must be someone cooking something delicious too, faintly, and when you focus you can hear his housemate tinkering around in the kitchen. 

His house looks different in the daytime. The sofas look lived in and comfortable and you can see the music memorabilia properly, rap album records and posters donning the walls. It seems they’re both very serious about this kind of stuff, and your brain betrays you instantly, noting everything for future dreams.

“Room’s this way,” he says, already turning down the hallway like he doesn’t see you taking everything in. You almost trip over a half-dead potted plant on your way.

His bedroom is smaller than you expect - you wonder if Hongjoong got the bigger room - and it’s neat but not too neat. His bed is made but the pillows are a little smushed, desk cluttered with papers with scribbled lines of writing, packs of rolling papers on his bedside table and empty baggies in the bin. A guitar sits in the corner, obviously well loved and with a large sticker on the corner of the body. He seems content with you looking around, trying to shuffle some papers into a neat pile until he flops down on the floor by his bed, patting the space next to him.

“We can spread out here,” he motions, brushing his hair out of his face, “I don’t have another chair for the desk, I’m sorry.”

You hesitate for a half second too long before joining him, back against the bed, knees bent. You’re so close that your legs touch again, and you shiver despite being used to it by now. He doesn’t move away.

“So,” he says, nodding towards your tote bag, “ready to actually pass this test? This is our last session.”

You grin, reaching into your bag. “I may surprise you.”

“Oh?” He raises a brow, smiling. “Now I’m excited. Don’t tell me you actually-“

You lay out your notes. You’ve not done a lot, but whether he was expecting something amazing or not it doesn’t matter, because the noise of awe he makes is all you need. Your colour coded, annotated tabs stick out from the textbook he gave you before, and his teasing expression drops, replaced with genuine surprise.

“You did.” He murmurs. “You actually studied.”

“Wow,” you say dryly, “you sound full of confidence in me.”

He laughs, shaking his head, flipping through a few pages, “no, not at all. This is good. I’m so impressed, y’know, you didn’t even care a few weeks ago?” his eyes scan your writing quickly, “you did elasticity? On your own? You didn’t even text me!”

You nod. “A demon came to me in a dream and taught it to me.”

Mingi pales, fingers paused on the tabs. “Please don’t joke like that.”

You laugh, shaking your head, “No, I actually just read the books you gave me and watched some videos online. It’s not too hard when someone explains it to you the way you need.”

Despite your last statement, a warm expression creeps over his face, pride softening his features. “I’m so proud of you.”

The words hit harder than they should. Your throat tightens, and you have to look back down at your notes so he doesn’t see the emotion spread across your face. 

“Okay,” he says, scooting a little closer, “let’s test you. Walk me through this one.”

He points to a practice question. You explain, a little slow at first because you haven’t talked about these things out loud before, but once you find your words it gets smoother. He listens intently, eyes on you, not the page; when you finish with a satisfied smile, he nods slowly.

“Yeah,” he says, “that’s it. Well done.”

“Oh,” you smile. “Really? That’s it?”

“You nailed it,” He confirms, and you swat at him again. Surely not. “I’m serious! See, it was always there. You just needed it explained in a way that made sense to you.”

Your knee nudges his when he shifts to point at another question, neither of you moving away. The room feels quieter, heavier, like the air has thickened. You keep going, question after question, and each time he needs to prompt you less and less. Sometimes he just watches you scribble away or think, stumbling over your words, his chin resting on his hand in a way that has to make the rings dig into him, expression soft and unreasonable.

At one point, you get stuck, frowning at a graph.

“Okay, wait,” you mutter, but he’s already there.

“Remember what we said about equilibrium?” He says gently, leaning over your shoulder. His arm comes up and behind you, on the mattress. He doesn’t seem to realise it, but it’s just like at the library, and you want to scowl at the effect he has on you. 

Your heart pounds, but you focus, staring at the page. “Equilibrium…”

“You already know this,” he points at the graph, finger dangerously close to yours, “you do, I promise. You’re just second-guessing yourself. Go with your gut.”

It feels like it means a million things at once. You glance up, and he’s closer than you expect - your breath stutters, and he continues looking at the page. His thumb flicks over a few of your tabs, considering.

“You know, it’s really cute that you put in this much effort,” he says absently, and your brain short circuits, stumbling out a few words that seem to make him snap awake. He finally looks at you, realises how it sounded and for a moment, neither of you move, looking at each other.

He laughs softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I think,” he says after a moment, “you’re gonna do way better than you think you are.”

The praise sits between you. He’s been giving you a lot of it, you think, and it feels like something unspoken is there. Neither of you reach for it, something that doesn’t surprise you. 

Instead, you sit shoulder to shoulder again, letting him show you how to understand economics as the sun dips lower and the room grows dimmer. Nothing happens again, and somehow that makes it worse, causing the knot in your tummy to tighten to an excruciating point. 

You’re really not sure what’s happening anymore. 

Dealing with vivid sex dreams about a man who doesn’t like you back is one thing, but dealing with them while said man is forcing you to study for a test is another thing. Still, if it hadn't been Song Mingi helping you you think you never would’ve studied, never would’ve bothered turning up for the test, and you would’ve been sitting on the same exact cheap plastic chair next semester resitting the entire thing.

You get to class a few minutes before the test starts, a mere few days after your last study session, Wooyoung in tow groaning about how ‘messed up the last minute test is’ - you don’t have the heart to tell him it was mentioned weeks ago and he just wasn’t listening so it can’t be considered last minute. You’re more focused on the crippling fear of you failing this test after all of the work you’ve done, the colour coded tabs and annotations that Mingi checked over to make sure you were on the right track, and you know that Mingi is never on time and so won’t be present to look over your notes with you. 

However, you walk into the room and see a carton of banana milk settled on your desk.

There’s only a few other people in here, you, Wooyoung and a few others, but a quick scan shows you Mingi is sitting in his seat and is doing very well at pretending to be occupied. He flips through a folder of notes, and you hover in the doorway, Wooyoung elbowing you frantically. 

“That’s-“ he gasps, “he- that’s-“

Your mind is racing yourself. Bringing one for you before when you studied was one thing, but he’s brought you one before the test that could determine your fate with this class, and he’s acting like it’s nothing, like it hasn’t shattered your heart into a million pieces that he actually fucking thought of you, unprompted.

Wooyoung continues spluttering behind you as you continue to your desk, waving at Mingi on his way, and you shoot him a look filled with nerves and want. He’s even put the straw in ready for you, so when you sit down, you take a grateful sip instantly. Mid-sip, Wooyoung snatches it from your hand to see a scribbled good luck note stuck on the other side, complete with a drawing of a chicken holding his own carton of milk.

“This is ridiculous,” He mumbles, running a hand through his newly cherry red hair, grabbing the paper between two fingers, “you two are playing a game that does not need to be played.”

“Whatever that means,” you sigh, snatching it back.

Avoiding staring at the side of your crush’s head, you look back down at the milk, contemplating while the class fills up. It’s not long until the professor comes in, and lays down the paper tests on everyone’s desks. Everyone looks nervous apart from Wooyoung, who just generally does not care, and Mingi, who you know is more than prepared. 

A few minutes go by while she talks, and when the class is allowed to start you look down at the questions and hang on… you actually know what this test is talking about. You shoot Mingi a look and he’s already staring at you, smiling with his teeth like he knows exactly what you’re thinking. It hurts your heart, but you smile back, shooting him a nod filled with everything he needs to know.

The test goes by like a breeze, banana milk aiding you along the way. You’re not convinced you’ve done amazing, per se, but you think you’ve done well enough to pass. The entire class pours out at the end of the hour before you have the chance to tell Mingi that you think you’ve done alright. Still, the professor tells you that she’ll upload everyone’s grades online later today, and you hope that you have the chance to talk to him later, for him to tell you how well you’ve done. 

Your mind runs with thoughts as Wooyoung yaps the entire way home. He talks about how hard the test was, how annoying the professor is, how you’ve probably done just fine with the star student’s help, and then he pauses in his tracks on the way home. 

“Speaking of,” he says, pointing a finger at you, “are you going to Mingi’s party tonight?”

You freeze. Your heart skips a beat, and you lick your lips, swallowing hard, mouth suddenly feeling insanely dry.

He hasn’t invited you. If he hasn’t invited you to his party, then that definitely means that there’s nothing between you, that you really have just overanalysed things in your head. It feels like life couldn’t be any crueler to you right now.

You swallow again. “I wasn’t planning on it,” you say, and Wooyoung’s brow rises, red hair flicking around his jaw due to the wind. He sees right through you. “Okay, fine. I wasn’t invited.”

He scowls, “That’s fucked up, especially with how much time you spend together.” He mumbles, contemplating. The two of you start to walk again before he continues, his hands shoved in his pockets, “whatever, you’re coming with us anyway.”

“I can’t turn up there after he didn’t invite me. You’re deranged.”

“That is exactly what you did last time.”

He leaves no room to argue, and when you cross the threshold to your front door, San is perched on the sofa waiting for your arrival. He’s shoving food into his face, cheeks puffed out beyond belief but he perks up upon your return, eyes forming crescents and hands quickly moving to the TV remote to pause whatever he’s got on. Another soppy drama show, you think, since he looks flushed like he’s just been emotional over it.

“How did the test go?!” He shrieks, stumbling over bare-foot in shorts that show too much thigh. Wooyoung’s eyes linger on his bare skin and you scoff. 

“It went fine,” you say, walking in to collapse on the sofa next to the San-shaped dip, “I think I may have scraped a pass. Grades are out later.”

Unfortunately, despite you wanting anything but, you press play on the show that San’s watching and it engrosses you. The boys take themselves out to the kitchen, you assume to fix you all something to eat. From what you can gather, the show is an old one about some kids in school trying to become K-Pop idols. It does seem pretty emotional, but the only thing you can cry over right now is a tall rapper that doesn’t want you. 

It only takes a few minutes, but a loud, hysterical laugh from Wooyoung from the other room makes you sigh. Something’s happened, and you hear the telltale sound of feet clambering down the hallway to thrust his phone in your face, all bright smiles and too-red hair.

“Grades are out already,” He’s still laughing, motioning to the block letters, a number sixty on his screen, “how the fuck did I pass?”

San walks in laughing behind him, hands clapping on your other friend’s shoulders in glee, “I have no idea how you did it but I’m so proud.”

Your chest clenches. Shit. They’re out already? Either that’s a good sign for the class or a very, very bad sign, but you dig in your pocket and pull your phone out to unlock it. No texts from Mingi, not that you expected any, but you quickly open up your student portal and sign in, clicking through the pages you need to get to the class overview. 

It takes too long to load. Wooyoung drops into the San-shaped dip and San leans over him, two sets of peering eyes focused on your phone screen, and they’re both completely silent as they wait. You think San’s stopped breathing. The loading circle spins mockingly, over and over, and then the page loads.

Sixty-two.

Wait.

“Oh my god, I fucking-”

“You passed!” Wooyoung screams, shaking you by the shoulders. “Do you know what this means? Shit, baby, I’m so proud!”

You know what this means. You don’t have to resit that class, you don’t have to ever bother with a stupid economics class at all ever again, you never have to see that professor again, and you have Song Mingi to thank for it all. It feels like a joint achievement, if anything, and you want to text him and tell him and thank him but - should you? Is that okay?

San and Wooyoung bounce around the living room screaming and shouting so loud that you get brought back to reality.

“I fucking passed,” you breathe in disbelief, and San cheers again.

“Hell yeah, you did!” He hugs you, warm and grounding and so nice but not what you want at all. “We’re so proud. We’re gonna get drunk, and high, and go have fun at your boyfriend’s party-”

“San,” Wooyoung pauses, face suddenly straight, shaking his head solemnly, “not her boyfriend. In fact, he didn’t even invite her.”

San’s jaw drops. “He… what? But I thought you-”

“Yeah, I know.” Wooyoung grumbles. You want them to talk more, eyebrow raising, tossing your phone to the floor haphazardly. It’s already smashed enough, you don’t even think it could smash anymore.

“You know what?” You narrow your eyes, and both boys shake their heads too quickly. That’s weird. “Tell me what you know. Now.”

San waves his hand in your face, trying to calm you down, “Just that you two were getting close. I promise, that’s all I’ve been told.”

“Anyway, it doesn’t matter,” Wooyoung shrugs, too easy. It makes you want to scream. “You’re coming with us anyway, baby. I couldn’t care less what Song Mingi thinks his guestlist is.”

“Hey.” San says, weak. “He is actually a really nice guy.”

You groan, flailing your limbs, and they finally shut up - or at least they start talking about something else.

By the time you get to the party, your head spins, more drunk than you ever have been, feeling nice in your pretty dress and your best boots. The boys had insisted that a strong pregame was essential to celebrate yours and Wooyoung’s results, and Wooyoung fixes your makeup for you at the front door, too sober for your liking, thumbs smudging your eyeliner perfectly.

It’s a little like you’re entering the lion’s den, preparing to be eaten, but your brain hasn’t let you fully understand who’s house you’re entering and the fact that you weren’t even originally invited, too tipsy to care. 

San swings the front door open like he lives there, cheering with a happy, intoxicated flush on his face at whoever he sees first, and you let him introduce you to a few people while you giggle along and smile politely. It turns out a few of these people already know who you are, from the boys mentioning you you presume, so it’s easy to mingle and drink a little more when they offer it.

Your head spins. A little embarrassed, you remind yourself it’s a damn celebration. You never thought you would’ve passed that class.

Wooyoung drags you along to the kitchen, forcing another drink in your hand, and you get an immense sense of deja vu. This time, he’s learned and it’s a rum and coke he places into your grip, while you feel present physically and not mentally. San catches up to you after a while, joining in on whatever conversation the other man is leading seamlessly, and you nod and hum along like you know what’s happening, swaying in your spot.

Two big, firm hands land on your shoulders, and Wooyoong’s eyes widen comically at the figure behind you. 

“You came!” It’s slurred, but you’d know that voice anywhere - Mingi, in front of you when you turn around, black tank top tight and cargo trousers baggy. You feel lightheaded for a different reason all of a sudden, eyes scraping down big shoulders, big arms and even bigger thighs, the way his body tightens at his waist, the way he slings an arm around you like it belongs there. He smells of tequila and bad mistakes, and in any other situation you’d question his behaviour but now, inebriated, you’re leaning in, inhaling deeply for more, letting him ramble on in that deep, soothing voice. “I’m so happy you came! I didn’t- I’m sorry I didn’t ask you to come, I wasn’t sure-“ he hiccups, “I wasn’t sure you’d want to, y’know? It’s not your type of-“

“You’re right, she probably would’ve said no,” San manages for you, and you nod along. 

“They dragged me here again, ‘cause of my test results,” you laugh airily, and Mingi’s eyes widen, round and dark, his hands way too present on your body. He moves down to grip your waist, pulling you into him, and you clock that he’s as drunk as you are - you know that he’d never do this sober, but the warmth of his torso against yours is so nice that you can’t complain. You see Wooyoung trying to drag San away from the corner of your eye.

Mingi huffs out an impatient breath, staring directly into your eyes. It makes your thighs tremble and he raises an eyebrow as if to prompt you, “Your test. How did you do? Why didn’t you-“ he swallows hard, trying to catch his breath, “why didn’t you tell me?”

“Why didn’t you invite me, for real?” You blurt, a bit bolder now that you’re alone - perhaps it’s knowing that Wooyoung can’t see you now, but definitely due to the liquid confidence flowing through you. He at least has the decency to look guilty at your words, one hand coming to the back of his neck.

“I- I’m sorry,” He says earnestly, bouncing from one foot to another, too full of energy and the tequila, “I should have. There was no other- no other reason, I just really didn’t think it’d be your scene.”

You frown. He’s probably right, but he doesn’t know that you’d do anything, go anywhere for him. “I- uhm,” you sip your drink, eyes flickering to the back door. It’s ajar, people milling in and out past you both but like before, the kitchen is quieter than everywhere else. You manage to look back at him, voice quiet when you speak, “I passed, Mingi. I managed to- well, I barely passed the class, but I passed. Thank you for-“

You’re cut off by his arms wrapping around you. He shouts with glee, shaking you around in his grip and causing your drink to splash a bit. If he’s bothered by the liquid leaking on his skin he doesn’t show it, pulling back from you with a huge grin that you can’t help but mirror, issues forgotten. He’s jostled your bag off your shoulder, and you scoop it back up as he gets noticeably more excited, smile growing wider. 

“Do you know how proud of you I am?” He gushes, eyes honest, and you melt. Your heart soars, and you smile so wide it hurts your cheeks - this is all you had wanted. Mingi pulls you back into another hug. 

This time, it lasts longer and he holds you close, letting you feel his warmth and you wrap your arms around his middle, content. It’s nice, his dark hair tickling your neck as he nuzzles into the crook there - you hear him take a deep breath, holding you closer, and it makes you feel satisfied, somewhat. If this is all you can get, this is okay, you’re sure you can deal with this.

But Mingi pulls away, and something in his eyes tells you despite the alcohol, he knows what’s going on, knows what he wants, knows that you’re feeling it too.

“I’m so proud of you, so fucking proud,” His chest heaves. He smells of tequila but beneath it, you can smell him, and it makes you lean in closer, head dizzy. “Can I just…?”

“Just what?” You ask, fingers curling around his forearms in the hopes it grounds you - it makes you worse, letting out a whimper at the feeling of his skin on yours that you can’t quite hide, “Mingi, t-tell me.”

He licks his lips, shaking his head as if to get rid of some of his thoughts, dark hair tousling and he looks so handsome, looking down at you over his sunglasses with uncertainty. It looks like he wants to say too many things at once, with no clue on where to start.

“Can I kiss you?” He asks, and your breath hitches. What? “I- I’ve wanted to kiss you for so long.”

Nodding before you can question why, when, what or how, Mingi leans forward, nose nudging yours, finally pressing his lips against you. It’s as satisfying as you always thought it would be, and he’s nothing but enthusiastic - he’s immediately letting his tongue push between your lips and into your mouth so far it pushes against your teeth, like he’s trying to swallow you whole. His fists grip into the fabric of your dress and pull you into him, moving down to grip onto your waist and keep you close, afraid you may try to run away now that he’s finally gotten you.

You kiss him back with just as much enthusiasm, placing wet, open mouthed kisses on his lips when he tries to pull away because you can’t help yourself - is this really happening, for real? He tastes of tequila, jager and Mingi, and you open your mouth in a jagged moan for more. 

When he sees how impatient you are, he cracks. He pushes you against the wall and forces his tongue back into your mouth, moaning, gravelly and deep from his chest; your legs start to tremble, and he reaches down with a strong arm and hooks one of your legs around his waist.

“Oh,” You moan at the way he moves you around easily, his heavy breaths spilling into your mouth. He’s impatient, fingers scrambling at the bare skin of your leg, touching you as much as he can in a split second like he’s still scared it’ll be over soon. He rocks forward with his hips and meets your core, clothed but you’re sure he can feel how wet you are just from being in his presence, finally feeling his lips against yours for real and not in a dream. “Oh, shit-“

“So pretty,” He murmurs, kissing you again, accidentally rutting against your cunt once, twice, before he forces himself to stop. You can barely focus, unbelieving that he’s real, right in front of you, touching you and kissing you like this - but you’ll be damned if you’re not getting answers. “So gorgeous, lovely girl,” he breathes, urgent, eager, “so smart, so proud, mm-“

He moves away again, sucking over your neck, and you take the moment to speak hoarsely, “Mingi, what- what is this? What’s… what’s going on here?”

“I-“ He freezes. His lips hover at your skin before he pulls away just enough to look at you, palms unclenching and clenching at your waist like he doesn’t know what to do with them. “… Isn’t it obvious?” He asks quietly. “Do I have to say it?”

There’s no smugness or cockiness in his tone anymore, only hesitation, like he’s standing on the edge of something and afraid he’ll fall if he says it out loud. You read his face for something, anything that tells you how he feels, but all you see is need, his eyebrows knitting together in pure desire - it just confuses you more. 

“No,” You say, even though it’s a lie and you wish you did know, kissing the corner of his mouth once again - hoping it channels the gentleness and encouragement that you need to show, not the nerves of wanting something so seriously that it feels like it may shatter your insides. It seems to work, because he kisses you again, rings biting into your thigh when he grips you firmer.

Hands moving to Mingi’s hair, you pull lightly at the strands, bringing him as close to you as possible. He groans at the slight pain, nose nudging yours as he devours your mouth, lips so plump and overwhelming that you try your best to kiss back but are left whimpering into his mouth. He controls it, just as you imagined he would, moving you this way and that; he nips at your bottom lip, prompting you to open your mouth and let him massage his tongue over yours, almost useless while he consumes you. 

You think your dreams are going to be way too vivid from here on out, overwhelmed with the knowledge of what he actually tastes like and how he actually holds you - unsure but desperate. He’s good at this too, and you curse yourself; he’s perfect, he’s everything, and this is probably going to be all you’ll get, a drunken kiss in his kitchen.

“We can set up the beer pong in here-” 

Mingi springs from you like he’s been burned. His cheeks are flushed, lips slick with a mixture of your spit and he spins around to see Hongjoong, looking just as guilty as he did in the last party when he interrupted you but without his tiara, jaw slack, shocked, round eyes flitting between the two of you.

“Or not.” He offers. “Sorry, I didn’t realise you two had finally-“

Mingi starts to babble loudly, drowning out the shorter man, hands waving and mouth making some incoherent high pitched noises that have your eyebrows knitted in confusion. Your chest is still heaving against his damn kitchen wall as you try to catch your breath, yanking down the hem of your dress and he continues babbling - you just about catch the end, when he says, clear as day, “There is nothing going on here.”

Your heart starts to race. Right. You knew that, really, but - well, for a second, you’d hoped that it really was going to be something, forgetting that you’re drunk and so is he and you’re still standing in his kitchen ramrod straight like you’ve been electrocuted. He didn’t even have the decency to take you away to his room - why would he bother, you think, damning yourself for letting your brain run away with hope and excitement. He could have hidden you away from prying eyes and Hongjoong, who seems to interrupt anything good you’ve ever been given by the world, but he didn’t. 

It was nothing. An accident, even. Something you shouldn’t have ever dreamed of.

Speaking of Hongjoong, he huffs, folding his arms over his chest. “It didn’t look like-“

“It was nothing,” You cut him off this time, voice a lot more stable than you feel. You don’t look at Mingi, but from the corner of your eye you see something written on his face, something guilty and upset and like he’s at war with himself, and you can’t be bothered to spend any more time trying to figure him out tonight. “It wasn’t anything. Hey, have you seen San and Wooyoung?”

Hongjoong nods, a small pout on his lips. “Living room. Seriously, sorry about that, I-“

“It was nothing,” You repeat, and he nods again, accepting it - finally. You hear some commotion as you turn your back, hushed whispers that again, you don’t have the energy to try to decipher.

Beelining towards the living room, you’re pleased that San and Wooyoung can tell just by the look on your face that you’re ready to leave. They spring up from the sofa, drinks discarded, arms coming to your frame to usher you to a quieter place - it ends up being outside, in their front lawn, and it happens before you even process it’s coming.

Gagging, your body folds, and you vomit right on your crush’s front lawn, just about avoiding your nice boots. Wooyoung stifles his laugh - not very well - and San elbows him behind you, unamused, hand rubbing up your back. 

“That’s alright, get it up,” He soothes. “Jeez, we shouldn’t have let you drink this much. Let’s get you home, yeah?”

“I wanna know what the hell happened,” Wooyoung argues, and the other man sighs loudly in response, making him groan. “Fine. We’ll talk when we get home.”

The walk home is longer than you remember, made even worse by how your tummy still flips. You’re not sure if it’s from the alcohol or the kiss or Hongjoong interrupting or it being nothing or some fucked up combination of all of it but you hold back sobs the whole way home, arms enveloping your middle until you finally cross the threshold into your house.

The boys move quickly into the kitchen. Wooyoung still eyes you, unimpressed that he’s left in the dark but he starts to fill up three plain glasses of water, hopefully to calm all of you down but San simply waits, arms folded over a broad chest, eyebrow raised until you finally decide to speak.

“He didn’t…” You breathe. Your handbag drops to the floor unceremoniously, lipgloss and compact clattering out of the bag, and San moves to pick them up before you can even ask him to. Wooyoung moves to you, quick across the kitchen to put his arms around your frame. “I don’t think it’s like that between us. He- Mingi didn’t say he liked me, or anything, we just… Well, we kissed, but…”

Tears are starting to form in your eyes. San and Wooyoung share a look, and San appears bewildered, “What do you mean?” He shoves your things back into your bag, pushing it onto the table, eyes soft when he turns to you, “honey, I can’t put this any simpler. You are awful at economics, and the man offered to tutor you. Even Woo wouldn’t waste his time like that just for some sex.”

“It’s true,” Wooyoung says, hands gentle where they soothe over your shoulders, “I feel it in my gut that he likes you back. Really.”

“Then,” you sniffle, “why didn’t he-“

“Tomorrow, no alcohol, you and Mingi are having a conversation,” he urges, “all the cards on the table. I’m sick and tired of seeing you pining.”

You sigh, “It won’t solve anything. He doesn’t like me like that. He can’t like me like that, I know it.”

“Would you listen to yourself?” Wooyoung laughs, “he had his tongue in your mouth less than an hour ago. You’re drunk and sad, he was drunk and Mingi. You both need to get some sleep and talk tomorrow.”

Turning to San, you expect a different response, but he gives you the same look - slightly amused at your unneccessary plight, but very firm. Tomorrow, you’ll be embarrassed that you got so drunk over passing a test that you made out with your crush and cried in your kitchen to your friends, but right now you’re too tired and sad to care. He hands you your bag, items back in safely, and the other man ushers you to your bedroom, not minding at all that you’re sniffling and whining the entire way there. 

The pretty boots you chose for tonight are pulled off by Wooyoung while you sniffle and drizzle on the end of your bed. He doesn’t seem to mind, letting you mess up your mascara and your eyeliner in dark tracks down your cheeks until he sighs so loudly, seriously that it shocks you. He throws your boots on the floor by the door. 

“Promise me,” he says, and then storms over to place his hands on your shoulder. You think he’s still a little drunk too, but he says it with so much conviction that your tears stop in their tracks, eyes round and vulnerable as you look up at him. “Promise me that once you wake up in the morning, you will talk to the man.”

You sniffle, folding your arms over your chest like a child, “Don’t want to anymore.”

“Barefaced lie,” San snorts, and you blink through wetness to see him standing at the door. Was he always there? “Sweetheart, you’ve been making this entirely more complicated than it needs to be.”

Wooyoung pulls your dress over your head and slides a big, oversized t-shirt straight back over you - you think it’s one of his, the hem too stretched and the print a little stained with hair dye. “Tomorrow, full honesty,” He points a finger in your face that makes you go cross-eyed. “Promise me. No more lies. No more beating around the bush. Everything gets said.”

“I promise, Wooyo,” you garble, although now that you’ve stopped crying, all you can feel is exhaustion taking over your body. 

Your body hits your mattress before you recognise you’re falling, and Wooyoung tuts, covering you with your blanket. Everything’s so comfortable all of a sudden, and you feel a hand move a pillow underneath your head to support it - it feels like a damn cloud.

The last thing you register is San’s laugh and the sound of a camera shutter before you pass out.

It’s almost annoying this time, after the almost-confession. 

Mingi heaves deep, staggered breaths into your neck, wearing the same outfit from the party last night - baggy cargos, too many chains, a tight tank top. A bead of sweat drips from already damp, long, dark hair, down the tempting curve of his neck and you’re already won over, too desperate for him to care, reaching up to drag your tongue up his skin. 

“Fu-uck, that’s it,” He moans, deep, gravelly, hands determined where they pull down your shorts. You’re left in your panties, edges of your vision fuzzy with your dream and he’s quick to crowd into your space again, thick thighs forcing yours apart. He makes quick work of his trousers, undoing the button and forcing them past his ass just enough to rut his boxer clad erection against your pussy. “There, there you go honey, fuck, move against me-“

You do, writhing and bucking your hips to grind your swollen clit against his bulge over and over, letting him move from your neck to your lips. He kisses your mouth finally, and fuck you know what he’s like now, enthusiastic and all consuming. His tongue forces into your mouth just like it did earlier, when this was real. His lips are slick against yours because he’s so messy with it, desperate and bucking against you like he can’t get enough. 

You can’t, either, and with desperate fingers moving to his boxers frantically you beg, “Mingi, please, inside, wan’it-“

He groans, long and broken, rings biting into your skin when he grips your hips and pulls you down hard against him, “Yeah, want it inside, my girl? Can you take it for me?”

My girl. Your head spins, your hands scrambling for purchase against the sheets, his arms, anything, finally gripping wet strands and tugging. Mingi whines this time, too high pitched to be normal, and you struggle to direct his attention to you until his fingertips curl around the waistband of your panties and pull down. He yanks them off your ankle, your leg hanging in the air when he moves back over you and thrusts down again, into your newly exposed cunt, wet and wanting.

“Answer me,” He’s determined, rocking against you so steadily you’re worried you might cum from just this, “can you? Tell me you want me to fuck you, baby, please, tell me- tell me you can take it.”

“I can t-take it,” you cry out without a beat, and he nods, meeting your lips again, “inside, inside-“

It seems to work to convince him, and he leans back on muscled thighs. You take him in, the broad expanse of his shoulders and the way he tapers in at the waist, down to the beginning of his Calvin boxers. 

He pulls up the fabric of his tank top just enough to let you see it, the beginning of his happy trail, and it’s never gone this far before. You pull yourself up onto your elbows, excited but nerves going haywire, spread eagle and naked from the waist down, and he finally starts to pull at the waistband. 

Down, down, and the smattering of hair at his base has you gasping, toes curling where your legs lay relaxed over his, and you see the base, and then-

You wake up with shorts so wet that you know you’ve orgasmed in your sleep, and now you’re certain it’s gone too far.

Without needing to make yourself cum like every other morning one of these vivid dreams occurred, you have a clear head and can only think that something has got to give. Looking back on what your friends said last night, it feels right that you and Mingi should talk today, completely sober and with clear judgement. It’s probably the best move. 

You’d be embarrassed of your behaviour if you didn’t know that Wooyoung and San loved you no matter what, and also they know better than anyone that Song Mingi has been giving you a tough fucking time.

Although the idea has your stomach twisting a little with anxiety, it’s time to be brave, and you roll over to grab your phone… only to see that Mingi has had the exact same idea. 

[9:13am] mingi: hey, we should talk. should i come over?

You blink at the text. Sighing, groaning, and sighing again, it’s obvious you have to reply - it was only sent a half hour ago - so you send a quick okay and crawl out of bed. You’re hungover, sure, with a soft pain in the back of your head but the determination takes over anything else you feel. 

Everything feels a little melancholic as you walk around, back hunched over, but you have to know even if it hurts you. You do not want to go another day with any uncertainty. 

It only takes fifteen minutes for a knock at your door to sound. It’s given you time to get yourself ready, in another cute loungewear set with simple makeup and hair just barely brushed, and when you open the door Mingi looks worse than you feel. 

He’s dressed a lot more casually than normal, beanie pulled over his head tight and jumper oversized and hanging off of his frame. A fleeting thought asks you how big it’d be on you, and you shake your head, forcing it out of your brain. When you don’t say anything, he awkwardly tugs at his tote bag on his shoulder, pulling at the bottom of his beanie like he’s got too much energy in his body and doesn’t know what to do with it.

He looks so cosy and domestic that you think that you might just burst into tears in his face.

“It’s nice to see you,” your voice warbles, and Mingi scratches his neck awkwardly, pre-roll in his other hand. That tells you all you need to know. “Should we go to my room?”

“Yeah, I think that’s best,” He sighs, looking more nervous than you’ve ever seen him and you groan internally. He’s normally the picture of confidence, save for the few times you two have… well, you still don’t know. 

This is going to end worse than you thought it would, you think, perhaps even getting to the point where you can’t even be friends anymore. Still, Wooyoung made you swear you’d be honest to the man, and you try not to break promises, especially not when it’s one of your best friends.

Leading him up the stairs, you take him to your room, and he falls on the bed like it’s his own, pulling that same teddy he likes onto his lap, running a hand over his face in exasperation. When he pulls his beanie off, his hair springs up fluffy and brown and cute, and all you can do is hand him the ashtray wordlessly so that you don’t scream. 

He pulls out the same pink lighter you saw him have last time, burning the end of the joint’s paper off and waiting for it to level. You’re not expecting him to speak yet, settling on your bed across from him with your knees pulled up, picking at a loose thread to avoid staring at him, but he swallows hard and sighs.

“I shouldn’t have kissed you yesterday,” he says, and your heart drops. “I’m sorry. I should’ve- I should’ve talked to you first, explained how I feel. It’s been killing me. I especially shouldn’t have kissed you when we were both so drunk, but I-”

“I clearly enjoyed it as much as you,” Honesty, and you try to smile, but it doesn’t reach your ears. Mingi eyes you like he knows, taking the first drag of the joint. “It’s okay. I understand, it was just a drunken kiss and it’s not-”

“What?” Mingi laughs incredulously, “is that really what you think? Do you think I kiss people like that normally?”

You falter. Well, no, you’d hope not, but you hadn’t really had anything to go by.

A longer drag, and he eyes you again, before it seems to dawn on him and his lips curl up in amusement. His tongue drags over his teeth, eyes looking you up and down. Fuck. “You really have no idea, do you?” He hands it to you, leaning back on his hands on the bed, “I’m obsessed with you. Why do you think I asked to tutor you? I mean, no offence, but you were kind of a-”

“A lost cause, yeah, I know,” you inhale. Then, it clicks in your brain, and you blink at him. “Sorry, you’re obsessed with me?”

“For as long as I can remember,” honest, frank, straight. Your head spins, but you inhale a little more, trying to formulate your thoughts better. “Since before we even spoke. I thought that’s why the guys brought you to my party in the first place.”

Hold on. You ash the joint, handing the ashtray and the smoking stick back to Mingi, “Wooyoung and San knew?”

He shrugs. His cheeks are pink, from nerves or the weed you don’t know, but he carries on speaking like he needs to get it all out in one go or he never will. His eyes avert from you, fiddling with the long drawstrings of his sweatpants, “I don’t know about them. Hongjoong and Yunho knew, that’s why they were acting so fuckin’ weird.” He chuckles breathlessly. “Trying to sell me out, honestly, and this whole thing has been so embarrassing. I tried so hard to get close to you and then- then I fucked it up by not being able to tell you how I feel. I’m not very good at that.”

It makes you pause. Mingi, all along, has been going through somewhat of a similar dilemma as you - and suddenly everything makes sense. The banana milk, the studying, the way he spoke to you at the first party, the way he’s been speaking to you - you’re talking before you even realise you are. 

Honesty, Wooyoung said. You’ll stick to that.

“Mingi, this is going to sound crazy, but I’ve had a lot of these really frequent, vivid dreams about you in the past month or so,” you say, breathless, “some before we even started talking to each other."

As soon as it comes out of your mouth, you feel like dying. Mingi doesn’t stop smoking though. He even smokes more, inhaling longer, nodding with every word you say before he finally seems to process it. The flush seems to extend down to his neck, and he yanks at his jumper, pulling at the collar to get air - once the joint’s in your hold, he clears his throat, gulps a few mouthfuls of water down from a bottle he pulls from his tote bag. “I- That’s good to know. Normal dreams, or dirty?”

He’s… okay with it? He’s actually being way more casual about this than you thought he would be. This is the same guy that gets freaked out when he thinks about the concept of demons. You finish the joint and snuff it out, discarding the ashtray to your bedside table.

“A bit of both. Mostly dirty, but like, we were together in them. A little domestic,” You admit. He cracks a grin, showing those teeth that you fell for, and you can’t help but smile back. It is a little funny. A little crazy too, though. “You don’t think it’s weird?”

Mingi shrugs. “Not really, it’s not your fault. You must’ve just had a crush on me too. You know we don’t choose our dreams? Scientists say it’s just stuff from our subconscious, I read about it online.”

No way. You blink. You blink again, and he’s still there in your room sitting with you, the guy from your dreams, grinning crookedly and looking ever so delighted with himself. 

“Or,” He coughs. “It could have been the lines I was writing trying to manifest you in my life. Maybe it worked.”

“Mingi… that’s fucking crazy.”

He swallows hard. His eyes are a little red from the weed, but the flush on his cheeks is from solely nerves now, you know. “Well, I had to do something from a distance. You’re hard to approach - y’know, you seem shy - but you’re really cool. And so fuckin’ pretty, you must know that, right?” He huffs out a quiet laugh, embarrassed, “I’ve definitely had dreams about you, too.”

“It’s not shy,” You say softly. “I’m just awkward.”

There’s something fragile in the way he’s positioned now, something you haven’t seen in Mingi yet - something hopeful but hesitant, like he’s worried he’ll scare you off any second - it’s different to last night with no confidence from his rum. When his brows lift, eyes flickering with uncertainty because you haven’t said enough yet, you realise that you never ever want to be the reason he doubts himself again. 

“Mingi,” you say, steady even though your heart is racing, “I think I’ve been obsessed with you for a long time. Like, a long time. After this, you never have to doubt that.” You inhale, “Not having you was killing me. The dreams felt so real, and I fell for you so quickly but the way you acted around me… It was so up and down. I didn’t know if you felt anything at all, or if it was-“

He’s moving mid sentence to meet your lips with his, decisive and a little desperate. He tastes like weed and Mingi, enticing, and you melt into it, following his mouth without thinking - how did you hold yourself back from jumping him last night, when he’s real, here, in front of you? 

His lips are buttery, grounding against yours, and when you reach out to touch his arms he finally exhales and pulls you closer, yanking you onto his lap on your bed with his hands at your waist.

He mumbles against your mouth, words stumbling out between breaths, “I tried- I did try to tell you how I felt, I just- fuck, I don’t know how to-“

“I know,” You manage, and this time you really do. Two people circling each other, both too excited, too unsure, mistaking intensity for indifference. “I thought… I thought you just wanted something physical after last night, maybe, I didn’t know.”

“God, no,” He chuckles, throwing his head back for a second with closed eyes. “I just get so excited I don’t shut up, and none of what I say ever comes out right.“

“I understand,” Your hand strokes over his hair. It’s said with purpose this time - you really mean it. With Mingi, it was never fear; it’s excitement, pure and unfiltered, knocking everything else out of order, and now that he has permission to show it he can’t stop himself.

The kisses he lays on your neck prove it to you that this is possible, you and him. It’s possible and it’s happening right now, your thighs clenching around his and hands moving to roam down his body, over his broad shoulders and firm chest as he sucks on your neck. 

“Fuck,” Mingi breathes. “I feel like I’m dreaming. You’re unreal, baby.”

“I’m right here,” You laugh, because it’s insane he would say that to you, knowing that his mere presence has you feeling like you’re away with the fairies and has been for a while now. “I’m right here, Min, fuck, do you wanna- get this off, please-“

He pulls back and tugs his oversized jumper off by the back of the neck, launching it somewhere in the room and leaning back for you to follow his body - you do, chasing his heat, but with your eyes down. The removal exposed planes of tan skin, muscles that rival the ones you’d fantasised about. It’s soft to touch too, satin under your fingers as you slide your fingers down the muscles of his tummy.

“Pretty,” You murmur, and he shivers under your touch, breath hitching. “You are. I’ve- I’ve thought about how you look, but this is even better, Min.”

“Oh, baby,” He moans at your words, hands sliding under your shirt and onto your skin. He gives you a hesitant look, and you nod, before he’s sliding them upwards and cupping your breasts over your bra. He lets them sit in his hands for a bit, kissing over your jaw again before he slides his fingers underneath the lace. They’re a little cold, and when his fingertips hit your nipples you shiver, further collapsing into his hold, but he takes your weight easily. “So good, fuck, they feel so- can I- can you take your shirt off? I want to see.”

You pull it off over your head quickly, baring your bralette and Mingi’s palms situated under the fabric, and he moans, quickly sliding his hands out to look at them. He exhales, eyes fixated as he starts to pull at your nipples, and you don’t know if you’re just sensitive or if it’s because it’s him, but your spine arches into him with a gentle noise. 

“Fuck, so pretty, so pretty. Like that, that’s okay?” He murmurs, and you nod eagerly, making him pinch them again, on the line between pleasure and pain, “tell me more about your dreams. What was I like?”

His fingers flick over the nubs until they yank at the lace, hard and swollen, and he pulls your bralette over your head, leaving you naked from the waist up. You gasp when his head ducks down, sucking one of your nipples into his mouth, your hand going to dark strands to keep him there - but you remember he asked you something.

“You… talked a lot,” you admit, embarrassed but he hums around your nipple, encouraging. You whimper and continue, writhing, “You were nice, but- dirty. Pervy. Am I- was I right?”

Mingi pops off your bud. “Well, your dreams sound a lot more innocent than mine,” he grins easily, lips slick and cheeks pink, “I had you bent over my desk with one of my songs playing. So yeah, I guess I am a pervert.”

It shocks you so bad that you don’t make a noise when he moves you, pushing you back on his dark bedsheets and moving over your body. He’s so big above you, just like you imagined, using one strong arm for support and leaning down to kiss you filthy again. 

He tangles his tongue with yours again as he fiddles with the button of your jeans, eventually managing to flick it open and tug the zipper down. You wrestle out of the denim underneath him, giggling when it gets caught at your knees; Mingi lets out an amused huff, smoothing your hair down like he did in the library, fond. 

Eventually, you’re left in your underwear wanting him to strip, too, but he pushes your legs apart. “This- this is okay?” He asks again, against your lips, and moans when you nod, “I didn’t want to last night, when we’d been drinking. I wanted it to be special, baby, I-“

“I know,” you say, kissing his cheeks, his nose, his forehead, landing on his lips when his skin begins to heat in embarrassment, “but I think if you don’t fuck me soon I might die.”

“We’re not drunk now,” his breath is impatient, heavy, and his spare hand moves down to brush against your panties, where the cotton is slick between your legs, “I’m high as hell though, and this pussy feels wet. G’na let me touch it?”

Fuck. Your head spins, like the high is returning but stronger because it’s Mingi; you’re finally here, beneath him, his to touch, his to hold. “You can touch it,” you heave, “I wanna touch you too. Please, I think about it so much, I wanna- wanna see it.”

Mingi’s face crumbles in a desperate noise, but he doesn’t move from his position, kissing you again like he can’t get enough of it.

When he speaks, you can hear him holding back, voice strained, “Not yet, baby. Let me taste it first, yeah? Then you can, I promise.”

“Okay,” you breathe against him, squirming when he rubs his fingertips over your panties, right where your clit is. He feels the pudge and brings his thumb down over it a few times, firm, and you let out a strangled whine. You hope San and Wooyoung are out, but you didn’t even bother checking the house before you let your man in. Your man - your breath stutters, and all of a sudden you’ve stopped caring. “Okay, fuck, please Mingi, want you, touch me properly-”

His fingers hook into your panties and yank them down your legs. Your legs rest over his, relaxed, toes curling into his thighs when you’re finally exposed to him. Despite the insecurity biting at your gut again from being so bare and vulnerable in front of him, he quells it quickly, wiggling down the bed onto his chest to examine you closely.

“Look at that, doll, so fucking wet,” He murmurs, thumbs coming up to spread your folds. They stick together with your arousal, something you’d be embarrassed about if he didn’t moan so loud at the sight, plush lips parting and eyebrows knitting together. “Fuck. G’na eat it now, ‘kay? If you need me to stop just-”

You force him into your pussy by his hair, and he moans at the first taste. His fat tongue swipes through your folds, impatient, and he licks up to flick it over the pudge of your clit, spreading your arousal everywhere. It’s so sensitive that you whimper and writhe underneath him, but he doesn’t seem swayed, burying his face into your cunt and making out with it viscerally, messy, claiming.

It’s just like your dream - except better. He’s pulling you down by your hips, rings biting into your skin, whining into your folds but he’s messier - he sucks all of your arousal into his mouth and spits it back on your pussy just to lick it up again. Your pussy is clinging to his lips by strings of sticky arousal and he flicks his tongue over your clit to hear you moan loudly, incomprehensible. 

“You’re- how are you so fucking good at this, fuck, please, more-”

“Told you, I’ve been thinking about it for a while,” he states matter of factly, lips brushing against you, and you can see your slick has spread all over his chin, up to his nose. He doesn’t look bothered - he looks like he enjoys it, voice slurred, eyes half lidded, tongue licking over his lips, down to his chin. “This pussy’s fucking pretty. Tasty, too. I’m gonna have to eat her all the time, okay?”

He rubs over your clit, looking up at you expectantly. He’s waiting for a response, but you can’t focus, legs twitching at the stimulation. “F-uck, Mingi-“

“Mm, what do you say, baby?” He says, voice lower, and you keen. He chuckles in disbelief, shaking his head, rubbing a little faster, your pussy making an embarrassing wet noise with his movements. “Are you gonna let daddy come and eat her whenever he wants?”

“Oh my god, oh my god,” you babble, squirming, desperate for him to eat you again and he’s still fucking laughing at you, eyes full of admiration. “Yes, pleasepleaseplease daddy, you can eat it whenever- whenever you want!”

“Good giiiirl,” He hums, diving back in again. He’s just as vigorous and you’re panting, making way too much noise, gripping and tugging at his hair and bucking into his mouth when he groans in delight at the pain. 

“Haa, fuck, Mingi- baby, baby, ‘s so good-“

He slides his fingers inside, past the resistance of your hole, curling them up instantly. It’s a stretch so quickly but feels so good, you squeal, humping your hips down onto him. He’s trying to find your g-spot, and it only takes a moment of prodding and pressing for you to make an incoherent noise, hips bucking. He taps a few times, teasing it, and you can’t shut up, gripping the pillow, eyes crossing in pleasure. “Noisy girl. Cunt’s fucking noisy too, talkin’ to me. Can you hear that? She’s telling me I own her now.”

“Mingi- f-fuck, you can’t say-“

“What? Don’t you like daddy talking to you?” He’s suddenly over you again, wet mouth forming a lazy grin. His fingers still pump into you and you reach to grab at his wrist, silver bracelets jingling with his movements. Your eyes water, hips grinding a rhythm into him. “I think you do, ‘cause you’re made for me, aren’t you? Fuckin’ unreal,” he hisses, looking down at where your cunt leaks down his skin, “this hole clenches around me when I talk, askin’ me for more. My hole, yeah?”

“Can’t- can’t be yours if you haven’t fucked it-“

“Shush, pretty, don’t be cheeky,” His tone is firm, but he kisses against your lips with affection. “Gonna fuck it. Gonna fuck it so many times it remembers the shape of my cock and can’t cum on anything else, but I want you to cum like this for me first. Can you?”

You’re nodding before he finishes, riding his fingers, and his thick thumb reaches up to flick over your clit. “I can, fuck, daddy, I can!”

“Yeah, moan my fucking name as you cum, there’s a good girl,” He kisses you again, dirtier this time, swallowing your moans with wet lips. You can taste yourself, and it’s that which does you in, Mingi pulling away just quick enough to hear the broken whine of his name that falls from your mouth. He groans back at you, rubbing your clit slower through your orgasm to drag it out, fingers curling to let you feel the shocks from your special spot just once more. 

He’s too good. It’s like he knows your body already and you can’t understand it, but you let yourself cream and gush on his fingers with many babbled words and strangled noises until you’re eventually done. You think you see his fingers stick together when he pulls them out but he sucks them clean quick enough, offering you a crooked, toothy smile as if he just couldn’t help himself when you let out a shaky breath at the sight. He rolls off of you onto his side, leaning his head on his hand all satisfied.

“How was that?” He asks, cute as ever, and you think you see him fucking blushing. He’s so good, and fuck, he’s yours now. “Was it like your dreams?” 

Your chest is still heaving, but you lean over to give him a kiss in response. His hand smooths over your lower tummy and you swoon, too happy, too desperate all over again despite the fact his fingers have just been all over and inside your pussy. “Mm, it looked intense, I liked doing that to you,” He’s getting excited again too - you think you can tell now, when his voice starts to pick up, airy, “you’re so fucking pretty, look so sexy when you cum, I just wanna-”

Furrowing your eyebrows, you glance down to his sweatpants. Mingi is definitely still hard, although there’s a small wet patch on his clothed bulge that you think he’s created without realising and fuck, your pussy is throbbing again. You can see how big he is through the clothes, much bigger than you ever thought, ever dreamed of, and it must be aching. “Let’s do more. I wanna do more with you.”

Mingi definitely blushes now, but he’s climbing on top of you again with that look in his eyes again. “Yeah? I want to do more too, you’re so gorgeous when you cum. Do you think you can you do that on my cock?”

He’s a little impatient, pushing his sweatpants down with one hand and leaning above you with his other. You try to look down but he tuts at you, making you look back at his face straight away, and you link your arms over his shoulders. “Um- maybe? I’ll try, shit.”

“Think you will,” He kicks his bottoms off and wriggles out of his boxers, too, and when you look again he doesn’t stop you. He even leans back to make sure your view isn’t obscured. Desperate, you assume, but shit it is big. 

His muscled arm swings as he jerks it back to full hardness leisurely, and you were right, it leaks heavily in his palm. The lubrication adds to the sensation and he lets out a sigh. His cock is long but thick too, and there’s a smattering of dark hair at his base that makes you want to press your nose into it and inhale as you deepthroat him. You’re quickly distracted, though, because he shuffles forward and positions his cockhead at your hole. It tries to suck him in already, gummy and wet and pliant after your orgasm. 

He pecks your lips again, addicted, nuzzling you with his sharp nose. He looks so pretty on top of you, plush lips pillowing over your cheeks and your chin and your nose, his black hair tickling your forehead. Your belly burns - you don’t think you’ve ever wanted anything this bad, and you’ve known that a while, but it’s real now, happening, not a dream although it still feels like one.

His tip catches in your folds again, and you feel him shiver on top of you but he doesn’t stop looking at you, kissing you again, over and over before he speaks hoarsely, “Condom?” 

You shake your head. No fucking way. You’re on the pill for health reasons, and you’ll be damned if you’re having anything between you and this man when you’ve finally gotten hold of him. “Raw, please, I’m on the pill, wanna- wanna feel you, all of it.”

“Shit, you are a fucking dream, baby,” he groans, finally, finally swiping his cock through your folds. You think he’s finally going to put it in but he uses your arousal to slick his cock, letting you feel the pressure of it against you. “Think it’ll fit? You’re- baby, you’re so fucking tiny down here, could barely get my fingers in- oh shit, trying to suck me in.”

You try to squirm, but he’s so overpowering you can barely move underneath him. There’s a burning feeling in your tummy like you need it or you’ll die, and he’s still playing with you. He swipes his cock through your folds over and over, watching the way his tip disappears a little into the slick mess. You can’t help it - “Mingi, please put it in!”

“Fuck, ‘m so sorry, baby,” He grunts, sounding like he isn’t the least bit sorry, repositioning himself on his knees so that he’s more comfortable. You see him pull at his cock, moving the foreskin down to expose the tip, leaking pearly precum that makes your mouth water, “‘s too fucking pretty, all creamy like that, hadta play a bit. Gonna take it all for me now? It’s not gonna be too big?”

“Mingi, please- please, I’ve thought about this for so long, just- please, oh my god- oh, oh-“

You’re cut off by the deep, gravelly groan he lets out as he finally pushes inside. It slides in easily from how soaked you are, but it’s still a stretch, so thick and hard that your pussy throbs and tries to gush around him, begging for more.

“Please,” you gasp wetly, and he gives you the first inch. It’s barely anything, not compared to the whole size of him, but you moan and he grins in satisfaction. His tongue licks over his teeth as he slowly starts to fuck the first inch in and out, over and over until you start to shake, hands scrabbling for his hips to push him further inside. “Please, Mingi, daddy, I want more, all of it, give it to me-“

He grunts, sliding all of his length home as he pushes your thighs further apart, letting the pits of your knees rest on his elbows. It’s then that he begins a sinuous grind, hips steadily rolling against your ass, jiggling the flesh upon impact. Your bed is creaking with his steady movements, a thud every second that has you worried your housemates can hear you but well, you decided a while ago that you were over that.

“That’s w-what you needed, yeah?” He coos, voice shaky from the way your pussy is clenching around him. Every time his hips roll backwards, your hole grips and clings as if you can’t bear to have him pull out, so Mingi shortens his thrusts - quick, deep bursts that almost pain your cervix when he hits it. It feels too good to hurt though, and you can’t help but push against his tummy, overwhelmed with sensation. He catches your hands, pinning them above your head and grinding his pubic bone against your clit. “I know, ‘s so good, just- baby, f-feel it, feel it. Gonna feel it for the rest of your life. Yours now.”

You feel dizzy. It’s so good, and he’s right - this is all yours now, finally, after everything. 

Mingi quickens his thrusts, hitting right where you need him to. His shoulders catch your attention, broad and rippling with exertion as he holds himself above you, wet, hot pants spilling from his lips with every movement and you can’t help yourself, you feel so full your eyes start to water. He’s throbbing inside of you, desperate to split you open with his teeth biting into his lower lip as he gazes down at where you’re connected. Your pussy drools, slicking up to your mound and over his pubes, up to his happy trail.

“S-so fuckin’ tight, so wet, so warm,” His voice breaks, palm moving to your lower stomach to keep you steady. It quivers under his touch, but he doesn’t notice, thinking solely with his dick. “Wanted to fuck you so bad. Fuck, I’ve wanted this for so long, feels too good, p-please, baby, I gotta fuck you harder-”

“You can, please, please,” You gasp when he does, shifting his knees to balance himself. His hips start move against you steadier, harder, cock pistoning into your pussy, abs rippling as he grinds himself inside of you. It’s everything you dreamed of and more, and it’s almost too much, too full, too big - you can’t help but whimper and scramble at his shoulders, squealing when he starts to rub over your clit in rhythm with his thrusts. It’s so swollen, so sensitive that you squeal as he makes contact, cheeks burning as your back arches into him - you’ve been waiting so long for this, and it’s ruining you, every thrust taking you apart and putting you back together again. 

Mingi’s just as affected. He drools wetly onto your bare shoulder, wrapping one arm around the small of your back and letting the other hand move to cup your breast. He’s flushed, warm and rutting into you like a mindless animal, but the whines falling from his lips are nothing but grateful. “H-How does it feel, baby, is it as good as you imagined?”

“Better,” you hiccup, because it is, “fu-uck, Mingi, so much better, s-so deep!”

“Yeah, pussy’s t-too fucking good,” He cups your head with his hand, pulling your body upright so he’s essentially holding you off the bed to fuck you. He can go harder like this, and you feel his balls slapping against your ass, lips drooling messily on your shoulder while he talks. You don’t think he could be quiet if he tried, and you can’t believe your brain got this so right. “So fuckin- warm, tighttighttight, I could fuckin’ bust now,” he babbles, “feels so good to fuck you open finally, thought about it- s-so much-“

“Baby, oh my god, ‘s so good,” you mewl, hands moving to his chest, cupping the ample flesh and scratching down further, leaving red lines in their wake. It only makes Mingi fuck you harder, thighs trembling as he drives into you over and over, and you realise he’s right - you are gonna cum around his cock, too soon to be acceptable. “Feels- you’re perfect, I can’t, I’ll- it’s so good I’ll cum, I-”

“Oh, honey,” Mingi groans, long and drawn out, “i-it’s okay, you can cum for me. I want you to cum as m-much as you can, okay?” he kisses you, messy and wet against your cheek, “as much as that little pussy lets you, soak my dick over ‘n over, please, baby.”

You hump yourself onto him, managing to push yourself over his shaft and he lets you, lets you fuck your hole on his thick length until you feel it starting to build, too fast, too sudden, too perfect. He holds you close, ruts into you just enough to abuse his cockhead against that spot inside of you and it doesn’t take much, only a few grinds over him until you’re shaking apart.

“That’s it, oh, good girl, my girl, all mine, so pretty,” Mingi babbles through it, and at the crest of your orgasm your lips part in a sharp noise. Your moan is strangled, almost pained, and he moans right back at you, moving one thumb down to your clit to rub over it and extend your orgasm as long as he can. Your walls flutter around him, gummy and soft and gushing so wet down to his balls that he can’t help the way he rocks forward, chasing the wetness - he only causes you to leak more, cumming so long that your pussy starts to force him out; he presses his hips hard against yours to keep himself inside.

“A-Ah, I,” you cry, unsure, still stuttering with the remnants of it, “so good, I- thank you, daddy.”

Mingi gasps, plush lips parting, cock throbbing inside you. “don’t fucking- don’t say that, I almost came,” all of a sudden, he pulls out, gripping his cock at the base to stave off his own orgasm. You see how slick his shaft is, drenched with your arousal and it looks so dirty, white cream moistening his tan skin and contouring the veins with wet mess. As if it catches his attention, he looks down too, groaning at the sight of your release before his eyes move to your body, raking down you unabashedly. You can’t fucking believe this. Was he always this obvious? “Fuck, I… baby, can I have you on your hands and knees? Always wanted-”

You’re moving before he can finish, shaky limbs pushing your body up to your hands and knees. Your back forms an arch that he runs his hand down with a noise of appreciation, and then you hear the sheets rustle where he walks on his knees towards you, impatient. 

“Good girl,” he mumbles, smoothing down the curve of your spine and down to your ass, where he seems to hesitate before he lands one firm slap. The flesh ripples as you cry out, but you don’t run from him - instead, you’re bucking back for more, and Mingi pushes his dick back through your folds once again. “Thought of this s-so much. Your ass, you grinding back on me, tellin’ me- tellin’ me how it feels. Thought of you too fucking much to be normal, baby, thought I was going insane.”

“Mm, Mingi,” you shake your hips, distracted, trying to entice him, and it works. His noise is almost pained, eyes fixated down on where your ass perks up in the air, and he’s sliding back in in one quick thrust. It’s deeper like this, and he hits your cervix almost immediately - this time he doesn’t wait, hips hitting your ass consistently. The headboard thuds against the wall again, too loud and steady to be anything else, incriminating.

Mingi hisses and pulls out right to the tip, “P-please, baby. Shake it on me, like I said, shake it for daddy, good girl.”

Perhaps you’re too obedient but he’s engrossed by it, cock throbbing inside you. You start to grind your hips before you can be embarrassed, moving yourself up and down on his shaft in such a slick slide your chest hits the mattress, hands forming fists on your sheets. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you gasp, scrambling for dear life - has anything ever felt this good outside of those damn dreams? You knew it, knew it had to be him, knew it was always gonna be him - “feels so good, please, please-”

Mingi gasps, hand coming to grip your hips, moving you against him, “You’re unreal. Fucking- oh my god, that’s it, just like that. My girl, my f-fucking dream, god, let me-“

He takes over. You’re thankful for it, because you’ve never felt anything so thick and long and veiny and so fucking perfect inside you - it’s like he’s made for you, carving his ridges and curves into your walls until you couldn’t possibly think of anything else. You’re glad you’re his now, because it’d be impossible to be anyone else’s, to even try to be after he’s given you a taste of what you could have. 

Mingi’s ravenous. Hands come to push you down, like he’s realised he can be rougher, and you’re forced fully onto your front before his teeth bite at your neck. His hips slap into you, sloppy, uneven, size forcing the cream you’ve created to form a ring around his base, and he whines at the wetness. 

“G’na cum, can’t hold it,” He murmurs, hands wrapping around your shoulders for purchase, pulling you back into him. “Can you- f’me, another- fuckin’ give it to me, girl, all for your man.”

His finger and thumb come to roll your clit, and you’re done for. Combined with the feeling of him aching so heavily inside of you you can do nothing more but babble nonsensically, eyes crossing and cunt clenching around him so deliciously that he roars, pressing deep. Bites turn into kisses, softer as he gets closer and he tries to keep the pace the best he can but it’s unnecessary; just feeling his weight on you, his skin, his chest against your front triggers your orgasm, and one hand shoots down to hold Mingi’s wrist right over your bud.

“That’s it, f-fuck, I can feel it,” He gasps, knees scrambling on the bed to get closer to you. He pushes deep once, twice more and then with a sharp whine you feel him too, the head of his fat cock erupting and filling you with more than enough proof that he likes you back.

“Mngh- it’s- fucking deep, I-“ You choke, and Mingi shushes you, voice shaky, pulling your hips back to get it even deeper as he pumps you full, breaths stuttering. Something awful flashes through your brain, something domestic and too serious but it makes your cunt throb, gummy and soothing around his shaft as he empties himself. 

Mingi chuckles, kissing the slope of your shoulder. “Maybe it’ll take, h-huh? Claim you properly. Will you believe it’s real then?”

“J-Jesus,” you stutter, squirming - how did he read your mind like that? - and he laughs again, finally coaxing his softening cock out of your hole. It feels stretched, and you know it is when he groans, elongated, thumb rubbing over the slick opening.

“Could fuck you again looking at that,” He muses, and you wriggle your hips, tempted - he huffs and gives you another smack, this time on your thigh, admonishing you. “Behave. We’ll have a spliff and we’ll go again.”

You roll over on your back, deflated, finally seeing him. He sits next to you on the bed, skin flushed, eyes half lidded. He’s just as fucked out as you but somehow more composed, eyeing you like he wants to laugh but he knows he can’t as he’s not much better.

“Weed and then more sex,” Your hand reaches up to smooth over his cheek, and his eyes flutter shut, a smile pulling at his lips until he falls into you again. Limbs intertwined, you peck at his nose again. “Where have you been all my life?”

“Buying you banana milk and trying to be normal around you, actually.”

“Right, yeah,” You giggle, and he plasters himself to you closer. You’re both sticky and exhausted but it’s comfortable, the heat satiating rather than stifling. Nails trailing up his arm, he shivers, and you watch the goosebumps form - real. It’s real. “We have a lot of making up to do. We could’ve been doing this a while ago.”

Mingi’s eyes open, glinting. “You’re not leaving this room until it stinks, baby.”

“Okay, disgusting,” You shove at him, and he’s amused, finally rolling away to put some clothes on with a shake to his shoulders. Watching him as he moves, sitting on the edge of your bed, you’re unashamed this time - he’s yours to look at - and you hum as his back muscles flex, reaching down to pull his discarded boxers back up. When he stands, you see his thighs tense, and well, that ass… your eyes want to water. How lucky can one girl be?

Mingi stretches his arms above his head and turns to you, making you avert your eyes promptly to the blanket beneath you. “Pervert, I saw that. But, hey, are Wooyoung and San still in?”

You yawn, shrugging, finally reaching over for your own clothes. “Honestly, no idea. Stopped caring.”

“They can thank us for the show, and the many more to come,” Mingi grins, cocky, and you roll your eyes like you aren’t obsessed with him. With that, your phone starts to ping on your bedside table, three tones one after another, and you furrow your eyebrows. It’s quick throwing your clothes on before you check - a fresh pair of panties and a tee as your last pair of panties were ruined - and when you pick your phone up, he sidles in behind you, wrapping his arms around your middle and kissing over your neck.

Nosy ass, you think, but you open your phone with a satisfied little smile, before it promptly falls at seeing that it’s your house group chat.

[2:13pm] wooyo: definitely still in baby

[2:14pm] sannie: Told you he’s a nice guy

[2:14pm] sannie: Do u guys want anything btw we’re ordering food

You splutter. “Oh my god-“

“How kind of him,” Mingi coos. “I think San’s nice too.”

“Mingi,” You scowl, but he doesn’t flinch, and when he plants a sloppy kiss on your cheek you can’t help but smile. “You know that’s not the point!”

“Oh, right. Ask him to get me some chicken. He knows what I like.”

“That’s still-”

“Baaaaby. Chicken, please.”

“Fine.”

if you got this far hi, thank you, this is the longest oneshot i've ever posted ever <3

[linopilled]

OHHHH ITS HERE I JUST SAT UP SO QUICK OMG

[luvs4koo]

stop using ai pics in your fanfics! nobody wants to see that shit when there’s A LOT of REAL pictures that the idols already have. no need to use that fake ai ass generated image of jungkook or whoever tf else i’ve seen authors use ai pics of. it’s a immediate no for me to read if i see any ai picture in a fanfic 🫩🫩

[chandora]

mdni 18+ — bangchan being an eater

honestly, screw him for this. you bring him to your family so he can be introduced to them, and this is how he repays you? by forcing you to hush up your sounds of pleasure in your childhood bedroom?

he’s quite pleased with himself. you can feel his growled laughter against your puffy folds, his pupils wide and blown as he occasionally looks up at you. he flattens his tongue, running it from your spasming hole to your clit before he parts from you. chin dribbling and his plush lips curled into a smile. he’s made you come once, and he doesn’t plan on stopping now.

he loves a good personal record.

you can barely breathe, and he’s tormenting you. taking a delight in it. he sat there during dinner as the perfect spectacle of a man, helping your mother, impressing your father. and now he’s got your sweetness on his tongue like ambrosia. you knew that joke he made at the table about innocent “cream pies” for dessert was too good to be true.

he nudges his nose against your thigh, kissing the junction between your mound and leg crease.

“still with me…? silly girl, letting me eat you out in your cute little room you grew up in...”

you’d throw a curse at him if you had the energy, but his words make something churn delightfully in your stomach. a wanton sound bubbles up in your throat and escapes, making you slap your hand over your lips. his hands are snaked up your shirt, kneading at your breasts in his palms. warm and soft. just like the rest of you.

you did homework on this bed. gossiped to friends about who was doing what, the people you had crushes on. and here he is, the man of your dreams giving you a nice night cap involving his drooling tongue to end the perfect day.

he dives back in with good vigor and an obnoxious slurping sound. why does he get to be loud? with his lips closing around your sensitive bundle of nerves, chan’s own eyes close as your thighs squeeze around his head. it makes his head dizzy and his cock twitch against the mattress. he laps soft, gentle kitten licks, mimicking your whining and mewling back to you before laughing with a rolled out tongue.

“shh… don’t wanna wake up your family…”

chan blows cold air against your folds as you twitch, stifling your hiccuped little moans behind your hand. he grins and nudges your clit with his nose. you smell too good, he wants to burrow his face in you forever.

“slutty pussy… dripping all over your sheets…” and because chan can never degrade you without feeling like a monster if there’s no praise—

“so pretty down here… pretty everywhere… you taste so good, i could eat it for hours. will you let me, baby? let channie love on this pretty cunt all night?”

his hands slide up and down the sides of your torso, and you’re not even sure what he’s saying. your head is spinning, on cloud 9. but you nod, staring up at the glow in the dark stars on your childhood bedroom ceiling.

if you look down at him you swear you’ll come again. the sounds are already too much, his grunts and groans with the wet clicking and squelching every time his tongue laves down on your pussy. he’s painfully throbbing in his boxers. you have that affect on him.

“there she is… letting me do whatever i want… you worked so hard to make tonight go smooth… looked so sexy in your pretty outfit… let me treat my girl…”

chan purses his slick covered, thick lips and kisses your clit. a soft suck to it, drawing back. he can feel sinewy strings of your juices and his saliva connecting his lips to you. he repeats the feverish kisses, his hips rocking against the mattress every time your hips buck and you let out a little soft cry. “yeah? mm? like it when channie kisses your soft pussy? oh, look at you, darling… you must feel so good… precious little thing.”

you babble a slew of moans as he gathers saliva in his own mouth and rolls his tongue out, letting it fall onto your slit with his expression of pinched brows and a begging eyes. oh, he knows what he’s doing.

he flattens his tongue, licking a long, pressured stripe up from your perineum to your suck a kiss onto your throbbing clit with a dramatically drawn out moan of his own. chan repeats it a few more times, making sure the round tip of his nose catches under the hood of your cute little button.

your hole is clenching around nothing, hips writhing a bit. he’s got you, don’t worry. he laps at your folds, shaking his head around and moans at the taste of you once more before drawing back. chan rests his head against your thigh and brings a hand up to play with your pussy while he talks to you, finding it amusing how you gasp for air and try to keep quiet.

“so soft… so wet and warm f’me… you love my tongue, don’t you, baby? mmm… fuck yeah… my tongue loves you too, sweetheart.”

chan rubs three fingers in gentle, petting circles around your folds, making sure his middle finger catches on your clit with sticky sounds at every rounding gesture. he could play with you like a fidget toy all day and never get bored. call you in during studio sessions, he’d feel relaxed just from making you feel good. his mouth waters at how aroused he’s made you. chan’s breathless from both devouring you like a starved man and humping the corner of the bed to relieve himself.

but you haven’t come again yet. he’s been edging you on that peak for a while like a heartless man. in chan’s defense, he thinks he can get you to gush more for him. if it isn’t messy, he didn’t do his job. he loves making you feel good, and he’s obsessed with making you come as hard as possible. it’s his best devotion to you.

“you look exhausted… ‘s okay, you’re okay… so fuckin’ gorgeous like this, fuck me… ‘m gonna… ‘m gonna rock you to sleep… fall asleep full of me…”

all you do is nod, a squeak of a whine. your fucked out expression is all he needs to sit up on his haunches and stare down at you. you’re leaking like a broken faucet all over the sheets, staining them a darker patch under your ass. it’ll be easier to slide into you like that. all pliant and soaked and craving him inside of you—

“actually, baby… you wanna try something new? be my good girl…? you’re gonna sit that pretty pussy on my face.”

—

author’s note: thank you for 500 followers, i can’t believe it! i wanted to write something as a treat in between drafting requests ^-^*

[yestodayys]

✮⋆｡°✩ look at me - song mingi x fem!reader

⋆ ˚｡𖦹 smut mdni, pwp, sleazy perv dom mingi/perv sub reader yestodayys brand, dirty talk, squirting, spitting, facial, cumplay

⋆ ˚｡𖦹 wc 2.5k

⋆ ˚｡𖦹 a/n this is for @maho6any but i’m crazy and not normal because how dare he dress like this. not ok. not acceptable and i wasn't ok with it so i did this. anyway i hope u enjoy it rayne <3

“you look so good,” you breathe. you thought mingi’s grin couldn’t get any bigger, but his head rolls on the back of the couch, his tongue licking over his teeth like he knows he’s got you right where he wants you. you fixate on his face, his white teeth and soft, pillowed lips. he’s so predatory when you look at those dark, slender eyes - they’re looking right back at you through the lenses of some fake glasses that he doesn’t need but knows makes him look good. waiting, you think, because he wants more. you shiver. “fuck, mingi, you- you know you look hot.”

“damn straight,” he chuckles, revelling in it, and his hands move to your hips, fingers and rings forming bruises on your flesh. you’re settled on top of him, your own palms situated on too-broad shoulders to keep yourself steady - he knows you need more than that, so his grip is firm where it lands. “grind a little on your pretty boy, baby, rub that cunt on me.”

you gasp at his words, filthy and blunt like they always are, but your hips start moving without complaint. mingi lets out a deep sigh, plump lips parting, and when his head falls back forward to watch you move, the glasses he’s wearing slip down his tall nose. two of your fingers come to push them back up, and on their way back down to his henley shirt - pulled tight across a muscled chest - he catches them in his mouth, nipping at your fingertips gently. 

“oh- oh,” you whimper, hips stuttering, and he glances up at you through thick lashes and fake glasses, mischief in his eyes, too happy that you’re this fucked up over the sight of him. “y-you’re so pretty, min, fuck!”

your other hand goes to the back of his hair, freshly dyed a dark blue and soft between your fingers when you grab hard; it’s his turn to make a noise, something gravelly and deep that rings from your digits straight through your body, down to your pussy.

the skirt you’re wearing isn’t doing much - mingi’s hands have already been bunched in the fabric and he only pushes it further up now, at your waist like a belt, and your lace panties are the only thing separating your core from his jeans. your hand finally drops from his face, falling at his chest, over that damn henley - he’s hard to the touch, muscled, strong.

“so- you’re so big, so-”

“‘s gettin’ that pussy wet, right?” he’s still fucking smiling, letting those sculpted thighs fall further apart to push up against you. you feel it - his cock, so fat and hard through his jeans because he’s getting off on this, the fact you can’t fucking help yourself around him. “that’s right. keep looking at me, make yourself feel good.”

as if you could look away. he’s so handsome, cheeks starting to flush from you moving on top of him; your eyes dart around to glasses, blue hair, broad shoulders, cheeky smile, pretty eyes - fuck, you can’t focus. your hips start to grind faster, seeking more, heavy little breaths spilling from your mouth in desperation until your patience snaps. 

“p-please, need more, i- i want you to-” you whine on one thrust, when the seam of his jeans brushes against your clit just right, and mingi seems to take pity on you. he coos, smooths down your hair with his hand and pushes you onto your back on the couch. 

like this, looming over you, it’s even worse. those stupid fake glasses slip down his nose again and he uses your cheek to nudge them back up when he kisses you hard, all tongue and teeth. 

his hand comes to the back of your head to keep you steady, cold rings kissing your scalp, and he licks over your own teeth and into your mouth like he’s claiming you. he pulls back, squishes your cheeks between his thumb and finger to keep your mouth open and spits right onto your tongue. the volume of the moan you let out makes his chest vibrate with a laugh.

he moves his attention down to your legs, leaning on his knees like an unleashed beast now that he knows what’s waiting for him, pushing one up to fall over the side of the sofa and the other over the back cushions. he’s spreading you eagle so that he can see the mess he’s made, you realise, still relishing in how fucking much you like him - you love him so bad you’d remind him every hour if it’s what he wanted. 

“fingers first, hm?” he murmurs, gentle but voice so deep your thighs shake where they’re apart. he stares at your panties, at the black lace you know are slick with your arousal just from looking at him, from moving on him so desperately, and the sight has him rubbing the heel of his hand against the bulge in his pants. 

two fingers hook into your panties, just barely pushing them to the side over the meat of your cunt. your folds are soaked, transparent wet slick smeared all the way up to your pubic hair and mingi groans like he’s seen the best meal of his life. 

your head spins too bad with it all to realise that he’s changed his mind until his blue head of hair ducks down and tongues over your hole. as you try to squirm and tighten your thighs around his head, two hands come down firmly to keep you spread for him, and he sucks the arousal out of your hole as it gushes. that sharp, pretty nose bumps against your clit when he pushes his tongue inside, concentrating, and your back arches up away from the couch.

“m-mingi, mingi, mingi-“

he pulls off with a wet noise, running his fat tongue through your folds a few more times. the saliva bubbles up over your clit and he sucks it right off, eyes peering up at you through his glasses and your noises all string together now, a long, nonsensical warble. 

“i’ll be quick,” his voice is hoarse, and he means it - two fingers dip into your hole at once, prodding and pressing inside until your walls give around them, gummy and malleable. you’re so wet from your own mess and his spit that he can force a third one in pretty quickly, but it doesn’t stop it being a lot so soon, your eyes crossing and fingers digging into blue hair. “g’na fuck you now, ‘m just stretching you out. don’t cum.”

you shake your head, crying out when his fingers thrust deeper. it feels impossible when he curls them up a few times, overstimulating you too fast, but it’s just his usual impatience. he wants to get you to stretch a little bit more, and he spits on your hole another time and rubs it in on an outwards thrust for good measure. 

you realise you were going to cum when he pulls away completely, eyes fluttering shut with an anguished noise, but by the time your eyes open again he’s on top of you, looking anything but apologetic, jeans gone and boxers pushed around his knees. his cock leaks as he scrambles onto you, desperate, and you can’t help but smile dazedly, reaching down to rub a thumb over his cockhead.

“fuck me now?” you slur, and he rubs his nose against you.

“mmhm. i love you,” he says, and your heart sings. “i love you so much, and i love that you love me. i’m going to fuck you into the couch now.”

“you’re gonna fuck me into the couch now,” you repeat dumbly, and he chuckles, shaking his head. his fingers come to your cheek, a gentle little love tap that makes your eyes cross, and then he’s positioning his cock at your sodden hole. 

“don’t stop looking at me,” he reminds you, pushing your leg up so your thigh is against your chest. you nod in response, unsure how far he’s going to push you, how much he’s going to bend you for this but you’re going to let him regardless, and he knows that. one hand comes to the pillows beneath you, right next to your head, and you’re forced to look at him, so close you can see the beauty spots on his face, his cheekbones and his jaw, where it drops slightly to let out a gasp at the feeling of your folds. “good, that’s it, sweet girl. look so pretty when you’re easy for me.”

“a-always easy,” you whine, and he hums, giving you the first inch or two. he’s always a stretch, wide mushroom head forcing your pussy to open even after his thick fingers have stretched you out; you make another noise, loud and strangled. “fu-uck, it’s- ah, it’s so-”

“‘s not deep enough, is it?” he coos, like he knows exactly what you want. you were going to say it’s so big, it’s so much, it’s too much even, but he’s got his mind set on something. “mm, i know what you want, baby, let me fuck you right.”

you let out a squeal when he pushes both of your legs back. you know he knows what you were really going to say, but he manhandles you with a face of determination until your knees are resting on his shoulders, over his shirt, bared fully open with half of a fat cock inside of you. 

he drives deeper then, planting his knees on the scratchy fabric of the couch and forcing his cock in down to his balls. the movement forces a gush of slick from your pussy, embarrassing and messy, but mingi groans in delight - he doesn’t let you protest, starting to fuck into you at a slow pace, deep and cruel.

your face screws up in another squeal, head spinning, embarrassed but it’s so deep inside that you think you might die if he stops. you’re not sure he isn’t in your stomach, and his weight pressing on you is intensifying the pleasure, contorting you tight and ensuring he fucks into that spot. it’s starting to affect him too, you can see - his chest flushes a deep pink beneath that damn shirt, sweat begins to bead at his forehead and his hands are frantic where they move. 

eyes fluttering shut, you let out a nonsensical babble, tight and squirming beneath him. mingi’s fingers wrapping around your neck tight make you snap back to reality, eyes shooting comically wide; he’s still fucking you deep but he looks meaner now, something different in his eyes, narrowing and perceiving you.

he huffs, “i told you to fuckin’ look, didn’t i? wanted me so bad, you got me.” 

your feet kick at his back when he presses flat against you, releasing your neck and kissing it sloppy, rutting against what must be your cervix now. the familiar pleasure-pain shoots through you. he likes to do it like this, when he’s feeling particularly mingi - he likes to overwhelm you, make you think nothing but him, remind you that he fucking owns you, that you can’t get this anywhere else and get cuddles afterwards. you’re made for each other.

“s-so mean,” you wail, but mingi shakes his head, snaking his hand between your bodies to rub his knuckles against your clit. it’s barely anything, so slippery and wrecked down there that he just slides around a little, but with the pistoning of his hips it’s enough to make you whine in appreciation. 

“you like it,” he admonishes, “wanted it like this-” his hands come down, spreading your asscheeks where he bullies into you. he’s practically lifting you off the couch, and something about it makes his dick glide in just a little nicer, wetter, and it makes him gasp too. “o-oh, fuck, i love you so much, love you. pretty, so pretty-”

“‘m gonna fuckin’ cum, shitshitshit,” you babble, and he curses, fingers digging into your ass harder. he slips a digit over your asshole, just rubbing over the taint and it’s all it takes - you cum around him messily, cunt spraying liquid over his cock. 

mingi just about manages to fuck you through it. he whines himself, hips stuttering but picking back up with a wince, a staggered little breath falling from his mouth. when he starts to fuck you again you squirt a few more desperate attempts over him and he shakes his head rapidly, pulling out with a tight grip around the base of his length.

“o-on the floor,” he grunts, eyes clenching shut, “fuck, get on the floor, now. eyes on me, tongue out.”

you do as he says, perching on your knees on the hardwood still in the daze of your orgasm, pussy feeling the loss so greatly you might cry. you wonder if he’ll keep going after this, but you’re quickly distracted by him when one hand comes to your head and keeps you still with it. you remember what he said and you look at him, sticking your tongue out dumbly, moaning when his other hand starts to strip his shaft impatiently. 

“gonna cum on your face,” he mumbles, eyes narrowing at you. his chest heaves with it, palm polishing his cockhead on an upwards stroke and forcing his balls to bounce on his downwards. they’re full, heavy and they slap against his thigh when he squirms and thrusts forward; when you cup them in one hand he lets out an ah, ah, ah, and you know what’s coming. 

fingers tighten in your hair and you manage to shut your eyes just before - a few stripes of hot, warm cum paint your face, and mingi grunts so deeply you feel your gut clenching all over again. once he’s finished, he rubs his cockhead against your cheek, smearing the release like he’s marking his territory.

“mm, don’t open your eyes yet,” he’s breathless, and you hear him fiddling with the pocket of his jeans until he finds what he’s looking for. a few more noises, and then you hear it, clear as day - multiple camera shutter sounds, and a pleased little sigh. “gonna make that my fuckin’ wallpaper. fuck, c’mere.”

you’re not expecting him to, but he grips the back of your head and licks his cum of your face himself, feeding it to you with his tongue. it’s all so dirty it has you scrabbling at his thighs, clambering onto his lap like an impatient dog as you chase his mouth and his lips and him. 

more, more, more, you think - you can’t get enough, and mingi’s hands wrap in your skirt again, tugging it fully over your ass this time. 

“i love you,” he murmurs, and you smile, like you’re not starting to grind your cunt on him again. “fuck, i love you, you’re so fucking pretty. god, you know how hot you are, don’t you?”

you giggle against his lips, finally pulling away, pressing a peck against his nose. he’s getting hard again, cock never fully softened, thumbing his half-solid, slick shaft against your thigh to get your attention. 

“damn straight,” you murmur, because you think he’d also remind you every hour if it’s what you wanted. 

[kissyuyu-deactivated20260216]

This. This is not okay. She may be big on tumblr, not the point. It’s the fact that Nina is a fifteen year old who is writing smut AND not listening to mdni spaces and still interacting.

With that, if you follow, like, or even interacted with her. Leave my space/blog immediately. You, as an adult should know better. I strictly do not allow ANY minor, or anyone who engages with a minor near my blog!

[linopilled]

any of the adults defending this & interacting with her are pedophiles. like actually. there's no way to justify the spread of pornography by a minor and willfully engaging with the content. it's actually a crime punishable by law—soliciting a minor! this also allows her to be groomed into very terrifying situations and anybody who says otherwise should really, REALLY be questioned. we HAVE to get this account taken down.

[bimbobarbie4life]

Gonna give a little lesson cause not a lot of people know these things unless they are in spaces where this information is being shared, so I'll just share it here.

VET PEOPLE!

BE AWARE OF RED FLAGS!

DON'T BE AFRAID TO WALK AWAY FROM A SITUATION THAT SEEMS DISADVANTAGEOUS!

KNOW WHAT YOU WANT AND DO NOT SETTLE FOR LESS!

DO NOT LET SOMEONE ELSE DICTATE/NEGOTIATE YOUR BOUNDARIES!

This was one of the first things I learned about in kink when I started researching years ago. People don't always talk about these things, but these are the most important things to know.

Vetting: Vetting is essentially when you are talking with someone you potentially see as a sexual or kink partner. It's like an interview for a job. You are vetting the candidate to see if they are a good fit for you. It has become a bit of a dying practice as kink has become more mainstream. People will rush into things without properly evaluating what they like, what they are looking for in a partner, and if you are compatible. You should be okay asking them questions like:

"have you ever had a sub/dom in the past? what was your experience with that?"

"what kind of sub/dom are you interested in? what kind of dom/sub are you?"

"how do you handle brats?"

"do you have any rules you typically enforce? how do you handle punishments when those rules are broken?"

"what are some things you enjoy? what are your hard limits? what are your soft limits?" ****

**hard limits - things that are complete nos for you that you will not do (for example: body modification, knife play, etc.)

**soft limits - things you are open to trying, but aren't sure if you might like (for example: anal, public sex, etc.)

Fake Doms/Subs: I wouldn't necessarily use the word fake, but more like "toxic." They may be someone who is not well-versed in kink and all of the safety and consent and boundaries that go into it, so they just enforce what they like and disregard anything else. They immediately jump into trying to dominate you or get you to dominate them. They call you a bad dom/sub if you don't comply with what they like. They might be a sub constantly using their safeword to get out of punishments. They might be a dom enforcing punishments for rules they never clearly outlined. They make you feel bad for establishing boundaries, and may even push these boundaries when actively playing, even though you have outlined that you did not like those things prior. They don't believe in aftercare/vetting.**

**I'm sorry (not I'm not), but aftercare is NON-NEGOTIABLE! I believe the same way for vetting, but not everybody is the same on that. Aftercare is universally non-negotiable. They should be able to cuddle you or talk you down from a scene or ask how you're doing, and if there was anything you liked or disliked or might want to try again. Vanilla sex can also involve aftercare.

(Some people don't realize this, but subs can give aftercare too. They can massage their dom or tell them that they enjoyed what they did earlier, and how they always take care of them, and they thank them for creating a safe space. Stuff like that.)

Notice Red Flags!

Do Not Invalidate Your Discomfort!

Trust Your Instincts!

This is not a situation where you might be wrong for what you feel. If you feel like things are getting out of control or you are seeing a pattern of something you do not like, get out of there. If you feel like you cannot have an open and honest conversation with them, then they are not safe enough for you to be having sex with or practicing kink with. Point blank period.

There are some situations where you can't just outright label somebody a toxic or fake dom/sub.

If you've previously established that you will get punished a certain way when you do something wrong, and then they follow through on that punishment, and you don't like it, they are not a fake dom.

If someone uses their safeword with you in the middle of a scene, they are not a fake dom/sub.

There are other situations where they may simply not be educated enough on a subject. That is when they need to learn. And you need to let them know.

Fake doms/subs will intentionally do things to benefit themselves and disregard your boundaries. Calling someone fake or toxic for traits that are not that could take a shot at them and make them feel self concious about their approach to kink. If something feels off, you should always be able to have an open and honest conversation with you. If you cannot do that ~fake~

Last and most certainly not least, SAFEWORDS ARE NON-NEGOTIABLES!

Even in scenes where edge play (not edging...edge play**) is involved, there should still be a safeword.

~~Pineapple, Stop, No, **Traffic Light System (red, yellow, green), Tyrannosaurus Rex, idfk whatever you choose.~~

Even in scenes where you use words like "stop" and "no" but don't actually want them to stop, you need to have another word or system to let them know the scene needs to end immediately or slow down.

! SAFEWORDS ! ARE ! NECESSARY !

**Traffic Light System: A safeword system used to mandate where you are during a scene.

green - i'm okay, keep going

yellow - slow down, this might be too much

red - stop everything

**Edge Play: A vast umbrella of play that involves heavy risk, whether mentally, physically, or emotionally. (ex. knife play, r4pe play, gun play, hypno play, breath play, cnc**, etc.

**CNC: Consensual Non-Consent. Consent for certain actions is established before a scene, but in the scene, they roleplay as if they do not want to do something. People like to assume this is r4pe play, but it encompasses more than that.

(ex. forced decision - like someone forcing you to wear something humiliating; somno play - being touched while asleep; power imbalance roleplay - like boss/employee or captor/captive; surprise scenario - the scene is discussed in advance, but you don't know when it will happen)

~~CNC can be edge play, but not all edge play is CNC~~

This is just a small amount of information in the vast sea of stuff to know. Ask me if you have questions on anything that's on here, or just anything else that you would like to know more about. It could be a question about kink. It could be a question about sex. It could be more vetting questions to ask someone. (I've got notebooks full of em.)

Hell, anything. I don't care. I just feel like not enough people know these things and might get themselves into a bad situation with a bad person, or just end up having a bad experience.

Stay safe and hit me up if you ever need to talk <3

[linopilled]

this is such good advice & suuuuper important if you're exploring kink or looking to after reading a lot of fanfiction. many of things are left out for the fantasy, but these are the discussions that keep everyone safe in the kink community. ^^

thank you op! <3

[03jyh23]

“Ｅｍｐｔｙ Ｈｅａｄｅｄ” ── ｋ．ｈ．ｊ

── established relationship, hard dom!hongjoong x fem!reader

“The hotel room is too quiet for how hard Hongjoong is fucking you.” You thought you could handle him, but Hongjoong isn’t interested in making love tonight. He wants to break you down until you are nothing but a weeping, shaking mess in his hands. He has rules—be still, be quiet, don’t cum—and he is going to make sure you fail every single one of them just so he can punish you for it.

Genre: heavy smut, porn without plot Trigger Warnings: explicit sexual content (mdni!), daddy kink (heavy), degradation & name calling (useless, pathetic, toy, slut, hole, sleeve), rough sex: (hair pulling, biting, bruising, aggressive thrusting), oral fixation (fingers in mouth, gagging, drooling), denial, edging, impact play (spanking, slapping), objectification, dacryphilia, exhibitionism (sex against a floor-to-ceiling window), body fluids (spit, tears, sperm on face/throat), multiple orgasms, overstimulation (reader says it hurts), brat taming, mild breath play, cock warming, squirting, breeding kink, creampie, traffic light system, breast play, deep subspace, reader’s fucked stupid, aftercare??? WC: 17.7k

Mon’s Note: i honestly don’t know what happened here. title is “empty headed” because that is literally me after writing this. no thoughts. head empty.

The hotel room is too quiet for how hard Hongjoong’s fucking you.

“Da‑daddy,” you moan as he pounds into you, your arms pinned tight behind your back in one of his hands.

“Fu—fuck.” Your own sounds fill the space along with the wet slap of skin, the headboard’s dull knock against the wall, the drag of sheets burning your knees. You’re clenching around him each time he hits that spot, lights blurring at the edges. Your thighs shake, your mouth stays open, wrecked sound spilling out with every thrust.

Hongjoong adjusts your hips the barest inch and the angle turns ruthless. The stretch sharpens and the friction is obscene. You swear. His breath ghosts your ear, calm where everything else is chaos.

“That’s it. Fucking take it.” His rings are cold against your wrists where he pins them, a bite that makes you clench harder.

“Fuck Joong—”

He stops. The shift is sudden—your body still clenching around his dick, desperate for friction that’s no longer there. His hand fists in your hair and jerks you up hard, arching your spine until your back meets his chest. One arm locks around your waist, ribs pressed to his forearm. The other grips your jaw, fingers pressing into the hinge until your mouth falls open.

You can feel his pulse against your cheek.

You can feel your own everywhere.

“What did you just call me?” His voice is low, dangerous, a heat against your ear. You feel it more than hear it, vibrating through your ribs where he’s got you pinned. The air is hot and thin.

Your breath comes shallow, uneven. “I—”

“Say it again.” Hongjoong’s hips shift, just enough to make you gasp, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t give you what you need. His thumb drags across your bottom lip, smearing spit at the corner. “Go on.”

You swallow. Your pulse hammers against his palm. “Da—”

He tsks, the sound soft and cutting. His grip tightens on your jaw until your eyes sting. “Wrong answer.” His thumb pushes your chin up.

His hand slides from your jaw to your throat, not squeezing yet. “You know better.” The words are barely above a whisper, but they land heavy. He pulls out almost completely, the drag lighting every nerve, then slams back in without warning.

Your body jerks forward with the force, a broken cry tearing from your throat. The slap of skin is sharp. The mattress stutters under your knees, the headboard slams again.

“Daddy—” The word comes out garbled, desperate, exactly what he wanted to hear.

“Good girl.” His grip on your throat softens, becomes almost tender. “Again.”

“Daddy,” you gasp, the word punched out of you with another sharp thrust. Your fingers curl uselessly in his grip, your whole body wound so tight you think you might shatter. “Please—addy, I need—” Your own spit threads from your mouth to his thumb where it drags your lip and you taste metal from your bitten tongue.

Hongjoong’s laugh is dark, satisfied. “Need what, love?” The hand on your throat slides down to palm your breast, rolling your nipple between two knuckles until heat spikes. He pinches it and the pain blooms sweet and mean. “Use your words.” His breath hits damp hair stuck to your temple.

You moan uselessly, the sound ragged and broken. Words won’t come—just desperate, incoherent noise that makes him groan against your ear.

“That’s what I thought,” he murmurs, satisfaction dripping from every word. Your knees skid an inch on the sheet and his hand leaves your breast to clamps your hip and hauls you back so you feel the blunt head punch deep again. He holds you exactly where he wants you as he starts thrusting deep inside you. “Can’t even speak anymore, can you?”

You shake your head frantically, or try to—his hold on you barely allows the movement. Everything’s gone white‑hot and overwhelming, your body trembling in his arms as he takes you apart piece by piece. Your mascara is a damp smear at your lashes; a tear salt‑burns the corner of your mouth where it meets his thumb.

“Mmpf—please—” The words break on a sob as the tension coils impossibly tighter, your walls fluttering around him. Your thighs tremble uncontrollably. The mattress squeals. Hongjoong groans when your cunt strangles him, like the sound is dragged from somewhere he doesn’t show anyone.

“I’ve been a good girl, Daddy, please—” Your voice breaks on the words, desperate and pleading. “Please let me—fuc—k—let me cum, I need—”

“Not yet. Listen to yourself—messy little thing, slobbering on my hand and still trying to think you get a say.” His pace doesn’t falter, each thrust hitting that devastating spot that has your vision blurring. He changes nothing just to prove he controls everything. “You’ll cum when I say.”

“Daddy—” It’s a sob more than a word, your body trembling violently as you fight against the edge. “Please, I can’t—I can’t hold it—”

“Yes, you can. You’re a hole when I tell you to be a hole.” His lips brush your ear, voice dropping lower, amused and cruel. “Be useful.” His teeth take the soft flesh of your shoulder, a quick bite that stings and his tongue soothes, then he bites again, harder.

A broken whimper tears from your throat as tears prick at your eyes. “Yes—yes, I’ll wait—fuck—please—” The word breaks because he drives in meaner, holding you down with his forearm across your ribs until your breaths come shallow and quick.

“That’s all you’re good for, isn’t it? Taking.” The room narrows to the slick drag and the hot thud of him and the damp heat where your bodies meet. “Just a wet little thing I wreck.”

Your eyes sting, vision blurring as the first tear slips free. It tracks hot down your cheek, and Hongjoong’s rhythm stutters for just a beat like he’s savouring it. His grip on your jaw shifts, thumb catching the wetness before it falls to the sheet.

“Look at you,” he breathes, hungry. “Crying because you can’t keep up. Cock‑drunk already and I’m not even trying.” He drags the tear across your cheekbone, reverent and mean at once. “So fucking pretty when you beg with your eyes.” He licks the salt from his thumb, eyes fixed on your wrecked mouth. “Open that useless mouth and try again.”

Another tear follows, then another. A sob catches as he drives deeper. His groan vibrates against your spine. “Pathetic,” he murmurs, almost fond.

Hongjoong’s hand moves from your jaw to cup your face, fingers gentle even as his hips maintain their brutal pace. “Let me see what a mess you are.” He turns your face just enough to catch the tear‑tracks in the low light, pupils blown. “Crying so pretty on Daddy’s cock.”

The praise and the cruelty braid together and break something in you. “Please—” Your voice frays to a thread.

“So good for me,” he says, and then ruins it: “Good for nothing but this.” He catches another tear with his thumb. “My perfect little toy.” His palm slides down your belly, heat making your muscles jump. “Say it.”

“T—toy,” you gasp, shame and want tangling.

“Show Daddy how pretty you look when you break.” He hooks two fingers in the corner of your mouth, yanking it open so spit strings glitter from your lip. “There. Pretty mouth.”

His thumb presses your bottom lip then pushes past. Two fingers follow, flattening your tongue until drool pools at the corners of your mouth. “Keep it open,” he orders, voice rough. “Show me that useless tongue.”

You do, jaw slack, spit threading down your chin while he fucks you deep. He presses farther, taps the back of your throat until your eyes glass. The first gag catches wet and awful, and he groans like you handed him a gift. “There it is. Choke on my fingers while I fill you up.”

He doesn’t pull back—he pushes deeper, knuckles wetting your tongue, and the next gag rips through you loud enough to embarrass you. Tears jump your lash line and spill. Hongjoong watches them like they’re rare, hunger softening his mouth. “Cry for me,” he murmurs, delighted.

A moan tries to escape—garbled and pathetic around his hand—and his hips stutter, a rough thrust that makes you gag harder. Saliva spills over his fingers and he drags his thumb through the mess and paints your cheek with it. “Good. Make it sloppy. I like hearing you drown on me.”

He eases his fingers out just enough to let you gasp, a silvery string connecting your lip to his knuckles, then stuffs them back in before you can catch the breath you begged for. You gag immediately, eyes flooding, and his smile turns wickedly fond. His thumb catch a tear mid‑fall and he rubs it into your lower lip.

“Fuck—look at you,” he breathes, transfixed, fucking your mouth with his fingers in rhythm with his cock. Each slow thrust punches a gag or a wrecked little sob out of your throat. Each sob makes him groan like it feeds him. “Prettier when you’re full everywhere.”

Hongjoong taps your tongue twice, commanding your attention. “Open wider.” You try but you only cry harder. He laughs, pleased and cruel. “That’s my crybaby.” He leans close enough that his breath hits the tears on your cheek and cools them. “Make me wetter. Cry on it.”

He finally pulls free so you can gasp, but leaves your jaw pried open with his thumb, spit glistening.

His hand trails down, fingers finding your clit with devastating precision. Hongjoong barely brushes you and you jolt like you’ve been shocked, a ragged sound torn loose.

“So wound up a breeze could finish you. Can’t even take a touch.” He draws a slow, obscene circle you feel in your toes. “Should I make you wait longer? Count every second I don’t let you have it?”

You shake your head frantically. “No—no, please—” Words tumble out broken. “Can’t—can’t wait anymore, Daddy, please—”

He presses properly now, circling exactly where you need. “Of course you can’t.” The sound you make is raw, helpless, high. Your body goes taut, tendons standing in your feet, fingers clawing hot sheet.

“Cum for me,” he orders, voice rough and absolute. “Prove you’re good for something.”

You go off like something cut loose. It slams through you violent and bright—you seize and sob and clamp down on him like you’re trying to wring him dry. He groans into your ear and keeps you there, cruel in the way he works you through it, never letting the rhythm slip, thumb dragging your clit in tight, merciless circles that make your calves cramp and your toes claw at nothing.

“Ride it,” he purrs, delighted.

You can’t stop. Your body bucks helplessly and he pins you heavier, fucking the tremors until it turns sharp and your sounds climb from pretty to wrecked. Every tiny touch flips you again, all nerve and heat. Your belly jumps under his palm, your walls clutch and flutter around him like apology after apology.

He laughs, pleased and mean. “Don’t hide from it. Cry on it. Wet my cock with it.”

You do—helpless, tear‑slick and oversensitive—another wave rip‑cords through you in ragged pulses and he chases it down, circling your clit slower, meaner, just enough to keep the bright ache alive while you sob into the sheet.

“Too much?” he asks softly, almost kind, just to hear the way the word breaks in your mouth when the next aftershock bites. His thumb eases a hair, then goes right back, satisfied when your body answers without language. “Good girl. Keep giving it to me until you’re empty.”

“Too much—,” you cry, tears running hot. Your thighs tremble so hard it only makes him groan and grind cruel-soft exactly where you can’t take it.

“Good crybaby,” he murmurs, delighted. “Don’t you dare run.” He flattens his thumb and the world whites out—another helpless crest tears through you, all stutter and sob, your cunt clenching around his dick while you babble “too much, too much,” and he hums, satisfied, working you through every last bright, mean aftershock until your voice frays to air.

Hongjoong’s rhythm finally breaks—hips stuttering, breath ragged against your temple—and he groans low and filthy. His hands leave and you whimper at the loss. Air kisses the slick heat when he pulls free and you shudder. He flips you in one swift motion; your back hits the mattress, a bounce knocking a gasp out of you. The sheets are damp under your shoulder blades and the pillow is cool under fevered skin.

“Look at me.” Jaw tight, eyes wild, control fraying. A vein jumps in his neck. He looks like sin and victory.

“Hands above your head.” You obey, wrists crossing. “Don’t move.” His palm pins your wrists; the heel of it grinds the bones together until you whine. The other drops to his cock and works himself once, twice, your slick shines on his length.

“Eyes on me.”

“Fuck—” The word breaks as his release lashes hot across your stomach and chest. Cum splashes your throat, a line streaks your collarbone. He doesn’t look away from your face while he watches it drip. Ragged breath. Shuddering shoulders.

He drags two fingers through the mess and paints your lips with it, slow. He pushes his fingers past your tongue. “Suck it up like a good little slut.” You do, cheeks hollowing, and he hums approval when you gag around his knuckles then he pulls free with a wet pop.

Hongjoong smears the rest of his cum across your cheek and jaw, then rubs what’s left into your throat.

“Hands stay.” Your wrists ache deliciously. His palm presses your sternum, shortening your breath; he lifts it just enough to give you air, like charity. Then he kisses you deep, filthy, tasting salt and himself on your tongue. He palms the back of your thigh and hikes it high to his hip. “Round two,” he says like a sentence.

“No—no—” Your thighs slam shut on instinct, trembling violently. Oversensitive doesn’t begin to cover it—every nerve ending feels raw, exposed, like touching a live wire. Your knees knock together as you try to curl away, breath coming in short, desperate gasps.

Hongjoong’s hand catches your knee before you can fully close yourself off. His grip is firm but he doesn’t force—not yet. He watches you shake apart, eyes dark and assessing.

“Too much?” The question sounds almost curious, like he’s cataloging your limits for future reference.

“I can’t—” Your voice breaks on a sob. “Please, I need—just a minute—”

His thumb traces idle circles on your kneecap, a mockery of gentleness while your body still trembles from the aftershocks. “That’s not how this works, love.” He leans down, lips brushing your temple. “You don’t get to decide when we’re done.”

His hand slides up your thigh, not forcing your legs open yet, just resting there with casual ownership. “You know how we end things.” It’s not a question. His eyebrow arches, that familiar challenge, and your stomach drops because you do know. You know exactly what he’s waiting for.

The word sits on your tongue—red. Simple. Final. It would stop everything.

But it won’t come.

“No?” His thumb strokes once, twice, maddeningly gentle against your feverish skin. “Then I’ll make it easy for you.” His voice drops, taking on that edge that makes your pulse stutter. “Three seconds. Say it or I’m not stopping.”

Your breath catches. Every nerve ending screams that you can’t, that you’re too wrecked, too sensitive, too much—

“One.”

The word is right there. Red. Your lips part.

“Two.”

His fingers trail higher, barely a whisper of touch, and you tremble. Your mouth stays open, empty.

“Three.” He waits one more heartbeat, eyes locked on yours, searching. When nothing comes—when you just stare back at him, panting and wrecked and silent—something shifts in his expression. Satisfaction, dark and absolute. “That’s what I thought.”

“Let daddy in.”

Your thighs fall open slowly, a surrender that feels like defeat and relief tangled together. He drags the blunt head through your slick and slaps it against your clit—wet, obscene—once, twice, just to watch your whole body jump. When he pushes in—slow, deliberate, watching every micro-expression that crosses your face—the oversensitivity makes you keen, a broken sound that's half-sob, half-moan.

“Good girl,” Hongjoong murmurs, and doesn’t move. He stays buried to the hilt, making you feel every inch, every slow pulse. Your walls flutter around him and he hisses through his teeth. “Still.”

“Daddy—” You twitch, trying to adjust to the obscene fullness, and his hand clamps your hip hard enough to bruise.

“I said still.” His voice is steel. He shifts a mean millimeter deeper, a promise you’re going to hate loving. “You said you ‘can’t’ anymore? Cute.” He settles like a stake driven into the earth. “Then be useful.” Hongjoong’s hand lifts your thigh and hooks your knee higher, forcing the angle open until the stretch sits deep and electric. “Keep Daddy’s dick warm,” he says, bored and cruel.

Heat licks up your spine. Hongjoong doesn’t thrust. He doesn’t have to. You try to breathe around it. He shifts another millimeter—just a cruel reminder of his thickness—and the sound that leaks out of you is humiliating.

You twitch—instinct, pathetic—and his cock slides against a nerve that makes your whole body jolt. You try to chase it, hips rolling a greedy inch before you can stop yourself.

“Did I say you could move?” His voice cuts through the haze, razor-clean. His palm slams your hip back to the mattress, pinning you flat with bruising force. “Greedy little sleeve. One rule. You can’t even manage one.”

A wrecked whimper leaks out. The stillness is torture—every ridge, every vein, the obscene stretch of him pulsing inside you while your body screams to grind, to rub, to take. Your thighs tremble. Your toes curl like you’re trying to scratch at the air.

“Please—” you gasp, voice shaking. “I need—”

“You need?” He laughs, low and mean. “You need to learn to take what you’ve given.” His fingers dig into your hip, owning the flesh. “Move again and I pull out. I leave you empty and leaking with your little hole clenched around nothing. Is that what you want?”

“N—no, Daddy, please—”

“Then be fucking still.” He settles a breath deeper, a hateful inch that makes you sob, and holds you there like a knife sheathed to the hilt. “Keep me warm like I told you.” His mouth brushes your ear, the smile audible. “Stop acting like a desperate slut who can’t control herself.”

You feel the words burn through you; your walls flutter helplessly around him. You can’t stop the tiny drag of your hips—barely there, shameful—and he feels it immediately.

“Ah‑ah.” He smiles against your cheek.

“Please—” It scrapes out of you, ragged.

“Please what.” Flat as a verdict. “Use your stupid mouth.” His thumb strokes your jaw, mock‑gentle.

Your body shakes with effort. Your calves cramp. “Please—” The word fractures before it can form, dissolving into a sound that’s barely human—just need and surrender wrapped in breath.

The fullness skates the edge of too much; oversensitivity turns every slow beat into bright heat. Hongjoong only watches, pleased and dark, while you struggle to hold still around him. A whimper leaves you, broken and desperate.

“Quiet,” he says, almost bored. “Toys don’t whine.” He shifts deeper just to hear the noise you make. “Hands flat. Eyes open. Count your breaths if you need to. Don’t twitch.”

You count breaths because he told you to and lose the thread at eight, at nine, at nothing, because your body betrays you—tiny flutters you can’t control. Each one earns you a hum against your temple, a lazy squeeze at your throat that says he felt it.

“Pathetic,” he croons finally, sounding pleased.

“Daddy—” slips out again, ruined.

“What do you think you’re going to ask for? You’re full. You’re not getting more. You’re keeping me.”

“Please—”

“Please what?” His voice goes flat. “No babbling, no noise. Full sentence. Ask to be used.”

Shame burns hot. “Please use me, Daddy.”

“Mhm.” He rewards you with a single, slow grind that rolls through you like thunder, then stops dead. “Ask better.”

Your throat tightens. The words stick—humiliating—but his silence is worse, patient and hungry, like he has all night to watch you crack. “Please use me however you want, Daddy,” you whisper, voice breaking. “I’m yours—I’m just—please, I need you to—”

“Need me to what?” His thumb traces your bottom lip, almost tender in a way that makes you want to sob. “Say it clear or I’ll sit inside you and watch you shake until morning.”

“Please fuck me,” you gasp, shame scorching every syllable. “Please—use me like the toy I am. I can’t—Daddy, wreck me, please—”

“There it is.” His smile cuts wicked against your jaw. “See? Useless little mouth can learn.” He drags out of you slow—obscenely slow—until only the tip sits at your entrance. The loss rips a whimper out of you. “Since you asked nicely.”

He slams back in with no warning. Your toes curl hard enough to hurt. Your nails bite your palms. You don’t move. You don’t dare.

“Better,” he decides, and finally gives you motion—small, shallow, nothing like mercy. Short, ruthless strokes that never leave you, just rock deep enough to make your breath hitch on every one. “Count them.”

“One,” you whisper. “Two.” By four your voice shakes. By seven it thins to air. By ten you’ve lost the number and he has to murmur it for you against your mouth, amused.

“Ten,” he says, and nips your bottom lip. “Hopeless little counter.” He pulls out to the edge again and you whine without meaning to. He catches your chin hard. “What did I say about whining?”

“Toys don’t whine,” you breathe, panicked and obedient.

“That’s right.” He slides back in, the stretch a bright, tearing relief, and sets a new pace that is nothing like earlier—just deep and slow and devastating, like he’s proving he can keep you here forever.

You feel it rising again—desperation clawing up your throat, that helpless way your body starts chasing friction on its own. Your hips twitch forward, greedy without permission. His fingers bite down instantly.

“Stop.” Ice-cold.

But you don’t. You can’t. You’re wrecked and stupid with need, and your body rolls again—small, hungry little pulses that betray every order he’s given you. A whine slips out, high and broken.

“Daddy, please—I can’t—I need more, please—”

“You can’t?” His voice drops to something dangerous. “Or you won’t?”

“I can’t—” Another whimper. Your hips buck again, chasing the friction he’s withholding, and the sound that leaves you is pathetic. “Please, Daddy, I need—need you to move, need it harder, need—”

He goes dead still inside you. The absence of movement is worse than any punishment.

“Greedy little thing,” he says, tone flat with disappointment. “I give you my cock to keep warm and you can’t even manage that without turning into a whining, desperate mess.”

“I’m sorry—” You’re babbling now, words tripping over themselves. “I’m sorry, Daddy, please—just—please fuck me, I’ll be good—”

“You’ll be good?” He laughs—sharp, cruel, joyless. “You’re not being good now. You’re being a greedy slut who can’t follow a single fucking instruction.” His hand slides from your hip to your throat—fingers wrapping lightly. Your pulse hammers against his palm. “I don’t like you like this.”

It hits like a slap. Shame floods hot and immediate, and still your body trembles, still clenching around him, still needing.

“Please—”

“Please what? Please keep giving you what you clearly can’t handle?” He shifts just enough to make you whine, then stops again. “You’re not ready for more. You can’t even take what I’ve already given you without falling apart.”

“I can—I can take it—” Your voice breaks on a sob.

“No.” Firm. Final. “You can’t. Look at you. Shaking and whining and begging like you forgot how to be still.” His thumb strokes your throat once—almost gentle, which makes it worse. “I told you to be useful. Instead you’re being pathetic.”

The disappointment punches something open in your chest. You force yourself still—every muscle screaming—swallowing the whine clawing up your tongue. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, small and wrecked. “I’m sorry, Daddy.”

He watches you for a long, measuring beat. Then, slowly, he withdraws completely. The emptiness is a knife.

“Daddy—no—please—”

“Quiet.” The word drops like a brick. He stays out of you, cock wet against your slit, heat without mercy. “You want more when you can’t even fucking hold still?” His laugh is flat and ugly.

Your chest hitches. “Daddy, I—”

“Don’t talk.” He drags the swollen head through your slick once, slow, and you gasp like a drowning thing. The emptiness screams. “You don’t get my cock. You get consequence.”

“Do you want Daddy to go find himself another hole?” His words hit like acid, eating under your skin. “A quiet one. An obedient sleeve that doesn’t twitch, doesn’t whine, doesn’t make me repeat myself like I’m training a puppy.”

“No—” It tears out of you, small and panicked. “No, Daddy, please—”

“No?” Hongjoong sounds almost curious, like he’s already halfway out the door. “Because you’re not acting like you want to keep me. You’re acting like a spoiled toy that forgot what it’s for.”

“I do—I want to keep you—” Your voice breaks. “Please don’t—I’ll be good, I promise—”

“You promised to stay still five fucking minutes ago and look where that got us.” His thumb drags across your bottom lip, cruelly tender. “Maybe I should find a hole that knows how to listen. One that doesn’t babble, doesn’t beg, and doesn’t forget every rule the second it gets full.”

The image scalds—him leaving you empty and shaking while he goes somewhere else—and the sob that rips free is ugly.

“Please, Daddy—please—I’ll do better, I swear—don’t leave, please don’t, I need you—”

“Need me?” His voice goes flat. “You need to learn to fucking behave.” He drags the head of his cock on your swollen clit like a threat and your body jerks up desperately. “See? Even now you can’t stay still.”

“I’m sorry—I’m sorry—” Tears slip hot into your hair. “I’ll be good, I promise, please just—stay—”

“One. More. Chance.” Soft and lethal. “You twitch, you whine, you breathe wrong—and I’m done with you tonight. I’ll go find that quiet hole, and you can hump the sheet and think about why I left.”

The burn in your eyes sharpens.

“Say the rule.”

You swallow. “Keep—keep you warm.”

“At a minimum.” He taps the head against your clit again—light, mean—once. Your twitch and his hand locks your pelvis to the mattress with bruising pressure. “And you couldn’t even fucking do that.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, shaking.

“I don’t want sorry. I want silent, still, useful.” He lays the fat tip at your entrance and holds it there. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to keep me right here and not twitch. You breathe wrong, we reset. You beg wrong, we reset. You whine, you don’t get me at all.”

“Daddy—”

“Start.” His thumb presses your throat, not choking, just owning. “Five breaths.”

You count, voice wrecked and tiny. One. Two. Your body claws for friction and he hears the minuscule drag in your hips like it’s a confession.

“Reset,” he says, bored. The head lifts off you. The loss is a knife. He sets it back and you whine before you can strangle it.

“Reset.” He smiles without warmth.

Shame burns through you. “Please—” You bite it off and force your lungs to move. One. Two. Three. At four he ghosts the head forward—no entry, just stretch on the skin—and you hiccup a sound you barely recognise.

“Reset,” he repeats, almost amused now. “We’d be done by now if you weren’t such a needy fuckup.”

“I can do it.”

“Doubt it.” He pats your cheek condescendingly. “But try again.”

You count, lips trembling. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

He stares down at you, unimpressed. “Now thank me for not fucking you.”

The sentence scrapes your throat raw. “Thank you for not fucking me, Daddy.”

He hums, pleased—and disappointed anyway. “Again, like you mean it.”

“Thank you for not fucking me,” you rush the words out, “For making me still. For making me useful.”

“Finally.” The head presses, a murderous inch, then stops dead inside—no thrust, just fullness that feels like a verdict. You choke on a sound; his fingers tighten on your jaw.

“Now you hold me there and you don’t move,” he says, low and lethal.

Your body locks into place, every muscle screaming against the stillness. The stretch sits there—barely inside, not enough, too much—and he doesn't move. Just watches you shake around that single cruel inch, his expression flat and clinical, like he's studying how long it takes before you break again.

He watches your thighs quiver around that single inch like he’s timing a lab experiment. “Three breaths,” he says, voice clinical. “Earn another inch.”

You breathe. One. Two. On three your belly flutters; he feels it. The head slides in a second inch and stops dead. You whimper through your teeth.

“Again. Three.”

You make it, barely—every nerve screaming—and he feeds you another inch like he’s measuring with a ruler. “See?” he murmurs, disappointed anyway. “When you shut up and follow orders you almost pass for useful.”

“Daddy—”

His palm covers your mouth, not to mute, to own.

He waits, indifferent to the shake, then seats the rest in a slow, inevitable push and locks your hips to the mattress. Utterly full. Utterly still.

“There.” His fingers tap your jaw, condescending. “Now ask me for nothing.”

You swallow hard, nod against his palm because language might ruin you. He smiles—cold, pleased—and starts the smallest motion imaginable, a cruel internal drag that never lets you chase. Your body tries anyway. He feels the microscopic reach.

“Aaand there she is,” he sighs, disgusted.

“On your fucking knees,” he says, voice flat and final. “Ass up.”

He pulls out completely—the emptiness is brutal—and you scramble to obey, limbs clumsy with need. Your knees hit the mattress, your chest drops, and you arch your back the way he likes, presenting yourself like an apology.

“Higher.” His palm cracks across your ass—sharp, unforgiving—and you gasp, lifting until your spine curves obscene. “There. Now stay exactly like that and think about why you're here instead of full of my cock.”

The air feels too cold on your exposed cunt. You hear him move behind you, deliberate and unhurried, and the anticipation is its own kind of torture. His hand smooths over the curve of your ass once—almost tender—then his palm comes down again, harder. The sound cracks through the room.

“Count.”

“One,” you breathe, shaking.

Another, lower—right on the tender hinge where ass meets thigh. You jerk, then wrench yourself back into place.

“Two—”

“Louder. Like you fucking mean it.”

The next lands before your mouth can catch up. You yelp. “Three!”

“Better.” He pauses, fingers trailing through the slick mess between your thighs, not giving you anything, just reminding you what you're not getting. The touch is featherlight—clinical, almost—and it makes you ache harder than if he'd pressed down with intent. Your clit throbs where his knuckles barely graze it, swollen and desperate, and the emptiness inside you feels like a wound. Every nerve ending screams for more.

“Why are you here?”

“Because I couldn’t stay still—couldn’t—”

“Because you’re greedy.” The slap is vicious and precise. “Four.”

“Four,” you sob.

“Because you take what I give you and immediately beg for more like it’s not enough.” His hand comes down again, twice in quick succession, and you lose count, scrambling to catch up.

“Five—six—“

“Pathetic.” He sounds disgusted and pleased at the same time. His knuckles skim the burn, then slide meanly through your slick, circle your clit once and abandon it like a test you failed. The touch makes you clench around nothing, empty and aching, every nerve ending screaming for more pressure, more contact, more of him. The abandonment feels like a punishment you can’t name—your body chasing something he’s already taken away. “Still dripping. Still desperate. Still not listening.”

“I’m sorry, Daddy—”

“You will be.” His fist knots in your hair, yanking your face off the sheet. “We keep going until your body remembers how to obey. You twitch or gasp wrong, we reset to one.”

The next strike lands; you choke the whimper into your teeth and hold. “Seven!”

“Let’s see you make it to ten without falling apart.”

Eight snaps high on the curve; nine brutal on the sit spot. You bite the inside of your cheek until you taste iron and force the numbers out steady—“Eight. Nine.”—and you don’t move.

Ten comes down perfect, right where it hurts prettiest.

“Ten.” Your voice is raw but even. Silence drops heavy around it.

“Look at that,” he murmurs, palm smoothing over the heat, reverent like he’s polishing his work. “Directions aren’t complicated when you’re not busy failing.”

His fingers trace the marks he’s left, then slide lower, through the slick mess between your thighs. You bite down hard on your lip to keep from making a sound, from pushing back into his touch.

“Don’t you dare chase,” he says softly.

You lock your hips but Hongjoong rewards you with nothing. Then—finally, cruelly—one slow circle on your clit that makes your calves charlie-horse and your lungs forget.

You wait. You hold perfectly still, thighs shaking, breathing shallow through your nose. You wait for the praise—for him to tell you you’re good, that you’ve finally done it right, that you’ve earned something. The silence stretches. His thumb stays maddeningly light, circling without pressure, and the words don't come.

They’re not coming.

The realisation settles cold in your chest even as heat coils tighter in your belly. He’s not going to give it to you.

“Please,” you whisper, a thread. “Please tell me I did good.”

Hongjoong’s hand stills. The silence stretches, and you feel the weight of his gaze on you.

“Ask properly.”

You swallow hard, forcing the words out even as shame and need tangle in your chest. “Please, Daddy. Please tell me I’m good. I need to hear it. I need to know I did well.”

His thumb resumes—tight, deliberate circles that you meet with perfect stillness because you want the words more than air. “You want praise?” he asks, almost curious. “After the shitshow you put on?”

“I made it to ten,” you rasp. “I stayed still. I didn’t move.”

“You finally did what you were told,” he concedes. Pressure sharpens and every muscle in you locks so you don’t grind into it. “Miracles.”

“Please,” you breathe. “Please, Daddy—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Hongjoong says, voice flat. His thumb stops mid-circle and lifts off entirely. “I didn’t ask for begging. I asked for obedience.”

The loss of contact is devastating. You bite back a whimper, holding position even as your thighs shake.

“You think making it to ten earns you anything?” He sounds almost bored now, disgusted. “That’s the bare minimum of not being completely fucking useless.”

Your eyes burn. You keep your face pressed to the sheet, don’t move, don’t speak.

“You want praise for doing what you should’ve done the first time?” His hand comes down once more on your ass. “For finally shutting up and following a simple fucking instruction?”

Silence. You don’t answer because he didn’t ask a question you’re allowed to respond to.

“That’s what I thought.” His fingers trail back between your thighs, maddeningly light, and you hold so still you forget to breathe. “You don’t get praise for meeting expectations. You get my cock when you exceed them.” His voice drops, cruel and clinical. “And you? You’re so far below the bar I’d need a fucking shovel to find where you started. You think ten slaps and some tears make you special? You’re not even average. You’re just finally less of a disappointment than you were five minutes ago.”

His fist knots in your hair again and yanks you upright—sharp, brutal—until your spine arcs and your knees scream against the mattress. Your scalp burns; your throat opens on a gasp you can’t swallow back.

“Look at me.” His voice is low, final. You force your eyes open, vision blurred, and meet his gaze. It’s flat. Clinical. Like he’s deciding whether you’re worth the effort.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” He tightens his grip until tears spring hot and immediate. “Attention. Validation. My fucking time.”

You can’t nod—his hold won’t let you—so you whisper it, wrecked. “Yes, Daddy.”

“Then stop fucking wasting it.” He drags you closer by the hair, your body folding backward, chest exposed, throat vulnerable. “Stop begging for praise you haven’t earned. Stop moving when I tell you to be still. Stop acting like you don’t know exactly what I expect from you.”

He releases your hair and you collapse forward, gasping. Before you can catch your breath, his hands are on your hips, hauling you upright and off the bed entirely. Your legs don’t work right—numb and shaking—but Hongjoong doesn't care, dragging you across the room until your palms hit cold glass.

“Hands flat,” he orders, positioning you facing the window. The city glitters below, oblivious. “Don’t you fucking move them.”

You press your palms to the glass, the chill biting into your overheated skin. The window is floor-to-ceiling, and you’re on the twentieth floor—exposed, visible if anyone bothered to look up. The thought makes your stomach drop.

“Daddy—“ you start, voice thin with panic.

“I don’t remember asking you to speak.” His hand lands between your shoulder blades, forcing your chest forward until your breasts press flat against the glass. The cold shocks through you, nipples hardening instantly, and you gasp at the contrast. “You wanted my attention? Congratulations. Now everyone down there gets a front-row seat to what happens when you finally shut the fuck up and do what you’re told.”

His breath is hot against your ear as he leans in closer, caging you against the window. “Look at them. All those people going about their boring little lives, and if even one of them glanced up right now, they’d see you—spread out, dripping, desperate. They’d see exactly what kind of slut you are. The kind who begs for cock pressed against a window twenty floors up.”

He grinds his hips forward slightly, not entering yet, just letting you feel the threat of it. “Think about it. Some guy walking his dog. Some woman coming home from work. And there you are—tits against the glass, ass out, waiting to be fucked like you’re on display. Like you’re a show I’m putting on for the whole goddamn city.”

He kicks your feet apart, wider than stable, until you’re on display—open, vulnerable. His hand trails down your spine, over the burning marks on your ass, then lower.

“Stay exactly like this,” he says, voice deadly calm. “Hands on the glass. Don’t move. Don’t make a sound."

You feel him line up behind you, the blunt pressure of his cock against your entrance. Your breath fogs the window. Every instinct screams to push back, to take what you need, but you lock your muscles and hold.

“Everyone can see you,” he says, breath hot against your ear as he leans over you, caging you between his body and the glass. “See how desperate you are.”

The angle is punishing. He bottoms out so deep you feel it in your throat then he pulls to the edge and shoves back in in one rude stroke. Your gasp splashes white on the glass. Hongjoong watches it bloom and fade and times the next thrust to erase it. He does not tease. He does not test. He just takes—hips snapping in a pace with no mercy—each impact a proof that your body belongs exactly where he’s putting it. When your thighs start to shake he only tightens his hand at your hip, grinding you into the glass so the cold bites your nipples and the heat bites everywhere else

Your reflection stares back at you—fucked out, wrecked, mouth open on silent gasps you’re not allowed to voice.

“This is what you needed,” he continues, rhythm brutal and unrelenting. “Not praise. Not softness. Just someone to put you exactly where you belong and fuck the desperation out of you until you remember how to behave.”

Your legs are shaking so hard you can barely stand, but his grip on your hips is iron, holding you in place, keeping you upright and on display as he uses you against the window.

You’re e so full. The stretch is devastating—not painful, but so complete it rewires every nerve ending, makes you hyperaware of every inch of him inside you. Your body clenches reflexively, trying to adjust, and the friction makes your breath stutter. He’s so deep you feel it in your stomach, a pressure that borders on too much but somehow isn’t enough.

The heat of him is overwhelming. You can feel every throb, every shift of his hips, the way he fills every space until there’s nothing left but him. Your walls flutter around his length, trying to accommodate, trying to hold on, and the sensation makes your head spin.

You feel owned. Claimed. Like your body was made specifically for this—for him to fill and use and shape however he wants. The thought makes you clench again, and you hear his breath catch behind you.

Hongjoong’s hand clamps your hip and drags you back onto him while his mouth finds the slope where neck becomes shoulder. He bites—hard, deliberate—until your breath splinters on the glass, then sucks wickedly slow to pull the bruise up dark and pretty. “Mine,” he says into the mark, not for you, for the mirror of your face in the window.

Rings grind into your skin as his fingers hike your waist higher, leaving crescent dents along your side. He shifts his grip to your ass and you almost hiss—the flesh is still burning from before, hypersensitive—but he doesn’t care, squeezing until your skin crests his knuckles. Then he smacks the same handprint in place—once, twice, a third time—each impact landing on already-raw skin that makes you gasp sharp and broken into the glass.

His mouth trails lower, teeth scraping the curve where your shoulder meets your throat. He sucks hard enough to sting, working the skin until you feel the heat bloom under his lips. When he pulls back, you know there's a mark—dark and obvious, a claim you'll see tomorrow and every day after until it fades.

“Everyone’s going to know,” he murmurs against your skin, moving to a new spot. His teeth catch again, sharper this time, and you whimper before you can stop yourself. He doesn’t scold you for it. Instead, he hums, pleased, and works his way across your throat, your collarbone, the top of your shoulder—each love bite deliberate, territorial. His tongue soothes over the marks before his teeth return, and the contrast makes you dizzy. Your reflection in the glass shows the trail he’s leaving. A constellation of bruises that spell out exactly who you belong to.

“Prettier when you bruise,” he murmurs, and you feel him smile against your throat. He shoves your wrists wider on the glass, laces his fingers over yours so you can’t hide the way you shake, and fucks you harder—short, piston drives that press your chest flat and stamp the rhythm into your spine. Your breath paints messy halos on the pane. Hongjoong leans forward and bites your ear, low laugh ugly against your skin.

His mouth moves to the curve of your neck, lips dragging slow over the sensitive skin just below your ear. The gentleness is unexpected—devastating. Your body doesn’t know what to do with tender after brutal, and the contrast hits like a live wire. He kisses once, soft, then again lower, and your breath catches wrong in your chest.

“Daddy—“ you try to warn him, but it comes out broken.

“Quiet,” he murmurs against your throat, and kisses you again. His lips are warm, almost reverent as they trail down to your shoulder, and the rhythm of his hips never falters—still deep, still unrelenting, but now paired with this impossible softness that’s unraveling you faster than anything brutal ever could.

It builds wrong. Too fast. You weren’t ready for it—one second you’re holding on, the next you’re free-falling, your orgasm slamming into you without warning. Your whole body locks up, spine arcing away from the glass as the pleasure rips through you in violent, uncontrollable waves. He feels the clamp coming—a greedy, panicked grab—and rips out in one brutal drag.

The world snaps wrong. Heat turns to air, slick to cold, friction to nothing. Your cry out raw and too loud, fog exploding across the glass in a white star. Your thighs slam together on instinct and find only his palm, flat and merciless, forcing your knees wide again. Everything skids, your body still pitched for impact while the impact is gone, nerves misfiring, the ache in your belly pitching higher with nowhere to go. Your clit throbs, your calves seize, your nipples spark on the pane.

“Did I say you could cum, you filthy slut?” His voice is ice and venom.

”Please-” Your voice cracks into a ragged wail you can’t swallow. The sound embarrasses you even as it keeps coming-thin, high, animal-your chest scraping the glass as you shudder.

“Shut your fucking mouth.” Hongjoong’s hand clamps your jaw brutal and drags your open mouth to the window so you hear yourself against the pane-hot breath, pathetic little whimpers bouncing back. “Disgusting. Look at this mess.” Two fingers slide through the slick pouring out of you and slap your clit mean, the sting bright and metallic and your whole body jerks like a current ran through you. “Dripping like a bitch in heat. You’re fucking pathetic.”

He does it again-lighter, crueler-just enough to sharpen the ache and keep it blooming. “Greedy cunt couldn't wait, could she?” The cold on your front feels like punishment, the heat at your back feels like a dare. You can taste blood where you bit your tongue, you can feel his ring scrape your hip as he drags your pelvis higher and pins you there, open and empty and shaking. “Worthless little whore. Can’t follow one simple fucking rule.”

“Could’ve asked. Could’ve been good. But no-you had to be a desperate fucking cumslut,” he snarls at your reflection, voice dripping contempt. He paints your hipbone with your own slick like a stripe, degrading, then presses his thumb into the fresh bruise on your shoulder hard enough to make you gasp. “Now hold it and suffer.”

Your body argues in every language it has—fluttering, pleading squeezes at nothing, a pulse between your legs that hurts, a tremor you can’t stop—while he gives you exactly no motion where you need it and too much where you can’t take it. He bites the hinge of your jaw, sucks until colour swells up pretty and dark, and when your breath stutters toward that helpless climb again, he taps your clit once—just once—and the wave collapses with a sob that fogs the glass and runs. “Filthy fucking thing. This is what disobedient sluts get.”

Your body is betraying you—hips rolling in tiny, desperate circles even though he’s not inside you anymore, chasing friction that isn’t there. The orgasm he denied you earlier left everything raw and oversensitive, and now every nerve ending is screaming for release. Your clit throbs in time with your pulse, swollen and aching, and the emptiness inside you feels like a physical wound.

You can feel it building again—that terrible, inevitable climb. Your thighs are shaking so hard they might give out. Heat pools low in your belly, coiling tighter with each ragged breath. It’s different this time—sharper, more desperate, edged with something that feels dangerously close to panic because you know what happens if you fall over without permission.

“Daddy—please—” Your voice cracks on the plea. “I need—I can’t—”

The pressure builds and builds, your body pulled taut as a wire, every muscle locked in anticipation of a release you’re not allowed to have. You’re so close it hurts—that edge right there, shimmering just out of reach, and your body keeps reaching for it anyway, mindless and greedy and completely beyond your control.

His fingers barely touch your clit, just the ghost of pressure—and begin to circle with agonising slowness. Not enough to give relief, just enough to make everything worse. Each lazy pass sends sparks shooting through your nerves, stoking the fire instead of quenching it.

“You gonna try cumming again without permission?” His laugh is cruel against your ear, all sharp edges. His hand spreads over your throat, thumb under your jaw to keep your face to the window, forcing you to watch yourself fall apart. “Be still. Feel every second of what you don’t deserve. Feel it, you needy little whore.”

Your body doesn’t listen—can’t listen. The orgasm crashes through you anyway, ripping a broken cry from your throat as you clench and pulse around nothing. Your legs give out completely, only his grip on your throat keeping you upright against the glass as pleasure tears through you in waves you can’t control.

“Did I fucking say you could?” Hongjoong’s voice is ice.

Your vision blurs with tears—shame and oversensitivity and the cruel ache of cumming empty. “I’m sorry—I’m sorry—I couldn’t—”

“Pathetic.” He releases your throat and you crumple, legs buckling, but he catches you by the hips before you hit the floor.

Hongjoong peels you off the window by the back of your neck and walks you to the bed like he owns the hinge of every joint. The mattress hits the backs of your knees, he doesn’t guide you down so much as throw you, a bounce knocking a breathless sound out of you.

His hand cracks across your face—not hard enough to hurt, but sharp enough to snap your attention back to him. The sting blooms hot across your cheek, shocking you into stillness.

“Eyes on me,” he commands, voice low and dangerous. “Don’t you dare look away.”

He slaps you again—same cheek, harder this time—and the sound that rips from your throat is pure, shameless need. A moan, broken and desperate, that makes his eyes go dark.

“Fuck,” he breathes, almost reverent. His thumb traces the reddened skin, the heat of it blooming under his touch. “You like that, don’t you?”

Before you can answer, he slaps you again—lighter this time, almost playful—and watches your pupils blow wide. “Yeah,” he confirms, reading your body like a book he’s memorised. “You fucking love it.”

He’s on you a second later—knee between yours, shoving them wide—hands mean on your hips as he lines up and drives in with one brutal stroke that punches the air out of you.

“Quiet,” he snaps, palm clamping over your mouth. “Swallow it.”

Your moan dies behind his hand, trapped in your throat where it burns. No easing, no rhythm—just slam, slam, slam—his pelvis clapping your thighs, the headboard starting to complain in hard little knocks that match your pulse. The angle is obscene with your hips tipped; each drag feels like he’s stripping you to the studs and hammering you back together wrong. Every sound you want to make gets caught behind his palm, building pressure in your chest until you’re choking on your own desperation.

“Look at me,” he grits. You do—eyes glassy—and it only makes him rougher. Heat builds thick and fast in your belly again, that off‑the‑cliff drop, the ache and burn at your clit. The sounds are wet and humiliating and loud, but your moans stay trapped—swallowed down like he ordered, leaving only the whimpers that leak through your nose and the desperate way you’re breathing against his palm.

Hongjoong’s close—you can feel it in the way his breathing saws, in the vicious set of his mouth, in the way his rhythm goes intent and ugly, grinding at the end of each thrust like he’s carving his name into the spot that makes you see static. His hand stays firm over your mouth, forcing you to take it in silence, to keep every wrecked sound locked inside where only you can feel how thoroughly he’s breaking you apart. You catch the first stutter in his hips and reach for him without thinking, greedy, pleading.

“Don’t.” The word is a snarl. He stuffs you full and holds there, cock thick and pulsing inside you, then drags out slow enough to scrape sparks and snaps back in hard enough to jolt your spine. “You don’t deserve Daddy’s cum.”

The sentence lands like a slap. Heat spikes behind your eyes; your body clenches around him in panicked apology.

“Please—” you manage against his palm, the word muffled and desperate.

“You need to learn.” Another slam—deep, punishing—and the next rolls through you like thunder, heavy grind at the end that drags a high, torn sound from your throat.

Your hands scramble for purchase on his shoulders, nails digging in, but he catches both wrists in one hand and pins them above your head. His other hand finally leaves your mouth.

“Please,” you sob, shameless now. “Please fill me—please let me have it—I’ll hold it—I’ll be good—”

He laughs—short, cruel—breath burning your cheek. “Will you?” His hand slides to your throat, thumb under your jaw to tilt your face up so he can watch you fall apart. “Say it properly.”

“Please, Daddy,” you gasp, voice breaking on the word. “Please cum inside me. I need it. I need you. I’ll keep it. I’ll—” Your voice knifes up because he grinds just right and the lights stipple again. “Please—I’ll be useful—please—”

His control frays; you feel it in the nasty little shiver that runs through him, in the way he clamps your hip like it’s the only thing stopping him from painting you from the inside. He bares his teeth, eyes sharp and dark. “Beg better.”

“Please—use me properly—mark me from the inside—please, Daddy—”

“Mhm.” The sound is a threat and a promise. He slams you deeper, deeper, harder—headboard knocking time, breath brutal at your ear—then rips out at the last second and fists himself once, twice, the wet slick of you shining his length while you wail.

“No—no, please—" The words tumble out desperate and broken. You reach for him with shaking hands, shameless now, all pride dissolved. “Please fill me up—mark me—use me—” You’re babbling, hips canting up obscenely, trying to tempt him back.

His eyes darken as he watches you fall apart, a cruel smirk playing at his lips. “Look at you,” he breathes, voice dripping with condescension. “Begging like a bitch in heat.” His fist keeps working himself, slow and deliberate, making you watch every stroke.

Your thighs spread wider without him asking, presenting yourself like an offering. “Please cum in me—I'm begging—I'll do anything—” Tears stream down your face, your voice cracking. “Need to feel you—need Daddy’s cum so bad—please don’t waste it—please use my hole.”

“Shut the fuck up.” His voice is dead calm, which makes it worse. “You think you deserve Daddy’s cum?" He laughs—short, cruel. “No. You’re going to lie there empty and watch me waste it. Watch what you don’t get to have.” His eyes are vicious, mouth twisted. “Pathetic little cumslut can’t even follow simple fucking rules. Open your eyes wider. I want you to see every drop you’re not getting.”

“Please, Daddy,” you sob, voice breaking on every word. “Please use your cumslut—please fuck me —I’ll be so good—I’ll take everything—please.”

You look at him—eyes glassed, mouth open, body clenching on nothing—while he edges himself cruelly, letting every half-breath of relief flash and die on his face. He squeezes himself hard, strangling the tremor, and lets the edge bleed away while you sob beneath him, trembling empty and open.

His hand fists in your hair, “What are you?"

“A slut,” you whimper, shame burning through you.

“A what?” He pulls harder, making you gasp.

“A pathetic slut—Daddy’s pathetic slut—”

“That’s right.” He releases your hair with a shove, letting your head fall back against the mattress. “And you love it,” he continues, voice dark with satisfaction. “Love being Daddy’s desperate fucktoy. Love being used and degraded and filled up like the greedy whore you are.”

“Yes,” you sob, because it’s true, because you can’t deny it when your body is still trembling with need.

“Tell me what you are.”

“I’m Daddy’s greedy whore,” you gasp out, shame and arousal twisting together. “I’m a desperate cumslut—I’m pathetic—I need you—”

“Fucking right you do.”

Then he flips you onto your stomach before you can process it, one hand shoving between your shoulder blades to pin you flat. The sheets are hot against your cheek, your breath trapped in the mattress.

“Stay down," Hongjoong orders, voice low and mean behind you. You feel him shift, feel the mattress dip as he repositions, and then his hands are on your hips, dragging them up, arching your back until you’re presented exactly how he wants you. You’re face-down, ass up, completely exposed with no way to see what he’s doing, no way to brace for what comes next. Your fingers twist in the sheets.

“Daddy—” you start, voice muffled.

“No,” he cuts you off. “You don’t get to look at me. You don’t get to see if I’m close. You just take what I give you and be grateful.”

He lines up and shoves in without warning, the angle deeper like this, meaner. Your cry gets swallowed by the pillow as he sets a brutal pace, hips slamming against your ass with each thrust. The sound is obscene—skin on skin, the wet slide of him inside you—and you can’t see any of it, can only feel and hear and drown in it.

“You’re lucky Daddy loves your hole,” he growls, and the words hit like a brand. His hand comes down hard on your ass, the sharp crack echoing in the room. The sting blooms hot and immediate, and you whimper into the pillow.

“Lucky I don’t leave you empty and aching.” He punctuates it with another thrust, deeper, meaner, grinding at the end until you’re sobbing. “This greedy little cunt,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Always so desperate for me. Always begging so pretty.”

“Say it,” he demands. “Say you’re lucky.”

“I’m—I’m lucky,” you gasp out, voice wrecked and muffled. “I’m lucky Daddy loves my—”

“Louder.”

“I’m lucky Daddy loves my hole,” you sob, shame and arousal twisting together until you can’t tell them apart.

“That’s right.” His rhythm turns vicious, each thrust punching the words back into you. “Don’t you forget it.”

“Please, Daddy—please—I'll do anything—I'll be so good—please just fill me—please cum inside me—” You sob again, pushing back against him even though you know better, trying to take him deeper. His breath hitches and you chase it, sensing weakness.

His hand finds your clit immediately, two fingers pressing down with just enough pressure to make you jolt. “This what you needed?” he asks as he starts to rub tight, mean circles that have you gasping.

“Yes—fuck—yes, Daddy—” You can barely get the words out, your whole body arcing up into his touch. His fingers work your clit in ruthless little circles while he fucks into you, the dual sensation making your vision blur at the edges.

“Gonna make you cum on my cock this time,” he growls. “Gonna feel you squeeze me while you fall apart.” His fingers speed up, the pressure perfect and devastating, and you’re already so close you can taste it.

“Please—Daddy—I can't—” Your voice breaks, thighs shaking so hard you can barely hold yourself up. The pressure builds too fast, too much, coiling tight in your belly until it feels like something’s going to snap.

“You can,” he snarls, “You will. Show Daddy what a good little slut you are.”

The angle shifts just enough and suddenly you’re there again—past the point of holding back, past the point of control. Your orgasm slams through you with brutal force, and this time it’s different. Wetter. Your whole body locks up as you gush around him, soaking his cock, the sheets, making a mess you can’t stop even if you wanted to. The sound that rips from your throat is inhuman.

“Fuck—” Hongjoong chokes out, and his rhythm shatters. “Fuck—that’s it—” He feels you clenching and pulsing around him, feels the hot rush of your release, and it destroys him. Three more brutal thrusts and he’s gone, slamming deep and grinding as he finally, finally fills you. You feel every pulse, every throb as he empties himself inside you, his groan low and wrecked against your spine.

His hips stutter through the aftershocks, grinding shallow like he can’t bear to pull out yet. Your body is still twitching, still clenching around him in weak little aftershocks while his cum starts to leak out around where you’re joined. He stays buried deep, breathing hard against your shoulder blade.

“Good girl,” he finally murmurs, voice hoarse. “Such a good fucking girl for me.”

He doesn't pull out. Instead, his hips roll forward again, fucking his cum deeper into you, the obscene wet sound making you whimper. “One more,” he growls against your ear, his voice rough and commanding. “Give me one more.”

“Daddy—I can’t—” Your voice breaks, oversensitive and wrecked, every nerve ending screaming. It hurts—the drag of him inside you feels like fire, too much sensation on already brutalised nerves. You try to squirm away but his grip on your hips is iron.

“You can.” His hand slides back to your clit, fingers still slick, and starts those same ruthless circles. The first touch makes you sob—it’s too much, bordering on painful, your body trying to reject the stimulation. “You’re going to cum on my cock again with my cum inside you. Going to make a bigger mess.”

The sensation is overwhelming—too much, too sensitive—and it hurts. Each thrust feels like he’s grinding against raw nerves, the wet slide obscene and filthy but painful in its intensity. You can feel his cum leaking out around him, coating your thighs, but all you can focus on is how much your body is screaming at you to stop.

“Daddy—please—it hurts—” you sob, tears streaming down your face.

Hongjoong stills immediately. Completely. His fingers freeze on your clit, his hips lock in place, and the sudden absence of movement is almost jarring after the relentless intensity.

“Colour,” he demands, voice cutting through the haze with sharp clarity. “Give me your colour right now.”

You’re gasping, trying to process the question through the overwhelming sensations coursing through your body.

“Green,” you manage to choke out between sobs.

“Don't lie to me.”

“Green,” you repeat, more firmly this time despite how wrecked your voice sounds. “Promise—it's green—just hurts—overwhelming— don’t stop”

“I know,” he murmur gently, his hips moving again. “I know it hurts, baby. Just breathe through it.”

You try to obey, gasping for air, and somewhere in the burning oversensitivity, something shifts. The pain doesn’t disappear, but it starts to blur at the edges, transmuting into something else. Your body adjusts to the intensity, and suddenly the hurt starts to feel good—sharp and bright and desperate.

“Feel that?” he asks, grinding deep. “Feel how full you are? That’s all Daddy’s cum, and you’re going to squeeze it out when you cum again.”

“Please—” The word comes out broken because you don’t even know what you’re begging for anymore. His fingers work your clit with practiced cruelty, and the oversensitivity that was making you sob is suddenly driving you higher. You can feel it building again—impossibly, devastatingly—your wrecked body finding another peak despite everything.

“That’s it,” he encourages, voice dark with satisfaction. “Knew you could take it. Feel you getting close again. Such a greedy little thing. Can’t get enough of daddy’s cock, can you?”

“No—no, I can't—” you gasp, pushing back against him mindlessly. The pressure builds impossibly fast, sharp and brutal and bright now instead of painful. Every nerve that was screaming in protest is now singing, driving you toward the edge with vicious intent.

“Come on,” Hongjoong growls, his fingers pressing harder, circling faster. “Give it to me. Show Daddy what a mess you can make.” His cock grinds deep, hitting that devastating angle. “Cum on Daddy’s cock right fucking now.”

Your body obeys before your mind catches up, the orgasm ripping through you with devastating force. You clench around him so hard it hurts, your walls spasming and tightening in a vice grip. The sound you make is broken and desperate, somewhere between a scream and a sob.

“Fuck—” Hongjoong chokes out, his rhythm faltering. “Fuck—you’re so tight—” His voice breaks on the last word because you’re squeezing him so hard he can barely move, your body milking him with each brutal pulse. “Gonna make me—fuck—”

He doesn’t get to finish the sentence. Your cunt clamps down on him one more time and it destroys him completely. He slams deep with a guttural groan, grinding against you as he cums again, harder this time, filling you even fuller. You feel every throb, every pulse as he empties himself inside you for the second time, his whole body shuddering against your back.

“That's my good girl,” he gasps out, voice wrecked. “Making such a pretty mess for Daddy. So fucking tight—milked it right out of me.”

You gush again—harder this time, wetter—your body wringing itself out around him in pulsing waves while his cum floods you. The release is so intense it borders on violent, liquid heat flooding between your legs, soaking everything. You feel it run down your thighs, hear it drip onto the already-ruined sheets, and the humiliation of it only makes you clench harder, forcing more of his release to leak out around where you’re joined.

“There it is,” Hongjoong breathes, reverent and filthy at once. “So fucking messy for me.” His hips keep grinding shallow, working you both through it, forcing every last drop out while you shake and sob beneath him. “Such a good little squirter. Making Daddy so proud.”

Your whole body goes limp, muscles giving out completely. You collapse face-first into the mattress, boneless and used, trembling with aftershocks. Hongjoong finally stills, cock still buried deep, and lets his weight settle against your back. His breathing is ragged against your neck.

“Perfect,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your sweat-slick shoulder. “You did so fucking perfect, baby. Squeezed me so tight I couldn’t help it.”

You can’t move, can’t think, can barely breathe. The sheets beneath you are soaked—cum and your own release mixing in a cooling puddle. Hongjoong shifts slightly, cock still buried deep, and you whimper at the oversensitivity. You can feel how full you are, how much he’s filled you, and it leaks out in thick rivulets with even the smallest movement.

When he finally pulls out, the loss is immediate and devastating. You whine—high and broken—feeling unbearably empty after being so full. His cum starts to leak out in earnest now, thick and warm, dripping down your thighs in slow rivulets. The sensation makes you shudder.

“Shh,” Hongjoong soothes, his hand stroking down your spine. He shifts his weight, hands sliding under your shoulders as he carefully rolls you onto your back. Your body settles against the mattress, and you feel more of his cum leak out with the position change, thick and warm between your legs.

“There we go,” he murmurs, settling between your spread thighs. “Look how much Daddy filled you up. So much it can’t even stay inside.”

You whimper, hips twitching uselessly, body still trying to clench around nothing. The emptiness feels wrong after everything, like you’ve been carved hollow. More of his release spills out with each aftershock, and you can feel it cooling on your skin.

“So pretty like this,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “All fucked out and dripping. Made such a mess of you.” His thumb drags through the slickness, spreading it further, and you keen at the oversensitivity. “My perfect mess.”

You can’t form words, can only lie there trembling while he touches you with a gentleness that feels almost cruel after everything.

“Good girl,” he whispers, and the praise makes something warm bloom in your chest despite your exhaustion. Your body is wrecked, oversensitive, every nerve ending raw and singing. But when his fingers brush over your entrance again, gathering more of the mess he’s made, you find yourself pushing back into the touch despite the sensitivity.

“Oh?” Hongjoong’s voice lifts with surprise, his fingers stilling. His eyes darken as he watches you move against his hand—mindless, instinctive—seeking more despite everything. Despite being so thoroughly fucked out that coherent thought is impossible. “Still greedy for it, baby? Even with that pretty head all empty?”

You can't answer with words—don't even fully understand the question—but your body knows. Your hips roll weakly against his palm, chasing the touch with clumsy desperation. A soft whine spills from your lips, needy and thoughtless. Parts of you crave the continued touch. The emptiness feels worse than the sting.

“Greedy thing,” he murmurs, but there’s wonder in it now, not just teasing. His fingers slide through the mess again, more deliberately this time, and you whimper. “Even after I fucked you senseless. Even after you came so hard you soaked the sheets twice. You still want Daddy’s touch.”

“Puh—please,” you manage, the word barely forming through drool-slicked lips, voice completely destroyed and slurred beyond recognition.

Hongjoong’s expression shifts—something possessive and tender at once. “Okay, baby,” he soothes. “Daddy’s got you. Always got you.” His fingers circle your entrance gently now, gathering the cum that’s still leaking out and pushing it back inside with careful pressure. The sensation makes you gasp, oversensitive but good, filling that devastating emptiness just slightly.

“There,” he whispers. “Is that what you needed? To stay full?”

You nod frantically, pushing against his hand, and he obliges—two fingers sliding in deeper, keeping his release inside you. The stretch is almost too much on your abused walls, but it’s what you want. What you need.

“Such a good girl,” he praises softly. “Taking everything Daddy gives you and still asking for more.”

His fingers work slow and steady inside you, and something in your brain just... shuts off. The constant buzz of thoughts, the ability to form coherent words—it all dissolves into nothing but sensation. Your mouth falls open, soft moans spilling out with each gentle thrust of his fingers.

“There she goes,” Hongjoong murmurs, watching your expression go slack with satisfaction. “There’s my girl. Nothing left in that pretty head but how good Daddy makes you feel, huh?”

You can’t even nod properly, just a loose movement of your head, eyes unfocused and glassy. Another moan slips out, breathy and mindless. His fingers curl slightly and your hips twitch, but there’s no urgency to it—just your body responding on pure instinct while your mind floats somewhere far away.

“Look at you,” he says softly, almost reverent. “Fucked you so good you can’t even think anymore. Just my empty-headed baby now, aren’t you?”

“Mm,” is all you can manage, the sound quiet and blissed-out. Your eyes flutter, struggling to focus on his face. Everything feels distant and warm, your body heavy and pliant beneath his touch.

“That’s right,” Hongjoong coos, his free hand stroking your cheek. “Don’t need to think. Just need to feel. Just need to let Daddy take care of you.” His fingers maintain that slow, gentle rhythm, keeping you full, keeping you floating. “Such pretty sounds you’re making. Can’t even form words anymore, can you?”

You shake your head—barely—another soft moan falling from your parted lips. The oversensitivity has melted into something dreamlike, each movement of his fingers sending lazy waves of pleasure through your wrung-out body. There’s no edge to chase anymore, no building tension—just the mindless contentment of being touched, being full, being his.

“Perfect,” he whispers. “Absolutely perfect like this.”

His hand slides up from your hip, palm warm against your ribs as it travels higher. When he cups your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple, you keen—high and broken. The sensitivity is different here, less raw but somehow more direct, each touch shooting straight through you.

“So responsive,” Hongjoong murmurs, watching your face as he rolls your nipple between his fingers. Your back arches weakly, pushing into the touch despite your exhaustion. “Even here. Every part of you is so fucking sensitive for me.”

His fingers inside you curl slightly in time with the pinch of his other hand on your nipple, and the dual sensation makes your eyes roll back. Another mindless moan falls from your lips, your body responding without thought, without control.

“That’s it,” he coos, switching to your other breast, palm kneading gently before his fingers find that peaked bud. “Just feel it, baby. Don’t think. Just let Daddy play with you.” He tugs slightly and you whimper, hips twitching against the fingers still buried inside you. “So pretty when you make those sounds.”

His touch alternates between gentle and firm—thumbs circling your nipples, palms pressing against the soft weight of your breasts, fingers occasionally pinching just hard enough to make you gasp. Each touch keeps you floating in that mindless space, pleasure washing over you in slow, lazy waves.

“Could play with these all day,” he murmurs, dipping his head to press a kiss to the curve of your breast. “Watch you fall apart from just this.” His tongue flicks out, circling your nipple before his lips close around it, and you gasp—the wet heat of his mouth making everything sharper, more intense.

Hongjoong sucks gently, tongue working the sensitive bud while his fingers continue their slow rhythm inside you. Your hands find his hair, holding on weakly, not pulling—just needing something to anchor you. When he grazes his teeth across your nipple, your whole body jolts, a strangled sound escaping you.

“Good girl,” he whispers against your skin. “Taking everything so well. My perfect, empty-headed doll.”

Your thighs shake harder now, trembling under his attention, muscles twitching with aftershocks that won’t stop. Each suck of his mouth, each curl of his fingers inside you makes them quiver more violently, until you can’t keep them still even if you tried.

“Joong,” you whimper, his name barely coherent, your voice destroyed and small. His mouth releases your nipple with a wet pop, switching to the other side, and the attention makes your back arch off the mattress weakly. “Can’t—too much—”

“Shh, I know, baby,” he soothes, releasing your breast to press kisses along your sternum. His fingers slow inside you, gentling their rhythm as your thighs continue to tremble uncontrollably. “But you’re doing so well for me. Just a little more, okay? Let me take care of you.”

You nod weakly, unable to do anything but submit, your body no longer your own—just something for him to play with, to care for, to keep floating in this mindless space. Your thighs won’t stop shaking, trembling against his sides as he settles between them again, and you can feel more of his cum leaking out despite his fingers still working to keep it inside.

“One more, baby,” he whispers against your lips. “Give Daddy one more and then I’ll let you rest.”

You manage to look at him through heavy-lidded eyes, vision blurred and unfocused. It takes effort to keep them open, each blink longer than the last. His face swims above you, features soft and concerned, and you can barely make out the dark intensity of his gaze.

“There you are,” he murmurs, his free hand cupping your face, thumb stroking your cheekbone. “Stay with me, baby. Just a little more. Can you do that for Daddy?”

You try to nod, but your head feels impossibly heavy, movements sluggish and uncoordinated. Another weak sound escapes you as his fingers curl inside you, and your eyes threaten to slip closed.

“Eyes on me,” Hongjoong coaxes gently, tapping your cheek to keep you present. “Want to see you when you fall apart one more time. Need to watch my baby come undone.”

It takes everything you have to keep your gaze on him, eyelids fluttering with the effort. His fingers work inside you with deliberate care, coaxing your body toward that edge one more time despite your exhaustion.

“That’s my good girl,” he praises softly. “Keep those pretty eyes on me.” His thumb finds your clit, circling with barely-there pressure, and your mouth falls open on a silent cry. “Almost there, baby.”

His hand moves from your face to slide two fingers past your parted lips. The touch is unexpected, gentle but insistent as they press against your tongue. Your eyes widen slightly, trying to focus on him through the haze.

“Suck,” Hongjoong commands softly, his voice dropping lower. “Show Daddy how good that mouth can be.”

You obey automatically, lips closing around his fingers, tongue working weakly against them. The taste is clean, just skin and the faint salt of sweat, and something about the act—the fullness in your mouth matching the fullness between your legs—makes you whimper around his fingers.

“Pretty,” he murmurs, watching your lips wrap around his digits with dark satisfaction. “Such a perfect mouth. Takes everything I give you so well.” His fingers inside you curl harder and you moan around the ones in your mouth, the sound muffled and desperate.

He pushes them deeper, making you gag slightly, and your eyes water as you struggle to accommodate them. “Shh, relax,” he soothes, easing back just enough. “Just like taking my cock. You can do it.” The comparison makes you clench around his other hand, and he groans. “Feel that? Your body knows what it wants.”

His thumb on your clit presses firmer now, circling with intent, and you keen around his fingers. Drool starts to leak from the corners of your mouth as you struggle to keep sucking, your jaw slack and uncoordinated. Everything is too much—the stretch in your mouth, the fullness between your legs, the relentless pressure on your clit.

“So messy,” Hongjoong says with satisfaction, watching the spit drip down your chin. “Can’t even keep it together anymore, can you? Just my brainless little toy.” He pulls his fingers from your mouth with a wet sound, dragging the saliva down your neck, your chest, leaving a glistening trail. “Open.”

You obey without thought, mouth falling open, tongue out. He leans down and spits directly onto your tongue, the act filthy and possessive, and you moan at the degradation of it. “Swallow,” he commands, and you do, throat working visibly.

“Good fucking girl,” he praises darkly. His fingers push back into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue, keeping your mouth open and exposed.

Your hand moves without thought, fingers wrapping weakly around his wrist. You pull it down, guiding it to your throat, settling his palm against the vulnerable column of your neck. The request is silent but unmistakable.

Hongjoong’s eyes darken immediately, understanding flickering across his face. “Yeah?” he asks, voice dropping lower. “Want Daddy’s hand around your throat while he makes you come?”

You nod as much as you can with his hand there, a desperate whimper escaping you. His fingers curl around your neck—not squeezing yet, just holding, the weight of his palm a promise.

“Please,” you manage, the word barely a whisper, and that’s all he needs.

His hand tightens around your throat, pressure building slowly, controlled. Not enough to cut off your air completely—just enough to make each breath something you have to work for, something you have to earn. The restriction sends your body into overdrive, every nerve ending lighting up as his fingers inside you curl relentlessly and his thumb grinds against your clit.

“That’s it,” Hongjoong growls, watching your face flush darker as the oxygen thins. “Give it to me. Come for Daddy one more time.” His grip shifts slightly, thumb pressing against your pulse point, and he can feel your heartbeat racing beneath his palm. “Feel how hard your heart’s pounding for me? Your body knows who it belongs to.”

Your vision starts to blur at the edges, stars dancing across your sight as the pleasure builds impossibly higher. His fingers don’t let up, working you with practiced precision, and you’re teetering right on that edge—desperate for release but unable to tip over without his permission.

“So fucking beautiful like this,” he murmurs, voice rough with awe and desire. “Completely at my mercy. Taking everything I give you so perfectly.” His hand loosens slightly, letting oxygen rush back in, and the sudden clarity makes everything sharper. “You'’re doing so well, baby. So good for Daddy. Just let go—I’ve got you.”

The praise combined with the pressure returning to your throat is what breaks you. The orgasm hits different this time—slower, deeper, rolling through you like a wave pulling you under. Your mouth opens on a silent scream, no sound escaping with his hand locked around your throat, and the deprivation makes everything more intense.

“Perfect,” Hongjoong breathes, watching you fall apart beneath him. “That’s my perfect girl. Look at you—so beautiful when you come for me. Did so fucking well, baby.” His hand stays firm on your throat through every wave, controlling even this, drawing it out until you’re shaking uncontrollably.

When he finally releases your throat, you don’t even gasp for air. Your body just goes limp, every muscle surrendering at once. Your eyes slip closed despite trying to keep them on him, and the last thing you register is his voice—distant, concerned—calling your name.

“Baby? Hey—” Hongjoong’s hand immediately cups your face, patting your cheek gently. Your head lolls to the side, body completely unresponsive. You’re still breathing—he can see your chest rising and falling—but you’re utterly gone, consciousness slipping away into the exhaustion he’s wrung from you.

“Fuck,” he mutters, but there’s no panic in it. Just concern mixed with something like awe. He carefully withdraws his fingers from inside you, and you don’t even twitch at the loss. More cum leaks out onto the sheets, but you’re too far gone to notice or care.

He shifts immediately into caretaker mode, moving with practiced efficiency. His hand stays on your face, thumb stroking your cheekbone as he checks you over. Your pulse is steady under his fingers when he presses them to your throat—the same throat he was just restricting. Your breathing evens out into something deeper, more peaceful.

“Did so good,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Too good. Gave me everything.” There’s pride in his voice, but also guilt—he pushed you right to your absolute limit and over it.

He stays close, watching the slow rise and fall of your chest, making sure you’re really okay. After a moment, he tries again, voice soft but insistent. “Hey. Baby, come on.” His hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing across your cheek. “Need you to wake up for me.”

You don’t respond, body still limp and unmoving. He sighs, shifting to sit beside you, one hand sliding to your shoulder to shake you gently. “Can’t let you sleep yet. We need to get you cleaned up first.”

Still nothing. Your breathing stays deep and even, completely out of it. Hongjoong’s expression softens, guilt flickering across his features again. He really wore you out this time.

“Okay,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. “Guess we’re doing this the hard way.” He slides one arm under your shoulders, the other beneath your knees, lifting you carefully against his chest. Your head lolls against his shoulder, body pliant and unresisting.

He carries you toward the bathroom, your weight comfortable in his arms. “You’re going to be so mad at me later if I let you sleep like this,” he says quietly, nudging the bathroom door open with his foot. “All sticky and messy. You’ll complain for days.”

He sets you down carefully on the edge of the tub, one hand staying on your shoulder to keep you upright while he reaches for the faucet. Your head tips forward, chin nearly touching your chest, and he has to catch you before you slump completely.

“Baby,” he tries again, patting your cheek a bit more firmly. “Come on. Just need you awake enough for a bath. I’ll do everything else.” The water starts running, warm steam beginning to fill the small space as he tests the temperature.

Your eyelids flutter—barely, but it’s something. A soft, incoherent sound escapes you, and Hongjoong takes it as a victory.

“There you are,” he encourages, both hands cupping your face now, lifting your head. “Let’s get you in, okay?” He helps you into the tub, supporting your weight as he eases you down into the warm water. The heat envelops you immediately, and you let out a small, contented sigh.

He kneels beside the tub, one hand still steadying you, about to reach for the washcloth when your fingers weakly grasp at his wrist.

“With you,” you mumble, eyes still closed, the words barely coherent but unmistakable.

Hongjoong’s expression softens immediately, a quiet laugh escaping him. “Yeah? Want me to get in with you?” He doesn’t wait for another response—just climbs into the tub behind you, pulling you back against his chest. His arms wrap around you, steadying you in the water, and you let out a small, satisfied hum as you melt into his warmth.

“Stay still,” he murmurs against your skin, voice soft and gentle—so different from how he sounded minutes ago. His lips press to your shoulder, kissing over the marks he left there. Some are already darkening into bruises, others are just faint impressions of his teeth. He maps each one with careful attention, like he’s cataloging the evidence of what he did to you.

You lean back into him, boneless and pliant, letting him support your weight completely. The warm water laps around you both as he reaches for the washcloth, soaping it up with one hand while the other stays wrapped around your waist.

“You’re going to be so sore tomorrow,” he says quietly, dragging the cloth along your arms with gentle strokes. His lips find the curve of your neck, pressing soft kisses to the red marks his hand left on your throat. “I’m sorry, baby.”

“Don’t be,” you mumble, the words thick and drowsy. “Wanted it.”

He makes a soft sound—half laugh, half sigh—and kisses the bruise at the junction of your neck and shoulder, the one from his teeth. “I know you did. Doesn’t mean I can’t take care of you after.” The washcloth moves to your chest, your stomach, washing away the sweat and evidence of everything that happened.

His other hand comes up to tilt your head to the side, giving him better access to your neck. He kisses every mark there too, lips tender against the sensitive skin. “So pretty,” he whispers. “Even covered in bruises. Especially covered in bruises.”

You hum contentedly, eyes still closed, completely surrendered to his care. His hands are so gentle now—washing you clean, touching you like something precious. The contrast makes your chest ache in the best way.

“I love you,” you murmur, barely audible.

Hongjoong's hands still for just a moment before continuing their careful work. “I love you too,” he says against your shoulder, punctuating it with another kiss. “So much. Even when I’m mean to you.”

Especially when he’s mean to you, maybe—but that’s something you both understand without saying.

He brings the cloth to your inner thighs, cleaning away the evidence of your releases, his movements are especially gentle, aware of how sensitive you must be.

“Almost done,” he murmurs, pressing another kiss to your shoulder. The washcloth moves down your legs, over your calves, taking his time to make sure he’s gotten everything. You feel yourself drifting again, lulled by the warmth of the water and his tender care.

When he’s finished, he sets the washcloth aside and just holds you for a moment, his arms wrapped securely around your waist. You can feel his heartbeat against your back, steady and reassuring.

Something stirs in your chest—gratitude, affection, love.

With effort, you turn your head slightly, just enough to press your lips to his cheek. It’s a soft kiss, lazy and uncoordinated, but full of feeling.

Hongjoong goes still, then lets out a breath that sounds almost like relief. His arms tighten around you, pulling you closer against him. “What was that for?” he asks quietly, though there’s a smile in his voice.

“Thank you.”

His hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, turning to press his own kiss to your temple. “Don’t thank me for taking care of you,” he says softly. “That’s my job. Especially after I’ve wrecked you like that.” But his voice is warm, fond, and you can hear how much your simple gesture affected him.

You shift in his arms, turning more fully despite the exhaustion weighing down your limbs. The movement sends water sloshing gently against the sides of the tub, but Hongjoong adjusts easily, his hands sliding to your waist to help stabilise you as you face him.

His eyes meet yours—dark and searching, still carrying traces of the intensity from before but softened now with concern and affection. You lift one hand, fingers trembling slightly as they trace the line of his jaw, then cup his cheek.

“Hey,” he whispers, his own hand coming up to cover yours against his face. “You okay?”

Instead of answering, you lean in and kiss him. It’s slow and deep, nothing like the desperate, hungry kisses from earlier. This one is grateful, reverent—a thank you and an I love you and an I trust you all wrapped into one. Your lips move against his with deliberate tenderness, and you feel him sigh into it, his body relaxing as he kisses you back with equal softness.

His arms wrap around you properly now, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head while the other stays secure at your waist. He angles his head to deepen the kiss just slightly, still gentle but more present, more him. When you finally pull back, it’s only enough to rest your forehead against his, both of you breathing the same air.

You catch the softness in his expression—the way he’s looking at you like you’re something precious—and a small, teasing smile tugs at your lips despite your exhaustion. Your fingers trace lazy patterns on his chest.

“You know,” you murmur, voice still thick with exhaustion but laced with amusement, “for someone who just fucked me unconscious, you’re being awfully soft right now. What happened to the mean Joong from like ten minutes ago?”

Hongjoong’s eyes narrow slightly, though there’s a smile tugging at his lips. “Are you complaining?”

“No,” you say, still trailing your fingers down his chest lazily. “You’re just being so sweet.”

His eyes narrow slightly, though there’s amusement flickering in them. “You want him back? Because I can arrange that.”

“Mm, no,” you hum, leaning in to press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I like this version too. All gentle and worried about me.” Your smile turns a little wicked. “It’s cute.”

“Cute,” he repeats flatly, though you can see the way his lips twitch like he’s fighting a smile.

“Very cute,” you confirm, your fingers walking up his chest to tap against his collarbone. “Taking care of me, kissing all the marks you left, being so—” You pause, pretending to search for the word. “—domestic.”

Hongjoong’s hand slides up to catch your wrist, his grip firm but not rough. “You’re lucky you can barely move right now,” he says, voice low, “or I’d remind you exactly how un-cute I can be.”

You laugh—soft and breathless—and let yourself collapse back against his chest. “See? Cute. You’re threatening me while holding me in a bubble bath.”

He groans, but his arms wrap around you again, pulling you close. “You’re impossible,” he mutters against your hair, but there’s no heat in it. Just fondness, and maybe a little exasperation. His hand strokes down your back in slow, soothing motions. “Rest. You’ve earned the right to be a brat for a few minutes.”

“Only a few minutes?” you tease, already feeling yourself starting to drift again.

“We’ll see how long my patience lasts,” he replies, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. But his tone is warm, and you know he’s not actually annoyed. If anything, he sounds relieved that you’re coherent enough to give him a hard time.

You shift again, the water rippling around you as you turn to face him fully. His hair is damp, some strands clinging to his forehead, others pushed back haphazardly. His eyes are dark and deep, watching you with that same careful attention he always has, like you’re the only thing that matters.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he murmurs, close enough that your breaths mix. His thumb strokes your cheek like he’s checking you’re really here.

“Like what?” you ask while your fingers starts tracing idle circles on his chest.

His gaze narrows, suspicious. “Like you’re about to start something.”

You tilt your head, considering him with exaggerated seriousness. “Maybe I am.”

A quiet, disbelieving laugh slips out of him. “You can barely keep your eyes open.”

“And yet,” you say, letting your fingers trace his jaw again, feather-light, “you’re still watching me like you’re trying to figure out what I’m thinking.”

His hand closes around your wrist—not tight, not controlling. Just there. Grounding. Possessive in a way that doesn’t hurt.

“I don’t have to figure it out,” he says. “I know you.”

“Oh?” You lean in, just enough to brush your mouth against the corner of his—almost a kiss. Almost. You stop a heartbeat short, letting him feel the tease in the pause. “Then tell me.”

His eyes drop to your lips. “Don’t get cocky,” he warns, but the warning sounds thin, like it’s already losing.

You hum, pretending to think about it. “I’m not cocky.”

He gives you a look that says liar.

You meet it without flinching. “I’m just… curious.”

“About what?” he asks, voice low.

You press a soft kiss to his cheek, then his jaw, then the place under his ear where you know it makes him go quiet. You feel his breath hitch, and it makes you brave.

“About how long it takes,” you murmur against his skin, “before you stop being sweet and start being mean again.”

He exhales a laugh—one of those quiet ones that means he’s trying not to show how much you got to him. His hand slides to the back of your neck, thumb brushing your pulse. “You’re teasing me,” he says.

You blink slowly, innocent on purpose. “Am I?”

He leans in, close enough that his nose brushes yours. “You should rest.”

You let your smile widen, just a little. “Make me.”

His gaze drops, then returns to your eyes, darker now. “Careful.”

You press a final kiss to his lips—soft, brief, unhurried—then pull back before he can deepen it.

“Or what?” you whisper.

He looks at you for a long second, like he’s deciding how honest to be. Then he tucks you closer, forehead to yours, and his voice goes quieter.

“Or I’m going to stop pretending I’m patient.”

You sigh like you’re satisfied with that answer, and let your eyes fall closed, still smiling.

“Mm,” you hum. “There you are.”

His jaw ticks. You feel it more than see it—the subtle shift in his expression that says you’re walking a line.

“You’re pushing,” he says quietly.

“Am I?” you ask again, tone dripping with false innocence. Your fingers trail down his chest, nails dragging just lightly enough to make him inhale sharp. “I’m just sitting here. Being good.”

“You don’t know how to be good,” he mutters, but there’s heat creeping into his voice now, the kind that makes your pulse kick up.

You tilt your head, letting your smile turn sharper. “That’s not true. I was very good earlier. You said so yourself.”

His hand tightens on your waist—just enough to make you aware of it. “That was different.”

“How?” you challenge, leaning in until your lips brush his ear. “Because you were in charge?”

Hongjoong goes still. Dangerously still. The kind of stillness that means you’ve officially gotten under his skin.

“Baby,” he says, voice dropping into that low register that usually makes you shut up and listen. But right now, it just makes you bolder.

“What?” you ask sweetly, pulling back to look at him with wide, innocent eyes. “I’m just asking questions.”

His thumb presses into your hip—not hard, but deliberate. A warning. “You’re being a brat.”

“Me?” You press a hand to your chest in mock offence. “I would never.”

“Liar,” he says flatly.

You bite your lip to keep from grinning too wide. “Prove it.”

His eyes flash. “You really want to do this right now?”

“Do what?” you ask, all fake confusion as your fingers walk up his chest again, tracing the line of his collarbone. “I’m just sitting here in this nice bath you drew for me, being so grateful—”

“—being a pain in my ass,” he interrupts, but there’s a crack in his composure now. You can see it in the way his gaze drops to your mouth, then back up. In the way his grip on you shifts, like he’s deciding whether to pull you closer or push you away.

You lean in, close enough that your breath ghosts over his lips. “You love it,” you whisper.

He stares at you for a long moment, expression unreadable. Then, slowly, deliberately, he smiles—and it’s not the soft, fond smile. It’s the dangerous one. The one that means you’ve successfully woken up the version of him that doesn’t play nice.

“Okay,” he says simply. His hand slides up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your bottom lip. “You want to be a brat? Go ahead. But don’t complain when I remind you what happens to brats who push too far.”

Your stomach flips—half anticipation, half genuine thrill. You should probably back down now. You’re exhausted, barely recovered, and you know he’s serious.

But instead, you smile back at him, just as sharp. “Promises, promises.”

His eyes narrow. “Last chance.”

You press a quick, teasing kiss to his lips—there and gone. “Make me stop.”

He exhales slowly through his nose, like he’s physically restraining himself. “You’re going to regret this.”

“Maybe,” you say, trailing your fingers down his chest again, slower this time. “But that sounds like a future me problem.”

Hongjoong’s eyes sharpen. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” you ask, innocent as a knife. “Use your words.”

His jaw ticks. For a second you can see the exact moment his patience runs out.

Then he moves.

His hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, grip firm enough to make your breath catch. “You want me to use my words?” he says, voice dropping low and dangerous. “Fine. Stop teasing me before I forget I was trying to be gentle with you.”

You roll your eyes at him, the gesture slow and deliberate—practically daring him to do something about it.

His grip tightens fractionally. “Did you just—”

“What?” you interrupt, blinking up at him with exaggerated innocence. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You rolled your eyes at me.”

“Did I?” You tilt your head, playing dumb.

Hongjoong’s stare lingers, heavy and unimpressed, like he’s deciding how much patience you’re allowed to borrow before he takes it back with interest.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, almost thoughtful. “You did.”

Before you can respond, he shifts—slow, deliberate—until you’re pressed back against the edge of the tub, his body caging yours.

He kisses you then—deep and consuming, the kind that steals the air from your lungs and replaces it with heat. His hand tightens at the back of your neck, holding you, and you can’t do anything but take it. His mouth moves against yours like he’s proving a point, like he’s reminding you who’s in control here, and it works. God, it works.

When he finally pulls back, your eyes are half-closed, breath coming in short, uneven gasps. You feel dazed, unsteady, like the world tilted and forgot to right itself.

He’s watching you, and there’s that smirk—slow, satisfied, dangerous. “Is this what you wanted?” he asks, voice low and rough.

You nod, still catching your breath, unable to form words yet.

His smirk deepens. “Yeah,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your swollen bottom lip. “That’s what I thought.”

[linopilled]

lose the term g!p and normalize saying 'trans woman reader,' THANK YOU.

[linopilled]

i brought sources and the opinions of trans women/intersex people with me, and yes i do not speak for the entirety of these communities as a genderfluid lesbian because they may find comfort in certain terms (futa) and g!p may seem less dehumanizing, though i won't get past how innately fetishistic it is regardless.

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[linopilled]

lose the term g!p and normalize saying 'trans woman reader,' THANK YOU.

[seungari]

🗡𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐒𝐊𝐙 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 — SAFTEY MEASURES (BANGCHAN) 🗡 𝐀 𝐲𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐝𝐞𝐯𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞.

⚠️ Contains explicit sexual content, graphic violence, and psychological manipulation. All sexual acts are consensual within a coercive, obsessive relationship dynamic.

he promised he’d keep you safe. he never specified from who

You don’t hear the door open so much as feel the house change its breath.

The hallway draft stops dead, like the building itself is holding it in. The air that slides under the bedroom door is colder than it should be, damp in a way that makes your skin go pebble-fine. You are not drunk—just soft around the edges, the way a book looks when you thumb the corners too long. The sheets are warm from your legs. Your phone is face down on the nightstand, an accusatory square.

Keys. A low clink against the console dish. Leather whispering. The tiny rubber sound of shoes leaving your entry mat and finding the wood.

You close your eyes and pretend to be asleep.

“Bad actress,” Chris says from the doorway, voice so gentle you could cut your finger on it.

When you look, he’s a silhouette first: all black, the clean geometry of a high-collar jacket and fitted tee, dark jeans that drink the light from his silver hair. Wet where they shouldn’t be. There are splashes on the cuffs and a dull sheen on his knuckles, rubbed halfway clean and then abandoned. He smells like outside at midnight—cold metal, wet bark, the bite of something mineral.

He doesn’t turn the lamp on. He walks by feel in this place like it’s mapped under his skin. The bed dips—a slow, careful press by your shins. His hand finds your ankle through the comforter and closes, thumb smoothing along the bone as if taking your pulse.

“Hi,” you say, small. It comes out a little breathy, guilty by nature.

He hums. “You’re warm.”

“I—yeah.” Your tongue tastes like wine and citrus. “Changed my clothes.”

His thumb stops moving. “Before or after you stopped answering me.”

The hour before this—your coworkers, the loud bar, the way your phone kept lighting up like a heartbeat—rearranges itself in your head. You swallow. The ring of your glass on polished wood. Laughter. Someone’s sleeve grazing your bare shoulder. “My battery—”

He reaches over you. A quiet, unhurried theft. Your phone is in his hand before you can catch the thought of saying no. He doesn’t check it yet. He just rests it on his thigh and looks at you, the whites of his eyes milk-pale in the low light.

“Battery,” he repeats, but it isn’t a question. It’s a place he’s setting you down to see if you stay.

The apartment is too quiet. You can hear the tiny tick of the hallway thermostat. Somewhere in the pipes a neighbor’s shower shuts off. Chris sets your phone on the nightstand without looking away from you. Then he bends, and the scent of him gets sharper.

Your fingers move before your nerve can talk you out of it. You catch his wrist. His skin is cold and a little damp; there’s grit drying in the lines of his palm. “What… is that?”

His mouth tips. He turns his hand in yours and spreads his fingers. In the dark, the stains read as a palette of shadows—edges the color of violets and rust, a smear you could almost pretend is paint if your stomach wasn’t pulling tight.

“Nothing you need to put your hands on,” he says softly. “Not with your pretty hands.”

“Chris.” Your name for him folds itself around a small plea. “Where did you go?”

“Out.” He lifts one shoulder, the movement minimal, controlled. “You were out. I gave you space.”

“You were mad.” Your voice wants to make it an accusation. It only makes it to observation. “You were mad at me for going and then you left and…and now you’re back.” 

“I always come back.” He says. His knuckles skim your knee over the blanket; he’s not petting you. He’s measuring. “Did you have fun?”

The question is silk over wire. You hate how it snags. “It was just drinks.”

“Just.” He tastes the word as if it offends him. “With who.”

You tell him. Names that feel harmless in your mouth feel less so in the room with him: Anya with the chipped pink manicure, Lucas from accounting who laughs with his whole chest. Chris tips his head once, small, taking the list like a report.

“Your coworker touched your back,” he says. Not a question. “By the door.”

You feel your face heat. You hadn’t told him that. You hadn’t even fully registered it until now— a palm that landed too comfortably between your shoulder blades as the group spilled outside to call rides, a thoughtless guiding pressure. Harmless, you told yourself, even as goosebumps rose sharp across your skin.

“He’s handsy with everyone,” you say.

“Handsy.” The corner of his lips quirk at that and he flexes his wrist slightly. The sheen of wetness there flashes suddenly. “Well.”

He drags his thumb along his wrist where something has dried into the seam of skin, then wipes it on his jeans without looking. He tips his head, studying you, and the quiet stretches until you feel your heartbeat as a separate animal in the room.

“Some men,” he says at last, conversational, “don’t know where to put their hands.” His gaze lowers to where the blanket tents over your knees. “It gets them into trouble.”

You try to laugh like it’s a joke, but it comes out thin and papery. “He… he didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Intent is a bedtime story.” His eyes find your face again. They are very gentle when he’s being unkind. “Contact is a fact.”

He reaches—slow—and takes your right wrist the way a tailor takes a measurement. His fingers encircle, warm now, pressing just enough to feel the pulse under the skin. “Palms up,” he murmurs.

You turn your hands. Your palms look almost luminous in the low light, every line a map you don’t know how to read. He brushes over them like he’s checking for splinters, then flattens your fingers one by one, counting under his breath so soft you almost don’t hear it.

“One… two… three… four… five.” He lifts your left and does the same. “Six… seven… eight… nine…” He pauses on your smallest finger, thumb resting at its base like a promise. “Ten.” His mouth softens. “Good. Keep them.”

The relief is quick and mean; it makes you feel stupid. “Chris—”

He places your hands back on the blanket with exaggerated care, aligning your fingers together, smoothing the duvet where you’ve wrinkled it. “Don’t put them on strangers,” he adds mildly. “Not even on your ‘handsy-with-everyone’ coworker. Especially not him.”

Your tongue sticks to your teeth. “I didn’t— I wouldn’t—”

He nods, as if you’ve given the answer he wanted. “Tomorrow you’ll call off,” he says. “Headache. Or stomach. Something simple. I’ll write it for you.”

“I have a deadline.”

“Then you’ll meet it from here.” He glances toward your desk. “I moved the charger.” He has. The cord that used to live by the couch trails neatly to your nightstand, looped into a figure-eight. “You’ll stay home. That way your hands don’t… wander.”

The thermostat ticks over. Somewhere on the street a far siren winds down and disappears. He looks toward the window briefly, as if listening for his name in it, then unbuttons his cuff with precise, clean movements. The fabric peels back to show crescent-shaped indents deep into his skin, blooming red against his wrist. He smooths it with the other thumb, absent, soothing.

Your mouth moves before your sense does. “Did you… get hurt?”

He considers the question a moment, then shakes his head. “No.”

There’s a small, complicated silence. You think of the bar’s door, the way Lucas had skated his palm between your shoulders like he was steering a shopping cart; you think of the word harmless and how cheap it suddenly feels in your mouth. You think of how Chris’s cuff had been wet when he walked in, and the way the building itself seemed to hold a breath for him.

“He won’t touch you again,” Chris says, almost tender. “Or anyone.”

You look at the shape his words make. They don’t land like a guess.

“Is he—” You stop yourself on the brink. The question opens under you like a staircase to something you don’t want to see the bottom of. You try a different angle, smaller, more ordinary. “Is he okay?”

Chris’s expression does something minuscule—an eyelash shift of amusement, gone as soon as you name it. “He’s not going to be handsy for a while.” He says it like the weather. Like a calendar note. “Extended leave.”

Your stomach lurches. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” he says patiently, “we won’t have this conversation again.”

He picks up your phone, flips it over, and presses the side button with his thumb.

“Location,” he says. You unlock it. He doesn’t have to ask twice.

He toggles the setting on with the same reverence he uses to smooth your hair when you’re shaking. He adds himself to a little white list of people who can always find you. He does not look triumphant. He looks relieved, like someone closing a latch.

He watches the little toggle slide green, then lets your phone dim on its own. The room seems to settle with it, like a lid finding its jar.                    

“Good,” he says. It isn’t praise so much as calibration. “That’s how we stop accidents.”                    

He reaches for your hands again, less like a lover and more like someone fitting a lid—checking the lips, the seal, the way things meet. His thumbs trace the pads of your fingers as if memorizing their texture for later, then pause at your ring finger like he’s counting future problems.                    

“Dry,” he notes. “You pick at the cuticles when you’re anxious.”                    

“I—sometimes.”                    

“I love you,” he says into your knuckles—each kiss a seal—and then, almost lightly: “I’m going to shower.”            

“Okay.”            

“Don’t move.” It’s gentle, which means it isn’t optional.            

The bathroom door clicks. A heartbeat; the pipes wake. Water hits tile in that hard first burst and then takes on a steady hiss. You hear the metal thrum of the knob easing hotter, the wet drag of a curtain pulled closed. Steam slips under the door and ghosts along the floor.            

You stay put for twenty seconds. Maybe thirty. Your pulse makes the counting slippery.   

Then you climb out of bed.         

The jacket waits where he left it, draped over the chair like a sleeping thing. Up close it smells like cold and soap and a thin, mineral thread the shower can’t quite erase. You tell yourself you’re just moving it, just… tidying. Your fingers find the collar. The fabric is heavier than it looks; the hem gives a little when you lift it.            

There’s a darker crescent on the inside placket, dried thin and matte. You swallow, carefully. Your hand finds the inner pocket and grazes something wrapped—paper or tissue gone dense with damp. It gives when you press it. Your stomach steps off a curb.            

You shouldn’t.            

You do.            

The paper sighs open. It isn’t a big thing. Not heavy. Just… definite. Pale where it shouldn’t be, a blunt little curve, the clean circle of a band biting soft tissue. The ring is the wrong kind of familiar—the cheap onyx square your coworker never took off, the one he rapped against doorframes when he was telling a story too loudly. L.M. engraved inside in bad block letters. You recognize it with the same certainty you recognize your own phone by weight in the dark.  Recognize the finger that is still attached to it, blood crusted at the end.           

Air forgets how to go in. You hear yourself set it down back into its cocoon—too careful, too late—your hands suddenly useless birds.

The shower keeps hissing—a steady white noise that makes the apartment feel far away from itself. Steam curls under the bathroom door, licks the floor, climbs the chair legs. You try to put the bundle back exactly the way you found it—edges kissing, soft layers aligned—but your fingers won’t listen. The tissue makes that papery sigh again. Your stomach pitches.

The bathroom door opens.

He’s there in the doorway, towel low on his hips, hair dripping in silent commas down his throat. The room smells like heat and soap and something faintly medicinal. He doesn’t look at the chair first. He looks at you. The angle of your shoulders. The way your hands hover, useless, just off your ribs.

“I forgot the razor,” he says, utterly ordinary, then sees the jacket lifted and your hands mid-guilt. The sentence folds itself away. His eyes take in the angle of your elbows, the loosened pocket, the counterfeit stillness you’re trying to wear.

“I told you not to move.”

“Chris—” Your voice splinters. Your heart is a spotlight that can’t pick a target. “I didn’t— I was just—”

“Bring it here.” Not unkind. Inevitable.

You shake your head before you can stop it. The world wobbles. Something helpless and high climbs your throat.

“Inside voice,” he reminds you softly, stepping closer, towel riding his hipbone, heat breathing off him in waves. “Neighbors.”

“It’s—” The word fails three times. You force it through. “His. That’s— it’s his—” You can’t say finger and not make it real.

“I know what it is.” He holds out the hem of the towel, palm hidden, offering fabric instead of skin. “Give it.”

You almost drop it. Instead, your hands betray you in the safest way they can: they obey. He receives the small weight without looking, wraps once, twice, until the shape is nothing again. He turns and sets it on the closed toilet lid, exactly where a folded towel might live and no one would notice.

Your breath is small and fast. “We have to call— we have to tell someone—”

“No,” he says, utterly calm. “We don’t.”

“He needs a hospital.”

Chris tilts his head, considering. “They won’t be able to help him much.”

He watches your mouth try to shape the argument and fail. The parcel sits obediently on porcelain. The shower keeps talking behind the curtain, a long even line of sound, as if the apartment could write over this with steam.

“They can’t help him,” he repeats, gentle as a correction.

Your breath scrapes. “You don’t know that.”

“I can.” He says. “And if you call anyone now, you’ll only move your fear from the chair to the door.” His gaze flicks there, to the latch, then back. “I prefer it where I can see it. Where I can fix it.”

You shake your head hard enough that black dots crowd the edges of the room. Your hands hover, then clutch the hem of your sleep shirt because you have to hold something or you’ll come apart.

“We have to—” Your voice thins. “Chris, we can’t have— that—here.”

Something flickers in his eyes then, and he softens considerably. He tilts your head back with a finger at your chin. “Are you trying to protect me?”

You flinch like he’s caught you holding a knife by the blade. “I—no— I’m trying to—”

“To make it smaller,” he says, kindly. “For both of us.” His thumb at your chin isn’t force; it’s gravity. “Sweetheart, you always do that. You hold the bad thing close and hope it stops being sharp, even as it’s digging into your chest.”

Your throat works. “This isn’t a bad thing, Chris. It’s—” You can’t say it. The word would sit in your mouth like a rock.

“It’s consequence,” he supplies gently. “It’s the shape safety takes when someone mistakes you for public property.” He leans closer, steam shining his eyelashes. “Listen to me. He put his hands on you like you were an aisle display. He’ll never do that again. Not to you. Not to anyone.”

“You don’t know—”

“I do.” He says it with that low, unarguable certainty that makes you feel both furious and steadied. “Because I removed the choice.”

Your eyes burn. “You can’t ask me to be okay with that.”

“I’m not.” The smallest smile ghosts across his mouth. “I’m telling you that you don’t have to hold it. Give me the part that shakes.” He taps your sternum with two fingers, precise and light. “Let me be heavy so you can be soft.”

It’s wrong that his voice makes your pulse calm. It’s wrong that his palm at your jaw—warm, damp, steady—makes your knees remember they’re attached. He watches the fight in your face without gloating, like a doctor waiting for a fever to break.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Shivering. Your skin’s trying to crawl away from itself.” He tips his head at the shower, still hissing behind the curtain. “Come wash it off.”

He doesn’t pull. He simply offers his hand, palm up, the way he does when he’s certain you’ll remember who you are with it. You stare at it, at the nicks and lines and the new marks, and hate that the relief is already cresting.

“You’ll keep looking at that chair if you stay,” he murmurs. “You’ll imagine stories that are uglier than the truth. Or kinder than it. Either way you’ll bruise yourself with it.” His fingers flex, inviting rather than demanding. “Or you’ll come with me, and I’ll soap your wrists and count you back into your body.”

“That’s manipulative,” you whisper.

He smiles. “It’s love,” he whispers back. “And I’m very good at it.” Softer. “You love me.”

You do. You love him so much, it’s ripping your heart into shreds. Your hand finds his. You tell yourself it’s to stop shaking, to anchor, to prove you can still make a choice. He laces your fingers, warm and certain, and leads you the three steps into steam. The air kisses your face wet; the mirror ghosts your outline.

He lets go of your hand to slip off his towel, stark naked and straight-backed in the way only a person completely confident in their skin can be. He glances up at you, still fully dressed, and smiles slightly.

“Clothes on the hook,” he says. “I’ll turn around.”

“Will you,” you murmur, but it’s almost an old joke between you, and you hate that too.

He does turn, though, despite the fact that he’s seen you naked a million times before. He faces the mirror, head bowed, palms resting lightly on the counter as if he’s bracing with politeness. You can see him in the glass, ears slightly pink, fingers fidgeting and you can see the parcel on the shut lid and you hate that you can hold both images at once.

You feel ridiculous for noticing how the lines of his back looks in the mirror. You hate that your skin already misses his hands.

You peel your shirt over your head. The steam eats the last of the bar-smell; shame sticks closer. Shorts, panties—gone, balled onto the hook by reflex. The curtain whispers when you pull it. He doesn’t look until you are inside with him and the water clasps your shoulders like a warm hand.

When he turns, it’s slow, like he’s letting you get used to the shape of him. His cock is heavy and dark where it hangs, unashamed of what it wants. Your stomach flips traitorously. You hate that your mouth waters more for him than for oxygen.

His fingers find your jaw. “Open,” he says, and you do, because that’s the muscle memory he’s installed in you. He kisses you lazy at first, uncoiling heat, then bites when you chase it. It’s filthy how quickly you melt. It’s filthy how your hips rock without your permission.

“Look at you.” His voice roughens against your mouth. “You were shaking for the wrong reason. I’ll fix it.”

“Chris—” It comes out a whine. You want to curse him. You want to be on your knees. You want both.

“Turn around,” he murmurs, and walks you into the tile until your nipples brush cool ceramic. His hand spreads at your nape, not pinning so much as arranging. “Hands on the wall.”

You plant your palms. Steam glosses them. Water drums your spine. The disgust curls low and glowing—how can you want this now, knowing what he——and then his other hand drags down your belly and sinks between your thighs and the thought scratches out.

He finds you wet like you’d been waiting for him all night. His breath breaks at your ear. “There she is,” he says, and the pride in it makes your knees tremble. Shame pricks; your body opens anyway.

His thumb circles your clit in slow, obscene laps, the kind that make heat pool and then surge. Two fingers press at your entrance and the groan you make when he pushes in is so relieved it’s almost a sob. He doesn’t thrust right away—he holds you full, spread, thumb grinding shallow circles until your hips start to chase, until you’re whining please without meaning to.

“Greedy,” he says, delighted. “After the little stunt you pulled.” He sets a rhythm designed to undo you—deep, dragging strokes that rub the rough pad of his finger against your front wall, the heel of his palm catching your clit on the exit. Your jaw goes slack; your cheeks go hot. Water slicks everything but his grip never slips.

You tremble. He hears it. “Say you need me.”

“I—need—” The syllables fracture around his hand. “I need it.”

“You need me,” he corrects, and crooks his fingers just so. The sound you make would embarrass you if embarrassment could live here. He does it again, patient, cruel, praising you with his breath. “That’s it. Make a mess on my hand.”

Your forehead thumps the tile when he speeds up—tiny, ruthless punches of pleasure that light your nerves like a fuse. You bite your wrist. He tsks and drags your arm down. “No hiding,” he says, and taps your cheek with his knuckles. “Let me hear you.”

You hate him; you love him; you’re coming up hard and bright around the fingers of a man you should be afraid of and you arch back into him like a sinner courting the flame. He feels your body seize and laughs, soft and pleased, and claps his palm hard against your clit on the downswing. You break. It rips out of you, filthy and helpless, thighs shaking, cunt milking his fingers like you were made to perform exactly this trick for him.

He doesn’t stop. He rides you through it, wringing the aftershocks until you’re keening, until your hands slip on the tile. “Too much?” he asks, not stopping, not interested in fairness. You shake your head because honesty would make you beg and you refuse to give him that—until his thumb flicks and you beg anyway.

He gentles. He always knows exactly when to. He drags his soaked fingers to your mouth and taps. You take them like a penitent. You lick your taste off him, eyes closing, shame burning hot as want. His voice goes ragged. “Good girl. Clean me up.”

He kneels.

The filthy punch of it—Chris on his knees in your tub like prayer—makes you dizzy. He hooks your thigh over his shoulder and eats you like he’s been starving for days. No teasing, no polite tongue; he gets messy immediately, mouth open, sucking your clit into the wet heat of him while his injured wrist braces your hip. You slap the tile, a smacking echo that makes you flush, and grind down because your body is done pretending it has standards.

He moans into you when you ride his face. The sound vibrates through your clit and you jerk; he does it again, greedy for the way you seize. His tongue fucks you shallow, sloppily, then drags up and flattens over you until your knees threaten to go. “Chris,” you gasp, and he answers by driving two fingers into you from below and curling them like a hook. The world whites out around the edges.

“You taste like you missed me,” he says against you, voice ruined, and devours you harder. His hand is a metronome between your legs; his mouth is chaos. You let him make you into a noise. You let him use your hips like handles. You hate yourself for how quickly the second orgasm winds you back up—and when it slams through, messier than the first, you cry out loud enough the pipes hum it back.

He stands in one smooth flex and kisses you, filthy, sharing the mess he made of you with a satisfied noise when you chase his tongue. You can taste yourself and him and something metallic you don’t want to name, and the wrongness of that reels you; your cunt clenches uselessly around nothing and he groans into your mouth like he felt it.

“Bed,” he says, hoarse, fumbling for the shower knob. “On your back. Legs open.”

You stumble out of the tub, dripping and boneless, and he follows, slinging water across the tile with his steps. You don’t look at the porcelain lid when you pass; his fingers at your wrist give you something truer to stare at. He throws you onto the sheets like you’re soft and expensive and his favorite problem.

He drags you down the bed so your hips kiss the edge and folds you open. “My pretty mess,” he says, and spits on you, quick and obscene. His thumb smears it in and your body thanks him before your brain can get a vote.

“Condom,” you start to say, and he’s already reaching the drawer, already tearing it with his teeth, already rolling it down with practiced, impatient hands. Consideration weaponized. You hate that relief loosens your spine.

He lines up and pushes—slow the first inch, watching your face, then down to the root in one long glide that makes both of you swear. Your mouth falls open. He holds there, deep, letting you feel how utterly inside you he is, how there is no getting him out now that he’s home.

“Fuck,” you whisper, and he smiles like he’s been paid.

He moves. Not fast, not yet; slow, dragging thrusts that grind him right where you’re still trembling from his mouth. His hands climb your body, mapping possession in a language your skin understands better than your head. One circles your throat—not squeezing, just fitting there—and the other lifts your thigh higher, folding you until you open the way he likes, until his hips can pin you to every inch of the bed.

“Eyes,” he says, and you drag them up to him. He looks down like he’s blessing you. “Say what you are.”

“Yours,” you breathe, because lying would be pointless, and his rhythm stutters sweetly, his composure cracked with a sound that curls your toes.

“You are,” he grits out, picking up pace. “Your mine.” He fucks you harder, deeper, the kind of stroke that turns words to weather. The slap of skin fills the room; the wet between you is obscene; your slick coats him and he groans, filthy and pleased. “Listen to yourself,” he pants. “God, you’re loud for me.”

Your nails carve his back. He hisses and drives you higher, the bed complaining. The shame surges, searing and numb all at once—how can you moan for him when you know what he did, how can you come on a man who——and then he pins your wrists over your head in one hand and grinds down exactly right and you choose the smaller sin: you let him.

It builds ugly and perfect. He keeps you there, right on the edge, with little mean circles of his hips that make your eyes wet. “Not yet,” he says when you reach for it. “Hold it. Be good.”

“I can’t,” you plead, and he smiles like that’s his favorite part, and slides deeper, angling to own that spot you can’t protect. Your back arches, your feet slip, your mouth falls open on a sound that feels like confession.

“Fine then,” he says, and the word is a key. You come like you’re being wrung out, like he’s turned you inside out over his hands, like every ugly thought burns away under the heat he’s made of you. You bite his shoulder; he grunts and fucks you through it, chasing his own end now, brutal and beautiful, the lines of his face cut with pleasure.

He’s right there—hips hammering, breath tearing out of him—when his rhythm breaks. A harsh curse rips from his throat; he wrenches out of you with a wet, obscene drag, condom snapping as he claws it off and flings it aside. His hand wraps himself like he means to bruise, wrist jerking, fist a blur.

“Fuck—fuck—look at me,” he snarls, voice gone raw. The sound he makes isn’t pretty; it’s guttural, animal, his head thrown back, throat working as he pumps, fast and mean, like every second not inside you hurts. His abs jump; his hips chase the air. He’s loud, louder than he ever lets himself be—deep, broken groans punched out of him, a helpless litany of your name and filthy, grateful curses.

You’re splayed open at the edge of the bed, slick everywhere, thighs shaking, and the sight of you ruins him. His jaw locks; he doubles over you, bracing one palm on the mattress beside your ribs, the other tearing at himself, desperate, frantic. “God, look at you—mine, mine—” It pitches higher on the last word, ragged and close.

“Channie,” you gasp, and that’s what does it. His whole body tightens; his hand stutters and he shouts—loud, uncontained—spilling hot and thick over your stomach in hard, messy stripes. The first hits your lower belly; the next lands higher, a wet heat across your ribs, your breasts, a warm splatter catching your throat. He keeps jerking through it, whimpering now, ruined and beautiful, painting you with it like he’s signing a contract he wrote in his own blood.

He yanks another breath, fist still working, chasing the last aftershocks out of himself until he’s empty. A final, helpless groan punches into your neck as the last spill drips over the swell of your chest and slicks down your side. He shivers, hand loosening, cock twitching in his grip as he milks the last drops onto your belly, smearing them with the flat of his thumb like he wants it everywhere on you.

“Fuck,” he laughs, breathless and wrecked, forehead falling to your shoulder. His chest heaves against your knees; his hips twitch like he can’t stop wanting. For a second there’s nothing but the sound of both of you trying to remember how to breathe and the obscene slide of his palm as he finally lets go.

He lifts his head, eyes blown and greedy, and stares at the mess he’s made—at your skin shining with him, at your nipples slick and peaked, at the milky line collecting at the notch of your collarbone. The look on his face is worship and victory tangled into something that scares you and softens you at once.

“Pretty,” he rasps, voice torn to threads. He drags two fingers through the warm spill on your sternum and rubs it slow over your skin, spreading it down, circling your nipple until you gasp again. His mouth follows, open and hot, licking it from you, sucking lazily like he can’t stand to waste a drop. He mouths a filthy path up your chest and licks the spot at your throat where it landed, groaning low when you shiver.

He noses the hollow of your throat and licks a slow, possessive stripe through the warm mess there like he’s tasting proof. A pleased sound rattles in his chest. “Mine,” he says into your skin, and then he’s chasing every slick line downward with his mouth open and greedy, tongue broad and hot.

He drags the flat of it over your collarbone and sucks the spill from the notch like he’s siphoning heat. It’s obscene, wet, noisy—he wants you to hear how he’s cleaning you. His hand pins your hip when you twitch. “Stay,” he mutters, and laps lower, patient and ravenous at once.

Your chest lifts helplessly to meet him. He takes his time there—circles one nipple with the tip of his tongue, smearing the milky shine until it coats you, then seals his mouth over it and sucks hard. Your back bows; a broken sound leaves you; shame bites; want eats it alive. He hums like he’s been given cream and moves to the other, mouthing it sloppier, licking until it’s slick again, sucking until your thighs tremble.

“Look at you,” he breathes, pulling back half an inch just to admire the spit-slick flush he’s made. He drags two fingers through the mess on your sternum and paints a crooked line down your ribs; his mouth follows, tongue working, teeth scraping lightly when you gasp. He cleans like a sinner making amends—thorough, reverent, filthy.

He gets to your belly and slows further, licking in lazy swirls that make your muscles flutter. He collects everything he finds with the soft edge of his tongue and swallows, then goes hunting with the tip, chasing it into your navel until you squeak. He laughs against your skin, low and wrecked. “All of it,” he promises, voice hoarse. “Every drop.”

He turns his head and bites the tender place beside your hipbone then soothes it with his tongue, lapping at a rivulet sliding toward the sheet. He won’t let it leave you; he catches it on the underside of his tongue and rolls it back up your skin into his mouth with a groan that ricochets through your gut. Your fingers fist in the sheets. You hate how your body melts under the worship, how your hips tip to give him more.

“Open,” he murmurs, nudging your knees wider with his forearms, but he doesn’t go there yet. He drags his cheek over your inner thigh, smearing shine into your skin, then licks it away in long, patient swathes like he’s polishing you. Every time you flinch, he follows the twitch with his mouth and cleans it, tongue insistent, lips soft, breath hot.

When he reaches the juncture of your thigh and pelvis he slows to nothing, holding your gaze as he flattens his tongue and slides it through the thin line he left on your lower belly, collecting the last of what he spilled and groaning like he’s starving for it. Your head tips back on a whimper; you can feel heat pooling low and mean again, traitorous.

“Almost done,” he lies, and you know he’s lying because his thumbs are already stroking into the crease where you’re slick for a different reason, and he’s looking at you like dessert is finally plated.

He bends and licks the inner curve beside your mound, not touching your clit, not yet, just cleaning your skin with obscene diligence. He chases a stray smear up and over, mouth open, licking slow enough to make you curse. He hums at the taste and your body answers, a little jerk that gives everything away. He follows it with the tip of his tongue, drinks from you again like he’s earned the right.

Then he finally drags the flat of his tongue up your slit in one long, deliberate stroke that leaves you shaking. He tastes you and the noise he makes is grateful and indecent. “So sweet,” he says, slurred, and seals his mouth around your clit just long enough to make your vision grit out. He pulls off with a wet pop, breath tearing. “I said I was cleaning.” A beat. “This is part of it.”

He spreads you with his thumbs and eats you again, deeper. He’s still loud—low groans and ruined little curses as he licks everything you give him, as if the only way to finish what he started is to pull you back apart with his mouth. Your hips climb his face; he lets them, one arm banding your waist, the other anchoring your thigh over his shoulder so he can get messy. He licks your entrance and fucks his tongue into you, sloppy and insistent, then drags up and sucks your clit in deep, obscene pulls that make your toes curl.

“Chris—” It’s a plea and a warning both.

“I know,” he pants, laughing breathlessly against you, and goes right back to it, tonguing you until your thoughts blur, until shame has nothing to hold onto. He cleans you and dirties you at once, lap after lap, swallow after swallow, until you’re soaked with his spit and your own slick again, until your thighs are shaking and your hand is in his hair trying to push him away and keep him forever.

He takes your wrist and plants your palm over your own breast. “Hold it for me,” he says, and when you do, he moans and licks harder, like the sight is gasoline.

You climb fast. He feels it and chases it, sucking your clit into the heat of his mouth and flicking his tongue exactly the way that breaks you. It hits sharp and hot—your hips stutter, your breath rips out in a cry, and he hums through your release like he’s proud of himself, like he’s finishing his plate.

He doesn’t stop until you shove at him, half-sobbing. He lets you, finally, lips shiny, chin wet, eyes black with want. He crawls up your body, dragging his mouth along your belly to catch anything he might have missed, then kisses your sternum, each breast, your throat, licking away the last ghost-stripes he painted there.

“All clean,” he says against your mouth, and kisses you slow so you can taste the truth of it—him, and you, and the ruin of the night turned into heat.

You hate that the taste makes you open for him. You hate that your hips lift again when his hand slides down, palm heavy on your belly, thumb stroking low like a promise that he isn’t done. He smiles into the kiss, feral and fond, and licks the corner of your mouth as if there were anything left to claim.

“Roll over,” he murmurs, voice gone velvet-dark. 

You roll, cheek to the cool side of the pillow, hips lifting because his hands have already found your waist. He palms you open, thumbs pressing into the dip above the swell of your ass like he’s fitting you to himself.

“Like this,” he says, low and rough, dragging his mouth down your spine in hot, open kisses. “Want you like this.”

You know what he means before he says it; your body knows it first. He nudges your knees wider, presses his chest to your back, breath hot at your ear. “No rubber,” he murmurs, filthy-soft. “Bare. Let me stay.”

A flare of sense—thin, sputtering—fights up your throat. It dies on the whine you make when he slides two fingers through your slick and pushes them into you to the knuckle. Your hips answer for you, pushing back, shame prickling uselessly under the want.

“Say it,” he grinds, teeth grazing your shoulder. “Tell me to fuck you raw.”

“Yes,” you breathe, burnt and honest. “God—yes, Chris. Bare.”

He groans like you untied something inside him. The sound vibrates in your bones. He drags his fingers out, slow, and you feel the blunt head of him notch against you—hot, heavy, hungry. There’s no latex drag, no barrier. Just him, thick and alive, pressing into your heat. Your breath shreds.

“Open up for me,” he rasps, and you do, the angle of your hips changing under his hands. He pushes. The first inch makes both of you swear, the stretch almost too much, the slick obscene. He holds there, panting against your neck. “Fuck, that’s it… you feel like you were made to keep me.”

He sinks the rest of the way in with a slow, ruthless grind that leaves you clawing the sheet. Full. Too full. Perfect. Your mouth falls open on a sound you don’t recognize yourself in. He groans into your hair, broken and grateful. “Bare,” he says again, almost a prayer. “So warm. So tight. Christ.”

He moves.

Not careful now—hungry. Deep, dragging thrusts that smack skin, that grind his pelvis into the soft ache of your clit each time he bottoms out. The bed knocks the wall in a steady, shameless rhythm. He’s talking without knowing it, filthy praise spilling like heat—good girl, take me, that’s it, all of me, fu–ck, I can feel you clutching——and every word makes you softer around him.

Your head is a riot. Some small, horrified part of you whispers you shouldn’t want this, not after tonight, not after what you saw, not after what you know—but the rest of you is a body on fire that only understands yes. He fills every argument with his cock, erases every edge with his hips. You break yourself against him and he thanks you for it, voice shredded, hands sure.

“Hands up,” he pants, and you give them, sliding your wrists to the headboard. He laces his fingers through yours from behind and bears down, changing the angle until you can’t do anything but feel. The new depth knocks a helpless moan out of you; he snarls at the sound and pistons faster, sloppy now, desperate, like he’s racing something only he can see.

“Look at what you do to me,” he grits, pulling out almost all the way just to slam back in, obscene and wet. “Listen to me.” He’s loud, uncontained—deep curses breaking on your name, harsh, wrecked little laughs when your body clenches and drags him in deeper. “Fuck, you’re milking me,” he gasps, losing composure on a groan. “You’re gonna make me—”

“Inside,” you choke, shocking yourself with how fast you say it. “Please, inside—fill me, Chris—”

He makes a sound that isn’t language. His grip on your hands tightens; his thrusts turn brutal, gorgeous, hips snapping, balls slapping wet against you. “Yeah? You want it?” he growls, ragged, almost gone. “You want me to breed this pretty pussy?”

“Yes,” you sob, honest and ruined. “Yes, yes—Channie, please—give it to me—”

That breaks him. He buries himself to the root and holds, shaking, and you feel the first hot pulse spill deep where he wanted it. He shouts—loud, dirty, unashamed—crushing your fingers in his as he empties himself into you, each convulsion dragged out by the tight way you clutch around him. He grinds through it like he can push himself further inside, like he can stay, like he can mark you from the inside out.

“Take it,” he snarls against your neck, voice wrecked to threads. “Take all of it—fffuck—” Another heavy pulse, another, heat spreading in low, molten waves that make you see static. Your body answers with a vicious, rolling aftershock, milking him, greedy, a drawn-out whimper tearing from your chest when you feel the spill and the stretch and the pressure fuse into something that obliterates thought.

He doesn’t pull out. Not yet. He stays fully sheathed, panting, mouth open against your shoulder. His hips give small, helpless pushes, like his body can’t believe it gets to keep going. You’re delirious enough to press back, to meet those afterthrusts with your own tiny rolls, the wet, messy slip of him inside you making both of you groan.

“God, look at you,” he gets out, laughing breathlessly, delirious and proud. “Keeping me. Holding me.” He lets one of your hands go and slides his palm down, splaying it low over your belly. The weight of it there, heavy and possessive, makes your eyes sting. “Right here,” he husks. “Right where you wanted me.”

When it finally wrings him empty, he stays, buried to the hilt, panting into your skin. His hands stroke over you like he’s patting down a fire—thighs, waist, belly—possessive and shaky. You feel him soften and twitch and he hums, sated and obscene, hips giving one last lazy push to seat it deeper.

He slides out slow and you gasp at the loss. Warmth follows, thick and undeniable; he hisses softly, enthralled, watching it. “Don’t move,” he says, and his voice is wrecked and gentle at once. He thumbs your folds open and groans at the glossy spill, at the way your cunt flexes reflexively against the emptiness. “Look at that.”

You can’t. You can only feel: the wet weight of him inside you still, the heat slicking your thighs, the filthy satisfaction in his tone.

He presses two fingers to your entrance like a stopper and leans down to kiss the top of your spine. “Hold it,” he murmurs. “Hold me.” Then he withdraws his fingers and uses his thumb to smear his cum up over your swollen clit, slow and obscene. You jerk; he laughs into your shoulder and does it again, lazier. “Greedy even when I give you everything.”

He rolls you onto your back. The mess slides and you gasp; his eyes go heavy-lidded at the sight. He pushes your knees up and apart, opens you to the night and to him, and watches another warm stripe slip out. He catches it with his fingers and pushes it back in, groaning like it hurts him. “Keep it.”

“Chris,” you whisper, dazed.

“I know.” He noses your jaw, voice gone velvet and rough. “You’re perfect. You took me so good. You’re going to keep me.” A slow, greedy kiss. 

His palm stays spread low over your belly, heat heavy and possessive. He stares at where he’s opened you, at the slow, warm slide he just pushed back in with his fingers, and swallows hard like the sight feeds him.

“Gonna sit right here,” he murmurs, pressing more firmly until you feel the weight of him inside shift deeper, “and let it take.” He kisses you—slow, drugging—and talks into your mouth like a secret. “Want you walking around full of me. Want you leaking when you get up for water. Want you thinking about it every time you move.”

Your breath stutters. “Chris—”

“Thinking about us,” he corrects himself softly, thumb dragging an idle circle just above your mound. “About me putting a future in you.” He nips your bottom lip and soothes it with his tongue, eyes hot and glassy. “Tell me you’d carry me.”

You should say something sane. Instead you whisper, “I’d carry you,” and his pupils go blown and dangerous.

“That’s my girl.” He noses under your ear, voice gone low and ruined. “Gonna have you all soft for me. Gonna watch you swell up pretty. I’ll hold your hair when you’re sick in the morning, rub your back when you can’t sleep. I’ll run my mouth to the pharmacy at 2 a.m. I’ll do the lists and the laundry and the dinners—” His hand cups your breast, thumb grazing your nipple as if he can picture it already. “—and I’ll kiss you right here when it kicks.”

A soft, shocked noise spills out of you. Your hips tilt into his thumb without permission; your body is a traitor and a shrine.

“Look at me.” You do. He looks wrecked and certain and yours. “You’ll tell me when you’re late.” His mouth ghosts your cheek, your jaw. “I’ll buy the test and wait outside the door, hands on my knees like a boy.” A breathless laugh catches. “Then I’ll drop to the floor when you show me and you’ll sit on my lap and I’ll promise you I won’t let the world put a finger on you again.”

His words sink under your skin like ink. You don’t know if you’re shaking because you’re scared or because you want it so badly your bones ache with it.

“Turn,” he whispers. You do, pliant and messy, thighs still slick. He slides down between them again, opens you with his thumbs, and stares at the wet shine he’s made. “So much of me,” he says, awed and filthy. “Stay open.”

You whimper when his tongue licks low, not to tease, not to play—just to gather what tries to slip free and push it back with slow, greedy strokes. He groans into you every time he manages it, as if he can solve biology with his mouth. “Keep… every… drop,” he mutters, punctuating each word with a push of his tongue that makes your toes curl.

When he looks up, his chin is slick, his mouth swollen, his eyes devout. “You’ll tell me when your breasts hurt,” he says, voice shot to velvet, kissing the softness at the inside of your knee. “You’ll wear my shirts when nothing fits. You’ll sleep with my hand on your belly so it knows me.”

“Chris.” Your throat is raw; your body is molten. “You’re—”

“Obsessed with you,” he finishes simply, crawling up until his weight blankets you. He nudges his cock back to your entrance, still heavy, still slick, the head bumping where he just left himself. “I should wait,” he says, and then he pushes in again, bare, with a wrecked little groan because he can’t. “But I can’t. Gotta pack it in.”

The stretch is even easier and somehow filthier; you feel your body swallow him like it’s been taught. He slides to the hilt and stays, hips pressed deep, as if depth alone could write the future he wants.

“Again,” you breathe, and he laughs against your mouth, dizzy with you.

“Hungry girl.” He draws back and gives you a slow, claiming thrust, then another, each push deliberate, grinding, designed to seat him high. His hand finds your knee and folds you open, angle obscene, his pelvis kissing your clit at the end of every stroke. “That’s it. Let me put it where it sticks.”

“You’re insane,” you say, but it breaks on a moan when he circles your clit with two fingertips and fucks deeper.

“For you.” His mouth opens against your throat, teeth scraping just enough to make your eyes roll. “You’ll text me pictures,” he pants, pace tightening, “of test strips on the counter, of sweaters you outgrow, of the crib I build wrong the first time and right the second.” He laughs, choked and bright. “You’ll sit on my lap while I read names out loud until you kick me and we pick the one you kick for.”

It shouldn’t soothe you. It does. It shouldn’t turn you on. It lights you up like tinder. You clamp around him and he groans, high and helpless, losing the last of his rhythm for a handful of messy, glorious thrusts.

“Say we’re trying,” he begs, near-delirious, thumb insistent on your clit. “Say it. Say it now.”

“We’re trying,” you gasp, arching. “We’re—oh God—we’re trying.”

He breaks. The sound that leaves him is deep and wrecked, and he drives in hard and holds there, grinding like he can bury the word inside you with his body. You feel the twitch, the hot spill again, raw and shameless, and your back bows off the mattress at the flood. 

“Take it,” he groans, shaking, “take it, take me—” And you do, legs locked around his waist, hands in his hair, lips on his open mouth, swallowing the sounds he can’t hold, letting him pour himself into you like he can fill the future in one long breath.

When he finally sags, it’s not collapse; it’s a settling. He turns his head and kisses your palm where it shakes against his cheek, then drags that same palm down to your belly and pins it there under his.

“Mine,” he whispers, reverent and fierce, pressing you like he can feel it happen under your skin. “Our secret for now.”

You could remind him about statistics and timing and the pill and sensibility. You don’t. You lie there with him inside you, messy and full, and watch his face soften into something you’ve never seen before—hope unclenching its fist.

“Sleep,” he says at last, lips on your temple. “I’ll keep you full.” He shifts deeper with a satisfied sigh, lazy afterthrusts that make both of you gasp. “In the morning, we try again.”

[hyungszn]

Need to go into a puppy play sorta space with Channie real bad

Need him to put a sparkly collar on me and tell me how pretty I look while he rubs behind my ears-

RUFF RUFF

puppy girl agenda always! (sorry this got hella out of hand 💀)

warnings for below the cut; pet play (semi-heavy? there is a scene or two where chan’s treatment of reader is… more like she is an actual dog LOL but it’s not meant to be degrading), daddy!chan, sub(puppy)!reader, daddy kink, d/s dynamics, established relationship, dry humping, collaring, leash mention, subspace, mentions of knots and heat, praise, dirty talk…, erm… if i missed something just let me know!

Bang Chan is many, many things.

He fulfills many roles at the ripe age of twenty-seven; leader, son, and brother to name only a few. They’re all rewarding in their own right, playing strongly on his sense of duty. However, the most fulfilling duty isn’t being respectful to his mother, nor is it being a role model of a sibling or even being a strong, sturdy guide for the seven young men he chose to build his dreams with. The most rewarding job that he has is being a partner, a caregiver, and more specifically, your Daddy.

The way you kneel between his legs, all dilated pupils and parted lips, is a quite the sight for sore eyes. You look at Chan like he’s hung the moon, adoring and awestruck. It’s an ego booster — heady. Chan leads in every aspect of his daily life, but it’s different with you, especially within the confines of your bedroom walls. You trust Chan implicitly, and the thick collar that he’s currently placing around your neck is tangible proof of that.

“Pretty,” he compliments, stroking the skin above the collar. He watches the way your body almost deflates, tension bleeding from your muscles. “Just what my puppy needed, hm?”

You mewl, unfocused eyes gazing into his own. A nod and a slurred, “Yes,” is the only response you give him.

Strong hands curl themselves around the sides of your head, sliding over the skin behind your ears until the top of his fingers are pressing at the base of your skull. They press and massage the nodules there, and you can’t help but lean into it, neck going limp because you trust that your Daddy will be the pillar to hold you up. Chan smiles, wide and brilliant, as a coo makes its way past his lips.

“Look at you, baby. Feels good to let go, yeah?”

It’s a rhetorical question, so you don’t reply. You’re sure the answer is in your expression, anyway. You go down so easy for him these days, content to float away because Daddy will handle it all. Your unwavering submission makes Chan feel powerful in a way that satisfies his need to take care of those he loves, but also in a way that makes his cock stiff in his jeans. You’re his pretty baby, his good girl, his sweet pup. Chan will take care of you always; you don’t have to worry about a thing whenever your collar is on.

His nails scratch lightly at your neck and scalp, his own pupils dilating at the tiny pants you begin to let out. His chest starts filling with an aching sort of want; the more he scratches, the looser your jaw becomes, those tiny, puppy-like pants flowing out freely. You’re so cute; Chan thinks you’d look even cuter if you’d let your tongue fall out. Maybe he could make you yip for him later? Have you give him a little bark and wag your hips like a real puppydog. That’s for later though; right now is for taking care of you.

“Puppy,” your boyfriend croons, gripping your hair so he can tilt your eyesight to level with his. “Daddy’s gotta ask you a question, okay? You with me?”

It takes a moment. Your brain is pretty fuzzy, but you are cognizant of the fact that Chan is talking to you. You fight through the fog in your head to gain a little focus, just enough control to be able to look him in the eyes and really hear what he has to say. Chan waits patiently, a faint smile on his lips as he watches you come back down to earth.

“There you are,” he breathes, and your lashes flutter at the raspy, quiet bass of his voice, “Back now, sweet girl?”

“Mhm,” you answer, body buzzing in a state that feels like it’s somewhere between sleep and arousal. “Right here, Daddy.”

“That’s good. I just wanna know what you need, baby. You wanna play?”

You think about it for a second, and then a second longer. “No, no play.”

“Wanna go for a walk?”

You feel heat prickling your skin. The thought of sinking further into the clouds, letting Chan lead you around on all fours does sound enticing. You can hear the phantom jingle of the tags on your collar already. Still, it’s not quite what you want and you make that known.

“Mm, okay,” Chan hums in understanding. You don’t need to act out a scene, and you don’t need to slip deep into subspace.

There is only one other option and you’re both aware of it. Chan can tell you’re blushing, the heat underneath his palms as he slides his hands forward to cradle your jaw. Inside he’s smirking though his face remains impassive. How adorable is it that you have enough shame to blush even though you’re on your knees with a literal dog collar around your neck?

“Ah, I know,” he drawls, leaning in close, “Puppy wants to hump, doesn’t she?”

Your breath catches, embarrassment and desire churning in your gut. You feel shy, but it’s fleeting; there is no shame to be had here, you know. Chan is more than happy to indulge your needs, especially knowing that his own align with them so well.

“Is my pretty puppy going into heat?”

“Daddy,” you whine, “‘M not a real puppy.”

“Sure you are, baby,” he tuts, pinching your cheeks between the index finger and thumb of his dominant hand. “You’re my puppy, aren’t you?”

You hesitate, licking over your dry lips before answering.

“Yes.”

“So say it. Go on; tell me. Say, ‘I’m Daddy’s puppy’.”

“I’m D-Daddy’s puppy,” you say, squeezing your thighs together.

“Good girl,” he rumbles, nudging his foot into the small place between your parted knees.

“Now let’s take care of that pesky heat, yeah? Go ahead and lower your hips. You can hump my leg, puppy; it’s okay.”

“Daddy,” comes your whimper, hips dropping immediately, lowering all the down until you’re settled atop his foot.

Your hips kick forward at the pressure against your swollen cunt. It’s only then that you realize how wet you are, a tendril of shame curling in your gut knowing that Chan can feel it. Your arms encircle his lower leg to stable yourself as you rock, panting lowly because you’re finally getting that much needed friction against your sensitive clit. Chan grins, wolfish and hungry, and pets over your hair.

“Such a good girl,” he praises, “Feels nice, doesn’t it?”

“Y-Yeah,” you slur, a foggy haze of desire settling in your brain. “So nice.”

And it does. It’s a slick slide, the soft skin of Chan’s foot under the heated skin of your pussy. At the top of your rolls, you can feel the bone of his ankle, sturdy and unmoving as it holds its ground again your rutting. You can’t help your whining, feeling slightly out of your mind.

It’s going to be so easy to come like this.

“Shh,” Chan hushes you, urging you to rest your cheek on his thigh. “You just focus on coming, baby. Gotta make sure you’re nice and wet, yeah?”

You hum in agreement, rutting harder against Chan’s leg.

“Yeah, that’s right. Need you soft and relaxed for when Daddy stuffs a knot inside that tiny, little puppycunt of yours.”

Neither of you are that surprised when you come.

© hyungszn 2025; please do not copy, steal, repost, modify, translate, use for ai, or recommend on any other platform without my permission!

[linopilled]

i think about this piece in particular so.. so so so often

[linopilled]

it's linopilled's day of birth. :3

[cbini]

date changbin!

pairing: seo changbin x afab!reader

warnings: established relationship, does this count as poly??? or a crack fic?? lol, look at all those changbins!!!, eventual smut, kissing, sexual tension, sexy pre-workout stretching, sexy bathing, humping, rule 63, lingerie, nipple licking, oral (m rec), slight possessive dirty talk, cowgirl position, very light choking, unprotected sex

a/n: happy birthday sweet bin <3 this fic is based off of the game date everything! with a few of my own little twists, plus a very special surprise guest sprinkled in here that some of you might enjoy seeing again. this is a lot more lighthearted than my bin bday fic from last year lol, and it’s probably a little silly actually, but i had a lot of fun writing it. pls let me know what you think. reblogs and feedback are always appreciated :)

w/c: 18.6k

the jingle of keys, the shuffle of shoes, a fleeting kiss pressed to your forehead right after pouted lips meet yours in a quick farewell. you can hear the door open as he goes to leave, but it doesn’t close. 

“oh?” changbin muses, loud voice muffled only by the rooms now between you.

his keys jingle again faintly when he bends down, his shoes shuffle once more, back towards the kitchen and back towards your spot at the table again, a rubbery squeak thrown into the mix of mundane, early morning noises as the bottom of a platform croc catches on the linoleum. you lift your eyes to see him holding a box, walking slowly enough to concentrate on reading the label on the package. 

“here, it says it’s for you. were you expecting something?” you answer his question with a shake of your head and a slight frown on your lips. there’s no return label on the box, no identifying markers other than your name and address, and it’s light enough to pick up and shake. something clunks inside, rustles like it’s padded by tissue paper. 

the tape wrapping the box doesn’t give easily under your prying fingers, so you hand it back to changbin for him to slice it open with his keys. right down the middle he does, huffing as he uses his strength to finish opening the remaining flaps of cardboard on the sides with two calloused hands, tape popping apart loudly under the force of them. you look into the box together then, two peas in a pod, heads almost colliding in your hurry to lean into each other. 

the box is small enough that you can see its contents right away. pink tissue paper, wrinkled and messy like it was stuffed inside with haste. sitting in the middle of the rumpled tissue paper though, is a pair of yellow-tinted glasses. 

they’re… nice. not necessarily your style, but they’re not ugly. you can tell they’re new, the lenses and legs are free of fingerprints and scratches like so many of your well-loved glasses don’t have the luxury of anymore. they’re objectively nice glasses, but the fact of the matter is, you didn’t order them. 

“are you sure these aren’t for you?” you ask, looking up at changbin where he stands over you. “not like a… brand deal?” 

you check the label on the opened box again and sure enough, it’s your name listed on it, not his. changbin still responds to your silly, obvious question with a genuine answer. 

he hums, purses his lips. “hmm, no, i don’t think so. those are usually sent straight to the company. you didn’t order them?” 

you’d remember ordering them if you did; you’d definitely remember ordering something you wouldn’t typically wear. maybe you won it somewhere? maybe a small online shop you frequent sent you a free gift? did changbin order them for you? it’s not unheard of; changbin enjoys surprising you with things, indulgent when it comes to spoiling you with gifts he thinks you’ll like. but he’s never played possum before, always open and honest when it comes to you. 

“i didnt order them. did you order them?” you look up at him again, and his eyebrows furrow. he takes a closer look into the box to study the glasses and ultimately decides that no, he didn’t order them. the shake of his head tells you so. 

changbin’s phone chimes before he can give you a verbal answer though, and he hisses through his teeth. 

“ah, i need to go.” he stands up straight but leans into your side to smack a kiss against your cheek. “i can take them to the studio if you want. hannie might like them.” 

you take the glasses out of the box and put them on, blinking to adjust your vision to the warm hue of the lenses. the yellow tint doesn’t bother your eyes as much as you thought it would. 

“o-oh, oh my god,” you say seriously, waving your hand in front of your face and gasping. 

“what?!” 

changbin’s eyes widen. his pupils shake as he looks you up and down to figure out your problem. 

“it can’t be! these- these glasses! your clothes are gone. i can see you naked!” 

his hand slaps the table. “yah!” changbin hollers, bellow petering off into a goofy laugh at the end. “yah, you’re bad. you scared me! you’re lucky if you ever see me naked again.” changbin huffs when you join in his laughter, but there’s a satisfied grin tugging at the corner of his lips. 

“i’m sorry, i’m sorry, baby,” you placate. the glasses creak on your face as you tuck your cheek into his chest, wrapping your arms around him in a hug that he easily reciprocates despite his posturing. “i’ll keep ‘em for now, but thank you though. now go! you’re gonna be late.” 

changbin leaves with one last kiss to your forehead and a sweet squeeze around your shoulders. 

the jingle of keys, the shuffle of shoes. one last goodbye called over his shoulder before the door slams shut behind him on his way out. the thud of the front door leaves you in an achingly quiet house, so suddenly devoid of that easy laughter and booming voice you love so dearly that the sound of it closing seems to reverberate straight through your bones. your home feels so empty with him gone. it feels empty even though you’re standing in the middle of it, space wide and echoing like it’s missing something important, only made full when your one becomes two again, so full that the floors creak and the rafters pop.

you take hold of your own keys and grab your wallet. you should get out for a bit, order a coffee or something sugary sweet to take your mind off of a quiet house. your index finger nudges the glasses back up the bridge of your nose as you make your way to the door changbin walked out of just moments ago. 

the doorknob shocks you when you touch it, and you snatch your hand away with a curse. 

“allow me.” 

the voice is familiar, of course it is, the bulky stature is as well. what isn’t familiar though, is the chocolatey brown suit that dons his figure, the gelled quiff to his dark hair that exposes his forehead. 

changbin stands with his shoulders squared and one hand crossed over the other in front of him, ducking his chin in a light bow when your wide eyes finally meet his. he gestures to the door like he’s politely telling you that you’re standing in the way. there’s an earpiece in one ear, bright pink and fitted, connected to a coiling wire that’s dipping down into the collar of his pristine suit. 

“huh?” you ask dumbly. you look him up and down, and when you look back up at his handsome, round face, his ears are tinted pink. “you-? but? you were wearing that stupid shirt?” 

that god forsaken dinosaur tee changbin loves so much. the dinosaur and his very good friend, the statue of liberty. your memory doesn’t serve you well all the time, but there’s no way you could forget that shirt. 

“ah, you- you don’t like it?” changbin stutters. he runs his hands down his white collared shirt underneath the suit jacket, straightens out any nonexisting wrinkles he thinks you must see, and adjusts his stained glass tie. “i had it ironed! i thought you would- ah. hm,” he coughs. “nonsense! you were headed somewhere, dormouse?” 

you shake your head like that will wake you from your stupor. changbin still stands before you, blinking slowly as if he’s waiting for your answer. it’s only when you remove your new glasses to rub closed fists against the corners of your surely dazed eyes does he disappear completely from your vision, just as quick as he came. you look around the entryway to find yourself alone, gawking at the empty space before you. all you can see is the dark wood of your front door, the stained glass of its window.  

“what the fuck,” you intone. changbin is cocking his head at you when he appears again, right when you put the glasses back on. “what the fuck? seo changbin, are you messing with me? i just watched you leave!” 

“did you?” he asks. changbin frowns, his head cocking the other way now. “well, that can’t be right. i’ve been here all morning! shift starts bright and early, you never know when someone’s going to come knocking.” something seems to click then, and changbin snaps his fingers. “oh! oh, you think i’m- ahhh. that makes sense.” changbin straightens himself up, rights his shoulders again so the breadth of them spans the doorway. he peers at you with a friendly smile and a tilt to his chin. “i’m changbin. not that changbin, just… me changbin. it’s- wow, what a blessing it is to finally meet you officially. we pass each other every day, but i never thought i’d have the chance to really introduce myself.” 

“a-and that’s because…?” you blink rapidly, sputter a little bit. 

“well because you’re always in a rush! sometimes you even forget to- ah…” he gestures with his hands, miming a key turning in the lock of a door knob. he shivers then, a dreamy smile blooming on his lips, cheeks pink. “you don’t have to worry about that though, i handle it when you’re gone — it’s my job to protect the house when you’re away, and you can trust me to do it well! i’m a much more dependable door since the two of you fixed my hinges.” 

you’ve lost your marbles, every single one of them. 

“you mean to tell me that i’m standing here talking to my front door?” 

he nods excitedly then but is quick to take your disbelief a step further. 

“that’s right! well, not just your front door. i’m all of them, really. you can never be too safe.” changbin presses his lips together resolutely and nods once. “listen, i really shouldn’t continue slacking on the job like this, and i can’t help but be distracted by you, dormouse. can i… see you again soon? can i open up to you when there’s more time?” 

you’ve lost your marbles, every single one of them, but you can’t say no to those sweet, pleading eyes or that dulcet voice. in all the years you’ve been together, you’ve never been able to, and that hasn’t seemed to change even though this particular changbin is… different than the one you’re used to. your voice has left you — all you can do is nod. changbin takes it in stride. 

“i’m so thankful, i promise you won’t regret it. ah, well. it was a pleasure to finally speak with you, my dormouse darling. if you need me, just knock, alright? any door in the house. i’ll be there.” 

changbin’s hands curl over one another as you dazedly turn away from him, his gaze hardening in a straightforward, focused stare. his smile is gone, replaced by a curt pout of his lips. they look so small like that. 

you return to the kitchen to put your keys and wallet back in the bowl, sweet treat forgotten before you even made it out the door. 

made it out the door. 

made out with the door? if only. but now is not the time; you’re too flummoxed and frazzled to be thinking about those plump little lips, about how handsome changbin is in his mocha colored tux and his neatly styled hair, with his stern face that lit up like the sun when he spoke to you. and called you a mouse?

you shake your head for what feels to be the millionth time. what the hell is going on? you saw changbin leave this morning, but now here he is standing guard, for some reason, at your front door. are you dreaming?

you pull your phone out of your pocket and swipe your thumb up the screen to unlock it. 

google search: how do i know if im dreaming

“to determine if you’re dreaming, you can perform reality checks like examining your hands, reading text, or trying to push your finger through your palm…”

that’s easy enough. you just typed a sentence and read the answer; that’s one down. you take one hand away from your phone to wiggle your fingers next, so the last thing on your list has you curling your fingers into your palm. no hole to be found, just sensitive layers of skin that your nails tickle. 

“definitely not dreaming,” you mumble. can he hear you from the entryway? you need to stop talking to yourself before your front door starts to think you’re crazy. 

“definitely not, but i can pinch you just to make sure~” 

you yelp, turning quickly to face the person speaking into your ear, just as familiar as the voice you heard earlier. you’re almost expecting to see the charming doorman again, but when you glance back towards the front door, you still see him standing stationary. you’re shocked to find this figure both similar and different all at once. 

changbin stands before you again, grinning from ear to ear, a pair of techy glasses perched on his round little nose, a metallic colored jacket wrapped around a black, fitted t-shirt. his black cargo pants are baggy, his clunky boots just as metallic as his jacket. there are silver rings on several of his fingers, a keyboard-esque belt wrapped tightly around his thick waist. 

“golden delicious!” he beams. “the apple of my eye! it’s me, your gigababe~ you recognize me, don’t you? you should, you know. i’m just saying. we spend a lot of time together.” you look down at the iphone in your hands and back up at him just to be met with a greasy wink. you place your phone back on the counter with a thunk, and he awkwardly rubs his shoulder. 

“…changbin?” you venture. he hums sweetly, tittering off into a noise that sounds suspiciously like a text tone. “you’re-? jesus. i feel like i’m going crazy. i don’t know what’s going on.” 

“hey, don’t worry.” his eyebrows furrow. changbin caresses your shoulder and leans in close, making sure to look you in the eyes. “you know i’m always here to help. what’s the problem?” 

changbin’s tension eases as you explain your morning, and his answer comes easily when he taps a blunt, manicured finger on the frame of the glasses you almost forgot you were wearing. his face goes a little expressionless as he does, his eyes wide and completely white as a jumble of tiny, coded numbers and letters flash across them, the deep brown of his irises only reappearing when he blinks to disperse the code. 

“dateviators,” he says plainly. “ha, i like that. that’s funny! anyways, like i said, there really is no need to worry! your fancy new glasses are magic, that’s all. see! you’re not crazy.” 

you blink at him — he blinks back. 

“magic.”

“magic! can’t you tell?” changbin gestures to himself. “according to some forums i’ve found on the internet, your dateviators allow you to bring everyday household objects to life and pursue relationships with them! for most people it seems like relationships with each object can end in one of three routes. i- well, i don’t see us having that many,” he chuckles, rubs his hand against the back of his neck like he’s suddenly shy. 

“wait, what do you mean by us? like- you and i us, or?” 

“of course you and i us! the others too though.” 

you blink rapidly. you feel like you’re glitching, brain blue-screening like the laptop you accidentally spilled water on back in college. “okay. sure, right. others. the others, as in…?” 

“the other changbins!” 

another rapid set of blinks, a firm nod that feels far shakier than it is. 

“so what you’re telling me is that,” you pause, and changbin leans onto his elbows to listen. “all of the objects i somehow bring to life with these magical glasses will be you? or like, i mean, um. him? you. him, my boyfriend. changbin.” 

changbin nods, pursing his lips together to keep himself from laughing. the dimple on his cheek pops cutely. he angles himself back towards you, leans his hip against the counter, and sends you a downwards smile that always has you melting. 

“exactly! it seems as if your dateviators show you the things you desire most, and well…” his chest puffs. proud, preening peacock. “you must like me a whole lot~” 

“if your chest puffs up anymore you’re going to poke my eyes out with those things,” you grumble. avoiding the subject is no use though — it’s not like you can lie your way out of how much you desire your partner if what he says is true; it’s clearly manifested itself into every nook and cranny of your shared home. “and you said… relationships? routes? what- what does that mean?” 

“ahh, you see, from the information i’ve collected online, it looks like they could either fall in love, form a friendship, or hate each other. again! don’t worry though, you don’t have to stress about that.” the pout on your face must give your feelings away. if every item in your house manifests into different versions of changbin, the thought of even one of them hating you has you feeling short of breath. changbin pouts back, leans into your space to nudge your shoulder with his. “why do you look so upset? don’t you know?” 

“don’t i know what? i mean, i know you just told me not to stress about it, but! changbin, you don’t get it, i think i’ll die if any of you decide you don’t like me.” 

“aiiish,” he breathes. changbin tuts his tongue. “please don’t say that. you really don’t know?” his eyes go white again, flashing with so many numbers and letters that you can’t even begin to follow them. he blinks them away a second time, smiling softly and collecting your hands in his to hold. “i was just doing some scanning again, of my own this time. probabilities, right? every possible outcome there could be. there’s not a single one that- ah, my sweet honeycrisp, you have to know. there is no version of us on this planet that isn’t compatible — no version of changbin that doesn’t already love you. we’re meant to be in every form! isn’t that just wonderful?” 

embarrassingly enough, you find that your eyes are beginning to sting. you butt your forehead into changbin’s strong chest like a cat would, and he wraps his arms around you tightly. 

changbin is right. isn’t that just wonderful, to be loved so endlessly?

“why- why are you crying?! you… oh, you can’t… do that.” changbin’s voice is soft and sweet, petulant like he’s trying to keep his own emotions at bay. “if you cry, i’ll cry, and i can’t get wet! you’ll have to put me in rice.” 

you giggle at that, and the smile on his face tells you that’s exactly what he wanted. your glasses lift when you wipe your eyes — changbin’s lower half disappears and reappears as they adjust back onto your nose. 

“sorry,” you whine. “sorry, this is embarrassing.” 

“you can’t be embarrassed!” one of his silver rings clinks against his own pair of glasses as he pushes them up his nose. “no, no way. not with me! that was nothing. i know your search history, remember? on eeevery website~” changbin tips forward on his toes to giggle in your ear. you swat at him, and he cackles harder, glasses butting together at the closeness. “ah, look at you. even prettier from this angle, can you believe it? mmm… alright, you should go look for the others. we’re just going to eat you up, apple slice. but you have to remember i’m only one swipe away, okay? even when you go play with the others, just know i’m always here.” 

he pats you on the side, a playful encouragement to get your feet moving so you can go exploring. 

how do you even find them? how do your magic glasses bring your household items to life? and where did these ridiculous glasses even come from?! you blink hard and shake your head. these are all questions you could probably ask your phon- well, ask changbin, but your feet carry you away from him and past the other one standing quietly at the door. the stairs creak when you walk up them, railing smooth under the tips of your fingers. 

it makes sense that you’d find your way back to your bedroom of all places, a silent comfort with how lived in it is, with traces of both you and changbin all around to calm your racing heart. a half empty water bottle on your nightstand, changbin’s sock drawer cracked open. you sit on the corner of the mattress and sigh. it dips under your weight, and you don’t realize you’ve zoned out, staring at nothing-yet-something in particular, until another weight joins you on the bed. 

a raspy voice huffs, but it’s weightier than usual, sleepy, and the owner of the voice struggles to slip across the mattress to sit beside you. 

socked feet drop to the floor, another sigh but not your own, and the weight of a heavy head rests on your shoulder. 

“is it time for a nap yet?”

it’s changbin again, of course it is, but you realize exactly what this changbin is before you turn your gaze towards him. the feeling of nostalgia wraps around you like a well-worn blanket, the scent of your childhood bedroom fills your nose — hand-me-down books, toasted marshmallow scented markers, a watermelon juice stained t-shirt thrown carelessly in an old wicker hamper. 

your childhood teddy bear sits on the far corner of the dresser and right beside you now, but one is much bigger than the other. 

changbin lifts his head when you turn to look at him. one green button for an eye, a patchwork quilted sweatshirt that must be two sizes too big, and the fluffiest head of hair you’ve ever seen. you always hugged your teddy bear just a little bit too tight when you were young, so changbin doesn’t seem to mind at all when you snake your arms around his broad shoulders and squeeze. he settles into it with a content sigh, chin tucking over your shoulder and relaxing into you completely. 

you relax into the hug just as comfortably, tucking your face into his warm neck and nuzzling. it isn’t until you hear a pop, and then another, and another — p-p-pop-pop-pop! — that you pull away to see what the noise was. 

“oh, don’t worry about that,” changbin hums sleepily, but he sits up and rolls one shoulder like he’s trying to fix something you can’t see. “it’s just my stuffin’ again. it used to happen all the time when we were little, remember?”

he tugs his sweater to the side by the collar, and you gasp. pink, fraying thread sticks straight up from a neat rip in his clavicle. it seems to have busted right open under the pressure from your hug, polyester fiberfill protruding from the opening like soft cotton candy. it doesn’t reach all the way across to his shoulder, skin still held tightly together by zigzagging pink thread. thank goodness for little mercies; it seems that you only popped half of his stitches. 

the first memory sticks out to you, of course it does. you gave yourself a headache with how hard you cried that day, fat, pitiful tears rolling down your puffy cheeks as you handed your teddy bear over to your mother who took him to immediate emergency surgery to fix the accidental rip, gently pushing the stuffing back into his soft, well-loved body and sewing him up until he was almost as good as new. 

changbin still carries the scar to prove it, but now you’ve gone and popped it open again. 

“i’m so sorry!” you rush, but he shrugs you off. changbin leans back into your space again and noses sweetly at your throat. it feels like velvet felt, ticklish and soft. “i can fix it for you?” 

he heaves a heavy, content sigh, grumbles like a sleepy dog. his body has become so lax against yours that his weight sends you plopping down onto the mattress, changbin curled snugly at your side. 

“it’s really alright,” he assures. his breathing is slow, the light puffs of air from his nose are warm against the skin of your neck. “it shows how much you love me, doesn’t it? being hugged so hard that i pop… that’s something a bear can only dream of, you know.” 

he’s out like a light before you can respond, snoring lightly and twitching in his quick tumble into slumber. you lean up on your palm to admire him, to admire this changbin, so similar to yours yet so different, though it seems like they’re all already yours in their own special way. his button eye, his pouty lips, his round little felt nose. you bend down to kiss it and it scrunches cutely under your attention, but changbin doesn’t wake. 

he doesn’t wake when you cover him with the throw blanket from the foot of your bed either, tucking it around his broad shoulders and making a mental note to see about fixing his stuffing problem later. 

changbin is fast asleep and unbothered, as unbothered as a bear can be while taking a smallish nap or two. 

standing up from the bed and walking away from your soundly sleeping teddy takes a lot of strength, but your newly found excitement to discover more propels you forward. there are so many options, so many changbins to bring to life and discover while you wait for yours to return home. you take a step out of your room. where to go? back down the stairs, to the home gym to your left? the attic? 

there’s movement out of the corner of your eye though that stops you in your tracks. not big enough to be a person, not even big enough to be a critter, thank god, just a little twitch from the far corner of the hallway only made possible by the air conditioner clanking on. man, you… really need to dust. and sweep. maybe mop a little bit even. you’re staring such diligent daggers at the billowing piece of gray, fuzzy lint that so rudely interrupted your search for more changbin doppelgängers that you aren’t expecting one to show up right in front of you. 

he falls to the floor with a thud then, just before your stunned eyes. 

this one is… cute. painfully so. of course he is, with his wide, wide eyes and fluffy pajama pants. gray of course, gray like the thick sweatshirt he wears and gray like the lop ears on his head, twitching profusely as he stares at you in shock. it takes a moment for him to catch up after his fall, and you’re not expecting the flurry of movement as he scrambles away from the corner and takes off down the short hallway. he doesn’t stop when you call his name, so you follow him as quickly as you can, turning the corner just in time to see him ducking into the storage closet beside the door to the attic. 

you call his name again quietly before you open the door. knocking would add your stylish doorman to the mix, and you’re not too sure if this skittish version of changbin that’s hiding in your closet could handle a second set of eyes on him. your fingers reach out to pull it open slowly, turning the knob with careful precision so not to spook the fraidy cat that’s hiding inside — or well, fraidy bunny. 

he’s crouched in the corner of the closet and hidden not-so-subtly behind a small basket of beach towels, covering his eyes with trembling fingers like you won’t be able to see him as long as he can’t see you. you coo at him; it’s not something you can help, fond sigh slipping from your lips before you can manage to swallow it down. his foot thumps on the hardwood floor once in response, twice, a third time, and he huffs at you like you’re the one making the most racket. 

“shhh,” he whispers. you resist the urge to coo again when he brings his hands from his eyes and beckons you inside. he doesn’t give you the chance to turn on the light switch before he’s tugging you down beside him and holding a finger to his lips. “we have to be quiet. he’ll find me!” 

it’s almost too stuffy to breathe in here with the door closed. the sleeve of one of changbin’s winter coats flops onto your shoulder from its hanger and you swipe it off. “who? who’ll find you?”

changbin turns away from you suddenly and presses one tall ear to the wall like he’s listening for something you can’t hear. rather than worrying about it, you decide to focus on the cute, dusty colored cotton tail wriggling against your hip. he doesn’t answer your question anyways, not really, just mutters something about a man and his sucking machine. 

you blink and blink. it’s getting easier to see in the pitch darkness of your confined storage closet, but everything is tinted an odd, off-yellow because of your glasses. changbin twitches, flexes his foot like he’s about to thump it again. his lop ears flap instead. 

“um. sucking machine?” 

he turns back to you with wide eyes and grabs onto the sleeve of your shirt. “yes! it’s so loud. he caught my tail in it the other day and it really hurt. but you don’t… you’ve never used one, have you?” 

there’s a joke in there somewhere. your silly boyfriend might brazenly insist he’s seen you use a sucking machine on many occasions. in fact, there’s one right on your face, right below your nose. one he enjoys thoroughly and frequently. 

but the bunny beside you is already so distressed, already looking at you with forlorn eyes and a quiver to his chin. are those whiskers on his cheeks? he visibly relaxes into your side when you confirm that you’ve never used a sucking machine, even though you hardly have the faintest clue of what that could be. you let him nuzzle you; he’s a lot similar to the sleeping teddy bear you left in your bedroom right up until the moment he starts butting your shoulder with the side of his head. the nudge of his head is light and doesn’t hurt, but he gets sulky when you don’t realize quickly enough what it is that he’s looking for. changbin huffs. 

“you’re supposed to pet me now.” 

“oh!” it’s not like that’s a difficult task. you reckon every version of changbin likes to be pet, a constant across all forms. he’s as sweet as spun sugar, velvet soft ears twitching in content under the gentle caress of your fingers when they move to his head. his hair is just as soft, curly and slightly unkempt from his needy nudging. “you’re so soft, changbinnie.” 

the press of his cheek against your shoulder is soft too. so is the quiet chatter of his teeth, the gentle grind of them muted through the plushness of his smushed cheek. he’s not cold like you might assume, he’s not afraid. his foot taps the floor every few seconds in a relaxed thump. 

this dust bunny is as pleased as pie if the signs tell you anything. 

his head is in your lap before you know it, sweatshirt rucked up so you can rub his belly while your other hand smoothes along his ears. changbin isn’t asleep but he’s not far from it; his eyes are droopy. 

“how about,” you whisper. changbin blinks up at you. “you tell me where to find the man you’re hiding from, and i’ll tell him not to use that mean old sucking machine anymore, huh? how could anyone ever hurt somebunny this cute.” 

changbin wiggles then, body twitching oddly like he should be standing up to wiggle correctly. a slight kick to his bent legs, a jerk of his hips. changbin grins and sits up before he leans back towards the wall and presses his ear to it. he listens for a moment, and when he’s satisfied that he doesn’t hear any suspicious noises, then and only then does he turn the knob to the closet, helping you stand up from your seated position and stretching when he finally steps into the hallway. 

your knees are asleep — there’s static in your feet. shaking out your legs keeps you stationary long enough for changbin to circle you once. he does it again and once more for good measure, weaving around your body with bright eyes and a sated smile. 

“you will?!” he asks. “you’ll tell him? oh, how exciting! i won’t have to keep hiding… alright, listen. he’s usually in the closet in the laundry room. that’s where he keeps that machine at least. you have to be brave. do you really think you can do it?” 

you think you’d do just about anything to keep that smile on his face. 

with a parting scritch to his fuzzy ears, you make your way down the creaking stairs to find whatever, whoever, is scaring the sweet bunny who’s made your acquaintance. 

everything clicks into place when you walk through the kitchen and open the closet in your laundry room to find your cleaning supplies. a broom, several cans of spray, clorox wipes and sponges, and what can only be the infamous sucking machine. bright purple and dark black, with a crevice tool attached to the side. you weren’t even lying when you told that scaredy bunny you had never used a sucking tool. your boyfriend is the one who typically handles the vacuuming. 

you focus your attention on the vacuum long enough to feel a prim finger tap you on the shoulder. 

there he is again, this one different from the rest of the changbins you’ve encountered so far today, frilly headband on his head, equally frilly black dress donning his broad figure yet leaving his shapely legs on display. there’s a white apron tied around his thick waist and a pink microfiber cloth sticking out of one of the pockets. 

now this… this is something you’ve seen before, although under very different circumstances. 

“ohhh, you’re a maid!” 

he rolls his eyes fondly, but gestures to the closet so you’ll move out of his way. he reaches for the feather duster on the middle shelf. “i’m your housekeeper, scrubbing bubbles. who else would you trust to keep your house while the two of you are away?” changbin flutters the feather duster across the top of your head before he glides it across the doorframe of the closet. “is there something you need? something you want me to clean for you?” 

“not- i mean, no, not really. i guess i do need something from you though.” 

he hums, titters around you waving his feather duster like it’s his very own fairy wand. 

“a favor!” he exclaims. changbin swishes the duster across the doorknob and sticks the handle in his apron pocket. now that you have his full attention, he regards you with a glint in his eye. “all favors come with a price~” 

you scoff then. “what, you want me to scrub the sinks or something? windex all the windows?” 

“no, i can do those things myself!” cute and huffy, petulant at even the mere thought of you doing chores for him while he does what, prop his feet up? reads a magazine? naps? his lips quirk then, something cocksure and confident. your eyes follow his as they tick to your nose and then your lips, gaze lifting right back up to your eyes almost as soon as it left. “i want something more than that. something better!” 

as soon as the words leave his lips, a fluffy head of hair and a pair of wide eyes peer around the kitchen corner to spy. lop ears follow, drooping down and swaying limply with the sideways angle of his head. changbin tiptoes from the corner and moves quietly into the kitchen, making a slow turn into your downstairs hallway to — you guess — find another hiding spot. his backside is still visible when your housekeeper turns around and moves fully into the kitchen to straighten the chairs set at the kitchen table, so you jump into action before your skittish dust bunny gets caught sneaking. 

“a kiss!” you squeak. the chair grates on the linoleum, and changbin’s smile turns mischievous. “how about a kiss?” 

“a kiss, you say?” a widening grin, handsomely raised eyebrows. he crosses his arms in front of his wide chest at your answering nod, and the juxtaposition of such a masculine stance paired with his ruffled maid dress has your mind whirling. he steps closer to you then, close enough for you to feel his breath on your cheek and feel the warmth of his body. you’re half expecting him to kiss you first, but all he does is drop his eyes to your lips again. he’s still looking at them when he speaks. “you’re forward. you know what you want… i really like that.” 

“is that a yes?” you ask, nothing more than a breath. your own eyes flutter to his lips then, still quirked in one corner and so inviting. 

“i was just going to ask if you’d fix me something for lunch,” he laughs. it’s airy and quiet, purposefully undisruptive. “of course it’s a yes. i’ll take a kiss from you over a sandwich any day.” 

you lean forward with a vigor not lost to you, and you meet in the middle with a flurry of limbs and the sweet press of eager lips. your arms wrap around his neck, his uncross to hold you in different places — one firm hand caresses the back of your neck while the other dips to your back. it’s a quaint kiss overall, close-lipped and chaste until changbin rumbles a low hum and deepens the kiss himself. his lips part slightly, his tongue laps against your bottom lip and acquaints itself with yours greedily. his grip pulls you closer; your fingers curl into his hair and grab hold of a strong shoulder. you’re so focused on the unhurried slide of your lips that you hardly notice the clatter of his headband on the linoleum floor beneath you. 

the wet smack of your lips in the otherwise quiet kitchen heats your cheeks. it licks down your spine, coils itself somewhere deep in your belly. heady sighs and the rustle of roaming hands, a whimper is punched from your throat when changbin’s fingers slide themselves into the hair at the nape of your neck. 

he pulls away from your mouth with a smack; his lips are puffy and pink, slick, kissable all over again, such an unyielding cycle. changbin’s smile is dazed, but his fingers are sure where they hold you. he licks his lips, tasting you again. “i liked that noise.” 

you want another kiss, but he’s already dragging his thumb across your own slick bottom lip to wipe away the excess moisture. you bet your hair is a mess after that. the lack of steady oxygen still has you feeling swimmy in the most wonderful way. you watch changbin smooth out his dress after picking up his headband and adjust the band with your own shaky fingers when he’s done, straightening it for him while he stands primly in place. 

what do you even say after a kiss like that? wow? your boyfriend has definitely said that before. that was fun? good work, champ? we fit together like puzzle pieces? i hope we kiss like that until the end of time? 

changbin beats you to it though, when he snaps his fingers like he’s remembering something. “oh!” he exclaims. “what was that favor you wanted to ask me, scrubbing bubbles?” 

huh. that’s right. you have a favor to ask him. that’s why you kissed each other breathless in the first place. 

“uh, yeah. yes, i did have a favor for you, didn’t i?” he nods, looking almost annoyingly proud that he has rendered you so speechless. “the vacuum. can you not…? can you not use it, please.” 

“can i not use the vacuum?!” he bellows. he runs his fingers through his hair in anguish and knocks the headband off a second time. “vacuuming is crucial for a clean house! how could- how could i forfeit something so important—!”

a kiss to his talking lips. you reach for him again and he sinks into you like it’s as easy as breathing. your kiss is short this time but no less heated than your last. you part from him once more with another slick sounding smack. changbin’s lips stay puckered goofily even as you lean away, and he blinks rapidly like he’s trying to wake himself up from a daze. 

oh, how the tables have turned. 

“—i mean, i don’t have to vacuum,” he says. “i don’t even like vacuuming that much. sweeping! i’ll sweep instead. but- but- why exactly am i not vacuuming?” 

“you’re scaring that cute dust bunny.” 

“oh. him… he is kind of cute for a piece of lint, i guess. is he cuter than me though? this dress comes in pink too, you know. it’s backless! and- oh, it’s almost time for the spin cycle to be done, isn’t it?” changbin grabs your cheeks in his hands and hauls you in for another kiss. it’s a peck this time, quick and loud and silly. “that was fun, huh?~ we’ll have to do that again sometime.” 

he putters quickly over to the washing machine and leaves you to your own devices. you could always go find where your dust bunny is hiding or take a nap with your teddy bear upstairs. a hop and a skip over to the entrance of your living room shows your phone plopped comfortably on the couch and watching a movie, hand sunk deep in a bowl of popcorn. your front door remains as sturdy and stoic as ever. sure, you could happily join one of the changbins you’ve already met today, or… 

or you could continue finding more of them. 

but your stomach rumbles something horrible before you can decide where to go exploring next. that monstrous sound is as good of an answer as any; lunch shouldn’t be your only finding in the kitchen, there must be handsome boyfriends to discover here too. 

cans of soda and glass bottles clink together on the side shelf as you open the refrigerator door. you look long and hard; there are leftovers from last night’s dinner you could heat in the air fryer, some fruit you could cut up and eat with some caramel on the side. there might be a box of pasta in the pantry, actually. 

someone standing behind the door of the fridge isn’t something you’re expecting to see when you close it — thank god you weren’t holding anything in your hands. your busy, bustling housekeeper might not be too keen on kissing you anymore if you were to spill something all over his clean floor. changbin startles in surprise at the same time you do, an awkward sound leaving his lips like he wasn’t anticipating a similar reaction from you.  

“holy shit!” you wheeze. 

“cheese and crackers!” 

you speak at the same time. changbin’s hand comes up to cover his heart as he takes a deep, steadying breath. roaming eyes take him in where he stands, and really, it makes sense he looks the way he does since you did find him in the kitchen, though this is definitely not a look you’re used to. he’s holding a purple spatula in one hand, a cookbook in the other. changbin is casually dressed and wearing a pair of comfortable house slippers, adorned in a long sleeved shirt that he’s rolled up to his elbows and a pair of nice, dark wash, expensive, flattering, fitted, tight, thigh-hugging… jeans. 

when you finally manage to snatch your eyes away from his thick thighs, his white apron catches your attention next, haltered around his neck and tied around his waist. 

KISS THE COOK BUT DON’T TOUCH THE BUNS!

ironic. funny, even. you seem to recall your boyfriend enjoying a good touch to the buns every now and then. 

“not even a pinch?” you tease. that kiss has made you brazen. 

“of salt? a pinch of what?” changbin tilts his head at you in confusion until he notices where you’re looking. he ducks his chin to follow your gaze and promptly rolls his eyes, a scoff leaving his subtly quirking lips. “no! not- not right now… i’m at work, cupcake.” 

changbin places the cookbook on the kitchen counter and flips through its pages. he’s still holding the spatula and waving it around as if he’s talking with it instead of his hands, mouthing ingredients to himself and involuntarily ignoring you in his endearingly one-track concentration. 

he startles again when he lifts his eyes from the cookbook, almost like he didn’t remember that you were standing across from him. 

“oh,” he quips. changbin points the spatula at you. “what are you doing back here, anyway? you’re not supposed to be in my kitchen!” 

“but it’s my kitchen? this is literally my house.” 

he ponders that for a moment but ultimately finds your argument plausible. 

“yes, that’s right, isn’t it? then that must make me your chef, sous chef! what would you like for lunch?” 

your eyelashes flutter. how strange! of all the doppelgängers you’ve met so far, this one might blow your mind the most. even more than the bunny with lop ears and a cotton tail, more than the button-eyed, stuffing-filled teddy bear. changbin is usually your sous chef at home, if anything, not the other way around. he’s not exactly hopeless in the kitchen as long as he’s left with rules to follow and some soft-handed guidance. there hasn’t been any eggshells in your scrambled eggs lately, so you really think he’s making progress. 

the possibilities seem endless now. changbin, a real chef! box of pasta in your pantry be damned, he could probably make the noodles from scratch if he wanted to. maybe he could surprise you with something from that cookbook he’s reading. a surprise… that sounds like it could be fun. 

you’ve just gotten the words out of your mouth when someone else walks into the kitchen. your phone is carrying his empty popcorn bowl, boots shuffling on the linoleum floor. he shoots you a wink and places his bowl in the sink. 

“gorgeous gala! i’ve been missing you. are you having fun with the others?” changbin takes a seat at the kitchen table and pushes the chair out beside him, beckoning you to take a seat. your knee knocks against his where you sit, and changbin snakes his arm across the back of your chair. 

you tell him then who you’ve met so far, the fun you’ve been having. you leave out the life-altering kiss you shared with your housekeeper, but if changbin’s been in the living room since you left him this morning, he might have gotten a glimpse of it himself. 

“i’m just a little hungry now. you guys have really made me work up an appetite.” he grins at that, proud to be part of the reason you want to eat something yummy. “chef seo here is just about to make me some lunch!” 

changbin’s eyes widen, looking back and forth from you to the other changbin piddling around at the stove. he leans into you then, so close that you can see the light reflecting from his glasses. 

“you have to- ah, how do i say this…” he drums his fingers quietly against the kitchen table in thought and twists one of his rings. “be gentle with him, okay? he’s not the best, but he’s trying! just look at him up there.” changbin coos then, looking at the other one fondly with a tilt of his head and a kind smile. “he made me popcorn while i was watching my movie, isn’t that so nice? sugarbee, listen to me. it was so burnt i thought i must be eating a bowl full of soot.” 

“oh? oh my. and you still ate it all?” 

“of course i did!” he whispers firmly. “look at that face, you can’t say no to a face like that!” 

you jump apart from each other when a plate clatters onto the table in front of you. changbin stands there sheepishly but folds his hands behind himself to bow slightly. 

“sorry! i didn’t mean to drop it like that. okay, well. lunch is served, sweet pea. today’s chef special is pancakes with chocolate chips, a syrup drizzle, and powdered sugar. i put some fruit on the side for some extra flavor as well. oh, and! here. an ice cold glass of water to wash it all down. i hope you enjoy. everything is made with love, sugar dear, and of course, flour, milk, eggs, baking powder…” 

he’s still prattling on about his list of ingredients as he turns away from the table and heads back to the stove to clean up. 

you look down at the pancakes then. they’re nothing michelin star, nothing you would find at a gourmet restaurant, but the pancake on top has a wonky chocolate chip smiley face and a powdered sugar beard, and you’re going to demolish these pancakes no matter how they taste. 

they’re stacked three high. you decide to bite the bullet and just go for it. encouraged by the wide eyed anticipation from your human cellphone beside you, you cut into the top pancake and shove a small piece in your mouth. it’s definitely an… interesting combination. the chocolate chips on the outside are slightly charred from the stove, the inside of the pancake, however, definitely needed to cook a little longer. it’s a tad doughy, yet still slightly chalky with undissolved pieces of flour. you take a minute to chew and swallow, and your nosy neighbor leans in close.  

“how is it?” he asks earnestly. 

“…it’s so hard to get a pancake just right, you know,” you placate. changbin nods his head so hard it bobbles. 

it doesn’t take too long to finish the top one. honestly, it’s not inedible. the bites of uncooked pancake make your mouth a little sticky and your spit a little thick, but the smiling chocolate chips and sweet syrup help to mask the taste of dough. 

that just leads to your second pancake though, a complete contrast of your first. this pancake is so burnt that that’s all you taste when you bite into it. changbin winces sadly beside you when the pancake actually crunches under the gnashing of your teeth. admittedly, you don’t think you can get through this one as easily as the first, no matter how perfectly melted the chocolate chips are inside. you slide your knife down the middle of the pancake and tilt your plate towards changbin. 

he pinches his mouth shut. 

“mm-mm.” 

“yes, you have to help me!” you frantically whisper, mouth dry. 

“i’m not hungry, i just had popcorn!”

you push your plate toward him. “you told me that you were one swipe away! this is me swiping. i am swiping.” 

he grumbles then, mumbles something whiny about you using his own words against him, which, sure. just this once. he takes one quick glance at the stove to see the other changbin still cleaning away his mess and grabs the remaining half of the pancake with his hand, shoving it in his small mouth unceremoniously. 

of course your chef chooses to turn around right then, and he blanches at the sight of changbin with his mouth full. 

“i jus’ had to haf a bite,” he explains, words muffled with his cheeks stuffed to the brim. he plucks a strawberry off the side of the plate to use as a chaser. 

the third pancake actually doesn’t look half bad. it doesn’t seem burnt by the looks of it, although the chocolate chip smiley face looks more like it’s crying now due to the warmth of the other pancakes stacked on top. the inside remains a mystery until you cut a piece off and bring it to your lips while both changbins watch. 

you gawk then, eyes widening in not-so-subtle shock at just how perfect the last pancake is. fully cooked and fluffy, with just the right amount of sweetness from the chocolate and maple syrup. it’s even better when you grab a blueberry on your fork with the next bite. 

“changbin,” you say. it’s nearly a moan. his ears are pink, but you’re not sure if that’s from your tone of voice or from watching you eat something he made for you. “this is amazing!” 

the smile that spreads across his face lights up the room. he’s so beautiful like this, when his cheeks bunch and his eyes crinkle. there’s a new found confidence in the way he holds himself before you, a proudness now that he knows he fed you well. ish. 

“you think?” he asks. he rocks forward on his toes and back on his heels. “you enjoyed it, honeydew? i’m so glad! i tried something new and really wanted it to be special. and you-” he turns to the changbin seated beside you and points at him with his spatula. when did he pick that up? “you liked it too? i’ll add it to the regular menu!” 

you bring the fork to changbin’s mouth so he can taste the last little bit of perfectly edible pancake on your plate and receive a happy text tone in return, something chirpy and bright. he taps his feet while he chews and shoots your chef a hearty thumbs up. he leaves soon after that with a parting kiss to your cheek, sticky, syrup sweet. back to the living room he goes — you can hear the television resume its place. 

the remaining changbin takes your empty plate and discards it in the sink. he washes his hands then, unties the apron from around his waist but leaves the halter around his neck when he’s done. changbin turns back to you and shuffles to sit beside you at the table. he cups a hand over yours, caressing your knuckles with a calloused thumb. 

it’s quieter now, more intimate than it was. 

“thank you for making me lunch,” you say. you turn your thumb to catch his, linking them together before entwining your fingers. “you and my changbin could have a lot of fun together in here.” 

“oh really? is he passionate about cooking too? i thought he was mainly a taste-tester. we’ll have to bounce ideas off of each other then! share tips and tricks. we can- or i can… i could cook for you again?” he squeezes your hand. the tips of his ears are red, pretty pink beginning to bleed all the way down to the lobes. “if you wanted. like a date.” 

it’s not something you have to think about, even with his questionable cooking skills. you didn’t have to think when your changbin asked you on a date either, nor did you have to think when he asked if you wanted to be in a relationship with him, or if you wanted to move in together. there’s another question you hope he’ll ask soon, one that you won’t hesitate to answer either. it comes easy with changbin. it always comes easy with changbin, you’re learning, no matter which one. 

“of course i’ll go on a date with you,” you smile. changbin smiles back, soft and slow. “how about we cook something together? wouldn’t that be romantic?” 

“it would. that would be romantic! oh, biscuits. is that the time? i’ve gotta get started again, pudding pop, the lunch rush will be here soon! you’ll find me again though, won’t you? if you’re hungry again, i’ll make anything your heart desires.” 

he’s up in a flurry, tying his apron around his waist and opening the refrigerator with a sense of renewed vigor. 

there’s only one thing to do with your belly this full. 

you pass your lovely phone again when you walk through the living room. your handsome doorman regards you with a smile and a dreamy afternoon, dormouse. his eyes are on you while you walk up the stairs that lead to your bedroom. you can feel them, dark, calculating, heavy. if you sway your hips a little extra and take your steps a little slower to keep his stare on you for longer, that’s your business and yours alone. you meet his eyes on the top step though, turning your head over your shoulder to blow him a small, teasing kiss. his head ducks then like you caught him with his hand in the cookie jar, but there’s a pleased smile on his face that makes you giggle. 

your teddy bear is right where you left him even hours later, snuggled deep in the throw blanket from the foot of your bed. his eyes flutter as you crawl into bed and curl up beside him. they never open all the way, but his burly arms do. he pulls you into his warm embrace and tangles his legs with yours, and you’re asleep the moment your head hits his chest. 

when you wake again, the sun is a little further down in the sky than it was, and a loose piece of changbin’s stuffing is stuck to your bottom lip. your glasses are smushed uncomfortably close to your face, courtesy of the warm, sturdy chest you’re laying on. a glance above you shows that sweet, sleepy bear still in the land of the dreaming, so you detangle yourself from him as gently as you can and sit on the corner of the bed to think. 

you have a whole lot of house left to explore and even more changbins to find before the one you miss the most returns home to you. it’s with that thought in mind that you decide exactly where to go next. 

it’s arguably one of changbin’s favorite rooms in the house. close enough to the bedroom that he can get there easily. there’s a television on the wall and a full body mirror to its right, a treadmill in the corner. changbin’s workout bench sits along the wall beside his dumbbell rack. you’re honestly not in here a lot. your pilates mat is rolled up in the corner, and changbin has started using your dumbbells to warm up. maybe some encouragement couldn’t hurt, maybe that’s exactly what you need to get back into the swing of things. though you don’t know how any other changbin could be more encouraging or persuasive than your own when it comes to working out. 

the treadmill is what you focus your yellow-tinted sight on. it only takes a moment for the glasses to do their thing, and soon, there’s grunting coming from changbin’s bench behind you, followed by heavy breathing and a one-off curse. 

you turn to see him then, black, fitted tank top and all. if you didn’t know any better, you’d think this changbin was yours, the only real difference you see is the pink striped sweatbands around his head and his wrists. he’s wearing a pair of black athletic shorts and equally black weightlifting shoes, but the laces are pink. he’s got one knee propped on the bench and a palm pressed to it too, working on his biceps. 

changbin hasn’t noticed you yet and you’re glad he hasn’t. he’s in his element like this, focused, disciplined. that principled mindset he always carries is just as attractive as the body he’s worked so diligently for. just as arousing too, the heat rising in your belly is only aided by his dripping sweat, flexing muscles, and gruff noises. 

“…six, seven,” he huffs. it’s the crossing of your legs that gets his attention — of course you catch his attention by being horny over him just existing, but he does a double take and straightens his posture when he sees your eyes on him. the arch of his back is criminal. “… thirty eight, thirty nine, forty…” 

“oh wow,” you grin. changbin places his dumbbell back on the rack with a grunt and puff of his cheeks. he rubs his hands together then, bounces his shoulders. “is that a new record?” 

changbin laughs, an embarrassed little thing. he rubs at the back of his neck and makes a face when his hand comes away wet with sweat. “ah, yeah. i mean, i always do my best when i have an audience.” 

“you have a lot of people who come to watch you?” 

“well, sometimes.” he starts counting on his fingers. “the trophies come watch me a lot. there’s that soccer jersey? he’s new around. and the nice housekeeper watches when he cleans up in here! they’re not as pretty as you are though, so, you know. i don’t need to impress them as much.” 

such a sweet talker. 

“you want to impress me?” you ask, a tilt to your head. that brazenness is back with a vengeance. “why?”

“so you’ll come back to see me, of course. but hey, you’re here already, champ! that counts for something. i was just actually about to get ready for my next set, you wanna join?” 

well. not particularly. you’d actually much rather sit to the side and ogle him while he works out, twirl your hair and giggle when he takes a long sip of water maybe. but you went all in with all of the other changbins you met, so might as well go all in with this one too, leg aches in the morning be damned. 

“i haven’t really done this in a while,” you clarify. changbin nods his head in understanding, and his eyes are kind as he listens raptly. “i’d like to join you, but you’ll have to go easy on me this time.” 

“hell yeah! we’ll take it at your speed, champ, it’ll be fun! i’ve got just the thing in mind, but hey- can’t have you pullin’ a muscle. we’ve gotta stretch you out.” 

yes. yes, that sounds like a great idea, being stretched out. 

you’re feeling it now. that ache, that mounting need for changbin that makes your thoughts fuzzy and soaks your panties. it’s been building under the surface all day with each changbin you’ve met, with each one showing you their heart in their own special ways. you don’t think you could handle another easy touch without throwing yourself at their feet. you can’t handle another confident smile or gentle caress or silly pet name. or a kiss. a kiss. a kiss would ruin you; a kiss would break you down completely, turn you into something malleable and saccharine. 

the ache deepens at the thought. being stretched out… on his tongue, his fingers, his cock. changbin fits inside of you like he belongs there; there’s no truer thought to be had. 

you’re still thinking about it when changbin places a hand on your shoulder to bring you out of your daze. 

“you alright?” he asks. the tilt of his head makes him look so puppyish. “are you still feeling up to it? i promise we’ll have fun! i- hm, you know what? i think i know what’s wrong.” 

he’s found you out already. he can see it in your eyes, how you want him to lay you on his workout bench and have his way with you. 

“and what might that be?” 

“you’re intimidated,” changbin shrugs. he presses his lips together and nods. “listen, i get it. it’s normal. you’re just intimidated by these guns.” in a dramatic flare of movement, he poses. double biceps, bulging and sculpted. he pops his pec muscles until you’re giggling. “come on, you wanna touch? you totally wanna touch, bring it in!” 

the first touch to his popping pec makes you squeal, and changbin laughs in accomplishment. he’s successfully gotten you out of your head and he knows it. 

“okay! okay, i mean. i bet i could do that too, i’m just saying.” changbin raises his eyebrows. your comment makes his grin turn mischievous at the corners. “you said something about stretching…?” 

“yes, that’s right! here.” 

changbin leads you in some easy stretches. you stretch your shoulders and your neck and roll your ankles. you’re already feeling loose until you start to work your legs, the butterfly stretch you’re sitting in sends an uncomfortable twinge through your thighs, but that’s the point isn’t it? you’re stretching, loosening your muscles and releasing their tightness. 

changbin finally takes notice of your wincing when you move to stretch your hamstring out. reaching down to your toes isn’t going to happen, but you can at least skirt your fingers across your lower shin. 

“your legs are tense, huh?” changbin asks. he sits up on his knees and walks over to you on them. “let me help?” 

the closer he gets, the more you lean back, and you’re reclined back on your elbows before you know it. changbin kneels between your spread legs and looks to you for confirmation. his hand touches your knee first — and there you go, that touch, you’re ready to bare your neck and give yourself to him. the higher his hand travels, the harder you bite your lip. 

“is this alright?” his voice has gone quiet and slow around the edges, dipped in honey. “i’ll just… i want to help. your muscles must be really tight.” 

you’re nodding before he finishes speaking, but that must not be good enough. changbin keeps his hand above your knee and squeezes it. 

“yes,” you heave, finally finding your words. “it’s alright. you can- you can.” 

the touch moves then, calloused fingers on soft, tender skin. propped up on your elbows like this, you can see everything. the way those thick digits work along your skin, the concentration on his face. his hand slips up your thigh then and squeezes, kneads, bares the heel of his palm against the meat in a semblance of a massage. both of his hands are magical — the dig of his thumb into the quivering muscle of your thigh makes your eyes roll. he pays the same careful attention to your other thigh, his own eyes locked on the heavy caress of his fingers. 

“can i try something else? you’re still so tight here.” 

his ears are pink, but those eyes, that gaze of his. it’s so heavy that it feels like it’s holding you down, pinning you in place. 

your nod is good enough for him this time; maybe you’re not the only one who’s desperate. changbin’s hand smooths up the back of your thigh until it’s cupping underneath your knee. he lifts it then, so slowly that you end up easing off of your elbows and laying flat on your back, leg hoisted over his shoulder like it would be if you were naked together. his breathing has gone ragged, heavy in his belly. yours isn’t much better, and the heat of the room is causing your glasses to fog up. changbin leans his weight forward and stretches your leg back, straightening it out as he goes. it burns, but changbin’s fingers are there to dull the pain into something more bearable. 

he can’t help but lean into you. no matter how strong his thighs are or how balanced his core is, gravity still plays a part in the weight he bears onto you. you can’t help but notice where you’re joined in the middle, the heat of his growing bulge pressed tight to the heat of your cunt while your leg is thrown over his shoulder. your panties are starting to stick to you — can he feel it? can changbin feel how ready you are for him through your layers of clothes? 

he brings your other leg up to show it the same attention, and he eases the first leg down but stretches it to the side, keeping his hand under your knee to keep it bent. your pussy pulses, clenches arrhythmically against his bulge. his gaze goes heavy lidded; he can feel you, he can feel how hungry you are for him but continues stretching your legs despite how hard he’s growing. 

“you’re hard for me. it’s- it’s because of me, isn’t it?” you angle your hips to meet him, and he growls. 

there’s a kiss pressed to your ankle and a squeeze underneath your bent knee. 

“of course it is,” he grunts. “of course it’s because of you. the way your muscles relax for me… it feels so good knowing that i can do that to you.” 

you whine something truly pitiful when he lowers your leg again and eases his weight off of you. he smooths his hands along your thighs, pets down your calves like he’s trying to focus on the feel of your clammy skin rather than the hardness in his shorts. 

“you still up for our workout? those pretty legs of yours should be ready to go now, don’t you think?” 

the change in pace is almost like night and day. you’re not expecting to be left high and dry so quickly, but you did say you’d do his next set with him. funny for you to assume someone your magical glasses brought to life from a treadmill would prioritize sex over a good, old fashioned workout. 

changbin helps you to your feet and leads you toward the television mounted on the wall. he reaches into the console underneath it and pulls out two white remotes with a smug glint in his eye. 

after several countless grueling matches of just dance and three water breaks, you’re completely wiped out. you’re sweating more than you have in a good while, and despite your valiant efforts to stretch your legs, they feel like they’re going to fall off. 

“good game, champ,” changbin heaves from his spot on the floor. thank god you’re not a sore loser — he tore you up. how could you forget he can move his hips like that? changbin has ripped his sweatband off his head and is using it to wipe the sweat off of his face. his adam’s apple bobs as he takes another long swig of water, and droplets streak down his chin when he speaks up again. “you should hit the showers. the water will feel crazy good on all those muscles we just worked. and hey, i really enjoyed myself today! maybe we can do it again sometime, i have a couple other things i’d like for us to try.” 

you can’t tell if he’s coming onto you or if he genuinely just wants you as a workout partner again, but you’d be happy to find out either way. 

changbin swats his sweatband against your ass when you finally leave and throws a handsome wink your way at the turn of your head. 

he’s right though — you should hit the showers. you smell like sweat and workout equipment, and even though you know your boyfriend wouldn’t mind that ever familiar scent, you want to smell nice for him when he gets home. 

conveniently enough, you don’t have to walk very far. your en-suite bathroom is right between your bedroom and the home gym. 

eager to strip your sweaty clothes off, that’s the first thing you do. how ridiculous do you look standing butt ass naked in your bathroom in a pair of yellow sunglasses? oh well. you don’t exactly want to take a shower by yourself, and you need your glasses to do their job. eyeing the glass door does the trick, and you’re in the middle of sliding it open to reach for the nozzle when a calloused hand reaches for yours to stop it, gentle palm caressing the back of yours. 

“let me,” your shower hums with an alluring tone. he’s warm behind you, bare skin on bare skin. “i know you like me hot.” 

changbin cranks the knob in a counterclockwise motion and the water sprays to life. you study him while the water heats up, taking immediate note of the water droplets clinging to his damp hair and beading on his broad shoulders. he’s almost completely naked save for the fluffy blue towel wrapped around his waist. his chest his slick with water, soap bubbles hug his collarbones. changbin’s skin is like strawberries dipped in honey, dewy like he just got out of the shower rather than waiting to get back in it. 

he takes note of your ardent gaze. of course he does, it’s not like you’re hiding the covetous roaming of your pupils across the ridges and curves of that big, slick, soapy body. 

a confident smirk tugs at the corner of his lips when he decidedly drops his towel and stands naked before you. 

you’ve seen him this way more than you can count, bare in the most base, intimate way, but the sight of him still makes you want to prostrate yourself at his altar like a sinner, pleading to a merciful, benevolent god. changbin’s body is a temple, a house of worship that beckons you.  

this changbin doesn’t feign shyness. he lets you look at him, makes himself a spectacle for your viewing. it’s only when the water warms up does he step under the rain of the shower and hold a hand towards you. slick to the touch, you let him help you inside the steaming shower, glasses and all. they fog up from the steam immediately, distorting that seraphic face, that ambrosial body. you see his shape but not his expression, but the tender brush of his fingertips expresses everything his face ever could. 

“you’re so beautiful. i’ve been hoping you would join me like this for so long now. don’t get me wrong, just having you in here every night is special, allowing me to be the one to wash the stress off of your body…” he clicks his tongue. “but this… this is more than i could ever ask for.” 

changbin’s hands glide up your back. he cards his thick fingers through your hair and guides you toward the spray to wet it fully, cupping his hand above your glasses to keep the water from getting in your eyes. 

you cling to his arms. “bin.” 

it’s the first word you’ve spoken to this one, breathless and yearning. 

“sudsy,” he replies just the same way. “let me wash your hair, hm? would you let me?” 

it’s an easy yes, and of course his hands feel like magic. combing through your hair, scratching gentle fingers at your scalp. he manages to rinse the shampoo from your hair even as you cling to him like a limpet, chests pressed together and arms wrapped around the breadth of his shoulders. 

water cascades around you. the soap from changbin’s collarbones thickens and trails between your heaving chests, slicking the slide of your wet skin together. he lets you rub against him, aides the needy curling and desperate writhing of your body with a hand on your waist and another palming the dip of your lower back. the heavy press of his thick thigh between yours is almost earth shattering — everything is so wet, everything, sticky-sweet pussy slipping across his skin with hardly any friction. you whine then; changbin hisses as you dig your nails into his shoulders. 

his lips press feverishly to yours, all wet heat and desire, meshing lips bumping together wildly. he sucks on your tongue and almost sends you to your knees, only held up by the grip he has on you. 

changbin must realize how frantic you’re becoming because he shushes you after he pulls away, nuzzles his wet little nose against yours and takes a deep breath. 

“there’s no rush. there’s no rush, we have time. won’t you enjoy yourself? let your best shower pamper you, sudsy. let me bathe you. let me feel you like that. please? please.” 

he’s already reaching for a wash cloth and your favorite bottle of body wash, but you stop him in his tracks before he’s able to squeeze a dollop onto the rag. your fingers graze his knuckles. changbin looks at you like you hung the moon. more like you hung his curtains.  

“do it with your hands.” 

it’s said quietly enough that it doesn’t read as a command, but changbin takes it as one, eyes pleading and besotted as he rubs his soapy hands together and brings them to your waiting body. changbin is gentle with you. there’s a firmness in his hands as he scrubs you clean, but he’s careful, attentive to the way you react to him. 

a whimper crawls its way out of his throat when he massages the mounds of your chest; his thumbs drag over your peaked nipples that pebble even further under his touch. changbin echoes the small sounds of pleasure you breathe into the air with his own. 

“everything about you is a gift,” he muses. he whispers the words into your neck just as a steady hand snakes between your legs. there’s nothing mechanical about the way he touches you there because he touches you with such devotion, but it’s obvious that his sole intent really is just to bathe you. you wish he’d dip those fingers inside, curl them deep until your legs are trembling and you’re crying out his name. he sucks a slow kiss into your neck, kisses up the length of it to mouth at your cheek. “you’re so warm.” 

he drops to his knees then. it’s a slow fall, purposeful, changbin’s eyes remain locked on yours all the way until he reaches the tile. 

soapy hands slide up your legs, your thighs. he picks up your feet one by one and slips his bubbly fingers between your ticklish toes. you grab onto his shoulders to keep your balance, but soon, all he’s kneeling for is to press reverent kisses to your thighs and the soft skin of your stomach. his hands caress everywhere he can reach. 

“when you…” changbin drags his tongue up your thigh to catch a rivulet of warm water. his words are slurred between insistent kisses. “when you use me to feel good. when you take my showerhead off the wall and use it… you make me so crazy.” 

you throw your head back and moan. you can’t look at him on his knees like this — your glasses are still foggy, still steamed up, but even the muddled shape of him is too much. you curl your fingers into his hair and pull him up, up, up, into another bruising kiss that he reciprocates immediately. 

“it feels so good,” you keen. “it feels so good like that, you make me feel good.” he tugs your bottom lip between his teeth and kisses down your chin. “ahh, baby. bin-baby, you’re making me crazy too. if you won’t fuck me, we- we gotta get out. i can’t- i can’t-”

he shushes you again, taps his thumb against your bottom lip with a small smile. “soon,” he promises. 

changbin dries you off with a towel from the rack, ruffling your hair with it until you squawk at him. he ties his own towel around his waist and disappears from the room completely when you take off your glasses to wipe the fog away with a dry hand towel. he’s right back in sight when you put them back on. changbin smiles fondly but takes a step back when he notices your gaze lingering on the mirror. you fluff your hair, scrunch it out, wipe your hand across the glass to get rid of the clinging steam.

“okay, have fun!” changbin says quickly. “if you get dirty, you’ll just have to come see me again soon, sudsy. i’ll be waiting!” 

he leaves you with a parting wink before rushing out the door of the bathroom. the change of pace is a little odd, you’re not sure why he’s rushing when just a few minutes ago he wanted to take things slowly, but you guess it’s just a silly quirk of his. 

you’re so focused on your own reflection that the second face in the mirror makes you shout. the second face almost looks like it’s on the other side of the mirror looking back at you, and you drop your hairbrush with a clatter as someone pops out of your bathroom mirror and sits before you on the sink. 

a baby blue shirt tucked into a short, crystalline skirt. it’s pleated and reflective, showing off thick thighs and toned legs that end in a platform heel. you look up to see long, dark, beautiful curly hair held away from her face with a clip. glossy lips, a shimmer of glitter on small eyelids. 

“look who finally came to see me!” she exclaims, ruffling two blue and silver pom-poms together in her hands before tossing them excitedly to either corner of the bathroom. she crosses one leg over the other. “you’re even cuter in person, did you know that?” 

you gape at her. even though her bodice is smaller in stature, she still has broad shoulders, her arms still bulge through the tight sleeves of her shirt. there’s a smiley shaped scar on her chin. this is the prettiest girl you’ve ever seen, and she’s undoubtedly, indisputably, remarkably changbin. 

your eyes are drawn lower, so shocked by this new version of your boyfriend — girlfriend?—  filling your space that you can’t stop your ogling, drawn straight to a chest that might just put yours to shame. her breasts are so perky that you wonder if she’s wearing a push up bra underneath her shirt or if that’s just their natural shape. they sit so pretty, they’re so full, oh my god you can’t stop staring— 

you snap your gaze away from her ample chest and try to focus on literally anything else. 

“um, who-? who are you?”

“i’m just your number one cheerleader, of course. it’s me, cutie. your mirror!” 

she scoots off of the sink and flits around the bathroom, heels clomping on the floor every step she takes. you’re still trying to keep your eyes a respectable distance from her boobs, gaze settling on the small basket of dried rose petal and lavender potpourri on your counter when someone else appears out of thin air, an ever faithful reminder of the abilities of your glasses. 

“oh? we must be getting ready for something. can i help?!” 

a second set of heels scurry forward. the hands that touch your arms are covered by lacy lavender gloves, and this other version of changbin meets your eyes in the mirror over your shoulder. poppy pink hair with cascading rose petals sewn into the strands, a delicate, powder pink babydoll dress draped over bronze skin. lavender chiffon wings sprout from the back of the dress like something you’d see a showgirl wearing. it hits you then — overdrawn lips and starkly underlined eyes, pink and purple painted lids — along with the gorgeous cheerleader nosing through your skin care, there’s a drag queen in your bathroom. 

“changmi, my love! of course you can help, i could use an extra set of hands. you wouldn’t mind, cutie, would you?” 

you shake your head. you don’t really know what’s going on, but you don’t think you do mind all that much. 

“what’s the occasion? a night on the town, family get together, a party?” 

changbin presses herself to your side and rests her chin over your other shoulder. changmi sets her chin down too, and it looks like you have three heads. 

“date night,” changbin whispers conspiratorially. “that stud of yours will be home in a little while, won’t he? we need to get you ready! so. what exactly are you feeling, cutie? what can we do to make you feel the best?” 

you think about it, held safely between two versions of one love of your life. you’ve been pulled in different directions all day, heart and body both fighting to satiate their cravings, clawing at each other for scraps. the attention has left you aching, buzzing under the skin with just how much you want changbin in any way you can get him, any version, but the one you covet the most is the one who’s been yours. before the glasses, before you knew of the secret lives of the things within your house. you ache for the touch of the man who wipes your tears and dances with you in the kitchen, the one who asked to be yours all those years ago. 

you want to get fucked, but more than that, you want to show changbin how much you missed him and feel pretty while you do it. 

“there is something,” you start. a matching set waiting patiently in your underwear drawer, cast to the side due to busy nights and shared exhaustion. it’s something changbin surprised you with a while back, sleek black box left on your bed with a sweet, chicken scratch love note, but it’s been so long since then that you think he might have forgotten by now. “but i’ve never worn it? i don’t know how it’ll look on me.” 

“well, let’s find out, shall we?” 

changbin plugs up your hair dryer as changmi flutters to your bedroom to rummage through your underwear drawer. the dryer roars to life, and you’re left shouting over the noise. 

“it should be kinda shoved to the back? the black ones, with the pink flowers? can you- can you find them?” your hair whips into your face and you’re left trying to keep hold of the towel tied around your chest while changbin fusses over your hair. you can’t hear changmi’s heels, but you see her leaning in the doorway out of the corner of your eye, holding up the pretty set of lingerie you were talking about. when the hair dryer clicks off and the deafening roar peters to a stop, changbin whistles. 

“it’s these right?” changmi asks. she holds up the panties so the thong in the back is facing you. she shows the bra next and holds the cups to her own chest. changmi looks at you with raised brows and a teasing grin on her overdrawn lips. “oh, pretty peony. if you ever wore these for me, i wouldn’t let you out of bed.” 

“ohh please, oh please! you’d put your lovely mirror in front of the bed for some extra fun, wouldn’t you?” changbin sighs wistfully. “he’s so lucky. you’re going to look unreal. come on, let’s get you dressed!” 

you can do it yourself, but changbin and changmi won’t let you lift a muscle unless they’re there to assist you. your towel drops to the floor as changbin squats low to help you step into your panties, and she eases them up your legs with a slow finesse, sliding the satin up until the elastic snaps in place at your hips. changmi works you into the bra next, waiting patiently for you to slide your arms through the straps to slip them up your shoulders. changbin joins in then, fretting with the cups of the bra so your boobs can sit comfortably in them while changmi focuses on hooking the clasps at the back. 

it isn’t until changbin steps away from your front that you see yourself in the reflection of the mirror. the longline bra pushes your breasts up and accentuates your cleavage. the lacy demi cups ride so low that the faintest slip of your areolas tease from the top, surrounded by delicate pink flowers and a silky bow in the middle. the matching panties send a flush to your cheeks courtesy of the black mesh covering your public mound, but the black satin on the rest feels nice, feels expensive even, cool against your dewy skin. pink flowers dot the mesh, and a pink ribbon sits primly in the middle of the elastic band. 

“turn around, beautiful,” changbin encourages, and changmi hums. 

you do turn your body to the side, looking over your shoulder at the thin straps of the bra that shows off the length of your back and the curvature of your shoulders. the panties unsurprisingly leave nothing to the imagination, thong dipping sinfully between your cheeks to leave your ass on bold display. 

the set is beautiful. changbin is so thoughtful, both pieces of the set fit perfectly, and you know he picked it out with you in mind. but it’s revealing, it’s new on your body, so you can’t help but feel a little uncertain even though you’re wrapped in such beautiful garments. 

“is it- i mean, do i look okay?” you’re turning the other way now, plucking at fabric and elastic and trying not to nitpick yourself into taking it off. 

“does it not feel good?” changmi asks. she tilts her head, and a coiled lock of pink hair falls to the side. “it’s supposed to make you feel good, rosy. does it not make you feel that way? we can try something else if it doesn’t.” 

“i think it does. i like the way it feels. it’s really soft, and it fits well, but it’s, you know. a lot? is it too much on me?” 

“i don’t think that man of yours would have bought it if he thought it was too much,” changbin smiles, fixing your derailing train of thought by adjusting the track. “but this is about you, cutie! what makes you feel good. what do you like best about it?” 

“well.” you pause to think, another one-eighty in the mirror. “my boobs look really good.” 

“they do! i really like that little peek of skin in the middle, see? right above the ribbon? look how pretty that is.” changmi leans over your shoulder again and brings a manicured, lace-covered finger to point at the sliver of skin she’s talking about. 

“you fit so well in it too. it looks like this was made custom for you, gorgeous, no spillage on the sides, nothing digging in anywhere to make you uncomfy.” 

“the panties are nice too, right?” you ask. “like- my butt does look pretty nice, doesn’t it?” you turn then, all three of you looking at the globes of your ass, black fabric nestled down the crack. 

“baby, there’s a string back there. that’s all you. the panties have nothing to do with it!” 

“i was thinking the same thing, but look! look right there. where the elastic digs into your waist just a little bit? do you see how soft you are here?” changmi growls playfully in your ear, nipping at the lobe. “i wanna bite it.” 

changbin leans in just as close on the other side of you, nuzzling her tiny, scrunched nose at your other ear. “i bet we aren’t the only ones who wanna bite it~”

the front door opening downstairs makes all of you freeze in your tracks. 

“yeobo? i’m home!” 

that springs you into action, wide eyed and frantic, clomping heels and padding feet rush into the bedroom for the finishing touches. all you do is throw on a worn t-shirt of yours to cover up the lingerie you’re really beginning to love. changmi slams your underwear drawer closed, your mirror fusses with your hair and adjusts your glasses on your face. 

changbin calls for you again. 

“just a second!”

changmi rounds the corner of your bed and changbin grabs her hand so they can scuttle away to somewhere else in the house. 

“good luck, beautiful! tell me all about it tomorrow. mmm, though i guess i’ll be able to put the pieces together when you stand in front of me to brush your teeth and you’ve got hickeys everywhere~” 

“and!” changmi rushes. she pulls hard enough on changbin’s hand to stop her in her tracks. changmi leans close to you — she smells like flowers, roses and lavender to be precise. “i’m not just in the bathroom, you know? if you want to see me again under different circumstances, just check that special drawer of your nightstand, buttercup.” 

she lets changbin pull her away then, and you hear the clacking of their heels recede until it disappears altogether.

you don’t bother turning the lamp off before stepping out of your bedroom and padding to the staircase. you see him then, standing at the bottom of the stairs like he’s been waiting in place there ever since he heard your voice. changbin is so handsome, god, the best thing that’s ever happened to you, standing clueless at the base of the stairs with a bag of takeout in his hand and his keys in the other. 

his eyes widen when he hears you bolt down the stairs, but he still manages to catch you with a steady arm as you throw yourself at him, plowing into that warm chest and latching your arms around his shoulders. 

“baby,” you keen. he rocks you in place like he doesn’t mind you throwing yourself at him the way you did, tightening his arm around your back and nestling his chin over your shoulder. “baby, i missed you! i missed you so much.” 

changbin laughs kindly. his warm breath tickles your neck and flutters your hair. “i missed you too, gorgeous. what’ve you been up to today?” 

you pull away from him then, unwrapping your arms from his shoulders and placing your palms on them instead. 

“changbin,” you say seriously. he’s not going to believe the day you had. 

his eyebrows scrunch. that pretty smile ticks at the corner like he’s confused. “you’re still wearing those glasses? have you worn them all day?” he laughs. 

it’s then that you notice the figure standing to your left, ducking his head politely as if to give you a semblance of privacy. your doorman looks up then, and there’s a knowing smile on his face. a look to your right shows a small crowd in the living room. lop ears and wide eyes peek out from behind the couch, your housekeeper sits with his headband in his lap, reaching a hand down to scritch at fuzzy ears. your phone fiddles with the remote, and your enthusiastic treadmill points at the television from beside him. your teddy bear is curled into the corner of the couch, head pillowed by the warm, dewy chest of your shower. if you listen hard enough, you can hear the clicking of heels in the kitchen and the fizzle of something cooking on the stove. 

when you look at your doorman again, he nods his head. 

“we’ll see you again soon, dormouse.” 

yellow fades from your vision when you take the glasses off. you have to blink a few times to adjust your vision to the muted light of your entryway, and you realize just how quiet the house is now. you and changbin are the only two there — a look around shows an empty doorway, an empty living room. silence from the kitchen. 

but the silence isn’t unbearable, not like it was this morning. your house teems with life; how could you ever be lonely in the space you share with changbin? the floor creaks when he adjusts his stance, the rafters crackle and pop their greeting. 

“changbin,” you repeat again, and you’re tugging him up the stairs and to the bedroom before he can even take his crocs off. 

“but- wait, yeobo, the food-?”

“there’s no time!” 

changbin places his keys and the bag of takeout on the entryway table and lets you lead him up the stairs with an eager grip. he’s just as malleable when you push him back onto the bed and crawl on top of him, kissing up the warm skin of his neck while the sound of him kicking off his shoes interrupts that of quiet sighs and slick smacks. you kiss his lips, slow and deep. 

“the glasses are magic,” you mumble into his plump little mouth. you breathe the words into it. “they bring stuff in your house to life-” kiss, “-and they show up as what you desire most-” kiss, “-so i spent all day going around our house meeting different versions of you-” kiss, kiss, kiss, “-because there’s nothing i want more than you.” 

changbin’s breath is ragged. he bares his neck so you have more room to kiss and lifts up to help you rid him of that god awful shirt. your tongue circles his adam’s apple and he shivers. 

“ahhh, mm… muh-, shit- magic?” 

“that’s all you heard?!” you pinch him on the side, but all that does is make him arch into your hands. 

“i can’t focus on anything with you kissing me like that!” changbin whines. 

you let him off the hook because you know he can’t. pleased to know you’ve already got him where you want him, dazed and trusting and open underneath your body, you lean down to suck kisses down his chest. a puffy nipple catches your attention, so you flit your tongue against it until he’s left twitching. he curls into you when you nip it with your teeth, knees bending inwards and knocking against your hips. changbin brings shaky fingers to your hair and pushes it back from your forehead so that he can kiss it, warm, soft lips searing on the skin. 

changbin’s hands go with you as you work your way lower. kisses between his pecs, down to his belly, his sides. you nose at the band of his pants, looking up at him demurely. 

“i’m gonna put you in my mouth, baby.” changbin’s breath stutters in his throat, but he nods nonetheless. “but that’s not where i want you to cum, okay? just let me taste you for a little bit.” 

his eyes flutter when you nuzzle your cheek against the growing bulge in his joggers; they roll when you press your lips to it. changbin helps you take them off, his pants and his boxers, lifting his hips and moving his legs until you’re finally able to pull them from his ankles and toss the offending pair on the floor. 

he’s a sight like this. changbin is all bronze skin and supple curves, a hard, toned body turning itself soft and pliable to your whims. 

he spreads his legs just wide enough for you to be comfortable between them, skin still pressing together in too many places to count. all he wants is to feel you, and your all too happy to be felt, curling between those strong legs and leaning against a thigh to finally wrap greedy fingers around his hardening length. he’s pinking up at the tip, leaking too, a kiss to the head swipes his pre across your lips like a gloss. he feels pleasure so beautifully, those peachy doll lips dropping open to heave a shaky breath, his eyebrows furrowing in the middle. how lucky you are to see him this way. 

changbin’s fingers cup the back of your neck when you finally slip that ruddy tip into your mouth. he drips onto your tongue, and you savor, savor, savor it, holding him in place between your lips just because you can. you build up a slow pace to reacquaint the wet heat of your mouth to that tasty intrusion, bobbing your head up and down on him while he struggles to keep his composure. 

a fondle to his balls has his legs twitching. you feel the muscles in his thigh tense where it’s pressed to your back, eyes flitting up to see changbin with his bottom lip tucked between his teeth. you lift yourself off of his cock then to tongue your way down to his heavy sac, soft and furled and full under your fingers as you circle them under the skin. changbin throws his head back then, a choked grunt punching from his chest. 

“fuck,” he heaves. he makes a valiant effort to lift his head back up to watch you suck on his balls, but it must be too much, the sight or the sensation, you’re not sure. either way, his head flops back down on the pillow with a loud moan. “yeobo, god.”

you hum then and suck his cock back into your mouth, massaging his balls as he finally meets the entrance to your throat. the faster your head bobs, the harder changbin fights to keep his composure. he’s tense — muscles jumping under your touch like he’s fighting not to buck himself between your lips at his own pace. he’s never selfish when it comes to his own pleasure, no, he takes what you give him and loves every second of it, but you make him feel so good that his body just can’t help but react. 

it isn’t until changbin is quivering that you ease him from your mouth with a slick sounding pop. his hands take hold of your hips as you begin your ascend up his body, straddling your legs on either side of his hips. reverential eyes take you in, and they widen when you bare yourself to him. you slip the t-shirt over your head and toss it behind you somewhere, leaving you in the set changbin bought just for you. 

“oh,” he whispers. those eyes haven’t left you — they search now, roaming freely, taking in every ounce of you they can. changbin’s rough hands slide gently over your belly, they squeeze your hips. “oh, yeobo. oh, i-” he laughs then, something tight and overwhelmed. “you’re so fucking beautiful.” 

he’s not looking at your body when he says it. his eyes aren’t locked on the swell of your breasts or the mesh covering the mound of your cunt. he’s looking into your eyes as he speaks. 

“yes,” you confirm. his gaze grows heavy. changbin’s eyes only move from yours when you start to lower the shoulder straps of your bra. one at a time, they slink down your arms and stay limp in place at your elbows. you don’t move to take the bra off, you’ll fuck him with it on. “i feel beautiful.” 

your body feels good, you feel soft and powerful where you are. black and pink fabric kisses the contours and dips of your skin in a way that makes you feel confident, even if it took help to get there. changbin helps now too — he lives his life like it’s his purpose to make you feel beautiful, covetous eyes, adoring hands, and honest words. 

you pull your panties to the side and he gasps. your jaw drops too, a low sound leaving your lips at the press of his hot tip to your tender clit. 

you’re suddenly ravenous for it, unable to stop the bump of your hips that rubs you against the length of him. your swollen lips hug him like that, covering him in that sticky-sweet slick he’s coaxed out of you. you’d fuck him like this if you didn’t feel a bone-deep need to have him inside. you’ve been wound up on and off all day, teased, kept on the precipice, and who better to guide you down than the one who started it all? 

one knee on the bed, you lift up onto the ball of your foot and reach for his cock. changbin angles his hips to help, squeezing your hips and holding steady for you to take him however you please. 

you sink down on him slowly, not stopping until you’re seated on him fully. changbin pets your belly; you cup his hand and caress his knuckles. he’s the perfect fit. your hips move on their own accord, familiarizing yourself to the sweet stretch you love so much.

if lifting back up on your knees feels like rapture, dropping back down feels like creation, an uninhibited moan leaving your lips when you fill yourself with him again and again. 

“this is mine.” you place your palms on his chest and ride, breasts finally popping out of your bra at your rough pace. “your cock is mine, changbinnie, it’s mine. mine to use, mine to play with, mine to- fff- ah!” 

you’re losing control, so changbin gives you his. 

“yes, baby,” he nods. his gaze is heavy, lashes fluttering like it’s taking all of his effort to keep them open. changbin licks his lips and groans, bringing his hands up to wrap around your wrists. 

“it’s mine,” you repeat. “you’re mine.”

he’s already confirming before you’re done talking. “all of me is yours. every part of me, gorgeous.” 

he hits deep like this, even deeper when his hips start to move on their own and aid your pleasure, bucking just as you drop down onto him so he strokes deeper. his hips move so effortlessly, the glide of him slick and dirty. your juices drip down the base of his cock and to his heavy balls that smack against you wetly as he thrusts upwards. every time you drop down on him, it shocks a cry from his lips. every time he fucks up into you, you repeat his name like a prayer. the slap of skin echoes noisily, the rhythm breaking in your desperation to have him.

the only thing about desperation is that your body can’t always keep up with it. your limbs grow tired before you want them to, your heart pounds just a little too fast, and your breathing turns a little too laborious. you whine, hands scrambling across his slick, heated skin for more leverage to no avail. your head hurts, you feel heavy, your muscles burn, and changbin pulls you down before you can start to panic. 

“hey, hey,” he coos. your breasts press flush to his warm chest, and his hands rub up and down your back. he hasn’t stopped fucking you, thank god, the beat of his cock has turned slow, softer than before. “i’m right here. i’m right here with you, beautiful.” 

it’s easier like this. it was good before, and it’s good now, in a different kind of way. you can kiss him like this, feel his thundering pulse under your fingertips when they wrap around his throat just to touch him more. changbin’s mouth can’t help but falter — he’s all too focused on the rhythm of his hips to choreograph the movement of his tongue or the pucker of his lips, so you use his mouth how you like, sucking on his tongue and nipping at his bottom lip when he fucks into that spot you like the most. you clench on him then, hugging him tight with tender walls to keep him where you need him. changbin twitches inside of you.

you rest your forehead on his. changbin’s breathing is uneven against your mouth, sweet, airy moans leaving his lips and slipping between yours. you’re not fairing any better. he feels too good, his cock inside where it belongs and his arms around you, being intimate like this in the bed you share, in the house you live in together. 

“‘m gonna cum,” you mumble. it builds so fast that you gasp, body jolting on top of his at the warm, tingling sensation of a rapidly building orgasm. “baby. baby, baby- you’re gonna make me cum.” 

“please. please cum for me, please. ah, my heart, show me how perfect you are when you cum on me… when you cum on this cock that belongs to you.” 

he kisses the wail from your lips as you do, squirming fitfully on top of him and only held in place by the embrace of his arms. changbin is never far off after that. the clenching of your cunt, the sweet pulse of your orgasm always pulls his right out of him. he cums inside with a hiss, slamming his hips up one final time and using his grip on your back to push you down onto him so that you can take his cum deep. 

you lay in his arms until your legs are going numb, finally using that as your excuse to pull off of him and throw a leg over his thigh, curling into his side. you’re going to drip cum all over his side, but you know he’ll only fuss a little bit, and he’ll do it with a smile on his face. 

it isn’t until you’ve both caught your breath that changbin gets up to wet a cloth to clean you with. 

you turn onto your side and watch him turn the water on in the bathroom, standing naked and sated under the bright light. 

“ah, wait, i meant to tell you when i got home,” he says. changbin wrings out the cloth over the sink and comes back into your bedroom to wipe you down. he gets your hot spots and focuses his attention between your legs. “hyunjinnie texted earlier today and asked how you were liking the glasses?” 

“hyunjin bought them for me?!” 

“mm, he said something about waiting to see what you thought before he bought his own pair.” 

“so i’m his guinea pig.”

changbin laughs. “i guess so, yeobong.” 

a few minutes of talking go by, and changbin finally makes himself get up again to throw the cloth in the hamper. 

your yellow glasses are sitting askew on the far side of the bed. he picks them up and surveys them before putting them on his own face. 

changbin rounds the bed again and walks to the door of the bathroom. “so you’re telling me,” he starts. “you spent the entire day romancing all of these random objects in our house because of these glasses?” 

“yeah! they were able to bring stuff to life, i dunno how.” 

“and they were all me?! will- will i be able to see them too?” 

that’s a question you don’t know the answer to, but you have a good idea of who could find the answer in the blink of an eye. 

“i’m not really sure? i think it might be different for every person. like, you see what you desire most? but i mean, maybe. all you have to do is, like, focus your eyes on something you want to bring to life, and somebody will appear.” 

he huffs then, puts his hands on his hips and looks around the bathroom. 

you turn back over to lay flat on your back, nuzzling your head on the pillow to get comfortable. you don’t stay relaxed for long. 

“oh. wuh- wah!” changbin shouts. 

“bin? what’s wrong?” you sit up in bed but can’t see anything out of the ordinary, other than changbin standing naked and wide eyed in the bathroom with your glasses on his face. 

“yeobo, you’re yellow,” he says very seriously. his eyes are still wide, but he’s not looking at you. “y-you’ll squeak if i squeeze you?” your eyebrows raise. of course he’s not seeing himself in these glasses at all, of course he’s seeing— “squeeze you where? a-anywhere?!” 

changbin’s still staring at something you can’t see. if you lean far enough to the left, you can follow his gaze. you snort a goofy laugh when your eyes spot the only yellow item in your bathroom, something you wouldn’t have thought about twice. 

the bed is too big without him. you want to curl around him again and fall asleep with your hand resting over his heart. 

“changbinnie,” you call sweetly. “why don’t you take those glasses off and come to bed, baby? you can talk to our rubber duck tomorrow.”