brats 4 jun

s 𓈒ㅤׂㅤ𓇼 ࣪ 𓈒ㅤׂㅤ⭒ 𓆡 ⭒ㅤ𓈒ㅤׂ 🫧 ink or swim 24, writer

[mercif4l]

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ rowan, 24, she/they — carat.

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[stuckinapril]

[shuastar]

HIII absolutely LOVE your writings , can I request a Jeonghan smut with the prompts #12 and #21 with the reader being the inexperienced one and Jeonghan being the tease he is , tysm <3!!!

18+

You’re not used to being touched like this.

Not with this much patience. Not with this kind of intent.

Jeonghan sits behind you on his bed, his chest warm against your back, one arm curled loosely around your waist. He’s been like this for almost an hour now—soft kisses trailing from your shoulder to your neck, fingertips exploring but never rushing. You’re practically squirming in his lap, breath shivering every time he exhales near your ear.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmurs, voice silk-wrapped. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

You nod. You’ve nodded so many times now, you’ve forgotten how to speak. Your thighs tremble as his fingers graze just barely over your clothed core again, featherlight. It aches. You ache. But every time your hips roll forward—seeking friction, something more—Jeonghan just hums and pulls back.

“Not yet,” he whispers.

Your hands fist in the sheets. You feel like you're on the edge of something endless, a cliff you’ve been circling without ever falling. And he’s watching you unravel with that quiet, devastating gaze of his.

“You want to come?” he asks, like he doesn’t already know the answer. His lips drag along your shoulder. “I can feel how badly you want it.”

You nod again—more desperate this time.

“Say it,” he says softly. “Say it out loud. Tell me.”

“I—” You swallow. “I want to… I want to come, Hannie.”

He lets out a pleased little sound and rewards you with a firmer stroke—just once—and your whole body jolts.

“But that’s not what tonight’s about, is it?” he says, low and near your ear now, guiding your hips back down to rest against him. “Tonight’s about learning. Feeling. Knowing you don’t have to rush.”

Your heart pounds. “But it hurts.”

“I know,” he coos. “That’s how you know it’s working. You’re learning how your body talks to mine. You’ve never let anyone take care of you like this before, right?”

You shake your head. “No.”

His arms tighten. “Then let me.”

He leans you back against him again, and his hand slips beneath the waistband of your panties. This time he touches you properly—slow circles that make you keen—and just when your thighs start to tense, right when your body starts to climb—

He stops.

You cry out, breathless, hips stuttering. “Jeonghan—!”

“Shh,” he soothes, turning your face to kiss you gently, sweetly. “Don’t worry, baby. I’m not going anywhere.”

His voice is soft, almost reverent. “You’ll come when I say you’re ready. When you’ve felt everything first. And when you do…” He smiles against your cheek. “It’s going to ruin you.”

His fingers slide between your folds again, dragging through slick that feels endless—your body’s been begging, building, burning for him all night.

“Jeonghan—” you gasp, barely holding on, “please—don’t stop again—please—”

He hums, low and thoughtful. “You think you’ve earned it?”

You nod frantically, hips twitching. “Yes, yes—I did everything—I waited, I—”

He cuts off your plea with a kiss—deep, slow, filled with something soothing—and finally, finally, presses down with firm, steady circles. Your moan catches in your throat, your spine arching as the pressure crests higher, higher, no more teasing, no more cruel mercy—

“That’s it,” he whispers, mouth brushing your jaw. “That’s it, baby. Let go for me.”

You do.

Your orgasm hits like a tidal wave—sudden, overwhelming, hot. You cry out his name, shaking in his arms as he keeps working you through it, fingers gentle but insistent, not stopping until you're sobbing through aftershocks, boneless in his lap. Your hips stutter forward, then fall limp.

And behind you—you feel it.

A shuddered breath against your shoulder. A low, guttural moan.

“Hah—fuck—” Jeonghan’s hips jerk once, twice behind you. You realize belatedly that he never even touched himself.

Then warmth splashes across your lower back. His release, hot and heavy, painting your skin.

You gasp—utterly stunned—and twist in his lap to look at him.

His face is flushed, lips parted, eyes wrecked as they meet yours. He looks dazed. Beautiful. His hands still cradle you like you’re breakable.

“You—” you start, breathless, “You came?”

He lets out a soft laugh, sheepish and unrepentant. “Couldn’t help it,” he murmurs. “You’re too fucking pretty like this.”

You blink at him. “But you didn’t even—”

He leans in and kisses you slow. “Didn’t need to. Watching you fall apart for me? Hearing you beg, feeling your body tighten like that…”

Another kiss—deeper this time. Possessive.

“That’s all it took.”

You can’t stop the blush that blooms under your skin. “You really didn’t… touch yourself? At all?”

He grins. “Not even once.”

You feel the heat pool in your stomach again. “Jeonghan…”

His hand cups your cheek, tender and firm. “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he says softly. “Next time… you’ll ride me properly. I’ll show you everything.”

And when you whimper, overwhelmed and already throbbing again, he only chuckles against your ear.

“Better get some rest,” he says, voice like sin. “We’re just getting started.”

[mercif4l]

YIPPPEEEEEE

[seungkw1]

107 missed texts — bsk

♡ pairing: boo seungkwan x afab!reader ♡ theme: smut [18+ mdni], pwp ♡ wc: 1.7k ♡ warnings: bigdick!seungkwan, mutual masturbation, alcohol consumption, sexting, nipple play, cum eating, bit of dirty talk, whimpering (obviously), seungkwan hand appreciation pt. 293579234, seungkwan is a mega simp, lil fluff ending, petnames (baby girl, pretty girl / kwannie, good boy) ♡ a/n: this is all @haologram’s fault. ty for the inspiration bestie <3

Seungkwan has a boner that can only be fixed by a steamy facetime call with you.

Your phone died a few hours ago. It was girls’ night and you didn't think to pack your charger, but you and your besties were out barhopping, so you wouldn't have had anywhere to plug it in anyways. You stumble into your bedroom — not terribly drunk at this point, just a bit tipsy still — and plug in the device. You were expecting a handful of missed notifications, but the screen flashes as a string of texts pop up in rapid succession. Opening your messages app, you find 107 unread texts from Seungkwan.

They start out innocuous:

10:54pm hi babe hope you're having a great night just wanted to say hi and i love you stay safe and text me when u get home ❤️

Nothing out of the ordinary, he always texts you pretty regularly throughout the day. But then the messages start getting more frequent — and a bit silly.

11:11pm make a wish~ i'm wishing for you 😘 i know it's only been a few days but i miss u 11:15pm did you know otters hold hands when they sleep so they don't float away from each other? isn't that so cute? that’s us hehe

He texted you in bursts, with only a few minutes in between each set of messages. As if he couldn't stop thinking about you.

11:28pm i can't stop thinking about you you're so pretty wanna kiss u

The further you scroll, the more suggestive the messages start to get.

11:45pm baaaaabe send me a selfie wanna see how cute u look bonus points if your boobs are in it 11:53pm can you send me a pic of your boobs 🥺 ik you're out rn but if you happen to have an old one pls 👉👈 12:01pm nvm i found some :) but i meannnn i wouldn't mind another ;)

Several more cute animal facts follow, up until about 10 minutes ago when he dropped the facade and started being straight up horny.

12:33pm fuck i miss you you're so hot i'm ngl i had a few beers and now im just staring at ur nudes god i wish i was eating you out rn ur perfect lmk when u get home i need u baby pls text me back my dick is so hard rn

Grinning, you start typing a reply, but he responds before you can even send the text.

12:44pm oh thank god r u home can i call u

Before you can write the word yes he is already facetiming you.

“Hiiiii,” you say with a giggle as you answer the call.

“You're home right? Alone?”

He looks nearly frazzled, hair unkempt and cheeks tinged pink as if he just ran a few miles. The glaring redness of his ears gives away his inebriated state.

“Yep,” you answer as you plop onto your bed.

“Okay good.”

He tilts the camera downward, showing you the thick bulge in his sweatpants.

“I'm so fucking horny right now.”

“Yeah, I guessed that much,” you grin.

He cups his hand around his bulge, groaning at the slightest pressure.

“Touch yourself for me,” he begs. “I wanna watch you cum. Please.”

The desperation in his voice makes your core ache. You raise the phone in your hand, angling the camera to show your body. The low-cut crop top you wore out shows off your boobs nicely; you grab one breast and caress it, causing Seungkwan to let out a low hum.

"Take your shirt off, baby," he pleads, stroking his cock slowly through the fabric.

"Patience, love," you coo at him. "What's the rush?" you add teasingly.

He lets out a laugh, accompanied by an eye roll. "The rush is that I've been trying not to nut in my pants all night, that's what."

"Aww you were waiting for me, such a good boy."

"Fuck," he growls, clenching his jaw. "Don't tell me that, are you trying to kill me?"

You smirk, blowing a kiss at the camera. Slowly, you pull your top down, letting your breasts fall free. You play with your nipples, already perky from being turned on and hardening further at the exposure to the cool air.

"God, you're so hot," he tells you, practically drooling. "Hang on."

He sets his phone on the desk in front of him, positioning himself in the frame so you can see his face. He scoots the chair back slightly, showing you his clothed erection, looking even larger from this angle. Reaching into his pants, he groans as he wraps his hand around his girth and pulls his cock out — it's thick as ever, its length flourished with pretty veins, its head flush and leaking with precum. He gives himself a few slow strokes, making his eyelids flutter and a delicious moan escape his lips. He opens his eyes, fixing them on you again, gazing at you with uncontrollable lust as his large hand grasps his cock tightly. You slide your hand down to your lap, dragging your fingertips softly up your inner thigh and reaching underneath your skirt. You smile deviously as you bite your lip.

"Oh I'm so wet right now," you inform him smugly. His grip tightens even further, squeezing his cock as a shiny bead of precum dribbles down its side. If his face was pink before, it is now an angry shade of red, the slight sheen of his sweat making him glow. "Wanna see?"

"Please," he begs, his voice nearly cracking.

You lift the skirt's hem, the garment sliding up over your hips as you spread your legs, revealing your bare, glistening pussy. Seungkwan's eyes nearly pop out of his head.

"Oh my fucking god, were you not wearing any panties all night??"

"Nope," you reply proudly. He reaches across the desk for something — you hear the squirting sound of the lube bottle, then watch as he spreads the shiny liquid over his cock. His head falls back against the chair as he starts pumping his fist up and down his length.

"God," he groans. "I'm glad you didn't tell me that, I would've shown up at the bar and fucked you in the bathroom right then and there."

Beaming at him, and quite pleased with yourself, you glide two of your fingers over your cunt, letting out a soft moan as they brush your sensitive clit. You collect the pooling juices on your fingers and lift them to your mouth, licking them clean — prompting Seungkwan to let out a string of pathetic noises.

"Fuck, that's hot," he says through gritted teeth.

With a smirk you spit on your fingertips and lower your hand again, adding the additional wetness to your already-soaked folds. You begin to play with your clit, tracing gentle circles around the bud, but it's already throbbing relentlessly. A firey ache burns through your gut as you watch Seungkwan stroke himself — faster now, as he urgently seeks relief from several hours of being painfully hard.

"I wish you were here Kwannie," you croon at him, slowly sliding your fingers into your cunt. It feels good, but not as good as when he does it. "Want your pretty hands inside me."

"You like when I fuck you with my fingers, don't you baby girl?" His voice is breathy, shaking slightly as his hand rises and falls in his lap.

"Yeah," you respond earnestly, your voice equally quivering. "They're so long and big and pretty, fills me up so good…"

Your words trail off, replaced with blissful moans as you return to your clit. Your fingertips work quickly, flicking across the bundle of nerves as juices drip from your hole. You stare at Seungkwan through the screen, wriggling in his chair as he grows unbearably horny — he licks his lips as he stares back, eyes glazed over as his climax nears.

"I'm so close," he moans. His hand flies up and down his length, mouth slightly ajar as he whimpers. The sound is so pitiful, so pathetic — your toes curl as the burning in your gut swells.

"I'm gonna cum," you whine.

"Cum for me, pretty girl."

You cry out as an electric current surges through you, your entire body trembling with waves of pleasure. You ride out your orgasm, forcing your eyes open so you can maintain eye contact through the screen. Seungkwan gawks at you, not knowing where to look: your pretty, opened mouth with your quivering lips; your supple breasts bouncing perfectly as your body shakes; your perfect, soaked pussy as it pulses; all of you — so perfect.

"Oh fuuuuck," Seungkwan groans. His eyes roll back into his head as he cums with you, gasping as thick white ropes shoot into the air. He grasps his cock in his fist as his hand stills, squeezing tight as it pulses with each release. His chest rises with heavy breaths as he finishes, his eyes still fixated on you as cum drips down his length and all over his hand. He brings his fingers up to his lips, licking the spilt cum off his knuckles and swallowing it, before dropping his arm again and sinking into the chair in his relaxed state.

"I love you," he mumbles, a lazy, blissed-out grin plastered on his face. You giggle, the rush of euphoria still making your head spin in the best way.

"Hey!" he exclaims. "Don't laugh!"

"I'm not! You're just so cute," you smile as you stare at him lovingly, eyelids growing heavy as sleepiness washes over you. "I love you too."

"What are you doing tomorrow?" he asks suddenly.

"Nothing, why?"

"Great, I'm going to come over and fuck you all day," he announces matter-of-factly, making you burst out laughing. He gives you a sheepish look.

"If that's okay with you," he adds.

"Of course, silly," you grin. A yawn overtakes you; you roll over onto your side and get comfy.

"Perfect," Seungkwan replies, his soft doe eyes gazing at you affectionately. "Get some sleep babe. I'll see you first thing tomorrow."

taglist: @miniseokminnies @kyeomiis @tinycatharsis @hannieween @smiileflower @exomew @reiofsuns2001 @seventeenhot

[mercif4l]

life is good y’all

[imhalfplastic]

ok I read “hand to god” and “dating vernon as his personal ragebait target” and now I’m thinking… how do you think a relationship with vernon would be? like for real real? people always say he has this nonchalant vibe and that he’d be super chill and sometimes not pay attention but like ?? his love language is definitely being provocative and I kinda think that he would also be super soft? he would also take care?

hey, that’s a great question because like… i’ve seen so many posts about how vernon would be this nonchalant boyfriend, too chill to care (borderline emotionally unavailable) and every time i see it i just think: are we talking about the same person?

because honestly? i don’t think he’d be like that at all.

sure, he gives off that low-energy, observant, soft-spoken vibe. but i don’t think that translates to apathy in a relationship. if anything, i think it means that when he does choose someone, it’s with full intention.

so here’s how i actually imagine a relationship with vernon would be:

he doesn’t make you guess:

from the very beginning, there’s this quiet clarity to the way he feels about you. and he’s consistent. like, you don’t have to chase him or decode his behavior. if he likes you, he shows you.

maybe not through long paragraphs or dramatic confessions, but in simple, specific ways. he’ll say things like “i don’t think i get tired of being around you” and you’ll just know what he means. you never sit around wondering if he’s into you. he makes it very clear that he is.

he’s genuinely so, so sweet:

like. he likes being kind to you. he doesn’t treat affection like a task, he treats it like a reflex.

he’ll hold the door, hand you your charger before you even ask, buy you that random snack you mentioned in passing two weeks ago. he’ll rest his head on your shoulder at a party without saying anything. he’ll play with your fingers under the table. he’ll text you “are you warm enough” when it starts to rain.

it’s not always “i love you” but it’s “you’re on my mind” in every form. and eventually, those things start meaning the same. in a thousand soft gestures that make your chest ache a little.

he makes time:

he’s busy. obviously. there are weeks where his schedule barely makes sense. but he always finds a way to show up.

maybe not with big gestures, but with presence. he’ll stay on the phone with you even when he’s exhausted. he’ll cancel plans if you really need him. he’ll send you a song that reminded him of you at 3am. little things that say: “you matter. you’re part of my world.”

he doesn’t just fit you into his life, he makes space deliberately. he lets you know, again and again, that you’re not an afterthought.

his love language is 90% provocation:

he’s the kind of person who will say “you always chew like that?” while smiling at you across the table. he’ll bring up that one embarrassing thing you said in week two of dating and never let it die, but it’s all laced with affection. it’s like every little jab is a way of saying “i see you.” “i remember you.”

he flirts like it’s second nature. like, constantly. a lingering look, a teasing text, a hand on the back of your neck while he says something completely unserious.

he’s silly. like, actually:

people always forget how funny he is. like, not loud funny. just absurdly good at making you laugh without trying.

he’ll say the dumbest thing with the straightest face just to get a reaction. he’ll dramatically read your texts out loud. he’ll talk to your pet like it’s a person. and he wants to make you laugh because seeing you smile physically does something to him.

he’s emotionally brave:

he doesn’t run from hard conversations. he listens when you need to be heard. he apologizes when he’s wrong. he says “i want to be better at this” and means it.

loving him feels like being chosen. not for who you pretend to be but for who you really are, flaws and all. and he never makes you feel like you’re too much. if anything, he makes you feel like you’re exactly enough.

he wants to share things with you. all the time:

he’s a little hard to read at first. but once he lets you in, there’s no halfway. he tells you the weird dreams he had. he lets you see the notes app full of lyrics he’ll never use. he lets you hear him rant about something small and specific just because you’re the person he wants to share it with. and he wants to know what you think. he wants to see how you see things.

he loves out loud, in his own way:

he compliments you when you’re not expecting it. he says “you look nice today” like it’s a fact, not a line. he tells his friends about you. he brags about your weird talents. he kisses you in the middle of your sentence just because he can.

he’s not withholding. he’s not shy about making you feel loved. because he makes loving you look easy. natural. like it’s just what he was meant to do.

with vernon, even the quiet parts are full of love. there’s no cold silence. no distance masked as chill. there’s just presence. patience. and a kind of tenderness that stays.

and that’s the thing: he might love out loud. but more than that, he loves clearly.

[mercif4l]

let yourself be loved wholly! let yourself be reminded just how beautiful and consistent love can be! let yourself be a dolly!

[joshujin]

🔞 18+, minors do not interact • masterlist • submit a request 🚨 minors and blank blogs will be blocked

the first move

Your VIP guest needs help, and as his personal concierge, it’s your job to give him whatever he wants.

wc: 12.5k 🤢 tags: pwp (i say even tho it has a monster wc and i already have an entire story marinating in my head for these two) cw: maldives joshua, fem!reader, imbalanced power dynamic (reader is serving joshua as his personal concierge during his stay at the hotel she works at) but everything is consensual, joshua is a solo pop star (not an idol), whipped as usual (pls never expect anything else from me tbh i’m wholly incapable of writing a man who’s not completely and helplessly wrapped around a woman’s finger) smut warnings: dom!joshua, ish?, unprotected piv, semi-public sex? it’s a suite on a private beach but technically any boats could just zoom by i guess?, pool sex, kink negotiation, sir kink, color system (and use of the color red), hair pulling, light degradation, fingering, oral f. receiving, breath play, edging, spanking, dacryphilia if you squint, spitting and before you point out i’m beginning to make a pattern out of svt spitting into mouths idc leave me alone, hickies, doggy style, creampie, cockwarming, scratching hard enough to break skin, brief mention of blood, i think that’s it lmk if not a/n: i remember seeing an article about a couple who had to be hospitalized after having sex in the ocean bc the suction created some kinda vacuum and they got stuck together. so. idk maybe don’t have sex underwater but it’s your life! anyway. here it is. thanks to the anon that motivated me to work on this even if every second was complete torture :) tbh this is probably riddled with typos and mistakes. sorry not sorry bc i feel insane and i just want to be rid of maldives!joshua and i don’t want to have to read this over LMAO. have fun. i guess.

This VIP guest of yours has been quite the enigma for you. You’re used to receiving calls in the middle of the night, insisting you find pizza because your guest is tired of the “weird” (see: properly seasoned) food on the island. Or being forced to be a pack mule, lugging all of their unbelievably expensive belongings around as you follow them and watch them do random activities that don’t require any of the shit you’re carrying. Or being treated like an executive assistant, looking over your VIP’s schedules, fielding calls they keep forwarding to your desk, or even making calls on their behalf—both personal and professional. And you do it all with a smile since it means a tip almost twice your whole month’s pay because these people are so rich, they don’t even know what constitutes as an appropriate tip (and you’re not going to correct them).

But Joshua Hong is unlike any other VIP guest you’ve served before. He definitely demands almost all of your time the same way everyone else has in the past, but the difference is he manages to ask hardly anything of you at all. Which is bizarre because you’re the resort’s VIP concierge, and it’s literally in your job description to do whatever he asks—within reason, of course.

He doesn’t seem to care, though; the man is determined to simply monopolize your time and presence. It’s always the same: he calls for you with some vague variation of “I need help”, and you’ll make your way to his multi-bedroom water suite, where he’ll claim to have forgotten what he wanted but insist you stay in case he remembers (he does not). Or he’ll ask you for your opinion on something like his shirt and insist that’s all he needed but maybe you should hang around in case he needs an opinion on something else. Or he’ll ask you for a recommendation for dinner, something he could have asked you on the phone—or literally any staff member since the grounds are crawling with them. Then, he’ll ask if you can actually escort him there and when you arrive, he’ll insist on treating you to a meal (something you’ll never turn down, though if Joshua Hong continues to provide for you like this, you’ll have to stop doing groceries to refrain from throwing out uneaten food). 

On multiple occasions, your help was requested to extend his stay, which should’ve been over after three days and is now approaching its third week. 

And if your entire livelihood and career didn’t depend on your utmost professionalism, you wouldn’t mind being needed to this extent because to be frank, your VIP guest is the hottest you’ve ever had. You’re used to hosting men pushing 80 on vacation with their 20-something girlfriends. Or greasy incel entrepreneurs who don’t know how to keep their hands to themselves. Or asshole celebrities with personalities so ugly, you can’t for the life of you find anything attractive about them. You aren’t used to hosting quiet, kind, gentle, and heartbreakingly beautiful singers who ooze and drip sex appeal, leaving a trail of it everywhere they go. So you do mind being needed to this extent. Because every time Joshua calls you, it’s the fight of your life to stay professional. It’s a test of willpower to keep your eyes from wandering below his neck, and even then, his face is so goddamn breathtaking, your mind is constantly going blank. Every time he walks a little too closely and you get a whiff of whatever delicious cologne he uses, your mouth immediately salivates. One time, he brushed your cheek because he said there was a tiny bug on it. You almost fell to your knees right then and there.

You would do something about it in the real world, but it isn’t the real world; it’s your job, and it’s a job that pays stupid well considering the kind of people you tend to. So you have to stay on top of your game, and it would be so much easier to do that if you didn’t have to have direct eyesight of your sexy VIP—if he would just stop claiming to need you at his side virtually at all times.

Of course, that would be too easy, and that simply won’t suffice. Joshua Hong requires your presence, and now, as you stand frozen at the doors leading to his private outdoor deck, watching him watching you, you’ve never resented that fact about him more. 

The singer is seated in his infinity pool, gloriously backlit by the brilliant pink and orange hues of another looming Maldivian sunset that feels impossible to appreciate with him right there. He has both elbows propped up on the wall he's resting against and both eyes glued to you. 

You were used to letting yourself into his suite; he always told you whether or not you should whenever he called you. You were not used to finding him half naked in the pool with his hair wet and slicked back and a tattoo you weren’t aware he even had visible on his bulging bicep. He doesn’t greet you, soft and kind like he usually does; he doesn’t greet you at all. He simply continues to watch you, his fingers skimming and flicking the surface of the water casually like he hasn’t just put you into fight or flight mode.

As nonchalant as he looks, his face belongs to someone else right now—least of all to the pop star you’ve been assisting for the last two weeks. His now heavy-lidded eyes are devoid of any of the joy and warmth they’ve shown you, now several shades darker—not in color but in want. His usually angelic smile is curled into a barely there smirk that makes you feel like he’s taunting you, and something about his posture tells you that he’s entirely, completely done. With what, you’re not sure, but the sudden, dull ache between your legs makes it very clear it wants to find out.

He doesn’t speak, obviously perfectly content with staring you down like you’re prey. The only sounds come from the gentle breeze coming through his suite’s private beach, the tide of the ocean behind him, and the light splish splash of his fingers against the water. When it’s getting to criminally awkward levels of silence, you clear your throat and stiffly force yourself to step away from his room and onto the deck fully. Even then, you stand right by the door like it’s an emergency exit.

“Mr. Hong,” you greet him, bowing your head a little. His smirk only deepens. “You called for me. How can I assist you, sir?”

He hums in thought, the sound deep and rumbling coming from his naked chest. You want to press your hand up against it and see how the vibrations of his contemplation feel. You frown a little at your inner thoughts before schooling your face and forcing your brain to focus. Joshua Hong has made you a mini fortune staying at the resort as long as he has, and if you can manage to finish his trip strong, you’ll have more than enough to cover rent until the end of the year.

“I did call you,” he confirms, nodding slowly. “I’ve called on you quite a bit during my stay, haven’t I?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary, Mr. Hong,” you lie. He’s called you more than any other VIP ever has, and you’ve hosted billionaires that made it their mission to ensure you didn’t get a wink of sleep on their watch. “I’m always happy to help you, sir.”

He snorts, smirk turning a little mean. It makes you feel entirely too warm despite the hotel’s lightweight uniform. 

“Why don’t you take a seat?” he asks and gestures to the chair nearest to the edge of the pool opposite him with a nod.

“A seat?” you practically squeak, feeling a bit too out of control of your hormones to be any nearer to him than you already are. Your willpower already wavers dangerously on a good day. But today? When he looks like this? And is practically burning a hole into you with his eyes? You don’t trust yourself to keep your job if you’re not planted right here, by the exit. “I’m fine, sir. I—”

“Sit down.”

The command in his voice is something you’re not-at-all used to—not with him, and not with any of your other VIP guests. Most of your clients use their overly nice—if not totally inappropriate—schmoozing voice with you. Men who want to butter up their young, female host. Billionaires cosplaying as normal human beings so you feel more comfortable around them. For the entirety of his stay, Joshua Hong has exhibited nothing but an elegant and delicate demeanor, voice never louder than it needs to be. Always as soothing as the very breeze on this deck. Never sharp around the corners, never thick with dominance like it is now.

Your legs are moving, you’re pulling the chair out away from the outdoor table, turning it to face him, and your ass is meeting it before you realize what’s happening. As soon as you’re seated, you can see how pleased he looks and it surprises you to realize it makes you just as pleased to evoke that reaction out of him.

“What can I help you with, Mr. Hong?” you ask again, slowly this time so he hopefully doesn’t hear how labored your breathing suddenly is.

He narrows his eyes at you infinitesimally like he’s studying you, letting silence blanket over the both of you again. Finally, he answers: “I don’t need your help.”

You frown. “But… you called me, sir.”

“And every time I’ve called you for the past two weeks, I never needed your help,” he says frankly. He huffs a laugh out. “I’m a grown man. I don’t need you around to rattle off restaurants to me that I can Google.” He pauses before he apologizes for his snappiness. “Sorry. I seem to be at my wit’s end tonight.”

You believe it. He’s never been so direct and so serious with you before. You almost feel like you’re at the principal’s office getting scolded. You purse your lips a bit to keep it from turning into a confused scowl. 

“I’m not sure what you mean, Mr. Hong,” you say through barely concealed annoyance. What you really want to ask is: Then what the fuck was I coming all the way down to your suite and torturing myself for?!

“Well, what other reason would a man like me want a woman like you nearby?” he asks like he’s spelling it out for a child. 

You fidget a little, as your panties get more and more soiled by the second. You can’t say you didn’t wonder if he called on you because he just wanted you near him, but like anybody else would, you convinced yourself your ego was too big for your own good and that while mind-numbingly sexy, maybe Joshua Hong was also just incredibly useless. Or lonely. Or both.

You clear your throat. “I… um…”

His laugh comes out as a scoff. “Let’s be honest with each other. I’ll go first. I’ve extended this hiatus of mine countless times just to be able to spend more days around you,” he informs you. Your eyes widen at him and he nods like he agrees with something you didn’t even say. “Yeah, I’m still here because of you. Insane, right? I have a world tour to prepare for and instead, I’m still here. In the Maldives. With my entire team’s numbers blocked so they can stop calling me, and I can be left alone to think about all the things I’d do to the hotel’s VIP concierge if given the chance and the time. But I can’t keep putting my life off. I have to get back, and I don’t have the time to wait for you to figure it out anymore.”

The words leave you with absolutely no air, and you briefly contemplate scrambling out of the chair and running back through the door, never to see the singer’s face ever again. 

You are going to lose your job if you stay here, you horny bitch! your conscience screams at you. Against better judgment, you stay seated and settle for squeezing your thighs tightly together.

“I call on you day and night with zero requests for you, I make any excuse to be physically near you, I shower you with compliments and praise, I try to make conversation with you—try to get you to stay around me for as long as possible before you go running back to your office… so it’s either you don’t return my attraction or you’re choosing to ignore me.”

“It’s not that I don’t return your attraction,” you assure him so quickly, you can’t even stop the words before they’re out of your mouth. “I… um, you’re very, uh, kind, Mr. Hong. I thought that’s all that was,” you say honestly. He keeps staring at you so you fill the silence with a more straightforward answer to the question he didn’t ask. “It wasn’t clear to me that you… were staying here because of me.”

He tilts his head at you, drops of water sliding down his skin in that direction, and your intrusive thoughts assault you in a way they never have before. You want to lick the droplets right off his tan skin. You want to lick, suck, bite, and bruise that skin. You want to work hard enough that your sweat mingles with the water on him now. More than anything, you want to shrivel up and die.

You find it unnerving how well he can maintain eye contact. Your gaze keeps flitting from his face, to the ocean, to the floor, to the sky, and back, and each time, he’s still staring at you like you’re all he wants to waste time looking at. 

“I’m at a bit of a disadvantage,” he says, voice so low, you almost miss what he says against the sound of the tide. He doesn’t wait for you to ask what he means. “I can only make my desires so clear before this becomes a client inappropriately harassing an employee who’s being forced to be in his proximity. I’m not going to do something that you’re being paid to grin and bear politely. I only want someone who genuinely wants me back.”

Your mouth opens to respond but you stop yourself. This is your job! the annoyingly responsible voice in your head shrieks. Do not get yourself fired! Your embarrassingly wet cunt is screaming very different things at you, though.

He wants you just as badly as you’ve wanted him this whole time. He wants to touch. He wants to taste. Let him!

“We’re in the grey area. If there’s a first move to make at all… I was never going to be the one to make it,” he states, eyes so deliciously carnal, you want to jump into the pool and eat him right up. “It’s your turn to be honest. So…” he trails off as his gaze rakes your entire frame painstakingly slowly. He only continues when his eyes meet yours again. “With the assurance that you won’t be punished or your pay withheld for turning me down… I want to know. Is there a first move to make?”

“I…” you start, having no idea where that train of thought is going. “I’m…” Joshua doesn’t rush your answer, but his intense attention doesn’t waver either. He patiently waits, eyes fixed on you the whole time as you muster up the strength to say the last thing you want to. “I can’t.” The ache between your legs is agonizing. “This is my livelihood. I’ll… I’ll get fired for doing this… I can’t.”

You think it’s something that should disappoint the singer, but instead, his smirk makes a return, curving up at one corner of his pretty, pink mouth. You realize it’s because even as much as it sounds like one, it isn’t a rejection; it’s a confirmation that you need this just as badly as he seems to. You’re just holding yourself back a tiny bit better than he is.

“You’ll only get fired if someone finds out,” he says, voice raspy with want. “Do you see anyone around that would find out?”

You inadvertently look around. He’s spending five figures a night to stay at one of the most expensive suites at the hotel. It comes with its own building, its own deck, its own dock, and its own private beach. The only boat driving by would be staff coming to his suite. There isn’t anyone here, and there won’t be—not as long as you are. The front desk knows you’re here, and you’d be called over your radio before anyone would dare to show up at your VIP’s suite unannounced. 

“No,” he answers for you, sounding triumphant. Like he just won an argument. “You don’t. So let me ask again.” That dominance from before seeps back into his voice now. “Is there a first move to make?”

You know that realistically, you never had a chance. Resistance was dependent on Joshua Hong never wanting you the way you wanted him. Your willpower could only go so far and if a sexy singer wanted to fuck your brains out before he had to jet back to his unimaginably lavish life, who were you to stop him?

You swallow the dryness in your throat and you give him a small nod.

“I’ll only accept words as consent,” he tells you. The authority in his voice tightens the already wound up coil in your lower abdomen.

“Yes,” your mouth answers even as your brain struggles to fully register what he just said. “There’s a first move to make.”

“Good,” he says like there was always a right and wrong answer and you just chose correctly. “Then come here and make it.”

You’re up and out of your seat as soon as he commands it. Your hands tremble as you set your phone and the tablet you bring everywhere down on the table behind you. You take your earpiece out, unclipping the radio it’s connected to from the back of your skirt and putting it beside your tablet. You unplug the earpiece and turn the volume up on your radio so you can hear anybody who calls for you on your channel, and when that’s done, you pause to realize that this is truly the last chance you have to leave. After this, you’ll be stuck with any of the consequences you might face for sleeping with your VIP. 

“You can change your mind at any time,” he assures you, obviously sensing your hesitation. “Even if you get in here, even if you let me have my way with you. At any point, if you don’t want this anymore, you can change your mind.”

You glance over your shoulder to look at him. His expression is just as desirous but you can tell he’s being sincere. It’s in the eyes—those eyes that you only realize now tell on him and every thought and feeling he has. You just haven’t wanted to really look at them until this very moment.

“I’m not changing my mind,” you finally decide as you turn away from the table. You walk slowly to the edge of the pool directly in front of him.

His eyes drop to your feet as you carefully toe off your heels, and you thank whoever’s listening that you decided to get a fresh pedicure over the weekend. You slowly undo the side zipper on your skirt and you let it slip to the ground, biting your lip when the ocean breeze meets the heat of your cunt through the thin layer of mesh covering it. Joshua’s stare never wavers and his blank expression never changes, but you know his tell now. You can see how badly you’re wanted through those big, brown eyes.

You unbutton your blouse, and when it’s completely undone, you shrug it off, letting it slip off your arms to join your skirt on the ground. You fight the urge to cover yourself now that you stand in front of him in nothing but your bra and panties (a mismatched pair because your luck ended with the pedicure). 

Joshua hums like he’s mulling over a thought but whatever it is, he doesn’t vocalize it. “Well?”

You lift a foot out of the skirt and place it on the first step into the pool, the water the perfect temperature. Still, you shudder against your will, and you know it’s because you’re now a measly two steps away from a VIP who’s made it clear exactly what he wants to do to you tonight. Your fear of losing your job is quickly turning into an ugly, desperate, and uncontrollable need to be filled. Filled up by Joshua Hong.

You make it down the steps too soon, the water coming up to your waist as you stand in front of Joshua, who’s still as tall as you despite sitting on the seat that lines the infinity wall. 

He leans back against that wall now, water lapping up against his arms and chest as he looks at you, one eyebrow quirked like he’s asking if you’re brave enough to take what you want.

Your answer is to reach forward and rest your hands on his shoulders—so tan and warm and hard—and pull yourself up onto the seat to straddle him, hungrily pressing your drenched, aching cunt to his pelvis. Your hands immediately venture down to his naked chest— so wide and built and solid—and despite the confidence he speaks with, you feel the way his heart beats wildly under your touch. He inhales deeply and slowly, but he makes no move to put his hands on you yet, knuckles turning white as they turn into fists.

“That’s the first and last move you get to make,” he informs you. “Tonight, you’re mine to do whatever I want with. If you agree to this…” his voice gives away how little control he’s holding onto, “I’m going to fucking ruin you.” He swallows before he asks, “You still want this?”

You don’t hesitate to nod. “I want this.”

He doesn’t smirk this time; his mouth is more interested in other things—mainly yours. He reaches up and cups a hand around the back of your neck, gently pulling your face to his. He wraps the other arm around your waist and maintains eye contact with you up until the moment your own eyes flutter shut. Then, his lips are parting yours, his tongue greeting yours, his moans mixing with yours. With how gentle the singer has been the past two weeks, you don’t expect his mouth to move the way that it does. Filthy and greedy. Possessive.

It ignites something in you—feeling like you belong to Joshua, like he’s staking a claim on you. You start to roll your hips into his, your clit aching for any kind of friction he’s willing to give you. You feel him hardening under you, and you try not to quicken your movements even more in excitement.

Suddenly, the hand on the back of your neck dives into your hair and his fist closes around it, not roughly but enough to tilt your head back and have you breaking away from the kiss to look at him.

“Is this okay?” he asks as he leans forward and plants open mouthed kisses up your neck, just barely tightening his fist to let you know he’s talking about the hair pulling.

“Yes,” you breathe. He has a tight enough grip on you that you don’t even try to nod. “God, yes.”

His dick twitches under you and you groan, rubbing your cunt against him. 

“What about spanking?” he asks slowly, his breath hot on your neck. When you say yes, you feel him smile into your skin just before licking the spot. “Degradation?”

“Like what?”

He comes back up from your neck to kiss your lips gently, and when he smiles—genuinely smiles—you see remnants of the man you’ve gotten to know in the last two weeks shine through. “Like… can I call you… a slut?” You instinctively squeeze your thighs. He smirks when he feels you against his own thighs, and you nod.

“What did I say about consent?” he reminds you.

“Yes,” you say aloud this time. “You can call me a slut.”

He kisses you again and it feels like a reward for following directions. You crave even more.

 “Whore?” 

“I… don’t think so.” 

“Okay,” he says easily. “Dirty?”

“Yes.”

“Any words off limits?” he asks, massaging your waist where his hand rests. 

“Uh, can I… can I let you know?” you ask, blinking hard as he goes back to licking up and down your neck, nipping here and there. You can hardly process anything other than that right now.

“Of course, baby,” he murmurs, the vibration of his voice reverberating from his chest to yours. The sensation goes right to your nipples. “And how about… breath play?”

“Choking?” you ask to make sure. You’ve never done most of these; your one-night stands tended to be quick, straight-to-the-point encounters that usually didn’t even involve oral. He nods against you. “Um…”

“You can say no to anything,” he reminds you, relaxing his fingers just a bit to scratch your scalp. You sigh into the soothing sensation, and the hand not currently entangled in your hair drops from your waist in response.

It runs down your side, finding your ass, kneading the flesh there, and pulling your hips even closer to his. You gasp at the friction, and when you instinctively press your chest to his, he fully buries his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling like he’s been waiting for this. 

“I want to try,” you finally answer, “but I don’t know if I’ll like it.”

“Okay,” he says. “Is there anything you like that you want to do?”

All you’ve wanted since Joshua walked onto the resort grounds was for him to be inside you. You never thought beyond that. You shrug. 

“I don’t think so.” 

He nods his understanding, hips bucking up into you as he rolls you onto him with his hand. “We’ll use colors.” All you can do is moan. “Red for stop, green for keep going. Be vocal, okay? I don’t know what you don’t like if you don’t tell me.”

“Yes, sir,” you exhale in a moan. Your eyes widen at the slip and you look at Joshua. “Ah, sorry, force of ha—”

“Don’t be,” he dismisses your apology quickly. “I like it.” He presses his fully hard cock against your clothed hole. “Do you feel how much I like it?”

You wince at how empty you feel. He’s right there. You just need to pull his shorts down, push your panties to the side, and sink down onto him. You nod frantically, pushing as far as the fabric of your panties will allow you to. “I feel it,” you bite your lip before you accidentally call him Mr. Hong. “Yes.”

His fist closes around your hair once more and a lot more roughly this time. You gasp as it causes you to flinch away. He raises his eyebrows at you expectantly.

“Yes, sir,” you immediately correct yourself. He smirks.

“You catch on so quickly, don’t you?” he asks, keeping you pulled off of him. “Such an obedient, little slut.”

His first use of the word sends a thrill down your spine that has you arching into him. But when you do, he tightens his hold on your hair, keeping you in place. He takes advantage of the little space it affords him, and he brings his free hand to your wet heat, two fingers pressing down on your clit hard. 

You inhale sharply and when you try to move your hips further into his hold, he gives your hair a soft tug that reminds you of your place. 

“Uh uh,” he mutters, eyes glued to where his fingers meet your pussy. “I was just calling you a good girl. You don’t want me to have to take my words back, do you, baby?”

You shake your head as much as his hold will allow. “No, sir.”

“Then stop moving and let me do the work.”

He rubs harsh circles into your clit and your eyes shut on their own accord, mouth falling open as your release builds swiftly and mercilessly in the bottom of your stomach. You hold onto his shoulders like that will help you from falling into the abyss of pleasure he’s pushing you into. Your nails start to dig into his skin but he doesn’t stop you; in fact, it seems to invigorate him because he finally shoves your panties to the side, sliding his pointer and middle fingers into you easily, his thumb continuing to work your clit as he pumps in and out.

You can’t help but cry out at the feeling of being full, even if it isn’t what you want to be filled with. Upon hearing the sound, his fingers reflexively tighten at the nape of your neck but immediately relax back to their previous grip, relieving your scalp of the sudden burn it brought on. 

“And edging?” he asks suddenly, voice husky and mean. You open your eyes and look down at him to find him smirking up at you now, his fingers unrelenting as he speaks. “Green or red?”

“Oh god, please,” you whine, already knowing what’s coming next. You try to tamp down the need to grind harder—hide how close you are from him because if he knows, he’ll just stop.

“Green,” he repeats, voice dangerously calm, “or red.”

“Guh—” the word devolves into nonsense as he starts to rub the sensitive, ridged spot inside you. 

“Words,” he grunts, hips inadvertently bucking up into your ass again.

“Gree-gr—” The word isn’t even fully formed in your mouth, or your brain for that matter, before Joshua is taking his thumb off your clit and letting his fingers go still inside you. You groan, this time in frustration, your hips relaxing against him as you fail to reach your orgasm. 

Joshua releases his hold on your hair and you let your head loll forward, forehead resting on his bare shoulder as you breathe heavily. 

“Mean,” you pant. He chuckles, running his free hand up and down your back soothingly like he didn’t just violently rip an orgasm out of your grasp. 

He gently removes his fingers from your cunt, and before you can fidget and get your panties back into place, he’s pushing your hips away from him until you’re standing waist-deep in the water again.

“Are we… done…?” you ask dumbly. 

Joshua laughs the same way he’s laughed at your polite jokes or the way he’s laughed at himself stumbling over his own feet while playing tennis. His eyes crinkle in the corners and his mouth opens in a big smile—far too lighthearted and cute for the current situation at hand. 

“No,” he says when he finishes laughing at you. He stands along with you and cups your face before kissing you hard. When you break apart, he assures you, “We haven’t even started.”

His hands find your waist once more, but instead of holding you there, they immediately move on to your panties, shoving them down your hips and over your ass. When he can’t push them any further without dunking his head underwater, he settles for unhooking your bra, and even though you know there isn’t anyone around, you instinctively press yourself against him to keep yourself covered. He laughs again, wrapping an arm around you tightly, and you feel the vibration of his laughter against your breasts. You press your bare pelvis to his (still annoyingly clothed) at the sound.

“Mmm,” he hums as he reaches down and squeezes your ass again, welcoming the press of your heat against his. “Shy? I told you, no one’s here, baby.”

“I know,” you breathe, though you make no move to give him space.

“Though…” he trails off as he leans back enough to have a better view of your chest. His finger comes up to graze your nipple, smiling when he sees your reaction to it. “I bet a slut like you wouldn’t mind an audience, would you, baby?”

You blush fiercely imagining anyone seeing you get absolutely railed by Joshua Hong. You don’t respond at all because admitting that the idea of it excites you would be so dumb of you as someone who was just terrified of getting caught not even a full ten minutes ago.

“Bet you’d get off on the thought of someone seeing you getting fucked as hard as I’m about to fuck you,” he whispers, catching your nipple between two fingers now and tugging roughly. You hiss at the sensation. “Acting all shy, but I know you’d love for everyone to see how well you take me. How hard I’ll make you come.”

“Joshua…” you breathe.

His hold on you tightens and his eyes snap up to you, his teasing with your nipple completely forgotten. “Say that again.”

It dawns on you then that it’s the first time you called him anything beside Mr. Hong or sir.

Even though you get the feeling you should ask for permission to do anything at all, you can’t help but lean forward and catch his lips with yours, and thankfully, he doesn’t step away or tell you you’re not being good. He eagerly returns the kiss, tongue diving into your mouth like its second nature. When you part, you make sure to be as filthy as possible when you moan: Joshua.

For the first time, you see his control slip, his eyes suddenly wild and frenzied as he shoves his own swim shorts down and kicks them away from the two of you. You try to catch a glimpse, but he gets to work immediately, blocking your line of vision to his dick.

He starts kissing his way down. Down your neck. Across your clavicles. Down to your chest. Tongue swirling around your nipple as he cups his hand around you and  pushes your breast up and into his mouth. Down between the valley of your tits, down your sternum. You think he’s done because any lower involves going underwater, but you’re proven wrong again. He takes a deep breath against your skin before he sinks under the surface of the water, and you jerk when you feel him kiss past your belly button, and down to just above your cunt. Without meaning to, your hands go into his hair, not to restrain him or pull the way he did, but to keep you from floating outside of your body, which you’re convinced will happen at any moment.

He doesn’t breach the surface even when your hands turn into fists, and you feel his fingers hook into your panties and pull them the rest of the way off, sinking deeper and away from your hold so he can kiss down your legs as he removes your underwear from each. And instead of coming back up like you again incorrectly predict he will, he wastes no time burying his face between your legs, his thick arms parting them and lifting up so that you fully come out of the water, squealing a little at the sudden movement and the bite of the breeze as it caresses your skin where the water was keeping you warm. 

You sway to keep your balance, but Joshua doesn’t let you go anywhere. You’re seated right on his biceps, legs wrapped around his head as he presses his hands into the small of your back to keep you on his mouth. You gasp and arch your back before rolling it forward when you feel his tongue slide between your folds until it finds your clit. The movement sends your cunt further into his mouth, but he doesn’t stop or complain. He walks a few steps to the edge of the pool opposite the infinity wall.

He gently lowers you so that you’re seated on the concrete, your feet submerging back into the water. He pushes your legs open wider, until they fall off his shoulders and you’re leaning back on your palms to spread for him. Then, he’s devouring you like he hasn’t eaten in years. 

Joshua’s mouth is delectably hot when it fully envelopes your clit properly this time, tongue spiraling around it feverishly. He makes out with your pussy just as well as he does with your mouth—maybe even better—and it quickly knocks you off your hands, forcing your back to meet the ground as it arches in sheer pleasure.

He pauses briefly to look up at you through heavy lidded eyes and with that voice that makes your legs quiver, he orders: “Say it again.”

You open your mouth to say his name but he continues putting his tongue to work and all that comes out is a depraved moan. He slips a finger in you and hooks it, rubbing the spot inside you once more. 

“Say it,” he practically barks this time, refusing to return his mouth to your clit until you say it. 

His finger rubs the spot aggressively, and you feel tears begin to run down the side of your face and into the concrete beneath you. It feels like he never edged you to begin with—like your orgasm had been building up that entire time and is now coming back tenfold.

“Joshua,” you whimper, thinking that’s not how he wants to hear it, all pathetic and needy like this, but he groans in response, pleased and bending back down to reward you. When the heat of his tongue is back on you, your hips buck into his face and you warn him, “Joshua… going to… I’m going to come.”

“Go ‘head, baby,” he mumbles without lifting his mouth off of you. He adds another finger and your hands close tightly around nothing. “I’ve got you. Come for me.”

You’re not sure what it is about being reassured that Joshua is holding you through it, but the safety you feel pushes you the final few strides, and your orgasm crashes into you like a violent wave. 

“Joshua!” You’re not sure if it’s a shout or a moan, but either way, the man responds to his name and works you through the height of it, his tongue and fingers simultaneously slowing when your pussy starts to unclench, calming down to small spasms around Joshua. 

When he’s sure it’s passed, he removes his fingers and pokes his tongue into your hole, causing your legs to tighten around his head. He doesn’t remove you, though, too lost in tasting your climax. You moan through it, tears still steadily streaming down your face as you start to venture into overstimulating territory. He seems to sense that, though, removing his tongue from you—but not before licking up and down your slit like your cum is a delicacy he doesn’t want to go to waste.

“Joshua,” you pant, chest heaving as you stare up at the sky above you. You can’t find the energy to sit up and look at him so you settle for closing your eyes and saying his name once more.

It isn’t until you feel the warmth of the water embracing your body again that you realize the singer has carefully brought you back into the pool with him, taking it upon himself to wrap your legs around his waist and keep you close to his chest. He kisses the tears in your eyes gently before going straight to your lips. He tastes like you and chlorine. It’s slow and sensual and not-at-all hurried or desperate the way the others have been, and somehow, that gets you even wetter. It feels like Joshua no longer fears not having enough time with you. It feels like he has the luxury of having too much time with you—like he can kiss you forever and not have to go anywhere or do anything or be anyone. 

“You taste unreal, by the way,” Joshua mutters against your lips between kisses. “So much better than I thought you would.”

“You thought about this?” you ask, resting your forehead against his. 

He looks at you with zero shame when he says, “Morning, noon, and night. If I wasn’t with you, I was thinking about you, dreaming about you, touching about you.”

“Me too,” you admit. “Wanted you so bad, I dreaded having to see you every day.”

“Oh? And why is that?” he asks even though if his smugness is anything to go by, he knows exactly why. You indulge him anyway.

“I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to control myself,” you say quietly. 

“I’m glad you couldn’t,” he tells you before kissing you again.

Your hips move on their own, grinding against him except this time, you’re exhilarated to feel his dick sitting ready and hard just under you. You sigh and brazenly start to rock your hips back and forth, dragging your clit across the length of his cock, the remnants of your orgasm still sending shocks up your nerves. You continue anyway.

He hums, mouth turning up in a smile. “So needy, hm?”

“Yes, sir,” you openly admit. Now that you have one orgasm out of the way, you’re feeling less ashamed about expressing exactly what you want: more of him. “Needy for you. Want you inside me already.”

He grips your ass so tightly, you think it’ll bruise tomorrow. He releases briefly to deliver a hard spank to the cheek, quickly gripping the spot again to soothe the sting. You jerk into him, gasping as you do.

“Color?”

“Green,” you answer quickly as you continue to use his dick as a toy.

“You’re being a little demanding, don’t you think,” he states more than he asks. “I thought I was the VIP guest.”

“You are,” you agree, applying more pressure to your clit as you roll your hips up his cock. You suppress another sigh. “My VIP guest.”

You’re not sure if Joshua likes you staking your ownership on him because you get no visible reaction from him. All he does is ease his hold on your ass, rubbing slow circles into the flesh he just struck. “I’m going to fuck every last thought inside that pretty head out of you,” he says quietly. “Until all that’s left is my name.”

You clench around nothing. 

He brings you back to the infinity wall, setting you on the seat where you first found him. He cages you in, one hand on the wall on either side of you. 

“I’m going to ruin it for every man that comes after me,” he tells you, nose just barely grazing yours as he stares at your lips. “You’re never going to be loved the way I’m going to love you tonight.” 

You know that “love” means something very different right now. You know that. And still, you see brief flashes of the Joshua you’ve gotten to know over the past couple of weeks and the word stirs something violently inside your chest.

“So then do it already,” you breathe, the anticipation killing you. 

His hand is around your throat in a split second. He doesn’t squeeze, simply tapping his pointer finger against your jugular. “Don’t get mouthy with me now, baby. I’m ready to give it all to you.” He takes your hand and wraps it around his cock, and you moan at the size of him in your grip. “Are you going to be good?”

The hand around your throat squeezes lightly now, his fingertips applying pressure to the sides of your neck. Your breath hitches.

“Color?”

“Green,” you rasp.

He squeezes a little harder. “Are you going to be good?”

You nod, swallowing nothing. He smirks when he feels it under his palm. 

“Words.”

“Yes.” It comes out more mouthed than spoken but he accepts it all the same.

Without sacrificing the pressure around your throat, he takes his free hand and hikes your leg around his waist, the other following naturally. You resist the urge to bring him closer to you, knowing it might push another button and make him decide you aren’t ready for him. So you lock your ankles together over the small of his back, but you don’t move a muscle.

“Tap my forearm twice if you want me to let up, okay?” he tells you, eyes going down to your neck. He lightens his hold just enough for you to whisper you understand before he squeezes again. You close your eyes, trying to breathe through your nose evenly. “We can always stop, baby.” He leans down to kiss your jawline before moving to the corner of your lips. “We can take it to the bed. We can fuck missionary. We can not fuck at all. Just say the word, and we do whatever you want to. Alright?” 

The pressure lifts completely. “Okay. I trust you.”

He kisses you more fully. When he leans back, he brushes strands of wet hair away from your face. “I’m glad. Because I’m going to take such good fucking care of you, baby.”

Then, with both hands, he’s gently lifting your hips up and angling them to meet his. His eyes don’t leave your cunt as he watches the water-blurred shape of his cock start to push into your entrance. You grip his forearm as you stretch around him, and even though he’s not choking you right now, you find it hard to breathe as he inches into you. 

He pauses when your hand squeezes harder. He leans forward to kiss your forehead, his right thumb massaging the crease of your hip. “Doing so well,” he mumbles, eyes shut as he, himself, adjusts to the tightness. 

When he feels you relax a little, he opens his eyes and continues pushing, fully sheathed just moments later. You both exhale forcefully like you’ve been holding your breaths the entire time. He laughs a little at that, and you find yourself smiling too, even though you do feel like you’ve been impaled by his dick.

“You can move,” you whisper when you’re sure you’re not going to die in his arms. He doesn’t waste any time after that.

His cock slowly and carefully drags out of you, not quite all the way, before he thrusts back into you sharply. You gasp at the sensation, most of it a stinging burn rather than pleasure, but you know it’ll be a very different story once you acclimate to Joshua’s size. He keeps his movements shallow like this, only allowing for a slightly deeper thrust every time he feels you relax a little more. You feel like the wind is getting knocked out of you every time his hips slap flush with yours, his balls hitting your ass so forcefully, you think you might be able to come from that alone. By the time Joshua is pulling all the way out before slamming all the way back in, the pain has already evolved into a pleasure so foreign to you, you can’t even wrap your mind around what’s so different this time that you never received in the past.

All you know is that Joshua was right; sex is going to be absolutely ruined with every man that comes after him.

“Joshua!” you gasp as he fucks you relentlessly and recklessly now. His eyes flick up from your pussy to your chest, where your tits bounce in tandem with his every thrust. As if he’s listening to a voice inside his head, he releases his hold on one hip and grabs your breast, massaging it before leaning down to suck a bruise into it. “Oh god.”

Your moans turn downright pornographic as his fingers twist and tug on your nipple, his mouth immediately moving to another spot to bruise. His hips never lose their pace or rhythm as he paints your chest with blooms of purple. 

“Joshua,” you repeat his name, though you don’t know why. He says your name right back at you and you feel it all the way down where your bodies are joined.

“Feel so fucking good,” he groans, releasing your tits and leaning up to bury his face in your neck. He kisses the skin there, merciful enough to refrain from leaving hickies that can get you in trouble at work. “I’ve waited for you for so long. Fuck. Fuck!”

“Joshua, please,” you whine, your nails dragging down his back desperately. 

You aren’t even sure what you’re begging for; he’s as close to you as he can get, but it still doesn’t feel like enough. You want him buried inside you forever. You want to be so filled up with him, you can’t remember what it’s like to go without. You don’t think you’ve wanted anything or anyone else more, and you already have him right now. You don’t know what else he can do, but you know you need it.

“What is it, baby?” he asks, voice hoarse like it’s taking everything in him to have to speak right now. 

“More,” you breathe, hips rising to meet his with even more force. You know your ass will be sore tomorrow. “Please, more.”

He doesn’t ask what you need or what “more” is. He just smirks as he gets impossibly rougher, thrusting into you almost violently, your shoulders getting pounded into the wall behind you. But you don’t care. You need more.

Just as your second orgasm starts to rear its head and you’re about to start chanting “yes” to the rhythm of his thrusts, he slows down considerably until he’s almost at a standstill. You shake your head.

“No…” you whine, trying to use your feet behind him to quicken his pace again. Of course, it doesn’t work.

“What’s wrong, baby?” he whispers as he rolls his hips torturously slowly, the water calming down to gentle ripples with his movement. “You weren’t about to come without asking, were you?”

“No,” you lie.

“No…?”

“No, sir.”

“Good,” he breathes, slipping his hand in between you to massage your clit gently. Your hips twitch and he smiles. “Because then we’d have to punish you, right?” You squirm under him, trying to keep from digging your heels into the small of his back to get him to thrust forward. “You want more?”

You nod frantically. “Yes, please. Yes.”

“Do you think you deserve more?” he asks, his fingers stilling against you as he sheathes himself all the way inside you. 

“Yes, sir.”

“Really?” he asks, his free hand trailing down the side of your face as he continues slowly rubbing your center. “You made me wait almost three weeks… tortured me with that tight fucking skirt.” You groan as you tilt your pelvis. He leaves your clit to hold your hips still. “Uh uh.” 

“Joshua…”

“Shouldn’t I make you wait too?” he asks, ignoring his name. The thought makes you want to sob. “Shouldn’t I show you how it felt? To want someone so bad—someone within reach—and be unable to do anything about it?” 

“I wanted you too!” you remind him, voice embarrassingly dejected and helpless.

“Did you?” he tilts his head at you, staring you down like you’re food. Your nods are frenzied. “If you want more, you have to give me more, love.”

You clench around him at the pet name and he smirks. 

“Tell me more, love,” he says tauntingly, his smile turning triumphant when you clamp down even harder the second time. 

“Since I met you,” you say raggedly. He finally starts to move again—so slow and controlled, you’d be in awe of his restraint if you weren’t so desperate for release. “When I came to welcome you…” 

“I remember,” he says with a roll of his hips.

You had been waiting for him at the boat with one of the drivers, ready to take him to another side of the island, where his private suite awaited. He was dressed in a linen button down and shorts, and as he came up to you, the wind blew his hair and his top back, exposing a little of his stomach. His smile was dazzling and for the first time in your career at this hotel, you were speechless. You stammered. You tripped getting into the boat. You stumbled through your tour of his suite. You forgot to list all the resources available to him. You were screwed from the start. 

“Wanted you to take me right then and there,” you tell him. His pace quickens the tiniest bit at that, and you know exactly what you have to do to get your more. “You walked up to me looking so fucking beautiful—so sexy.” You moan at a particularly hard thrust. “I wanted you to bend me over in half right there. Take me in front of everyone. Fuck me like this and show them all who I belonged to.”

That seems to do it because he finally gives you more, his pace more vigorous, more unforgiving, and more brutal than it originally was. You’re glad he doesn’t ask you to keep going because you’re incapable of speaking when he’s ramming into you like this.

“I would’ve,” he grunts. “All you had to do was ask and I would have fucked you wherever you wanted it.” You gasp as his cock hits an especially sweet spot, and he angles himself to continuously hit it with each thrust. “All you have to do is ask, baby.” He plants a kiss on your lips. “And I’ll give you the fucking world.”

“Joshua,” you near sob. 

“Yes?”

“Please,” you request. If all you had to do was ask, then you were going to. “Please let me come? Please.”

He kisses you again like he’s happy with your corrected behavior. You lean up to chase his lips when he parts with you, but he restrains you, grasping your jaw roughly with a single hand.

“Open,” he commands, his thumb reaching up to part your lips. You suck on it briefly and he exhales hard. He squeezes your cheeks to open your mouth even wider before he leans down, lining his mouth with yours, and you clench hard around his cock as you realize what he wants to do. “Color?”

“Green!” you practically shout at him. His smirk deepens and he leans back once more. His hand moves from your cheeks to your throat.

His lips purse and cheeks hollow for a moment as he swishes a few times. Then, he nods once at you, and you tilt your head up for him, opening your mouth wide, tongue out to make sure you don’t let anything go to waste.

Joshua’s eyes are glued to your mouth before he even does anything. He watches you with darkened eyes, his thumb pressing into the middle of your tongue as he fucks into your cunt harshly. Finally, he lifts his thumb and stretches forward, his hold on your throat tightening and restricting your airflow. His mouth twists into that irresistible smirk as he spits into your mouth. You catch all of it, and when you feel it hit the back of your throat, you both feel how happy it makes you in your pussy. He curses as your walls start to spasm. He presses more weight into his hand until you can hardly breathe, and between his hold on you and the spit, it’s all so filthy and degrading and possessive, it makes you come without warning. 

You cry out as your hips jerk up abruptly. His eyes widen as he feels your orgasm replace his own hold on you. His hand releases you as he looks down where the two of you are joined. 

“Oh fuck, did you just—”

His question is cut off by your broken moans and whimpers, tears once again springing from your eyes as your orgasm rips through your body, absolutely obliterating every nerve on its way up from your pussy.

“Fuck, fuck, baby, stop. Oh fuck,” he gasps, pausing his thrusts abruptly and breathing heavily as he collapses over your chest. He closes his eyes and frowns like he’s concentrating. “Stop squeezing, I’ll come. Stop, holy shit, please stop.”

It’s a far cry from how dominant he’s been this entire time, and it’s a shame the rare moment of power you feel you can’t properly acknowledge or enjoy because of the intensity of your orgasm. 

“I’m trying,” you whimper, breaths coming out in short pants. “Joshua…” you either sigh or sob. You’re not sure. “Shua… feel so good. You feel so good.”

“Oh my god,” he groans miserably against your skin, fully resting his forehead on you now. You would laugh if you didn’t feel like your soul had just been ejected from your body. 

You beg your heart to slow down, for your muscles to relax. As broken as your body feels, you’re not ready for this to be over with him. Even though this is already more than you could’ve ever hoped for, you don’t want it to end here. You want him to do whatever he wants with you late into the night. You want him to deprive you of sleep, food, water. All you need is him. You never want it to stop.

He slips out of you slowly and your tears slide down your face, half from your orgasm, half from the disappointment of being empty once again. Being empty too soon.

“Wait, no,” you whine as he tilts your hips back down so you’re sitting against the wall again. He shushes you with a kiss to your lips.

“Shhh,” he peppers your face with kisses. “We’re not done, it’s okay.” You realize you’re still crying when he presses his finger to the corners of your eyes, catching the stray tears there. “You’re so fucking pretty when you cry under me like this.”

He cups your face to look up at him as he stands over you. When you do, you’re astounded by how beautiful he really is. What you’re more astounded by is that he was inside you just moments ago. Joshua Hong, superstar singer due to start his sold-out world tour in a matter of weeks, was inside you trying not to fill you up with his cum seconds ago.

“I’d have you crying like this every night if you wanted,” he murmurs, thumb caressing your cheek as he holds you. He lets one slip into your mouth again, smirking as he probably thinks about how easy it was to make you come from just a little bit of his saliva.

“I’m sorry,” you grumble when he removes his thumb. He frowns.

“For what, baby? You’re doing so good.”

“For not relaxing,” you say, more tears slipping out of your eyes. “For not letting you continue.”

He snorts, hands going down to your waist. He lifts so that your legs are wrapped around him in the water, his hands rubbing your ass comfortingly. He kisses you slowly before leaning back and smiling.

“You don’t have to be sorry for that,” he assures you. “I just didn’t want to come too early.” He presses his erection into your ass to punctuate his words. You squirm a little. “We still have the whole night.” Your heart races. “The sun is barely setting.”

He glances behind you and you crane your neck around to see. The sun is finally beginning to sink into the horizon. He lets you down and turns you around to face the ocean, pulling you to lean back into him as his arms snake around your waist. You rest your head on his shoulder as you watch the sunset—not the first you’ve watched together, but it will definitely be the most memorable.

The time allotted for sunset viewing on his itinerary is apparently only a few seconds long because almost immediately, he leans down to leave open-mouthed kisses up and down your neck, and his hand comes up to cup your breast and massage gently. 

He brings his free hand to your chin to turn you toward him. His lips are on yours as soon as they’re within his reach, his hand sliding from your face down to your cunt, where he slowly and way-too-gently strokes your clit. Your first moan seems to stir something in him, though, because his touch on your tit and clit both bear down harder. 

You wrap your hand around his wrist, bringing his hand from your chest to your throat, wordlessly asking him for exactly what you want. He chuckles, breathy and disbelieving. 

Without saying another word, he leaves your clit, fingers hooking into your hip to force you into a slight hinge. Then, his cock is pushing back into you in one smooth motion, giving you no chance to gasp when the hand on your throat squeezes simultaneously. He keeps his hand on your hip for leverage, wasting no time pounding into you.

Your thoughts disappear as fast as your breath, leaving you with nothing but the sensation of Joshua’s tip kissing your cervix, keeping you stuffed full of him. 

“You wouldn’t believe my view right now,” he pants, rhythm quickly reaching a fever pitch. “So fucking pretty.”

You try to moan his name but realize you can’t, your airways completely blocked off, his grip on you unyielding. 

“You like being spit on and fucked like this?” he asks, causing your walls to cave in on him. He doesn’t tell you to stop this time, though, his pace just quickening. “Such a dirty fucking slut for me, hm?”

You nod, mouth dumbly opening and closing as you gasp for air. You want to see it through. It feels so good and you want to see it through. You want the both of you to climax like this: literally breathless with his hand around your throat like he owns you as he empties his load into you. But it’s been too long now, and you’re afraid Joshua is getting carried away, too lost in the feeling of his cock dragging in and out of you to notice that your vision is starting to darken around the edges.

Hoping he remembers what he told you, you quickly tap his forearm twice, three times—actually, several times in a row with no intention of stopping—but it’s unnecessary because he releases you immediately. Without his hand to hold you in place against him, you fall forward, keeling over the infinity wall and coughing as air assaults your lungs once more. 

“Red,” you rasp, brain barely catching up with the fact that you’ve already been released. 

“Hey, hey, deep breaths, you’re okay.” His voice sounds far away but his hands are on your back, rubbing it gently.

You don’t know how long you two stay like that, him seated next to your body as it lays limp on the wall, attempting to catch your breath. By the time you finally do, the sun has fully set and the deck, though still doused in a shade of pinkish-purple, is considerably darker. You turn your head to look at Joshua, who’s angled toward you, one arm on the wall propping his head up, the other hooked around you, holding you close. He’s watching you, face carefully blank, but his eyes immediately give away how concerned he is.

“I’m okay,” you say quietly, throat feeling a bit sore.

“Are you sure?” he asks, and your heart squeezes at how guilty he sounds. You nod. “I’m so sorry, baby.” He scoots closer to you and wraps his other arm around you, burying his face in your neck. “I got carried away, but that’s not an excuse. It never should’ve gotten to that point. I know better, and it—”

“It’s okay,” you assure him, shaking your head. “I should’ve said something earlier. I was trying to wait it out.”

“Please don’t ever wait something like that out,” he begs, moving away to look you in the eye and show you how serious he is. “Next time, tell me immediately. You should still be able to breathe! You shouldn’t have to wait anything out!” He seems to realize he’s raising his voice because he pauses for a moment to collect himself.

“Joshua, I—” 

“No, listen to me,” he interrupts, voice calmer now. “This can be really dangerous. I promise I won’t ever lose control like that ever again, but we’re not doing this next time unless you also promise you won’t wait it out. These things only work when we communicate.”

“Joshua, I’m fine—” he throws you a severe look and you hurriedly continue, “but yes, I promise. I won’t wait… next time.” You emphasize the last two words as you say them back to him. He catches on to what you’re doing but doesn’t address it, simply shaking his head and smiling. “Anyway. I’m so s—”

“If you apologize to me right now, you’ll never see me again.” You didn’t even know seeing him again was an option in the first place but you clamp your mouth shut anyway. He smirks. “Good girl. Now come on. Let’s dry off.”

“What?” You hate how whiny you’ve sounded this entire time, but you can’t stop either. “I don’t want to dry off!”

He rolls his eyes. “You’re taking a break and it’s not up for debate. Come on. I have some snacks. We can eat them and watch that movie you were telling me about yesterday.”

You look at him incredulously as he unwraps himself from you and stands. “Are you insane?! I’m not going to watch K-Pop Demon Hunters with you when you should be coming inside me!”

He pauses and looks at you with wide eyes as if he’s the scandalized one. You’re seeing more and more of the original Joshua you’ve been hanging out with the last two weeks now that your poor lung capacity has ruined the mood. 

“Whoa, dirty, dirty,” he murmurs, shaking his head at you.

“Joshua.”

He raises an eyebrow at you and tilts his head slightly. You recognize it as a challenge. “Yes?” 

You open your mouth but falter under his gaze. He grins before stepping toward you to kiss you all too briefly. When he pulls away, his smile is gone and he’s staring down at your lips with dark eyes. 

“Stop mouthing off and get your cute ass out of the pool,” he says, voice low. He looks up into your eyes before he continues. “Or I’m going to edge the fuck out of you until the sun rises.”

You’re out of the pool and wrapped in one of his towels in seconds.

“Look at you,” Joshua mutters as he brings both of his large hands to each of your buttcheeks, spreading them apart just to let go, watching the way your ass jiggles. “Unbelievable.”

You’re on your knees, face pressed down into his pillows, already crying from being edged twice. It turns out there were still consequences from being “a whiny fucking brat” even though you did get out of the pool. Joshua runs his dick along your folds, making lewd sounds as he collects your pleasure on his tip. Your broken moans fill the room.

There’s something even better about sex with him after your brief movie break. Because in those two hours, it was clear he wasn’t just using you as a hole—though frankly, you’re more than happy to be Joshua Hong’s hole. 

But no. He was a perfect gentleman. He dried you off and insisted on showering off the chlorine, gently massaging shampoo into your hair and cleaning you and peppering you with kisses without trying to pull a single move on you. Then, he got you into his clothes, blowdried your hair, and tucked you into his bed while he gathered snacks and drinks, surrounding you with everything that you’ve mentioned liking since meeting him (he was an incredible listener). And as you watched the movie, he held you and laughed at all the right parts, happily replayed your favorite songs, and he even promised he’d learn the songs to sing to you himself.

And something about those two measly hours was doing something to your cunt that you didn’t experience in the pool. It’s as if receiving confirmation that Joshua Hong would be the perfect boyfriend is making sex with him a thousand times more electrifying than it already was.

“What was that you said earlier, love?” he asks, feigning forgetfulness. “Something about wanting me to come somewhere?”

You try to scoff but it comes out as a pained sob. “Please.”

“Was it… on your stomach?” he asks, pressing his tip into your hole briefly before running it back down your folds. You groan. “Your face?” He must see you clench around nothing because he chuckles. “Huh, so you wouldn’t mind the face.”

“Joshua, please,” you pant. 

“What?” he asks meanly. “What does my needy little slut want now?”

“You,” you answer simply. “I just want you.”

The silence that follows is so thick, you wonder if you said something wrong—if your desperation finally turned him off. 

“Joshua?” you whimper, tears sliding down your face.

His cock pulls away from you and you fight the urge to immediately start complaining lest you get edged five more times. His hands are on you, gently turning you over onto your back. You’re naked from the waist down, but you’re still in his shirt since he insisted you keep it on—something about you looking like you belong to him while he fucked you. He fixes it when it twists around your body, then he lays on top of you, slotting himself between your legs.

He looks at you so tenderly, you feel a calmness settle over you—one that stops the flow of your tears. He brushes your hair away from your face and kisses the wetness on your cheeks. 

“Are you ready?” he asks quietly, voice a lot more like the one that belonged to the man who just cuddled you for two hours. You nod. “Words, my love.”

“Yes, Shua,” you whisper. “I’m ready.”

He pushes into you fairly easily now that you’ve already taken him several times tonight. Still, you bite your lip at the sensation, closing your eyes like that will help you come to terms with how otherworldly having Joshua inside you feels. He wastes no time moving in and out of you, the sound of both of your moans, skin slapping skin, and the headboard hitting the wall filling the room.

His rhythm falters a bit when he pushes himself off you just so he can shove the shirt you’re wearing up and over your chest. He groans loudly when he sees your tits bouncing with his every thrust. 

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he sighs, fitting his hand between you to play with your clit. 

His fingers are less collected this time, messily pressing into you with little finesse, and his thrusts are becoming unfathomably fast and rough. You realize he’s already close, and it pushes you even closer than you were after all the edging.

“Joshua,” you gasp as you feel your walls start to tighten and spasm around him again. He feels it too because he releases a series of moans that have you near screaming. “Joshua, baby!”

He watches you through heavy-lidded eyes, sweat dripping from the tip of his nose and onto you. You catch a few drops with your tongue. He curses as he immediately reaches up and squeezes your cheeks together, forcing your mouth open and spitting into it again before you can understand what he’s doing. 

“Swallow it,” he grunts and you obey. 

“Please,” you beg. “More.” You moan desperately. “I’m going to come… Joshua, I’m—please, one more.”

“Come for me, baby.”

He takes a longer time collecting his saliva and when he obliges, letting you have a piece of him once more, you come as soon as it hits your tongue, nails digging into his biceps so hard, you start to draw blood. He doesn’t care, though, his hips slamming into you mercilessly as he feels your orgasm’s death grip on him. You think you’re shouting but you’re not sure because all you can process are Joshua’s moans and curses and nonsense, and then you feel it.

A warm release inside you, warmer than anything you’ve experienced, and it’s coating every inch of your insides, claiming you and rewarding you and ruining you for every man after, just like Joshua promised he would.

“Fuck!” he chants repeatedly as he rolls his hips the last few times, making sure to pump every last drop of his cum into you. You lock your ankles together behind him, keeping him there so nothing spills out. He seems to be on the same page, though, collapsing onto you with zero plan of removing himself. “Oh fuck.”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Fuck.”

He lays there for a long time, his cock already soft inside you, but you don’t dare move or say anything. It’s just a matter of time before you’ll have to leave—before he’ll have to leave—and you’re more than content with just laying here for as long as he’ll let you.

When he finally does show signs of life, he still doesn’t pull out, instead choosing to kiss you slowly and delicately, his tongue lazily tangling with yours until he smiles into your lips.

“What?” you ask, smiling back. 

He leans back and looks at you. “I’m just glad you came over tonight.”

“Me too.”

“Maybe I should cancel my world tour,” he jokes.

You laugh and the sound of it makes him join in too. “Pussy so good, it makes you cancel a world tour.”

“Pussy so good, it makes me cancel a world tour, buy a home in the Maldives, and become your house husband.”

You laugh even harder. You try not to think too hard about his words because in just three days (assuming he doesn’t extend his stay again), he’ll have to leave and continue being everyone’s favorite pop star, and really, you are just happy and grateful to have had these last two, almost three, weeks with him. So you entertain the joke, and you two paint a picture of what life would look like if he weren’t a singer or you weren’t a VIP concierge set on running her own boutique hotel one day, and you try not to get attached to any of it.

When you fall asleep, right there in his bed, you dream of the man laying next to you. You dream of Joshua and are too deep in it—too lost in him—to stir awake when he untangles himself from you, unblocks his manager’s phone number, and texts him to tell him he’s staying on this island indefinitely, just to block him again.

He sleeps better than he has in his entire life that night.

[mercif4l]

oh . my god. bring backpwp that makes your eyes water and your heart STOP

[makeitworse]

WANNA BE YOURS

── if going back on his own word means getting the girl he’s waited to treat right, then to hell with it. ⠀⠀𐔌 pt. one .ᐟ

ෆ ͜ ̩͙ f!reader x seungcheol. indent format. fluff. smut. angst. emotional turmoil. best bf cheol <3. 18+

cheol doesn't push. doesn't act, doesn't do. not even when his lips still tingle from your kiss, when you’re sleepily drawing circles on his thigh before dozing off to sleep in his arms — and all he can think is that he’d part seas to just hold you like this forever.

but he meant what he said: you’re the boss. everything that happens, or doesn’t, is on your terms. cheol won’t take another step unless you tell him to. and you know it’s not because he’s scared of what people would say or what your ex would think — cheol’s a grown man who can defend his own actions. no, it’s because you matter. he wants you to choose him with your whole heart, not out of heartbreak, not out of spite. and he’ll still be there, whether he’s your choice or not.

what he doesn’t realise is that you already did. you’ve always been fond of cheol, your (ex)boyfriend’s leader who’d greet you with a warm smile. he made you feel welcomed, appreciated, where your ex wouldn’t. somewhere between the day you first met and the night that’s over: his hand on your back, his soft voice saying you deserve better — somewhere between his quiet patience and guarded restraint is when you made your choice. it’s him. always would’ve been him, if the timing had been kinder.

but cheol can’t wrap his head around that. someone as soft and golden as you settling on choosing him — the same guy who went back on his own word, who swore he’d never touch one of his member’s girls. who swore he’d stay on the right side of that line. but he’s here now anyways. in your bed.

cheol barely slept with your body nuzzled into his on the couch. once the morning sun cut through your curtains, he’d carried you to your bed and tucked you into the sheets. he was about to make the trek back to the living room when you had stopped him, a sleepy finger hooking around his own. only an idiot would turn you down.

maintaining any polite space was futile once he slid under the covers next to you, since you instantly curled into his body. he hadn’t slept a wink since. just watched you — mouth slightly parted, fingers curled into his hoodie — wondering what you must be dreaming about. seeing you so vulnerable like this rouses a type of fear in him. all he can think about is how dangerous this could’ve been. someone with a smooth voice and deceptive grin could’ve so easily taken advantage of you, luring you in under the guise of warmth you’ve been starved of. but cheol didn’t. wouldn’t.

he watches your chest rise and fall as he runs circles in his head. he listens to the sound of your breathing, the soft smile on your lips when he shifts next to you, and something inside him just aches. you stir eventually, a soft noise falling from your lips as you stretch. hair a little messy, eyes still heavy with sleep. you smile at cheol. he smiles back.

“morning,” he mumbles, voice deep and husky. his hand reaches out on instinct, tucks an unkempt strand of hair behind your ear, leaving a soft caress on your cheek with his thumb. you don’t flinch. you lean into it. and just like that, something clicks into place.

maybe he’s not the guy who’s supposed to do this. maybe he broke the unspoken code. but if the cost of being good means not being with you — then he doesn’t want to play it safe anymore. because you’re worth it. every guilty second thought, every complication, couldn’t be more worth it. you blink up at him with a smile, small but sure. “still here?” his palm flattens against your cheek then, cradling your face in his large hand. “always.” he utters, breath on your lips. and he’s never been so sure of anything in his life.

cheol dotes on you in a way that feels almost unreal. he doesn’t rush you. doesn’t flirt too much, or joke about last night, or ask if this means you’re official yet. he just stays by your side, steady and warm and gentle, like he’s been waiting his whole life for you to turn toward him on your own. it must’ve been hours that you laid there in your bed, giggling and cuddling, talking about nothing in particular and everything at all.

you cut yourself off with a grumble of your stomach, and cheol’s offering to take you out for breakfast before you can even think to excuse yourself. he doesn’t make a big deal of it, just grabs your shoes from the hallway like it’s the most natural thing in the world. like you do this all the time.

you ride in silence for a while, your hands resting in your lap as he drives. every once in a while, you’ll catch him glancing over, like he’s checking to make sure you’re really here. that you haven’t changed your mind. it almost makes you laugh out loud — because how could you, when you’re finally being loved in all the ways you’ve waited for?

cheol pays without thinking. holds the door for you, remembers your coffee order exactly right. smiles when you smile. laughs when you laugh. he asks how you slept, if the couch was uncomfortable, if you want to stop by the store before heading home. and he doesn’t ask for anything. cheol doesn’t even expect anything. just being with you, being the reason you smile, is enough. and for the first time in maybe weeks, you feel steady again. wanted in a way that’s not possessive or loud or reckless. just genuine. real.

your ex messages that afternoon. just a short pathetic “can we talk?”, followed by a novel-length text about how he didn’t mean what he said, that it came out wrong, that he was stressed, that he misses you. you don’t even open it. just glance at the notification, groan, and quietly turn off your phone.

cheol read the notification when your phone screen lit up. he doesn’t say anything. just slides your phone a little farther from you. not controlling. just… protective. a fork in the road, one you’re certain you’ll never take again. because you know better now. have better. and like a quiet promise, you lean into cheol, leaving a soft peck on his jaw. it’s too early to say out loud, but he can’t wait to call you his.

jeonghan corners him the following day when a handful of members show up to cheol’s house unannounced. with cheol barely answering his phone all of yesterday, your ex crashing out over you ignoring his texts, and the fact that jeonghan literally saw you leave the dinner in cheol’s car, well… it’s not looking great.

he doesn’t look threatening, but just in that jeonghan sort of way — quiet, piercing, vaguely disappointed. “are you really going through with this?” he asks, one eyebrow cocked, arms crossed in the hallway while the others are in the kitchen joking around. cheol heaves a sigh. he knew this was only a matter of time.

“it’s not like that,” he stresses. “i didn’t plan this. it’s not like i was waiting for my shot or something. i tried not to feel it for a long time, i just—” he cuts himself off, running a hand down his face. “i want to make sure she’s being treated right. that’s all.” jeonghan watches him for a moment. then quietly nods, believing him.

“no one’s mad,” jeonghan says eventually. “honestly, we were all kind of hoping someone would step up before she wasted another year on him. it just… complicates things.” cheol lowers his head, nodding. he knows that too. he’s not stupid. shit will hit the fan when your ex finds out. especially if this turns into something official. which — if fate’s kind to him — it will.

you text him a few days later, just a casual “r u busy?” like it’s nothing. as if you’re not giggling behind the screen, already wearing the hoodie he left behind, and scrolling through your playlist trying to figure out what songs to play in his car to set the mood.

it’s basically a date. not that either of you calls it that, but you both know. the way he picks you up in his car, opens the door, smiles at you like he’s been thinking about you all day — it’s unmistakable. you even reach for his hand on the gearstick at the red light, pleasantly surprised when his fingers curl around yours. your entwined hands end up back in your lap, but this time, cheol’s palm slides up to rest on your thigh.

per your suggestion, you both go to watch a cinema screening of the latest shitty horror movie. cheol agrees, hoping you can’t sense his reluctance. he ended up jumping at the movie more than you did — walked out at the end feeling like he must’ve made a giant puss of himself. but the way you were hanging off his arm, all giggly and cute, made all of the near heart-attacks worth it.

after some lunch (his shout), you end up back at your place — tangled on the couch. his hand on your thigh, yours in his hair. your mouth on his mouth. the kisses start out sweet and slow, but things heat up real quick. months of tension bleeds out into every grasp of your body, every sigh onto his lips. before you know it, he’s pulling you into his lap, and you can’t help to rocking your hips against his — eliciting a sharp hiss from cheol. he’s painfully hard, and you want him so bad it’s making you dizzy.

but cheol doesn’t rush with you. not even with how much he’s wanted this — god, you’ve got no idea. he stops you with a gentle hand as you’re about to tear off his clothes. he lays you back so gently like you’re porcelain. trails his fingers down your stomach with so much caution in his eyes you could cry. when his face hovers at your clothed heat, he can tell you’re uneasy. but when he goes to move away, muttering about how he doesn’t want you to feel pressured, you’re already stopping him with firm hands on his shoulders. “i want it, cheol,” you mutter, blush flooding your face. “…it’s just been a while.”

cheol kisses your clit before he goes down on you. he only starts with little flicks of his tongue, but you’re so sensitive, thighs clamping over his ears. he pries away your hand cupping your mouth, breath hot on your cunt as he grunts about wanting to hear you. and once his head bobs against you, tongue relentless on your clit, you just let loose for him. you came embarrassingly quick.

cheol holds you steady through it, lets you shake and cry and fall apart for him, smiling against your cunt like he’s honoured to bear witness. afterwards, you hide your face in your arms. cheol doesn’t laugh, doesn’t tease. the wet sound of him cleaning your slick off his fingers has your cheeks burning. “my ex never did that for me.” you mumble. you spare a peek at cheol — he just blinks at you, bewildered. “why the hell not?”. you shrug, shy. he used to tell you it was too much work, made you feel bad for asking. cheol’s jaw clenches. “then he really didn’t deserve you.”

cheol shushes you softly when you reach for him, insisting on returning the favour. he’s serious when he meets your gaze. “i don’t want anything,” he reassures, brushing a stray hair from your face. you give him a pointed look as he readjusts the front of his pants. “you don’t owe me for just being treated right.” he reaffirms. it’s in that moment — more than the kisses, more than the sex — that cheol makes you feel like you’ve never belonged to someone before until now.

you haven’t said it out loud. that you’re his. but he’s absolutely yours. cheol holds your hand out in public like he’s proud to be seen with you. sneaks photos of you when you’re not looking to look at when he misses you. buys your favourite snacks without asking just to see you smile. texts you good morning, even during errands and rehearsals.

when people talk about you, when his brother calls you his girl, he doesn’t correct them — doesn’t refer to you as just “a friend” or “someone he’s seeing”. doesn’t try to hide the puppy-love smile that spreads across his face at the sound of your name. it’s a budding romance, but it already feels rooted. something that’s been waiting to grow for a helluva long time. but that doesn’t mean it’s always easy.

there are moments. nights when you argue, more so you than him, over something stupid, or something not-so-stupid. nights when you raise your voice, when old habits rear their heads, when the tears just won’t stop coming and you brace yourself for him to walk out on you. but he never does. cheol stays. sits beside you in silence when you're knees deep in a spiral. reaches for your hand even when you're berating him.

when you cry, he wipes your tears. not out of pity. with reverence. “i’m not going anywhere,” he tells you each time, over and over like a mantra. it’s like he’s trying to lift the curse your ex left. you’re not used to patience. not with you. not from a man who’s a ten across the board. but cheol lets you know your feelings aren’t a burden — it’s not too much to hold. and every day, it becomes clearer: you didn’t just leave something behind with your ex. you actually found something with seungcheol.

the tension’s been building for weeks. escalating with kisses that get way too heated, touches that linger too long, eyes that say i want you but never quite cross the line. on cheol’s part, at least. he’s been very firm with you, as impatient as you are to climb him like tree. but tonight, on your one-month anniversary, he gives in. you doll up, meet him at the door like any other date night, but the way he looked at you? reservation be damned, cheol could’ve eaten you for dinner right then.

he’s soft with you all evening. opens every door and pulls out your chair, kisses your wrist after holding your hand, calls you “my pretty girl” under his breath, just once. you don’t even have to ask once he drives you home. you just kiss him, practically leaping over the centre console to get to his lap. and this time, he lets himself kiss you back like he’s starving. because god knows he has been.

clothes didn’t stay on much longer once you were through the front door. with two strong arms, he’d picked you up and carried you to your bedroom with your legs wrapped around his waist. even with all the hunger in his kisses, the mindless rocks of his pelvis, his heavy gaze as he peeled off your dress — cheol’s touch was still gentle as ever. his hands traced over the marks of your skin, lingering over each curve like he’s memorising it. he kissed down your body until you’re left trembling, mouth hovering over that now familiar heat between your legs.

his hands held you in place while he lapped at you. your first orgasm comes easy — and then again, without even realising you’d been close, too lost in the feeling of his fingers curling inside of you relentlessly. your ex struggled to make you cum once. never gave a damn if you didn’t. but with cheol, it feels like your pleasure is the only thing that matters, and his is just an afterthought. but you always practically beg to feel him inside you. and tonight, he just can’t politely turn you down anymore.

you find out why once he drops his pants. you spend a second just staring at his length, flushed red and leaking, your core pulsing in anticipation. of course he was worried about your first time together — he could full well hurt you. but you coax cheol with soft kisses and whispers at his ear of how bad you’ve wanted him, and when he finally sinks into you, you both moan in symphony.

cheol moves with an almost painful gentleness, like he wants to give you every chance to stop — even though your body is literally begging him not to. he winces when your cunt flutters around him as he steadily fills you to the hilt. “you okay?” he murmurs into your neck, not moving a muscle yet. you nod, gulping.

but he doesn’t start, not yet. his hand brushes over your cheek. “you sure? you tell me if i have to stop.” it’s the most tender thing anyone’s ever said to you during sex. you just grin, all giddy, hands anchoring on his sides. “not gonna wanna stop.” and when cheol finally pulls out to thrust back in, you gasp together, eye contact unbroken as his hips start a steady pace.

even with how he’s pistoning in and out of you like a man possessed, cock hitting that sweet spot with each thrust, cheol still holds you like you’re fragile. a soft hand cradling your cheek as he watches your face, the other coming to rub circles on your clit. it’s not long before you finish around him, and cheol’s own release follows instantly after — your name falling from his lips as he fucks into you, fingers stuttering on your clit.

cheol collapses next to you once you’re both spent. his arms wrap around you, and neither of you move as you catch your breaths. cheol doesn’t rush to clean up or reach for his phone. just lays there, twirling a strand of your hair around his thumb, staring at you like you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

your ex finally finds out. it hadn’t come as a shock really. everyone had been side-eyeing the inevitable. cheol had been spending less time with the members as of late, head always in his phone, and you’d been glowing in a way no one could doubt. it was a known fact that your ex’s “boyfriend” status had been hanging by a thread for a while — he just hadn’t realised how fast someone else could come along and do better by you.

still, when he finds out, basically cornering chan until he admits it — he doesn't take it well. you could cut through the tension during practice with a chainsaw. his mood's sour, movements sharp, tone short. it’s like he’s looking for a fight that no one wants. but then cheol points out a mistake he makes in the choreo, and he says it. mumbles bitterly under his breath about cheol playing knight for some easy rebound, but loud enough for it to hit the room like a slap.

it takes three people to hold cheol back. he doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t even speak. he just tries to get to him. jaw clenched, fists curled, every muscle in his body shaking with restraint. not because your ex insulted him — but because he insulted you.

cheol comes over later that night. he doesn't say anything at first, just slips through the front door with his head low and a tightness in his shoulders that hasn’t been there in weeks. you can tell something's wrong the second he kisses your temple and doesn't meet your eyes. you press when he tries to brush it off.

eventually, it all tumbles out. not just what your ex said — but the way it got under his skin. the way it made him question whether he’s done the right thing, whether he is the right thing. whether he even deserves you. “maybe he’s right,” cheol had muttered, sitting at the edge of your bed with his elbows on his knees. “maybe i did just swoop in. i only seem better by comparison.”

you kneel in front of him, hands on his thighs. “cheollie, the fact you’re even asking that? is exactly what makes you better. he never once cared about what was good for me. but you — you think about that constantly.” cheol meets your eyes then. his jaw flexes, gaze flickering with something dark. that’s when he reaches for your jaw, hoisting you up into a kiss.

the sex is needier. rougher around the edges. cheol’s hands were everywhere, gripping tighter, holding harder. his mouth’s hot and heavy against your neck, your collarbone, marking his name on every patch of skin. and when he finally presses into you, it’s with a slow, aching desperation that makes your breath catch.

“tell me,” he mutters, forehead pressed to yours, voice deep and shaky. “tell me i’m the best you’ve had.” you gasp at that, because of how he says it like he needs it. like he’s not sure he’ll ever believe he’s worth it unless he can hear it from your mouth, right this instant.

your legs wrap around his waist, pushing him further in by the hips — and cheol groans when he bottoms out inside of you. you reel him in close by the back of his neck, whispering on his lips: “you are. ‘s not even close.” and god, that does something to him. he hisses through his teeth, hips snapping to fuck into you like crazy. his lips claim yours, your cries falling onto cheol’s tongue as he rams into you over and over like he’s trying to brand the words into your cervix.

and despite it all, afterwards — when you’re sweaty, ruined, still glowing — he asks again, quieter now. still uncertain. “really?” you give him a confused look. you push his damp hair back, kiss the corner of his mouth. “yes, seungcheol. you are the only man i’ll ever want.”

cheol finds out your ex got back in contact with you. it’s joshua who mentioned it by accident — something about peering over your ex’s shoulder and seeing your contact image. for a second, cheol’s heart sinks to the earth’s core. it’s not that he thinks you’d cheat — he knows you, knows how loyal you’ve been and how much you’ve reassured cheol about any doubts in himself — but your ex did have your heart first. and sometimes, that kind of history leaves behind skeletons in the closet. cheol can’t help but wonder what kind of hold he might still have on you.

but it wasn’t like that. with a heavy conscience and a near shaking voice, he brings it up to you — to which you show him the messages yourself. strings of short, shameful apologies. vague attempts at reopening doors you already locked. and right below them, your reply: final. “stop texting me. i don’t love you. i’m with someone who actually knows how to treat me right.”

you reassure cheol you didn’t mention it only because you didn’t want to upset him. didn’t want to give your ex any more space in your lives than he already took. cheol doesn’t respond right away — just quietly pulls you into his arms and holds you tight against his chest, his breath on your hair. “thank you,” he whispered. “for choosing me.”

and then without hesitation, you tell him: “i love you.” cheol pulls back just enough to see your face. his eyes are wide, face flushed. and then cracking into smile. “i love you too. so damn much.” and just like that, it’s yours. the ending you never thought you’d get. one where love isn’t taken, or earned through hardships, or asked for like a favour. one where it’s just given. simply, freely. finally. by someone who’s always known how to hold it. who’s been waiting to longer than he knew himself.

a/n: part two FINALLY omg. did u all miss me ?!??! i’ve been off the writing grind so bad since work has been walking me like a fkn dog. i still intend to see all my wips done tho, trust and believe☝️

mlist · taglist 〃

@lightinbug @sherrayyyyy @namsgyu @riddlerloveb0t @ttturnitup @rafesbunniebby @nicaeno @orphicarchive @vix3e @babycaratdeul @sseungcheols @sunnysidesins @livelaughloveseventeen @nezhamoment @nervousaggressive @madebybec @aaronwarners69thwife @gyuguys @jupittergirl @tomodachiii @mercif4l

[mercif4l]

we did it joe. we did it.

[chwedout]

IT'S YOU ALL !

[mercif4l]

i’m not going to be normal about this

[chwedout]

save me blonde jun save me

[mercif4l]

save meee…. saaaave meeee….. i dreamed of him last week he was making me a homemade poboy i have eaten one of those in years. it was delicious and then. we went for a swim

[shuastar]

Hello!!! For the ‘Until the sun sets on 2030’ prompt, could I request smut + prompt 12 with dino being inexperienced please?

pairing: virgin!chan x experienced!f!reader genre/warnings: smut (MDNI); subby/virgin/inexperienced!chan, a more experienced reader; orgasm denial, edging, god praise kink!!!!, corruption kink if you squint, the overusage of "good boy," chan asking for a fuck ton of permission, some begging... a/n: so i may have overdone this because as i was writing my smut medleys....virgin!chan was just...groundbreaking. it was like i ascended on a new level of computer corruption. anways um yeah

prompt list | ask box

someone being a virgin/inexperienced (a nicer version of a corruption kink)

he’s nervous.

you can feel it in the way his fingers tremble when they brush your waist. the way his breath hitches when you kiss down the side of his neck. he tries so hard to keep his composure—but it’s crumbling fast.

“chan,” you whisper against his skin, “you okay?”

he nods too fast. “yeah. i’m good. i just—i’ve never—”

you smile. soft. gentle.

“i know,” you say, brushing his hair back. “we don’t have to rush anything.”

his eyes meet yours, wide and earnest. “i want to,” he says quickly. “i want to. i just—idontknowwhatimdoing.”

“then let me show you.”

his breath stutters out. he nods again—slower this time—and lets you guide him backward until the backs of his knees hit the bed. he sits, watching you with parted lips as you climb into his lap, straddling his thighs.

“you’re so warm,” he whispers, like he can’t believe you’re real. his hands settle tentatively at your hips, and then a little tighter, like he doesn’t want to let go.

you roll your hips against his, just once—slowly—and his whole body jerks.

“fuck—” he gasps, eyes fluttering shut. “that—feels so good—”

you lean in, kissing him, swallowing the little sounds he makes as you rock against him again. his hands clutch at you like he’s drowning.

“can i?” you ask softly, fingers toying with the hem of his shirt.

he nods. “yeah. please.”

you strip him slowly, let him feel every inch of it—the way your hands trail down his chest, the way your mouth kisses across his collarbones, the way you press him down until he’s lying back on the bed, flushed and panting, watching you with awe.

you tug off your top next. his hands twitch at his sides like he doesn’t know where to touch.

“you can touch me, baby.”

he does—carefully at first, then more confidently when you guide him. he cups your breasts with both hands, thumb brushing over your nipple, and you shiver at the touch.

“you like that?” he asks, wide-eyed.

“mmhmm,” you smile. “you’re doing great.”

he looks dazed. amazed. like every moan you make is a revelation.

when you slide down between his legs, undoing his pants, he sits up halfway. “wait, you don’t have to—”

you kiss the inside of his thigh, grinning up at him. “i want to.”

and when you take him in your mouth—soft at first, then growing hard fast, twitching against your tongue—he loses it.

“oh—fuck—fuck—i’ve never—” his head falls back, one hand fisting the sheets. “that feels—you feel—oh my god—”

you only suck him a little longer, just enough to watch him squirm, then pull off with a pop and a wicked little smile.

“you okay?”

his eyes are glassy. “i think i’m in love with you.”

you laugh softly, climbing back over him. “you wanna try now?”

he freezes. “like—actually…?”

you nod. “if you want.”

he licks his lips. “yeah. i want. i just don’t know—how to start.”

you guide his hand between your legs. he groans when he feels how wet you are, how ready.

“start here,” you whisper.

he touches you like he’s worshipping you. fumbling at first—shy, unsure—but he listens. you tell him where to press, how to move, and his eyes never leave your face as you fall apart for him.

“you’re amazing,” he whispers, reverent. “i can’t believe this is real.”

you line him up and let him press in slowly, slowly, inch by inch. he’s thick, careful, his forehead pressed against yours as he pants through the stretch.

“oh my god,” he breathes. “you’re so tight. so warm. i—i’m not gonna last.”

you kiss him. “just feel me.”

he moves inside you with shaky, gentle thrusts. not deep yet—just careful. nervous.

you wrap your legs around him. “it’s okay, chan. go slow. you’re doing so well.”

he lets out the softest whimper at that—like praise is all it takes to ruin him.

“feels so good,” he gasps. “you feel so good. i don’t ever want to stop—”

he buries his face in your neck as he rocks into you faster now, still gentle but needy, and the little sounds he makes—those broken moans, the way he whispers “i’m yours, i’m yours” like a prayer—only make you wetter.

“i’m close,” he chokes out. “can i—inside? please—”

“yes, chan. give it to me.”

he cums with a soft cry, clutching you to his chest, hips stuttering. he stays inside you, panting, shaking, kissing your shoulder like he’s saying thank you.

He’s still panting beneath you, chest flushed and heaving, eyes dazed as you straddle him again.

“W-wait—” Chan’s voice cracks. His thighs twitch under your hands. “You’re gonna—again?”

You lean in, lips brushing his ear. “Oh, sweetheart. You didn’t think I was done with you, did you?”

A whimper escapes him.

You slide down slow, savoring how his cock jerks and twitches against your folds, already overly sensitive from the last round. He shudders violently, one hand flying to your hip while the other clutches the sheets like it’s the only thing anchoring him to earth.

“Fuck, fuck—oh my god—” he breathes, voice breaking into a moan as you finally sink down fully, taking him all the way.

His head tips back against the pillows. “You feel—so warm, I—please—please slow down.”

You start slow. Cruel, patient drags of your hips, moving just enough to make him squirm, his breath catching with every movement. You watch him try to keep it together—lips parted, face contorting as his body trembles beneath you.

“You wanna cum again, baby?” you whisper, leaning forward, your chest pressed to his as your hips roll just right.

Chan nods rapidly, eyes glassy. “Y-yeah. I—it’s too much, but I want to. Please.”

“Hmm.” You pull back slightly and clamp your walls around him on purpose. “But you’ve already made such a mess. Think you can handle more?”

His mouth drops open. “I don’t know,” he whines. “I—I think I’m gonna die.”

“You’re not,” you tease, running your fingers down his chest, tracing the ridges of his abs. “You’re just pussydrunk.”

He whimpers like it’s a confession. “I am. I really am. It’s so good. I didn’t know it could feel this good.”

Then you stop.

Just like that, your hips still. You don’t lift off him, but you don’t move either.

His eyes fly open in panic. “W-wait, why’d you stop?”

You smile down at him. “You said you wanted to cum.”

“I do!” he gasps. “Please—please, I need it. I need you to move, please, I can’t—”

He’s babbling now. Pleading. Writhing beneath you like a mess, trying to thrust up into you but you pin his hips down easily.

“Nuh-uh,” you murmur. “Be a good boy. Take it like this. I wanna see you beg.”

He whines high in his throat. “Please—I need to feel you. I need to finish, it hurts, I—fuck—please don’t stop touching me—”

You finally roll your hips again, slow and deep, and his whole body jerks.

“Fuckfuckfuck—” he chants. “I’m gonna—I’m gonna cum—!”

“Nope.” You stop again.

He practically sobs. “Y/N. Please. I can’t take it. Please let me finish. I—I’ll do anything, just—please—!”

You lean in close, kiss the corner of his mouth, soft and sweet. “You’ll do anything?”

His eyes are wild. He nods. “Yes. Anything. Just ride me, please. I’ll be good. I’ll—fuck—just please let me cum.”

You start moving again, faster this time. 

Your fingers thread through Chan’s hair again, yanking just hard enough that he moans into your skin, mouth open and pressed to your shoulder. His whole body trembles under you — flushed, sweat-slicked, desperate. His legs twitch with every slow grind of your hips, and he whimpers when you lift slightly and sink back down with an agonizing roll.

“P-please—” His voice is wrecked. “I—I can’t… I need—fuck, I need it—”

“You’ll wait,” you breathe against his ear, your voice silky, indulgent, cruel. “You said you’d be good for me, didn’t you?”

His head snaps up weakly, tears glossing his eyes. “I am—I’m trying, I swear—I’ll be good, please, I wanna be—” He pants, chest heaving, trying not to thrust up, his hands gripping your hips so hard they might bruise.

You ride him slow now, dragging your walls around him in a way that makes his eyes roll back. You feel the way he twitches helplessly inside you, how every second you don’t let him cum frays him further at the edges.

“You’re doing so well,” you praise, and his breath catches. “You’re so good for me, baby.”

He lets out a broken sob of relief, one hand sliding to your waist as he pulls you close — his forehead dropping to your shoulder, mouth pressing kisses against your damp skin.

“C-can I cum now?” His voice cracks like he’s pleading for salvation. “Please, please, let me cum—I’ve been good—I need you—please, let me cum with you—”

You press your forehead to his, finally grinding down harder, faster, chasing your own release now, and that’s when it breaks.

Chan cries out — a gasping, near-wail of a moan — and his arms wrap tight around your waist as he bucks up into you. His hips move instinctively, chasing your heat, chasing your high even through his own ruin. He fucks into you with a desperation you’ve never seen, overstimulated and shaking, his face crumpling against your shoulder.

“Wanna make you cum, wanna be good, am I—am I a good boy?” he chokes out, voice ragged, tears streaming now as his rhythm stutters.

“You’re perfect, Chan,” you moan, fingers fisting in his sweat-damp hair. “You’re so good—so good—”

Chan’s voice breaks. His hands fly to your hips, but it’s all desperation now, holding on like he’s drowning. “Th-thank you—thank you, oh my god—I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna—”

You clench down around him and he wails. His body arches off the bed, overstimulation turning his second orgasm into a meltdown.

“Cumming—oh my god—I’m cumming, fuck—please don’t stop—”

Your orgasm crashes through you, and you tighten around him with a cry, making him cry out again, his hips jerking wildly as he spills inside you. You can feel how much there is — hot and deep, pulse after pulse — his body reacting completely on instinct.

He shudders, mouth open against your neck, breath warm and uneven, still moving through the overstimulation like he’s drunk on it. “I love you,” he whimpers suddenly, raw and honest, voice thick with everything he’s feeling. “I love you—”

You kiss his temple, his cheek, his swollen lips. “I love you too, baby. You did so good for me. So good.”

Chan’s still twitching inside you, cock throbbing as he dry-cums again, groaning, helpless and completely lost in it. Tears are pricking the corners of his eyes, and when he collapses back into the mattress, it’s with his chest heaving and lips parted, a dazed smile on his face, your boobs pressed against his chest, his arms around your waist.

The room is silent except for your breathing and the occasional quiet whimper from him, lips brushing your collarbone like a prayer.

You kiss him sweetly as he blinks up at you, ruined and blissed out.

“At least ‘m not a virgin anymore,” he whispers, breathless.

You laugh softly, brushing his damp hair back from his forehead. “Congrats, baby.”

[mercif4l]

i need to reread this later when i wake up from my nap bc i know it deserves the lock in evening me can provide

[hoshingi]

[chwedout]

my legs are divorcing

[giraffenamjoon]

Hypotheticals (vernon x f!reader - THIRST Series #3)

The third fic in my ongoing THIRST Series: What if you accidentally (or purposely) sent nudes to your best friend (or perhaps worst enemy)?

Summary: You’ve always been more of the serious type, so when Vernon randomly receives your nudes, he figures out pretty quickly that it’s an accident. Except both of you think you want it to be more, so what better way to find out than to test it?

Genre: Smut PWP, friends to lovers

Word Count: 7.5k

Tags/Warnings: very sappy/playful vernon, brief reference to old self harm scars, reader is a tiny bit on the serious side, handjob, fingering, protected sex, vernon is gone gone gone over her, reference to nudes, a very silly ranking of endearments, overall very fluffy smut.

Read on AO3: Hypotheticals (#3 in the THIRST Series)

Please check out my Masterlist for more!

[mercif4l]

my god. i’ve hit a gold mine. blessed be.

[xinganhao]

tangerine tours 🍊 seungkwan x reader.

or: boo seungkwan's guide to falling in love... with jeju island, of course. happy seungkwan day!

Reason/s for visiting Jeju Island (Choose all that apply) Required

▢ Work ▢ Leisure ▢ Visiting family ▢ Considering moving to Jeju ☑ Other: soul-searching

Specific Jeju Island landmarks that you want to visit (Choose all that apply) Required

☑ Outdoor attractions ☑ Museums ☑ Amusement parks ☑ Beaches ☑ Historical places ☑ Other: preferably lesser known places as well; the type that you can't find on online listicles, etc.

Is there anything you want Seungkwan to know?

i'll be holding you to your tagline of falling in love with jeju. :) see you soon, boo seungkwan

🍊 ꗃ @yourusername day one. — Jeju-do, South Korea 🗨 3 ♡ 5

@yourfriend Replying to yourusername 🫶 @yourfriend2 Replying to yourusername Enjoy your #eatpraylove/#livelaughlove trip, my dear!!!

@yourfriend3 Replying to yourusername saw this & thought of u. may it carry u through this tough time :) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=knWJuGaFkHY&ab_channel=RecordingAcademy%2FGRAMMYs

🍊 ꗃ @yourusername final day. — Jeju-do, South Korea 🗨 1 ♡ 6

@yourfriend3 Replying to yourusername <3 + did you find what u were looking for? (:

@yourusername Replying to yourfriend3 (:

< See all things to do in Jeju Island

Tangerine Tours with Certified Jeju Island Tour Guide, Boo Seungkwan By Boo Seungkwan ★★★★★ 1,713 reviews | Recommended by 99% of travelers ⓘ From KRW50,000 per adult

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Reviews ↓ Q&A

You ★★★★★ Dec-Jan 2025

I fell in love.

there's no better tour guide that you'll find in the entirety of jeju. it's more than enthusiasm; seungkwan is so full of love. love for his island, yes, but also its people. for life in general, really. i came to Jeju lost— in all sense of word— and seungkwan felt a lot like a homecoming. i would've stayed much longer if i could've. true to his tagline, seungkwan will have you falling for jeju. cannot recommend tangerine tours enough.

From: Boo Seungkwan <[email protected]> To: You <[email protected]> Date: January 16, 2025 Subject: RE: Your TripAdvisor review

Please tell me it's not just Jeju that you fell in love with.

[mercif4l]

FULL BODY CHILLS. I STARTED GETTING REALLY EMOTIONAL FOR SOME REASON. PLEASE TELL ME ITS NOT JUST JEJU YOU FELL IN LOVE WITH? OHHHH MY GOODDDDD

[dozybeez]

Practice Makes Imperfect (Pt. Two)

A perfectionist ballerina struggles to find her rhythm-not just in her mandatory hip hop class, but in life itself. When she turns to Hoshi, a laid back hip hop major, he helps her see there is more to life than just structure and control.

→ part one ... → part three coming soon

pairing: college au! kwon soonyoung x ballerina f!reader

word count: 5.7k

content warnings: slowish burn with eventual smut, internalized perfectionism, performance anxiety, academic and artistic burnout, emotional repression, subtle corruption kink, drugs and alcohol. MDNI

authors note: in no way do I think I'm a good writer. I wrote this a while ago just for self indulgence and decided to post it for fun, so please understand.

songs for this chapter:

- Star Shopping by Lil Peep

The morning after your shame spiral feels unreal, like maybe you dreamed it.

But you didn’t. Your body remembers.

There’s a soreness in your calves from pushing too hard in your late night rehearsal. A bruise forming low on your shin where you clipped the barre in frustration. Your mind might try to rewrite it as fiction, but your muscles know better. They ache with the truth.

You move on autopilot—again. Coffee, schedule, notes, quiz. You go through the motions like a well-oiled machine, but something’s… off.

Because now there’s a new thought crouched in the corner of your brain. Something raw and humming like feedback in a speaker.

Him.

The boy from the studio. Blonde dyed hair, sweat-drenched tank top, chain catching light. The way he moved—messy, fluid, arrogant as hell. The way his eyes locked onto yours when he caught you watching. That split-second before you bolted.

You haven’t stopped thinking about it. Which is… annoying. Inconvenient. Unacceptable, actually.

You don’t even know his name.

And yet, when you enter the dressing room before class that morning, you’re suddenly hyper-aware of every sound around you. Like your ears are tuned for static. Like some part of you is listening for him even when you’re trying not to.

“Did you see Hoshi’s routine in class yesterday?”

The name catches you mid-sip of your protein shake.

You freeze.

You recognize a few of the girls clustered near the vending machines—one with red hair always seen leaving jazz class, another who shares your math lecture but never bothers with notes. They’re mid-conversation, low and fast.

“I swear to god, he doesn’t even try. It’s disgusting.”

“I know,” one of them groans. “He’s like… terrifyingly good. It’s like watching gravity bend.”

You crouch to adjust your shoelaces, pretending it’s intentional. Your hands are trembling.

Someone laughs. “I heard he doesn’t even choreograph half the time. Just freestyles. Like… pure muscle memory and vibes.”

“God, I’d die for that kind of flow. He just gets music.”

“And don’t even get me started on the face.”

More laughter. A dreamy sigh. “He’s like the final boss of the department. You don’t even challenge him—you just try not to look like an idiot next to him.”

Your throat tightens. The laces slip from your fingers. You already feel like an idiot next to him — especially after being caught creeping on him the night before.

You feel your throat tighten, air catching awkwardly between swallows. Their words sink into you like ink bleeding through paper. Not just the compliments—those sting, yes—but the tone. The awe. The weight behind his name.

Hoshi.

You hadn’t known what to call him. Now you do.

And apparently, everyone else does too.

You knew he was good. One look at him dancing last night and that was obvious. But this? This was something else. He’s not just talented—he’s legend-tier. The kind of person people whisper about. The kind of person you definitely don’t want catching you slack-jawed outside a studio door like some repressed Victorian ghost girl.

You tie your laces too tight and wince.

The bell chimes. Class in ten minutes. You yank your jacket on, zip it up to your chin like armor, and march out without saying a word.

Your heart’s beating a little too fast. You tell yourself it’s just caffeine.

But deep down, you know better.

⸻

The studio is hot.

Sweat-slicked air, pulsing bass, the bite of harsh fluorescent lights overhead—everything feels too loud. Too close. You’re in uniform: charcoal gray leggings, a slate-blue wrap top cinched perfectly at the waist, and your warm-up jacket hugging your arms like it was made to hold you together. Soft-looking, but structured. Nothing about it is accidental.

You haven’t taken the jacket off all day.

You need the weight.

It feels like the only thing keeping you from coming undone.

Your bones feel too sharp without it.

The others around you are rolling their shoulders, cracking jokes, warming up with that easy looseness you haven’t felt in your body once this week. You stretch silently against the wall, jaw locked, heart already sprinting even before the music starts.

You’ve practiced this routine. Mapped every count. Studied the instructor’s foot placement, her weight shifts, the shape of her hands as they cut through air.

You know what it’s supposed to look like.

But every time you try, it’s like your body can’t remember how to speak the language.

“From the top!” your professor calls, already clapping the beat into existence.

The music drops heavy. Everyone moves as one—but you can feel yourself lagging before you even start.

You hit the counts, technically. Your arms are sharp, your chest pops when it’s supposed to. You pivot cleanly on beat, land with control. But it’s wrong.

It’s all wrong.

Where the others melt into the rhythm, you punch through it.

Where they ripple, you snap.

Where they glide, you grind your joints into the floor like you’re trying to force the groove into submission.

You’re not off-time. You’re just… tight. Artificial. Like a machine doing an impression of something human.

And it shows.

You see it in the mirror—the way your movements pull focus for the wrong reasons. You don’t look cool. You don’t look confident. You look terrified.

The music stops.

Silence stretches, and you feel the moment gather around you like a storm.

Your professor steps forward, hands on her hips. Her mouth is tight. Not cruel, exactly. Just tired. Like she’s done trying to find a gentler way to say this.

“Okay,” she says. “Let’s cut the music.”

You freeze. Everyone else does too.

She looks at the group, but her eyes settle on you.

“You’re not getting it.”

Your throat tightens.

“You’ve had a week. And I know you’re trying. But at a certain point, effort doesn’t matter if it doesn’t translate.”

You blink hard. Swallow it.

She keeps going.

“You’re holding tension in every limb. You’re not listening to the rhythm—you’re fighting it. There’s no soul in your movement. It’s just… choreography.”

Something behind your ribs twists.

“You’re technically clean, sure. But this isn’t ballet. This style needs release. Personality. Groove. And right now? You look like you're bracing for impact the entire time.”

Someone shifts their weight behind you. The sound makes you flinch.

The professor sighs. “Honestly? I don’t think hip-hop is for you.”

The words split the floor beneath you.

“I don’t say that lightly,” she adds. “Some people just don’t have the body language for it. That doesn’t mean you’re not talented—it just means you need to play to your strengths.”

Your spine straightens like it might hold back the heat crawling up your throat. You nod once, sharp and tiny.

She claps her hands again. “Alright, everyone else, back to position.”

You step out of the line.

No one says anything, but you can feel their eyes grazing over you like stray knives.

You walk to the back wall, crouch down, pretend to retie your shoe.

You don’t trust your face.

You don’t trust what’s rising inside you.

Because the thing is—you’ve been corrected before. Critiqued. Ballet is criticism. It’s pain. It’s sharpening your body into something useful.

But this feels different.

This feels like rejection.

You’ve never been told you didn’t belong in a style. Never been told outright to give up. And not in front of a full room.

You stare at the scuffed rubber on your sneaker. Try to blink away the sting building behind your eyes.

You should walk out. Shake it off. Prove her wrong next week.

But you can’t stop replaying it.

You’re not getting it. You look like you’re bracing for impact. I don’t think hip-hop is for you.

A part of you wants to be angry. To dig in your heels and overtrain until your knees give out.

But another part—smaller, quieter—is tired.

Tired of forcing it. Tired of failing in private and pretending it’s growth. Tired of dancing like you’re scared of being seen.

And that’s when it happens.

A flicker behind your eyelids. A memory you didn’t invite.

A boy alone in a studio.

Sweat on his jaw. Shirt clinging to his back. Limbs loose, music pouring through him like he trusted it. Like his body wasn’t a cage—it was a current.

You hadn’t realized, last night, what exactly you were watching.

But now?

Now you think maybe it was freedom.

The kind you’ve never felt. Not in your choreography. Not in your skin.

You don’t want to ask for help. You never do.

But the words from your professor are still ringing in your ears like bruises.

And suddenly, swallowing your pride feels easier than drowning in it.

⸻

You don’t know what you’re doing here.

The hallway hums with the kind of midnight stillness that makes every fluorescent light buzz louder than it should. Your shadow follows you in pieces—fractured by the low glow bleeding from under Studio C’s door.

You’re wearing what you always wear when you need to feel in control.

High-waisted black leggings, freshly laundered. A fitted ribbed tank top. Your sleek zip-up jacket, zipped halfway and snug across your ribs, sleeves pushed to your elbows with deliberate symmetry. There’s a tiny monogram stitched near the collar—just your initials, delicate and silver, like even your clothes are expected to perform.

Your ballet teacher once said sweatpants were for people who had already given up. That if you looked relaxed, you were relaxed. That discipline wasn’t just about how you danced—it was how you entered a room. How you carried your body. How you never looked uncertain. Never looked soft.

You believed her. You still do. Which is why being here—like this—feels like a betrayal.

You’re standing outside the one place you swore you wouldn’t come back to. Studio C.

You stare at the door. Music pulses faintly behind it—muffled bass, a steady rhythm. It’s looser than last time. Less aggressive. Still, it makes something tighten behind your ribs.

You open the door.

The hinges creak.

He’s already dancing.

Back turned. Shirt darkened with sweat. Blonde hair a mess. His shoulders are moving in slow, syrupy pops that melt into a glide, like his body is chewing on the beat before swallowing it whole. You almost lose your nerve.

Then he turns.

He doesn’t stop.

Just meets your gaze like he expected you.

A smirk tugs at his mouth as he hits one last move, lets the music carry his body into a final spin, and hits pause with a smooth flick of his fingers.

Silence falls.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again,” he says, breathless but amused.

You ignore the comment. “Can I talk to you?”

He tilts his head, studying you like he’s trying to figure out what changed.

You don’t wait. “I need help.”

He blinks. A pause.

“With…?”

You exhale. “Hip-hop.”

The smirk sharpens. “You?”

You cross your arms. “Yes.”

He wipes his forehead with the hem of his shirt, revealing a flash of toned stomach, then lets it fall back into place.

“Didn’t peg you for the type to ask.”

“I’m not,” you admit, jaw tight. “But I need to get better. And I don’t have time to figure it out on my own.”

His eyes narrow slightly, considering.

You press on. “I’ll pay you.”

That gets a reaction.

He scoffs, laughing once—short and disbelieving. “You’re offering me money?”

“Yes.”

“You serious?”

You shift your weight. “I don’t expect you to do it for free.”

He walks toward you slowly, water bottle in hand, expression unreadable.

“Let me get this straight,” he says. “You snuck in here last night, watched me like I was an exhibit, ran off like your hair was on fire—then show up again tonight, ask for help, and throw cash at me like it’s a tutoring session?”

You bite the inside of your cheek. “I’m not trying to insult you.”

“Too late.”

You square your shoulders. “I just—don’t usually ask people for things. And I wasn’t sure if you’d say yes.”

He watches you for a long moment. Something in his face softens—not enough to be obvious. Just enough to feel it.

“You’re used to earning things,” he says quietly. “Not being given them.”

You don’t answer.

He sets the water bottle down. “Keep your money.”

“But—”

“I don’t want it.”

“Why not?”

He shrugs. “Because it’s way more fun messing with you for free.”

Your eyes narrow. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Wildly.”

Another beat passes between you—tense, sharp.

Then his tone shifts.

“You really want help?”

“Yes.”

“Then lose the attitude.”

Your arms tighten across your chest. “This is my normal tone.”

“Yikes,” he mutters.

You roll your eyes.

He grins, and somehow it makes the space feel smaller.

“Alright,” he says, stepping back. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

You blink in surprise. “Wait—what? Right now? No. We have to schedule this.”

He shrugs, as if it’s no big deal. “Schedules are boring.”

“I need a plan,” you insist firmly.

He smirks. “Fine. When?”

You glance at your watch, already calculating. “Seven tomorrow night.”

He nods without hesitation. “Seven it is.”

You take a deep breath and turn toward the door.

You try not to flinch when it clicks shut behind you.

⸻

You arrive at the studio twenty minutes early, nerves tightening every muscle. The polished floor gleams under the harsh fluorescent lights, reflecting your precise posture. You’re here early because that’s what you do—you prepare, you control, you own every second before anything even starts.

You pace softly near the door, hands clasped tightly in front of you. Your ballet jacket, monogrammed with your initials, feels heavier than usual, like armor against the unknown.

Minutes tick by. You check your watch again, breath shallow, heart pounding with a mix of anticipation and something like dread.

Then, the door creaks open.

He strolls in—ten minutes late—with a lazy grin and an easy confidence. His hair is messier than before, strands falling over his forehead like he just rolled out of bed. He’s wearing a loose black graphic tee and baggy jeans, sneakers slapping softly against the floor. No sense of urgency, no hint of apology.

“Sorry, I’m fashionably late,” he says, flashing you a crooked smile that’s equal parts cocky and disarming.

You narrow your eyes but say nothing.

He drops his bag carelessly by the wall and stretches, cracking his neck as if the day’s been too easy so far.

You clear your throat. “We agreed on seven.”

He shrugs, that trademark smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You get here early, I show up late. It’s the perfect balance.”

You bite back a retort and instead set your jaw, stepping forward. “Let’s get started.”

He laughs, pulls out his phone, and taps play. The bass rolls through the room, deep and steady, vibrating in your chest.

He moves first, fluid and unforced, every motion dripping with effortless cool. You try to mirror him, but your body is stiff, bound by years of discipline and control. Your arms don’t flow; your feet hit the floor like you’re following a script you can’t rewrite.

He glances your way, amusement flickering in his eyes. “You look like you’re trying to dance your way out of a straightjacket.”

You flush, cheeks heating, but refuse to break. “I’m just warming up.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Alright, Tightwire,” he says, the nickname catching you off guard, “let’s see if you can loosen up.”

“Tightwire?” You blink at him, incredulous. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He grins, eyes twinkling with mischief. “It means you’re wound tight—like you’re balancing on a wire—but I’m kinda curious to see if you’ll fall or fly.”

You glare, but a reluctant smile tugs at your lips despite yourself.

He shrugs. “Hey, gotta call it like I see it…”

You roll your eyes. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

He holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Just trying to keep things interesting.”

The music shifts, a little faster now, and you try again, letting the beat pulse through your limbs. Your movements aren’t perfect, but they’re softer, less mechanical. He watches with that half-grin, like he’s betting on you to surprise him.

“You’re getting there,” he says after a moment. “But don’t think too much. Dance isn’t about thinking. It’s about feeling.”

You nod, biting your lip, trying to absorb the advice even if it goes against everything you’ve been taught.

He steps closer, voice dropping just enough to make you lean in without realizing it. “Come on, tightwire. Show me you can let go.”

And maybe, just maybe, you’re starting to believe you can.

The bass rolls steady through the studio as he steps back, watching you with that laid-back, half-amused expression like this whole thing is just a game to him. You feel the weight of his gaze—not heavy, but definitely there, sizing you up like he’s betting you’ll crack under pressure.

You press your lips together, squaring your shoulders. Precision is your armor, but in this moment, it feels more like a cage.

“Alright, so what now?” you ask, voice sharper than you intend.

He shrugs, leaning against the wall with that easy confidence that drives you nuts. “Now, you stop thinking so much. Feel the music. Let it move you instead of fighting it.”

You glance at him, disbelief flickering across your face. 

A slow grin curls at the corner of his mouth, eyes flickering with that mix of teasing and challenge he wears like a second skin. He leans back against the wall, arms crossed, studying you like you’re a puzzle he’s just starting to solve.

“You’re a ballerina, right?” His voice is low, almost casual, but there’s an edge to it—as if he’s daring you to prove him wrong. “I’m guessing, based on the way you move—tight, deliberate. Ballet’s all about control. Precision in every muscle, every breath, everything locked down like a well-rehearsed script.”

He pushes off the wall, stepping closer, his gaze sharp but not unkind. “Hip hop? It’s a whole different game. It’s about letting go. Feeling the music pulse through you, even if it’s just a crack open—enough to catch the rhythm before it slips away.”

You bite your lip, trying to wrap your mind around what letting go even looks like. The idea feels like a foreign language to your body, which has been trained to hold tight, stay perfect, never falter.

“Look, I don’t expect you to suddenly turn into a free spirit. But maybe just loosen the grip a little? Stop trying to tame the music and ride it instead.”

His casual tone contrasts with the intensity of his gaze, and for a moment, you catch a flicker of something real beneath the playfulness. It’s a challenge, but not a cruel one. More like a dare.

You cross your arms, meeting his eyes steadily. “And if I fall?”

He shrugs again, grinning. “Then I’ll be there to catch you.”

That small, unexpected softness undercuts the smirk, and your chest tightens. You want to push it aside, remind yourself this is just practice, just dance, nothing more.

You nod slowly, taking a breath. “Fine.”

He grins wider. “That’s what I like to hear. Now move.”

He steps back, giving you space, but his eyes never leave you. The music shifts—low bass curling around the edges of the room like smoke, thick and slow. He doesn’t speak again. Doesn’t offer instruction. Just waits, arms loose at his sides, like he’s already read the ending and isn’t in a rush to spoil it.

You plant your feet, pulse ticking in your throat like a second metronome. You know how to move. You’ve moved your whole life. But this? This feels like standing on a ledge with no choreographer telling you when to jump.

Still, you try.

You raise your arms—already wrong. Too rigid, too formal. You catch yourself and lower them again, forcing a breath through your nose. The beat rolls on. You take a step, then another, mirroring what you’ve seen in class. What you’ve seen him do.

It doesn’t work.

You’re too upright. Too precise. Each movement feels like it’s passed through six filters of correction before it even reaches your limbs. You know you’re getting it wrong—can feel it in the resistance of your own body.

You glance up. He’s watching, expression unreadable, one brow arched just slightly, but not mocking. Just… waiting.

“I look stupid,” you mutter.

“No,” he says, arms crossed again, voice lighter now. “You look scared.”

You bristle, heat flaring in your cheeks. “I’m not scared.”

He tilts his head. “Then what are you holding onto so hard you can’t move?”

The question lands harder than you expect. Because you don’t have an answer. Or maybe you have too many.

You look down at your feet. “I don’t know how to be bad at something,” you say quietly.

There’s a beat of silence, and when you lift your gaze, something in his face has shifted—like he sees it now. The pressure. The fear. The weight of always being the best, or at least looking like it.

He steps closer, close enough that the air between you feels warmer, like static before a storm. “That’s the thing, ballerina,” he murmurs. “You’re not supposed to be good yet. You’re supposed to fuck up.”

You blink. “Is that how you learned?”

He laughs under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “Are you kidding? I looked like a wind-up toy on a sugar high my first time dancing. Arms everywhere. Legs doing God knows what. It was tragic.”

A startled laugh escapes you before you can stop it. He grins, triumphant.

“There it is,” he says. “You laugh like someone who doesn’t let themselves do it often.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s less bite in it now.

“Okay, again. But this time? Don’t think. Just feel.”

You square up, shifting your weight. Let the bass ripple up from the floor into your spine. Your body still resists—but less than before. You move again. It’s not perfect. Not even close. But for a few seconds, it’s not about perfection.

He watches you closely, not correcting, not stopping you. Just… watching.

And somehow, that’s what makes your hands loosen. Just a little.

⸻

You don’t want to stop.

Even when your muscles ache. Even when the sweat is dripping down your spine and your chest rises in sharp, controlled breaths like you’re trying not to let on that you’re gasping. You’ve gone through the combo five times now, and not once has it felt right. Not once have you felt like you deserved to be here.

“I’m good,” you say quickly as he pauses the music. Too quickly. “We can keep going.”

But Hoshi tosses you a look over his shoulder like he’s heard this before. Like he’s not buying it.

“Nah,” he says, already flopping down onto the studio floor like gravity pulled him there. “You’re gonna burn yourself out if you keep chasing the ghost of whatever ‘perfect’ means in your head.”

You hesitate, hovering awkwardly near the center of the floor.

“I’m fine,” you insist, but your voice lacks conviction now.

He props himself up on his elbows, sweat-dampened hair curling at his temples. “You’ve got this edge like you think the world’s gonna end if you take five minutes.”

You bristle. “Some of us don’t have time to waste.”

His eyes narrow slightly—not offended, more curious. “That why you’re always wound so tight? Afraid of losing a second?”

You don’t answer, but you do lower yourself down, slow and stiff, like surrendering is a foreign language. Your limbs ache in protest, and the cold bite of the studio floor against your back makes you shiver.

For a moment, there’s just breathing. The hum of fluorescent lights. The ghost of the bass still buzzing under your skin.

Then, casually, he says, “You know, I just realized—I don’t even know your name. Been calling you Tightwire in my head this whole time.”

You turn your head to look at him. He’s watching you, one arm folded behind his head, that same smirk playing on his lips before you answer with your name.

He nods once, like he’s storing it away somewhere private. “Nice. I’m Hoshi, by the way.”

“I know,” you say, a little too fast.

His brow arches. “Oh?”

You glance away, trying not to let your ears burn. “Some people in the dressing room were talking about you. Said you’re insanely good. A little cocky.”

He laughs—full-bodied and unbothered. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

You don’t say anything, but your lips twitch like you’re fighting a smile.

He stretches his arms above his head with a groan. “You always this intense?”

You lie back again, letting your gaze fall to the ceiling. “Only when I’m awake.”

He whistles low under his breath. “Damn. What’s it like in that brain of yours?”

You don’t answer. You don’t really know how to. But something about the quiet between you shifts—thickens, softens. Not quite tension. Not quite comfort. Just... awareness.

He breaks it with a chuckle. “Better tighten that bun, Tightwire. We’ve got a long way to go before you stop looking like a ballerina trapped in the wrong movie.”

You sit up slowly, chest still rising fast. “I want to get it right.”

His voice is softer this time. “You will.”

And for the first time tonight, you almost believe him.

Almost.

But belief is a luxury you don’t let yourself touch yet.

You stay quiet, letting the echo of the music and the pounding of your pulse fill the space instead. He doesn’t press. Just leans back on his hands, eyes skating lazily over the ceiling like he’s already half-tuned out.

You rise slowly, every muscle sore, every line of your body aching with the unfamiliarity of it all. The floor feels harder than usual beneath your feet. Or maybe you’re just feeling how far you have to go.

“Same time tomorrow?” he asks, casual, like it doesn’t matter either way.

You pause. “I need an exact time.”

That makes him glance up. He smirks. “7 sharp, then.”

You nod, already halfway to the door, spine straight, jaw locked.

His voice follows just before it closes behind you. “Better stretch tonight, Tightwire. Tomorrow’s worse.”

You don’t answer.

But your fists curl tighter around your jacket sleeve, and your steps are clipped all the way back to your dorm.

This isn’t working yet.

But you’ll make it.

Because you don’t know how not to.

⸻

The studio is cooler than last time, lights dimmed low to soften the harshness of the mirrors. Outside, twilight is bleeding into the campus sky—pale pinks and grays washing over the windows like a lullaby the room refuses to listen to. Here, the bass thumps quietly through the speaker in the corner. Not loud. Just enough to vibrate under your skin.

You showed up early again. Of course you did.

This time, Hoshi wasn’t ten minutes late.

Just five.

He strolled in with a Gatorade in hand and his hoodie half-zipped, sleeves pushed up to his elbows like he might start dancing or start a fight—either seemed equally possible. His sweatpants hung low on his hips, worn from use but somehow still stylish, and the tank he wore underneath clung to him in a way that was definitely unfair. His hair was tousled again—purposefully careless, like the rest of him.

He took one look at you pacing, gave a low whistle, and said, “Tightwire’s back.”

You didn’t rise to it. Just uncapped your water bottle and muttered, “We said seven.”

He held up his Gatorade in a mock toast. “And here I am. Growth.”

Now, fifteen minutes in, he hasn’t said much else.

And it’s driving you insane.

He’s been circling the room, hood down now, hands in his pockets, as if this were a museum and you were the exhibit. Every so often he hums or nods with the music, eyes following your movements—noting something. Calculating. You hate how much you want to know what he’s thinking.

You’ve been moving since you got there. Sticking to the choreography he gave you yesterday, step by step, beat by beat. You’ve practiced it in your dorm room, in your head, in your dreams. You thought today would feel better.

It doesn’t.

You’re already sweating.

Not from exertion—but from frustration. Every move sticks. Every beat slips through your fingers like water.

You push through another pass of the routine, jaw clenched, eyes locked on the mirror. You’re on beat. Technically. Your footwork is clean. You hit your marks.

So why does it still feel wrong?

You stop mid-step, breath ragged, palms curling into fists at your sides.

Behind you, Hoshi whistles low under his breath. “That looked painful.”

Your glare shoots straight through the mirror at his reflection. “It wasn’t painful.”

He strolls closer, tapping the volume down on the speaker. “It was like watching someone file their taxes in dance form.”

Your jaw tightens. “I’m doing the steps.”

“Exactly.” He drops into a lazy crouch, arms resting on his knees. “You’re doing them. Not feeling them.”

You exhale sharply and turn to face him. “Not everyone can roll out of bed and move like their bones are made of rubber bands.”

He smirks. “Flattering. But rubber bands don’t have this much charm.”

You don’t laugh. You’re too keyed up. “I just want to get this right.”

“Why?” he asks simply. “Why does it have to be right instead of real?”

You falter.

“I mean, when did you decide hip hop had one right answer? You’re not solving an equation.”

“No, I’m trying not to embarrass myself,” you snap.

He stands again, stretching his arms overhead. “You’re trying to ace it. That’s the problem.”

You fold your arms. “So you’re saying don’t try?”

“I’m saying…” He studies you a beat too long. “You’re dancing like you don’t trust yourself. I wanna see what you do trust.”

You blink. “What?”

He nods toward the center of the room. “Ballet. Show me.”

Your brows knit. “Why would you want to see that?”

“Because,” he says, voice low but sure, “I’ve only seen you in defense mode. I wanna see what you look like when you’re home.”

Your spine straightens instinctively. “I can’t just… do it.”

He raises a brow. “Why not?”

“I need my shoes.” Your voice comes out sharper than you mean. “And I need to warm up. And I haven’t done my back stretches yet. I have rituals y’know… I don’t—”

You stop yourself, but it’s too late. The panic already cracked through.

His head tilts, eyes catching yours. “Hey,” he says, tone gentler now. “Then do that. Do all of it. I’m not going anywhere.”

You swallow hard.

“I didn’t mean—” you start, but he cuts in, not unkind.

“Don’t act like time’s your enemy,” he says. “You’ve got it. Use it. However you need.”

That silences you more than anything else.

Because he’s not wrong.

Time is something you’ve always tried to outrun. To out-schedule. To dominate before it could dominate you. You don’t know how to exist in a moment unless it’s mapped, controlled, checked off.

But right now? There’s no clock dictating your start. Just Hoshi, leaning against the mirror, giving you space.

So you nod slowly. “Okay. I just… give me a second.”

“Take ten,” he says with a shrug. “I’ll be here.”

You move to your bag, fingers finding the soft, worn fabric of your ballet shoes. The satin slips through your hands like breath. You sit down and begin your quiet ritual—each wrap of the ribbons like a thread sewing you back together. He watches, but doesn’t speak, doesn’t rush.

You roll your ankles out, then rise, poised and still.

And finally—when it’s just you and the studio and the silence that lets you breathe—

You dance.

No music. Just the memory of it in your bones. The stretch and pull, the rise and fall. Every movement cut with precision, but this time, there’s something else in it too. A flicker of emotion. A note of defiance. Grace sharpened by something personal.

And Hoshi watches.

He’s quiet now, back pressed to the mirror, arms crossed loosely over his chest. But his usual smirk is gone. Replaced by something still, almost reverent. He watches the way your muscles glide beneath your skin, the way your lines slice through the air with deadly accuracy—like you’re carving out space in the world just by existing in it.

But there’s tension there, too. A tightness at the edge of every perfect landing. Like you’re trying to escape something that’s stitched into your very ribs. He can feel it in his chest as he watches you turn—controlled, contained, clenched.

Like you’re dancing against an invisible wall, not with the room around you.

You finish with a single, poised breath, shoulders lifted, jaw set like a blade.

And still—he doesn’t say anything.

Not right away.

He unfolds his arms slowly, and it takes him a second to find the right words. His gaze stays on you, steady. No teasing, no flash of teeth. Just something deeper now. Almost sad.

“You’re really good,” he says, voice low and a little rough. “But you look like you’re suffocating.”

⸻

Tag List: @minafrost @codeinebelle @sojuxxi @bestboileeknow @angelsbitx @socialsymphonies

(Let me know if you would like to be added to the taglist <3)

[mercif4l]

hey this is the best thing i’ve read in a long while by the way. thank you @dozybeez for sharing your art 🩷

[mercif4l]

this is insane by the way LMFAOOOOOO

[makeitworse]

SNAP OUT OF IT

── cheol’d be damned if he ever stole someone’s girl, especially a member’s. but how else is he meant to save you from that asshole?

ෆ ͜ ̩͙ f!reader x seungcheol. indent format. hurt/comfort. angst. reader’s bf is left unnamed.

what a pretty fuckin’ predicament you were.

seungcheol loves his group. bottom of his heart, he really does. they’ve been through years of practice rooms and stage lights and growing pains together. he’ll be the first to cover for them in interviews when they can’t find the right words, the first at their defence when netizens take things too far.

when it comes to the team, their public image, he’ll sure as hell keep them in line. but he won’t control what they all do behind closed doors, away from the cameras. that’s the limits of his responsibility. but lately, those limits have been staring him in the face with kind eyes and the softest goddamn voice he’s ever heard.

you. his member’s girlfriend. cheol doesn’t know where the fuck he found you and how the fuck he pulled you— better yet, how he’s managed to keep you this long. you’re sweet. polite. you greet them all by name, remember the little things they mention. the room lights up when you enter. you make everyone feel seen, known, like they matter. and you’re gorgeous— fuck, painfully so. cheol’s caught himself watching you more than once, eyes lingering too long, heart thudding with something that sure as hell shouldn’t be there.

you must’ve descended from the heavens and he was the first human you saw, and now you don’t know any better. because, pardon the french, your boyfriend’s a fuckhead when it comes to women. doesn’t know how to treat a girl right even if there was a gun to his head. everyone else tiptoes around it, keeps it cordial for the sake of the team— but cheol hears the whispers, the offhand comments.

minghao grumbling after last week’s party about your boyfriend raising his voice at you. jeonghan biting his tongue when your boyfriend made some offhand comment about your outfit. once, cheol was pulled aside by a conflicted joshua: “she looked like she was about to cry the whole night. should i say something to him?”

cheol doesn’t. because what’s he gonna say? “hey, treat your girl right or i will.” cheol’s not that guy. he’s not the homewrecker. even if the ‘home’ is made of straws and sticks. you can only tell so much to someone who won’t listen. and it’s not cheol’s place to manage his members’ private affairs, right? so he minds his business. stays in his lane. except, lately, he keeps veering off-road.

because whenever cheol sees you— bright-eyed and glowing before your boyfriend’s gotten the chance to dim your light— he thinks about what he’d do differently. cheol’d sweep you off your feet. he’d never raise his voice, always hold your hand in public. learn every little thing about you just to hear you talk. he’d make you feel safe— happy, goddamn it. it feels like complicity just witnessing a dime piece like you get mistreated. but cheol has to remind himself that you’re not his girl, and he’s not that type of guy.

you’re too sweet to ever be anything but faithful either. too loyal to ever stray, as much as your boyfriend doesn’t deserve it. that’s the worst part. even with the way he talks down to you sometimes, even with the doubt in your eyes, you’d never look at cheol like you were thinking of leaving. you love your man. cheol loves the idea of what could’ve been. and it tears him up inside when he sees you.

it’s a late weekend night. the boys are having a small gathering: bring your own drinks and a plus one. cheol figured you’d be there, but what he hadn’t expected was for your eyes to find him the instant you arrived— boyfriend’s arm still slung over your shoulder as you waved at cheol with the cutest smile ever. his stomach fluttered over the interaction, but he tries to not let it linger. you’ve always been nice to everyone.

until you’re seated next to him at dinner. the group and their partners are all scattered around the place, but you chose to take the spot right next to cheol, shyly asking if it was okay with him. your boyfriend was halfway across the room, scrolling on his phone between bites of the food and barely sparing you a glance. cheol’s trying, really trying, not to think anything of it. your shoulder’ll brush his every so often, soft giggles spilling from your lips like you forgot who you came with. it’s just a seat. just conversation.

but every time you lean in to whisper something, every time your hand comes to his arm as you laugh, there’s something deep and desperate coiling in cheol’s chest. your boyfriend probably forgot you’re here— meanwhile you’re telling cheol about your favourite movie you recently rewatched, this ramen spot that gave you food poisoning, the dumbest tiktok that made you laugh earlier. and you smile. god, you smile— wide and bright and so effortlessly real— and it fucking guts him.

cheol’s never seen you look like that with your boyfriend. he might not have even tried to pull that kind of light out of you. but here you are, radiant like the sun, and all cheol can think is how much he wants to reach across the space between you and tell you how he’d never let you feel anything but this. that you deserve the world and more, and cheol’s just a man but he’d sure as hell try. he wants you. it’s not right thing— but when your boyfriend’s done everything except that, cheol can have this one. he fucking wants you and he can’t do anything about it.

amidst the post-dinner chatter, your boyfriend approaches the table with a low voice, pulling you off into another room. the room’s shift in energy is palpable. conversations trail off. laughter thins out. heads turn as the door closes behind you— and there’s a sick twist in cheol’s stomach. he doesn’t know what was said, but he’s got a pretty good guess. jealousy’s a hell of a sickness, and your boyfriend’s terminal. cheol’s been trying to play it cool all night, but maybe he smiled too much, made you laugh too loud. maybe your boyfriend finally looked over and saw what everyone else had been choosing not to.

the group starts filtering out not long after. the mood’s gone— sliced by the tension hanging in the air. no one really says it out loud, but they all know why. cheol says goodbye to others from the table, choosing to stay behind. he chews the inside of his cheek as his eyes flick to that closed door every few seconds. he wants to check on you, but it’s not his place. not yet.

once the door opens, your boyfriend comes out. alone. avoiding anyone’s eyes, he rubs a hand down his face, muttering “we broke up.” like it’s nothing. like it’s just a line on the to-do list he’s finally gotten around to. cheol’s out of his seat before he can stop himself.

“you’re a fucking idiot,” cheol spits, louder than he means to. the whole room flinches, with your ex narrowing his eyes like he’s waiting for more. like he’s not the least bit startled that someone’s finally calling him out. cheol clicks his teeth in frustration, already turning away. your ex storms out without another word. you’re still there, in the other room.

cheol hesitates only a second before walking in. you’re sitting on the edge of a low bench, hands in your lap, eyes glassy. you don’t look up when he enters, and it wrecks him— how small and quiet you look. he crouches down in front of you, voice gentle like he might rouse you. “hey.” your lip trembles. you try to shake your head, act like you’re fine, but the tears come anyway. cheol doesn’t think— just opens his arms, and you fall into them like you’ve been waiting to.

you’ve broken up with him before. a dozen times. probably more. and somehow, he always crawls back to you— apologies and promises on a silver platter. but not this time. not if cheol can help it. he runs a hand soothingly down your back, chin resting lightly on your shoulder. “let me take you home,” he tells you softly. “you don’t have to stay here.” and when you raise your head with a nod, you’ve got a look in your eye— that same glint of relief from when you first arrived and saw cheol.

the drive’s quiet, but the comfortable kind. just full of things that neither of you need to say out loud. when cheol pulls up in front of your place, you don’t move to get out right away. just sit there, fingers fiddling with your sleeve before you glance at him: eyes still red-rimmed, voice soft. “do you wanna come in?”

he knows he probably shouldn’t. there’s lines that once crossed, can't be uncrossed. but you’re looking at him like you need him. not just anyone, but cheol. and it’s not about anything physical— he can see it clearly. you just don’t want to be alone. and god knows he doesn’t want to leave you alone either.

your home’s dim and quiet. you offer him tea like it’s any other night and he’s your guest— not the aftermath of a breakup, where he should be the one asking to get you anything. cheol follows as you sit on the couch, close but leaving a few inches of polite space. until you lean into him, head bumping his shoulder. and he lets you. of course he would. he even wraps an arm around you, holding you close.

cheol’s thumb rubs soothing circles onto your shoulder. when you sigh and nuzzle closer, the words slip from him: “you deserve so much better,” he confesses, voice low. “you know that, right?” you nod, but barely. cheol’s warm hand holds you, tilting his head down at you. “i would’ve treated you right,” he adds, quieter this time. “still would.”

you both let his words sit. at some point, your hand finds his, fingers shyly lacing together. cheol doesn’t move, doesn’t rush it. just breathes you in, chest aching like he’s waited too long for this. and when you raise your head to face him, eyes soft and searching, he knows what’s coming.

your lips find his— just careful, like a question. and cheol answers without blinking: leaning in, his mouth warm and soft against yours. he kisses you slow, unhurried. the kind that says i’ve thought about this more times than i should. cheol’s hand cradles your jaw, thumb brushing over your cheek in adoration. and even when your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, when your breath catches just slightly, he pulls away. just gently. he lingers close, forehead against yours, lips parted like he’s catching his breath— not from want, but from restraint. because he’s not going to ruin this by rushing.

“don’t wanna take advantage of you,” he murmurs, breath fanning your lips. “not like this. i need you to be sure. whatever you decide... i’ll be here. ‘m not going anywhere.” you smile at him all sleepy and soft, the kind of smile he’d go to war for. “i already am,” you whisper. “sure, i mean. you’ve kind of... ruined him for me.” cheol exhales a quiet laugh. something unspoken settles between you, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he’s not aching with guilt.

you stay like that for a while; cheol just holding you close, lazily rubbing your side. and when he eventually moves to stand, thinking he’s overstayed his welcome, you tug on his sleeve. “stay?” just one word, looking up at him like he’s all you’d ever need. and he doesn’t hesitate.“of course.” you fall asleep on the couch together— limbs tangled beneath a shared blanket. and it’s not messy or rushed or confusing. you feel safe with him, warm. like something real is finally beginning.

a/n: ngh,... (i would so do a pt2 w smut if anyone wants it btw)

taglist (join here): @lightinbug @sherrayyyyy @ferrarifinnick @namsgyu @riddlerloveb0t @pinkpunkdynamite