[mooniitlovers]

hi..!

lottie ୨୧ twenty-two (‘04) ୨୧ pisces

minors do NOT engage! (i’m so serious go away.)

୨୧ my little library ୨୧

୨୧ i treat this as a library of fics i like to revisit or are just that good. i try to make my blog as easy to browse as possible for myself. if you like it too that’s cool. ୨୧

tag directory.

[ellipsis9]

Good for you not for him

seungmin x f!reader (feat bangchan)

Synopsis: You used to orbit around Chan, all late nights and unspoken feelings, until his rejection forced you to move on. Now you’re in a soft, quietly solid relationship with Seungmin—and Chan can only regret the choice that made room for someone who actually chose you back.

a/n: ahh this is so bittersweet but comforting at the same time

wc: 6,978

You always find him in the same place.

Headphones on, shoulders hunched, fingers tapping restlessly against the desk as a project file glows on the screen. The clock on the wall insists it’s nearly 2 a.m., but Bang Chan still looks like he’s only halfway through his to-do list.

You pause at the doorway of the studio, paper cup of coffee warm between your hands.

“Chan?”

He jumps slightly, spinning in his chair. The harsh blue light of the monitors softens when he recognises you.

“Oh— hey. You scared me.” He pulls one earcup down, a small tired smile tugging at his lips. “What are you doing here? Didn’t your shift end ages ago?”

You step in, closing the door with your foot. “Didn’t your shift end ages ago?”

He laughs quietly, that soft breathy sound you’ve heard a thousand times. You cross the room and set the coffee beside his keyboard.

“Thought you might need this.”

His eyes flick to the cup, then to your face.

“You’re an actual angel, you know that?” He wraps his hands around it, inhaling the steam like it’s oxygen. “Thank you.”

“It’s just convenience store coffee.”

“Yeah, but it’s coffee.” He takes a sip, eyes closing. “And you thought about me.”

He says it so casually, like it doesn’t send your heart straight through the floor.

You swallow, fingers twisting together. You’ve rehearsed what you’re about to say a hundred times— in the shower, on the bus, staring at your bedroom ceiling when you should be asleep. It never sounded right in your head, but your chest feels too tight to keep carrying it around.

“Chan?”

“Mm?” He’s already turned back to the screen, cursor dancing through waveforms, but his attention shifts when he hears your tone. He swivels properly to face you, brows knitting. “Everything okay?”

No. Not really.

You exhale slowly. “Can we… talk for a second? Like, not about work.”

His posture straightens. “Yeah, of course.” He takes the headphones fully off and sets them on the desk. “What’s up?”

You thought you’d be more nervous, but once the first word leaves your mouth, the rest follow like they’ve been waiting at the edge of a cliff.

“I like you.”

His eyes widen just a fraction. For a moment, all you can hear is the hum of the computer and the faint thump of music leaking from some neighbouring room.

You push on before you can lose your nerve.

“I know you’re busy— more than busy, actually, like some sort of functioning insomniac— and I know this probably isn’t a good time. But I…” You swallow. “I’ve liked you for a while. And I didn’t want to keep tiptoeing around it like it’s not there.”

You watch the realisation land slowly across his features, like dawn creeping over a horizon.

“Y/N…” His voice is soft, almost careful.

“I’m not asking for anything huge,” you add quickly, cheeks burning. “You don’t have to… give me an answer now, or at all, really. I just— I needed you to know. Because pretending I don’t feel this way is making it really hard to even be in the same room as you.”

You laugh, a short, embarrassed sound. The room feels much smaller now.

Chan stares down at his coffee for a long moment. When he looks back up, there’s something heavy in his eyes.

“I… thank you,” he says, and you know from the way his voice dips that it’s genuine. “Really. For telling me. I know that wasn’t easy.”

“But…” you say quietly.

He winces at the word, like it hurts him too. “But.”

You brace yourself.

“I care about you a lot,” he starts, fingers tightening around the paper cup. “Like, a lot. You’re… one of the people I rely on the most. You know that, right?”

You nod, though it doesn’t feel like enough.

“And that’s why I…” He takes a breath. “I don’t think I can give you what you deserve right now.”

There it is.

“You’re always here,” he continues. “Helping with schedules, picking up things we forget, bringing coffee at stupid o’clock—” he tries to smile, but it falters “—and I already feel guilty about how much of your time I take. If we… if we tried to date on top of that, I don’t know how I’d not let you down.”

“Chan—”

“I’m always in the studio. I’m always thinking about the next comeback, the members, the fans… and it’s not because you’re not important. You are.” His voice cracks slightly on the word. “But I’m scared I’d make you wait. For answers, for time, for promises I can’t keep. And you don’t deserve that.”

Silence stretches between you like a tightrope.

You’d prepared yourself for rejection. You hadn’t prepared for it to sound like this— soft, apologetic, filled with too much care and not enough room.

“So you’re saying no,” you say quietly, just to make it real.

He flinches, but nods. “Yeah.” His gaze doesn’t leave yours. “I’m… I’m saying no.”

Your chest aches, but it’s a clean pain, sharp and bright. You nod once, slowly.

“Okay.”

“I’m sorry,” he blurts, leaning forward slightly, eyes frantic. “Y/N, I’m really, really sorry. It’s not that I don’t—”

“Don’t.” You smile, and it’s steadier than you feel. “Please don’t make it harder.”

He shuts his mouth, guilt flickering across his face.

You pull in a breath and straighten your shoulders. “Thank you for being honest with me.”

“You’re not… you’re not angry?”

“Honestly? Maybe a little.” You huff out a humourless laugh. “But it’s not your fault you’re married to your job.”

He groans quietly, burying his face in one hand. “God, don’t say it like that.”

“It’s true, though,” you say, softer. “And I knew that. It’s not like you suddenly turned into someone else. You’re just… you.”

He drops his hand and looks at you. There’s something raw in his expression, something fragile.

“I’m still really glad I told you,” you add. “Even if this is your answer.”

“Y/N…”

You step back before he can say your name again in that tone that makes everything sting.

“You should get back to work,” you say. “Deadline and all that.”

“Work can wait.”

“That’s literally the opposite of everything you’ve ever said to me,” you tease weakly.

He smiles, but it’s tight, pained. “I hate this.”

“Me too,” you admit. “But I’ll be okay.”

The problem is, you’re not sure if you’re trying to convince him or yourself.

You leave the studio before you change your mind, before you stay and let the ache drag on. The door closes behind you with a soft click, and you only let your smile drop once you’re safely in the empty corridor.

For a long moment, you just stand there, staring at the scuffed floor, listening to the faint muffled beat of music through the walls.

Then you square your shoulders, wipe at your eyes, and walk away.

౨ৎ

Two years pass.

Comebacks blur into each other. New songs, new concepts, new tours. The boys grow more confident, more famous, more exhausted in that strange, glittering way success demands. And you’re still there— behind cameras, in rehearsal rooms, at the side of the stage with a clipboard and an emergency stash of plasters and cough drops.

You and Chan never talk about that night again.

You don’t avoid him, not exactly. The first few months are awkward; you triple-check your words, make sure your smiles are the right distance. He hesitates the first few times he asks you for help, like he’s waiting for you to say no. But slowly, bit by bit, it settles into something gentler. A quieter kind of friendship. Not as easy as before, but not broken either.

The feelings fade the way old bruises do— colour draining slowly, leaving faint shadows only you notice.

You still catch yourself looking at him sometimes when he’s laughing at something one of the members said, or when he falls asleep on the sofa between schedules, mouth slightly open, hoodie pulled over his head. The affection is still there, but it’s less of a storm now and more of a tired tide, lapping at your ribs and then retreating.

Life fills up the empty spaces.

And somewhere in the middle of all that chaos, you start to notice Seungmin.

౨ৎ

It starts with your ankle.

You’ve been on your feet all day— early dance practise, then a long shoot, then a last-minute change to the schedule that has you sprinting down the corridor with a stack of revised cue sheets. By the time the boys are running the choreography again for the fifth time, your legs are buzzing and your trainers feel about two sizes too small.

When the music cuts, you lean back against the wall, stretching one foot, rotating your ankle until it pops.

“You’re doing that thing again.”

You blink and turn to see Seungmin watching you, water bottle dangling from his hand. Sweat darkens his fringe, cheeks flushed from exertion, but his eyes are sharp.

“What thing?” you ask.

“The one where you pretend your ankle doesn’t hurt.”

“I’m not—”

You shift your weight and immediately wince as pain flares.

He raises a brow. “Right.”

“It’s fine,” you insist. “I’ve just been walking a lot.”

“Exactly my point.” He takes a step closer, tilting his head slightly. “Sit down.”

You let out a breathy laugh. “Excuse me?”

“Sit,” he repeats, like he’s talking to a stubborn puppy. “Before you actually injure yourself and we have to drag you to A&E in the middle of promotions.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“Call it preventative care.”

You roll your eyes, but your ankle throbs in protest when you shift again, so you slide down the wall until you’re sitting on the floor. He nods, satisfied, and crouches in front of you.

“I’ll be fine after I rest a bit,” you say. “You should be stretching or something. I heard your choreographer threatening bodily harm if any of you pull a muscle.”

He huffs. “I already stretched.” He gestures at your foot. “May I?”

You stare at him. “What are you, the physio now?”

“Only for people who are bad at looking after themselves.” His tone is dry, but his gaze is steady, waiting.

“Shouldn’t you be starting with Chan, then?” you mutter.

A small, wry smile tugs at his mouth. “I’ve been trying.”

You hesitate, then extend your leg a little. He takes your ankle gently, fingertips surprisingly careful and warm even through your sock. He presses lightly into the joint, testing the movement.

“Does this hurt?”

“Only my pride,” you say.

His lips twitch. “So yes, then.”

He loosens your laces and adjusts your trainer, retying it more securely. When he lets go, the pressure feels different, more supported.

“Better?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you admit, a little thrown. “Actually.”

“Good.” He stands and offers you his hand. “Come on.”

You take it without thinking. His grip is firm as he helps you up.

“Try not to sprint around for the rest of the day,” he adds. “You’re the one who lectures us about ‘long-term health’ every week.”

You squint at him. “Do you… actually listen when I say those things?”

“Apparently more than you do.” He steps back, eyes flicking briefly to your ankle. “If it still hurts tomorrow, tell someone. Don’t be an idiot.”

“You’re very bossy for someone younger than me,” you grumble.

He shrugs. “Someone has to compensate for your terrible life choices.”

You’re still rolling your eyes when the music kicks in again and he jogs back to his spot, slipping effortlessly into formation. But later, when you’re at home and finally take your shoes off, you realise your ankle does hurt less than it had that morning.

You tell yourself it’s just the way he tied your laces.

You don’t think about the way he’d watched you for a full song before saying anything.

౨ৎ

After that, you start noticing him more.

How he always seems to be the first one to grab an extra mic if someone’s cuts out. How he quietly adjusts Hyunjin’s in-ear without making a fuss. How he’s quick with dry comments in interviews, but even quicker to back off if he thinks his joking is actually bothering someone.

“Do you ever stop working?” he asks you one evening, dropping onto the chair opposite your desk in the staff room.

You glance up from the schedule spreadsheet. “Do you?”

He shrugs. “Fair point.”

He’s got a coffee in one hand and a small plastic bag in the other. He puts the bag on your desk.

“What’s that?” you ask warily.

“Food.”

You narrow your eyes. “Why?”

“Because the last time I walked past, you were chewing on the end of a pen,” he says, deadpan. “Which I’m fairly sure has zero nutritional value.”

You stare at him. “…Have you always been this sassy or did I just not notice?”

“You were busy limping around and pretending not to be in love with Chan,” he says, casually.

The air leaves your lungs in a whoosh. “Wow,” you manage. “Subtle.”

His expression softens. “You’re better now, though.”

It’s not really a question. You look down at the bag and peek inside. There’s a neatly wrapped kimbap and a small packet of your favourite crisps.

“I’m getting there,” you say quietly.

He nods once. “Good.”

You tear open the crisps. “You know, for someone who calls me an idiot at least twice a week, you’re surprisingly considerate.”

“I never said you weren’t one of my favourite idiots,” he replies, sipping his coffee.

Your heart does a small, inconvenient flip.

You tell it to calm down. It doesn’t listen.

౨ৎ

You and Seungmin fall into an odd sort of orbit after that.

He starts appearing at your desk more often, asking oddly specific questions about the schedule that you suspect he already knows the answer to.

“So, what time is rehearsal tomorrow?” he asks one afternoon, leaning over your shoulder.

“You literally have it in the group chat,” you reply.

“Yeah, but your version is more accurate.”

“It’s the same version.”

“Yours is in pink highlighter,” he points out. “That makes it feel less aggressive.”

Sometimes he joins you on late-night convenience store runs when practices run long.

“Why do you always get that one?” you ask as he grabs the same brand of yoghurt drink for the third time that week.

“Because I’m loyal,” he says, then glances pointedly at the instant ramen in your basket. “Unlike some people I could mention.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You said last week that was your ‘absolute favourite flavour in the world’,” he mimics your voice. “And now you’ve thrown it over for spicy seafood.”

“It’s called personal growth,” you sniff.

He nudges your shoulder with his. “Mm, sure.”

He notices things.

“You’ve been staring at that screen for twenty minutes,” he says one night in the empty dressing room. “Either you’re very enamoured with that spreadsheet or you’re thinking too much.”

“Is this how you flirt?” you ask, dry.

“Is it working?”

You choke on your own saliva. He laughs, low and pleased, and tosses you a bottle of water.

And then, without you really realising when it happened, he becomes the first person you text when something good or bad happens. The one who sends you photos of funny signs he sees on the way to schedules. The one who asks you, “Have you eaten?” with a raised brow that says he’ll be annoyed with you if the answer is no.

You don’t notice the exact moment your heart switches allegiance. All you know is that one day, Chan walks into the practice room, smiles at you, and your pulse stays calm.

Later that same day, Seungmin sits next to you on the floor, knees touching as he scrolls through dog photos to show you, and you feel your cheeks heat.

You stare at your traitorous hands, resting a little too close to his, and think, Oh.

౨ৎ

Ironically, it’s Chan who notices first.

You and Seungmin are backstage at a music show, pressed into a narrow corridor while technicians wheel equipment past. The boys are due to go on in ten minutes. Felix is stretching his shoulders; Changbin is muttering lyrics under his breath; Jisung is bouncing on his toes, burning off nervous energy.

You’re scanning the running order, making sure you haven’t missed any last-minute changes, when Seungmin leans in.

“Hey.”

“Hmm?”

“Your hair.”

You frown. “What about it?”

He reaches up and gently smooths a strand of hair back, tucking it behind your ear. “There. It was annoying me.”

Your brain short-circuits for a second. “Oh. Thanks.”

His hand lingers a moment too long, fingertips brushing your temple. When he pulls away, there’s a small, satisfied smile on his lips.

You look up and freeze.

Chan is a few metres away, watching the exchange. He’s mid-conversation with the stage manager, but his gaze flickers briefly between you and Seungmin, eyes narrowing just a fraction in thought.

He catches your eye and quickly looks away, plastering a smile back onto his face as he nods along to whatever the staff is saying.

Heat creeps up your neck. You suddenly feel very aware of the small distance between you and Seungmin, of the way his arm presses lightly against yours.

“You’re fidgeting,” Seungmin murmurs.

“I’m not.”

“You are.” He bumps your shoulder. “Relax. You look like you’re about to be the one going onstage.”

“That’s because you are about to go onstage.”

He tilts his head, studying you. “You’re worried.”

“Of course I am,” you mutter. “You’re all running on four hours’ sleep and caffeine.”

“Five,” he corrects. “I had a nap.”

You give him a look.

He smiles, softer now. “We’ll be fine. I’ll be fine.”

You open your mouth, then close it again. Instead, you just nod.

He glances at your hand, fingers twitching, and then— slowly, like giving you time to pull away— he takes it.

His palm is warm and dry, fingers slotting between yours with an ease that makes your chest hurt.

“Breathe,” he says quietly. “Yeah?”

You let out a shaky breath you hadn’t realised you’d been holding.

“Good.” He squeezes your hand once, then lets go as the stage manager calls them to standby.

As he walks away, you feel Chan’s gaze brush your profile again. When you glance over, his expression is unreadable.

౨ৎ

You and Seungmin don’t define anything for a while. It’s a series of almosts— his fingers skimming yours in busy hallways, his hand hovering at your lower back as he guides you through crowds, his teasing texts that sometimes stray a little too close to something else.

Seungmin:

you left your charger in the practice room again

You:

my bad, will get it tmrw

Seungmin:

no you won’t

You:

are you calling me unreliable?

Seungmin:

i’m calling you you

i’ll bring it to you

You:

ok bossy

Seungmin:

you like it

You stare at that last message for longer than you should.

The official shift happens on a rainy Tuesday evening.

Schedules had run long, and by the time you leave the building, the sky has opened properly, sheets of rain drenching the pavement. You stand under the awning, clutching your umbrella, watching cars hiss by in the wet.

“You’re not seriously going to walk home in that.”

You don’t even have to turn to know who it is. “Seungmin, I live fifteen minutes away. I’ll survive.”

He steps up beside you, opening his own umbrella. “Which direction?”

“Spying on my address now?” you tease.

“I’m deciding whether to file a noise complaint,” he replies smoothly. “Which way?”

You roll your eyes and point. He hums. “That’s on my way.”

“It isn’t,” you say immediately. “You live in the opposite direction.”

“Yeah,” he says, entirely unbothered. “But I also live with a group of grown men who absolutely know how to feed themselves. You, however, will probably go home and eat instant noodles.”

You gasp. “How dare you.”

“You literally did that last night.”

You deflate. “Okay, fair.”

“Come on,” he says, stepping out into the rain. “Walk with me.”

You fall into step beside him, umbrellas overlapping slightly. The city glows under streetlights, puddles reflecting neon signs and traffic lights. For a while, you just walk, listening to the soft patter of rain on plastic.

“I like nights like this,” you say quietly.

“Rainy ones?”

“Yeah. Everything feels… slower.”

He glances at you out of the corner of his eye. “You need slower.”

You snort. “Says the idol whose job is literally running around stages worldwide.”

“Exactly. I’m uniquely qualified to diagnose the condition.”

“And what condition is that?”

“Overworked idiot who thinks rest is optional.”

You bump his shoulder. “Stop calling me an idiot.”

“No,” he says, but there’s a smile in his voice. “What are you thinking about right now?”

You blink. “What?”

“You looked like you were somewhere else,” he says. “Where were you?”

You hesitate. Normally, you’d laugh it off, deflect with a stupid joke. But the rain, the quiet street, the way he’s really looking at you— it all makes you braver than usual.

“I was thinking about… timing,” you admit. “How unfair it can be.”

He’s silent for a moment. “Because of Chan?”

You stare down at the wet pavement. “Not exactly. Not anymore. Just… thinking how a few years ago, if someone had told me I’d be walking home in the rain with Kim Seungmin, I’d have laughed in their face.”

“Oh?” he says lightly. “Is that a bad thing?”

“No,” you say quickly. “That’s not— I mean…” You exhale, breath fogging the air. “I used to be so stuck on one idea of what my life should look like. One person. One… version of happiness. And when it didn’t work out, I just assumed that was it. That I’d missed my chance and everything else was just… consolation prize.”

“And now?” he asks quietly.

“Now I know I was being dramatic,” you say, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Because I didn’t know there were other ways to feel—” You stop yourself before you say this safe, this seen.

Seungmin slows, then comes to a stop under a streetlight. Rain drums steadily around you. You look up at him, confused.

“What?” you ask.

He looks at you for a long moment, the usual mischief in his eyes replaced by something softer, more open.

“Do you like me?” he asks.

The question lands between you with surprising gentleness. No teasing, no theatrics. Just simple, direct words, spoken like he already knows the answer.

Your heart thumps unhelpfully.

“That’s a very arrogant question,” you say, trying to deflect.

He tilts his head slightly. “Is it wrong?”

You chew on your bottom lip. “You’re very… sure of yourself.”

“I’m very sure of you,” he corrects. “Which is weird, because you clearly have no idea.”

“Seungmin—”

“If you don’t,” he adds quickly, “if I’ve misread everything, tell me. I’ll shut up. We can go back to me bullying you about your snack choices and pretending I don’t care whether you rest or not.”

Something in your chest squeezes.

You think of the coffees, the snacks, the way he steals your pen just to give it back with a stupid flourish. The way he stands a little closer than necessary. The way he noticed your ankle when no one else did. The way he’s quietly shifted his route home just to match yours.

You think of Chan’s studio, the way your confession fell awkward and hopeful into the dim light. The way your heart had shattered and slowly, slowly put itself back together.

You think of how you feel now, standing under a flickering street lamp with Seungmin, rain pounding a steady rhythm around you.

“I do,” you say.

His brow furrows. “You do… what?”

“Like you.” You exhale, a shaky laugh leaving your chest. “A lot, actually. Which is very annoying, because you’re very smug about it.”

A slow grin spreads across his face, bright even in the dull light. “I knew it.”

“You’re unbearable.”

“You like that too,” he says, and then his expression sobers. “Can I…?”

He doesn’t finish the question, but you understand. You nod, heartbeat roaring in your ears.

He steps closer, shifting his umbrella slightly so he can see your face properly. Raindrops catch on his lashes, his fringe damp. He lifts his free hand, fingers brushing your cheek, then your jaw, giving you one last chance to pull away.

You don’t.

He leans in and kisses you, soft and unhurried, like you have all the time in the world.

It’s not fireworks and orchestras and the world spinning off its axis. It’s something quieter— a warmth that blooms low in your chest and unfurls slowly, wrapping around all the old aches and whispering, See? It can be like this too.

When he pulls back, there’s a faint flush on his cheeks, but his eyes are steady.

“Just so we’re clear,” he says, voice slightly rough. “This isn’t a consolation prize.”

“I know,” you say, and you do. “You couldn’t be a consolation prize if you tried.”

“Good.” He presses a quick kiss to your forehead, smirking. “Because I don’t come second to anyone.”

You laugh, the sound carried away by the rain.

౨ৎ

People find out gradually.

Hyunjin shrieks when he catches you and Seungmin holding hands in the practice room. Jisung won’t stop making exaggerated kissy faces for an entire week. Felix beams so brightly you’re genuinely worried he might combust. Minho just gives Seungmin a long, assessing look and says, “Don’t be weird about it,” which is his way of approving.

You’re more careful in public, but around the team and core staff, you don’t hide it. It feels too big to tuck away into shadows.

And Chan… well.

You don’t know exactly when he pieces it together, but one evening, you walk into the studio to drop off revised schedules and find him mid-conversation with Seungmin. They fall abruptly silent when they see you.

“…Am I interrupting?” you ask cautiously.

“No,” Chan says quickly. “We were just— uh—”

“Talking about you,” Seungmin supplies smoothly.

Chan shoots him a helpless look. You blink. “Oh. Should I be worried?”

“Probably,” Seungmin says.

“Definitely not,” Chan says at the same time.

You snort. “That’s reassuring.”

Seungmin steps towards you, brushing your hand briefly with his. “I’ll meet you downstairs, okay? Don’t let him bully you into doing another all-nighter.”

“Oi,” Chan protests.

“I mean it,” Seungmin says, ignoring him. He looks at you, gaze briefly soft. “Ten minutes.”

“Got it,” you say.

He leaves, closing the door gently behind him. The studio feels oddly quiet in his absence. You turn to Chan, suddenly very aware that you’re alone.

You hold out the folder. “Updated schedules for next week.”

“Thanks,” he says, taking it. His fingers brush yours briefly. “How are you?”

You blink at the question. “I’m fine. Why?”

“Can’t I ask?”

“You can, but you usually lead with ‘Sorry, can you do me a favour?’”

He huffs a small laugh. “I am trying to improve.”

You smile, but there’s a tension in the air that wasn’t there before. You hover for a moment, unsure whether to leave.

“Y/N,” he says suddenly.

“Yeah?”

He stares at his hands. “When did you… start dating Seungmin?”

Your pulse stutters. “Um. A while ago.”

“Right.”

You chew your lip. “Is that… okay?”

He looks up sharply. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I don’t know. It’s just… you’re the leader. Maybe there’s some unwritten ‘no dating staff’ rule I missed.”

He snorts. “If there is, they’ve never told me about it.” He sobers, fingers tightening around the folder. “I just… I wanted to make sure you’re happy. That’s all.”

You study him. There’s something careful about his expression, like he’s holding himself still.

“I am,” you say quietly. “I’m really happy.”

A flicker of something crosses his face— pain, regret, something small and bitter— but it’s gone as quickly as it came, replaced by a soft smile.

“Good,” he says, and he sounds like he means it. “He’s… good. Seungmin.”

“He is,” you agree, warmth curling in your chest at the thought.

Chan looks at the monitors, then back at you. “Can we… talk? Properly. Not right now, maybe. Just— at some point.”

Your stomach twists. You’ve known this moment might come, but you’d hoped, selfishly, that you could just glide past it forever.

“Okay,” you say. “Just tell me when.”

౨ৎ

It happens two days later.

You’re half expecting him to text you late at night, ask you to drop by the studio after everyone’s left. Instead, he catches you after practise, when the others have already shuffled out, laughing and shoving as they head to the showers.

“Y/N,” he says, leaning in the doorway. “Got a minute?”

Seungmin looks up from where he’s fiddling with his phone. His eyes flick between you and Chan, and his jaw tenses almost imperceptibly.

“You good?” he asks you quietly.

“Yeah,” you say. “I’ll meet you in the lobby?”

He studies your face for a heartbeat, then nods. “Text me if you need rescuing.”

You roll your eyes. “He’s not going to murder me, Seungmin.”

“Well, he did reject you once,” he mutters under his breath, just loud enough for Chan to hear. Chan chokes on his own saliva.

“Go,” you urge, shoving lightly at his shoulder. “You smell like sweat.”

He gasps. “Rude.”

You watch him leave, then turn to Chan. “So. What’s up?”

He jerks his head towards the studio. “Come here for a sec?”

The familiarity of the room hits you as soon as you step inside. Same scuffed rug, same mismatched cushions, same faint smell of coffee and dust and creativity. You remember standing in almost this exact spot two years ago, heart in your throat.

Chan closes the door gently behind you, then walks over to his usual chair, but doesn’t sit. He rests his hands on the back instead, fingers drumming restlessly.

“I’ve been… thinking,” he says finally.

“That sounds dangerous,” you reply, because humour is easier than the knot in your stomach.

He huffs a weak laugh. “Yeah.”

Silence stretches. You watch him, waiting.

“I owe you an apology,” he says at last.

Your gut twists. “Chan—”

“No, listen— please.” He takes a breath, eyes fixed on his hands. “When you confessed to me… I handled it badly.”

“You were honest,” you say. “That’s not bad.”

“I was honest about the symptoms,” he says. “Not the cause.”

You frown. “I don’t follow.”

He lifts his gaze to yours. “I told you I couldn’t give you what you deserved because of work, because of my responsibilities, because I was too busy. And that was true, but it wasn’t the whole truth.”

“What was the whole truth, then?” you ask, voice low.

He swallows. “I was scared.”

Your chest aches. “Scared of what?”

“Of letting you down,” he says. “Of getting it wrong. Of being selfish enough to say yes when I knew I’d be exhausted all the time, distracted all the time, asking you to understand things you shouldn’t have to.” He exhales, shoulders slumping. “I thought that by saying no, I was protecting you. That you’d… move on faster without having to deal with me half-loving you between deadlines.”

The word hangs in the air like a dropped glass.

“Half?” you say, heart hammering.

His lips twist. “I… liked you. Maybe more than liked. I just… refused to look at it too closely. Because if I did, I knew I’d give in. And the group was still finding its feet, and I felt like I couldn’t afford to be… anything but focused.”

You stare at him, a dozen memories rearranging themselves in your head. The extra coffees. The late-night conversations. The way he’d always seemed to know when you were having a bad day, even when you didn’t say anything.

“Why are you telling me this now?” you ask, not unkindly.

“Because for a long time, I thought I’d done the right thing,” he says, voice quiet. “I told myself you’d get over it, that you deserved someone who could actually show up. And then I watched you and Seungmin.”

Your throat tightens.

“He looks at you like you hang the moon,” Chan says, a faint, bittersweet smile on his lips. “He notices things I used to notice before I forced myself to stop. He walks you home. He makes sure you eat. He teases you until you laugh on days when I’m too buried in my own head to see anything past my laptop screen.” He takes a shaky breath. “And I realised that the thing I thought I was doing for you… I was mostly doing for me.”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“I told myself I was being noble,” he says, rolling his eyes at himself. “But it was easier to say no and bury it than to admit I wanted you and still might not be enough. I was cowarding out, basically. And in the process, I hurt you. And then I just… let that hurt sit. I never cleared it properly.” He looks at you, eyes earnest. “You deserved better than that. You deserve better than me pretending it never happened.”

Emotion burns behind your eyes. You look down at your hands.

“I did wait,” you say quietly. “For a while.”

He flinches.

“Not… forever,” you add quickly. “But I waited. I thought maybe once things calmed down, once you’d settled a bit, you’d come back and say you’d changed your mind.” You laugh, small and self-deprecating. “Then I realised your job is never really going to calm down. And neither is mine. So I had to stop waiting or I’d just… stay stuck.”

“I’m sorry,” he says again, voice thick. “I never wanted you to feel like you were waiting for something that was never going to happen.”

“But it did happen,” you say, meeting his gaze. “Just not with you.”

A faint, sad smile flickers over his face. “Yeah. I see that.”

You take a breath. “You’re right, though. About Seungmin. He… shows up. Even when he’s tired, even when he’s busy. He doesn’t make me feel like I’m an extra task on a checklist.” You shrug. “It’s not big grand gestures. It’s… him turning up with my favourite snack after a long day. Or texting me just to ask if I got home safe. Or noticing when I’m quiet.”

“Sounds familiar,” Chan says, a ghost of a smile crossing his lips.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “A little.”

He looks at the floor, jaw working. “I’m really happy for you,” he says, and this time you can hear the honesty through the ache. “I mean that. Even if it… hurts, sometimes, when I think about what I could’ve done differently.”

“You were doing your best,” you say. “We both were. We were just… different people then.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “You got wiser. I just got more sleep-deprived.”

“Hey, you’ve grown too,” you protest. “You apologise faster now.”

“That’s growth?” he asks.

“For you? Definitely.”

He smiles properly, the tension easing a little.

“For what it’s worth,” you add, “I don’t regret telling you. Or… liking you. It hurt, but it also… made room for the person I ended up with.” You shrug. “We wouldn’t be here without that.”

He nods, eyes shining faintly. “I’m glad you didn’t wait forever.”

“So am I,” you say, meaning it.

He hesitates, then steps closer, holding out his hand. “Friends?”

You look at it, then up at him.

“Friends,” you say, taking it.

His grip is warm and steady, and for the first time, the old ache in your chest feels like something finally, properly laid to rest.

౨ৎ

You find Seungmin leaning against the lobby wall, scrolling on his phone. He looks up as you approach, eyes immediately scanning your face for signs of distress.

“You survived,” he says.

“Disappointed?” you ask.

“A little,” he admits. “I was looking forward to a dramatic rescue.”

You snort. “You’d get distracted by a dog on the way and forget what you were doing.”

He gasps. “Untrue. I can multitask. I would absolutely rescue you and pet the dog.”

“Your priorities are very concerning.”

“My priorities are excellent,” he says, straightening and taking your bag from your shoulder without asking. “You just happen to be one of them.”

Warmth flutters in your chest. You bump his arm lightly. “We talked,” you say.

“I figured,” he replies. “You look like someone who just let go of a very heavy backpack.”

“That’s… weirdly accurate.”

He glances at you. “You okay?”

You consider the question. Think of the studio, of Chan’s apology, of the way the ghost of your old crush finally loosened its grip.

“Yeah,” you say. “I’m okay.”

He nods once, accepting your answer. “Good.” Then, with mock seriousness: “If he made you cry, I’m pushing his chair over in the next meeting.”

You laugh. “He didn’t. I promise.”

“Shame,” he muses. “Would’ve been fun to watch.”

“You’re evil.”

“You like that,” he says, the words so familiar now they feel like a private joke.

You do. You really, really do.

౨ৎ

Months later, at a team dinner, someone makes a comment that finally puts everything into sharp, almost comical relief.

You’re squeezed into a long table at a restaurant, empty plates and side dishes scattered everywhere. The boys are loud and loose, laughing over some story Jisung’s telling. You’re perched between Seungmin and Felix, half listening, half texting a colleague about tomorrow’s call time.

Seungmin drops a piece of meat into your bowl without looking, still engaged in an argument with Changbin about some game.

“Eat,” he says absently.

“I was going to,” you mutter, but you take a bite anyway.

Across the table, one of the stylists watches the exchange, eyes flicking between you and Seungmin, then over to Chan, who’s quietly topping up everyone’s water glasses.

“You know,” she says, grinning, “I always thought you and Chan would end up together.”

The table goes briefly, awkwardly quiet. Your chopsticks pause halfway to your mouth.

“But seeing you with Seungmin now…” She gestures vaguely between you two. “You suit each other so well. It just makes sense.”

Time seems to slow for a second.

You risk a glance at Chan. He’s frozen, jug in hand, expression carefully blank. Then he clears his throat, smile returning a fraction too bright.

“Yeah,” he says, voice light. “They do.”

Heat rushes to your face. You open your mouth to deflect, but Seungmin beats you to it. He simply reaches over and casually adjusts the collar of your shirt, fingers deft, like he’s done it a thousand times before.

“Obviously,” he says. “She’d be miserable with anyone else.”

You choke. “Excuse me?”

He gives you an innocent look. “What? You’d be late, unhydrated, and your ankle would definitely be in pieces by now.”

“Wow,” you say. “Romantic.”

He leans in, voice dropping just low enough for only you to hear. “You know what I mean.”

You do. Your cheeks burn, but you can’t stop smiling.

Across the table, Chan watches for a moment, then looks down at his plate. When he looks up again, he catches your eye and gives you a small, genuine smile. There’s a hint of sadness lingering at the edges, but it no longer feels like an open wound— more like an old scar you both acknowledge.

You smile back, and that feels like its own kind of ending.

౨ৎ

Later that night, you and Seungmin walk home together. The city is quieter, streetlights casting long shadows on the pavement. He hooks his pinky through yours, swinging your hands between you.

“Tired?” he asks.

“A bit,” you admit. “You?”

“I’ve been tired since 2018,” he says. “It’s my personality now.”

You snort.

He glances at you, then gently tugs you closer, slipping his arm around your shoulders. You melt into the warmth instinctively, head resting against his shoulder.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hmm?”

“If you’re tired,” he continues, “lean on me. I’ll carry the heavy stuff. You just have to walk next to me.”

The words are simple, almost off-hand, but they land somewhere deep, somewhere that remembers late nights in studios and unanswered wishes and the feeling of always coming second to something you couldn’t compete with.

You look up at him, your chest full.

“Okay,” you say. “But only if you let me carry yours too.”

He smiles, a small, secret thing. “Deal.”

You walk the rest of the way like that— in step, shoulders touching, the future not some grand, glittering promise, but a series of ordinary nights like this one. Quiet, honest, shared.

In a studio several floors above, Chan sits alone in front of his computer, headphones on, a half-finished melody looping gently. Through the window, he can just make out the street below, two small figures walking side by side.

He watches you both for a moment, something bittersweet tugging at his ribs. Then he smiles to himself, presses play, and gets back to work.

He’d made his choice years ago.

You made yours now.

And for the first time, all the timelines sit comfortably together in your chest— the girl who once stood under harsh studio lights with her heart in her hands, the woman now leaning under the soft glow of a streetlamp against someone who always, unfailingly, shows up.

Good for you. Bittersweet for him.

But right for everyone.

You tighten your arm around Seungmin’s waist, and he squeezes your shoulder in reply, as if to say, I’m here.

You smile into the night, and keep walking.

[wicked-disposition]

Ultraviolence — P.SH

pairing: Prisoner Seonghwa x fem reader

synopsis: You decide to send a letter to an inmate out of curiosity. Thinking he’d never get out of prison, you tell him things you never shared with anyone else before. Seonghwa decides to fulfill one of those things for you. (this idea came to me after watching love after lockup lol)

Tw: Cnc , rough sex, spanking , Mc is naive and kind of a dum dum, do NOT send letters to inmates, dirty talk, degradation squirting, spitting in mouth, face slapping, unprotected sex, overstimulation, the word rape is mentioned. (Do not bothering reading if that makes you uncomfortable. I’m not your babysitter and any hate will just get you blocked.) I didn’t proofread because I’m lazy, if im missing another warning lmk.

You ran fast, backpack jostling behind you. You pushed past people walking along the street, wanting to get home as soon as you could.

There’s has to be something that every person looks forward to every day of their life—or at the very least, every week.

Yours is this.

You quickly reach the lobby of your apartment building, walking towards the room where each unit’s mails were placed and start looking for your own. You pushed your key in, twisting and pulling until it opened only to be met with nothing.

It’s empty.

Again.

It’s been three weeks now and you fear that you have gotten a little too attached. You expected a reply a week after you sent your mail, it was always like that. It’s like a routine now.

It’s been a year since you started sending mails to an inmate that went by the name Park Seonghwa. You started doing so after scrolling through the internet for hours and saw a person sharing about her experiences in sending mails to a person in prison. It didn’t sound so bad, she made it sound like it wasn’t something people should be scared of and encouraged more to start doing the same.

You weren’t opposed to the idea.

Your friend warned you about it though, Wooyoung specifically; a senior in the university you’re currently a sophomore in. Wooyoung looks at you incredulously, as if you just said the most foolish idea you had ever come up with.

“You should really get off the internet,” Wooyoung says, voice low as he tried to keep in mind that you were in a public place. A library, to be more specific, where people are busy studying either for exams or projects.Wooyoung turns back to the book he was reading, pushing his eyeglass higher on the bridge of his nose with a twist of his wrist.

“It doesn’t seem so bad, Woo. I’ve been doing some research and they said that doing so could give you a sense of fulfilment,” You explain, trying to convince Wooyoung that it is, in some ways, a good idea.

“If it’s just fulfilment you’re looking for, Y/N, there are many other ways to feel fulfilled,” Wooyoung rationalises, eyebrows curving in worry as he stares at you. “Besides, these are criminals we’re talking about—”

“Some could just be falsely accused. You never know,” You cut off, shrugging your shoulders.

“I know but I mean, you don’t know which ones. They’re master manipulators!” Wooyoung says, eyebrows furrowing as he tries to meet your eyes.

You exhale, eyes looking anywhere but at Wooyoung. Maybe it was a bad idea. Wooyoung sighs, reaching for your arm resting on the table and caresses your skin with his thumb. His hold warm and strong, “Are there things you wish to talk about? I’m right here, you know?”

You breathe out a laugh, shaking your head as you finally meet Wooyoung’s gaze. “I know that, Wooyoung,” you say, tapping his hand that was still holding you. “And it’s not that, I just want to try and be of help, maybe they need friends. It must feel lonely there, right? Besides, I won’t be revealing too much. I’ll just send a letter and if they don’t reply then I’ll take that as a sign that it’s a bad idea.” You shrug.

Wooyoung stares at you for a beat longer, eyes looking from one eye to the other before he breathes out a heavy sigh, shoulders sagging.

He looks down to his book, tapping his pen on it before he looks back at you who just confided in him about something that’s a little troubling. Wooyoung was just looking out for your safety, above all. But you were also old enough to know about what you were getting yourself into and Wooyoung knows that you know that.

So, he sighs, defeated. “Okay, but if anything happens. Tell me, okay?” Wooyoung says, staring straight at you with all the seriousness he could muster. A smile breaks out across your face, as if his approval was all you needed. “I promise, thank you Woo.”

You knew what you should and should not do when sending a letter to a prisoner, after all, they are in prison for a reason. They’re criminals who could manipulate, take advantage of, or use someone for their gain. But you tried hard not to think too much about it. After all, you believe that humans are capable of change.

So you scroll through the website with the highest recommendation of the netizens to use when writing to an inmate. There are a lot of things you could talk about with a stranger. The idea of anonymity and the thought of them basically being a stranger without knowledge of what you look like brings you comfort due to the fact that you could never meet this person since he’s locked up somewhere.

So even if you told him something about yourself, the man could never do anything about the information. And you take comfort in that fact.There were various prisoners listed there who were looking for a pen pal, their picture plastered above their names and age.

So you scroll through a hundred profiles, staring as you cringe in slight fear at the look on some people’s faces. You try hard not to discriminate but the tattoos on their faces, their sharp eyes and huge bodies makes you shiver at the thought of what they’re capable of.

You aren't sure that you’ll find anyone you're comfortable enough to send a letter to, or most of them don’t even seem like they’ll reply to some college student sending a letter with the thought that maybe you’re just doing it for the fun of it.

You were just about to scroll again when a certain profile stopped you in your tracks. He’s no different from the other inmates, he has the same sharp eyes the rest do, piercing, cold and indifferent. He’s staring at the camera as if it's the one that committed a crime against him and you shiver at his gaze.

But aside from his eyes, he seemed…too soft to be in prison. You click on his profile, and find out that the crimes he had committed to end up in prison are not listed on his profile. To prevent people from being scared of sending letters or because of a whole other reason, you aren't sure, but you mostly think it’s the former. You start reading his profile, eyebrows furrowed at the fact there was only minimal information written there.

Park Seonghwa, #713933M

28 years old

I like music and I like to write. I can play the guitar. Anyone is welcome to send me mail. We could talk about anything.

Life before prison: Songwriter

Sentence: 91 years

Can you write through email?: No.

You contemplate as you read through his profile once more before deciding to go for it.

There was no specific reason why it made you choose to write to this man named Park Seonghwa. There really was none. He even seemed like the type that would never reply to mails that don't pique his interest.

Nonetheless, you wrote him one:

Hello!

My name is Y/N L/N. I’m a sophomore in college. I just turned (age) last (birth month)

I’m sending this letter to you because...

You pause, you know you just can’t write because you wanted to or because I’m curious it would seem like you’re mocking those people who are behind bars. You could be carefree sometimes but you weren’t careless.So you think about it, you can’t figure out what to say so you just go back to it and write what you deem appropriate to say.

I’m thinking maybe you’d need a friend from the outside to talk with. You’re not obligated to reply to me. I just want to send you this letter to ask about you and how you are there.

I look forward to hearing from you! I hope we can be friends. :)

Sincerely,

Y/N L/N

The thought of it being too simple and plain crossed your mind, but you figured you couldn’t really say too much in the first letter. It would be too overwhelming to talk about many things on the first meeting, who would want that the first time a person meets someone.

So you resorted to a short and simple message, put it in an envelope and wrote your address as the nearest post office to your apartment building.It’s advice you had gotten from the internet, to not put your real address on the mail since of course, if ever—which is highly unlikely—this person does get out or escapes prison, he won’t be able to locate you even if he tries.

So you input the recipient’s name along with the address of the prison he’s in before going to the post office. After all those things, you began to wait. You didn’t exactly expect an immediate reply, you weren’t even thinking that the man would reply, but deep inside you hoped he would.

Nonetheless, you never bothered checking in the post office. You were loaded with schoolwork during the whole week, too occupied to even have anything else cross your mind aside.

The library was packed, multiple students occupied each chair available and there were more people entering. It seemed they were all on the same boat as you were. It did not give you the slightest bit of comfort.

Just one more day, you remind yourself. Just one more, and this will all be over.

You tap your pen on your book, finding yourself spacing out more than actually focusing on what you needed to be reading. You rub your temple, eyes closing heavily in frustration.

You finally decide to just close your book after another moment of your mind spacing out, the sound almost echoing in the building surprises you. Your eyes widened, shoulders tensing in shame as some heads raised in question. You try hard not to meet their eyes as you pack your things up, hoping no one recognizes you.

You leave the campus and trod the usual street home. Your apartment building isn’t that far from the campus but it wasn’t close either. Nonetheless, you usually enjoy the walk home.It was a quiet walk, your phone clenched tightly in your hand when the thought finally crossed your mind. You weren't exactly counting how long it had been, but as far as you could remember it’s been more than a week since you had sent your letter to a certain someone.

You turn fast, building up your speed in excitement to reach the post office as soon as you can. It didn’t take long before you were already in front, eyes wide as you went to the counter. “Anything for me? Y/N L/N?”

The man stares at you, a little surprised at your outburst but you just stared back with equally wide eyes, eager to know whether you had received a reply or not.

The man starts looking at the countless envelopes, reading each of them before he finally sees the one with your name written on it. “Here,” The man hands it to you.

You take it, reading the addressee and your eyes widened at the name that became familiar on your tongue. “Thank you!”

You run out, a wide smile on your face as you hurried home. You couldn’t believe you received a letter back and you couldn’t spare another second to see what the letter contained.

You pushed the apartment door open after you had typed in the code, the door automatically closing behind you as you removed your shoes with lightning speed, letting them lay messily on the foyer as you walked deeper inside the room and dropped your bag on the floor.

You sit on the wooden floor, crossing your legs as you panted heavily. Your back rests on the foot of the couch, the wood beneath you warm; the comfort of your home embracing you like a hug. You push a stray hair behind your ear, before reaching for the opening of the envelope and start to tear.

You take a deep breath in, and try hard not to read it too fast.

It reads:

Hello, Y/N.

I’m glad you decided to send me a letter.

My name is Park Seonghwa and I’m 28 years old. You can probably already tell that because of my profile, huh?

Life here in prison isn’t that great actually but I get pretty busy so the day passes by quickly. I made a few friends here, one of them is Hongjoong, he’s in the same prison cell as I am. We both have life sentences so we bond over that fact. But it’s nice to have a friend outside these prison bars so I’m looking forward to talking with you, Y/N.

How’s college life so far? Was it everything you ever hoped for? Do you have friends? How are you?

Just tell me about yourself in general and don’t hold back. I’m open with any topic we could talk about.

I’m looking forward to your next letter, Y/N.

Sincerely,

Park Seonghwa

You let out a sigh you didn’t even realise you were holding.

Your face was numb from smiling the whole time and you couldn’t help but to let out a small squeal. Seonghwa’s handwriting was a little messy but it surprisingly goes along with the way he looks.

He seems open and kind. And you’re probably just being naive but all the warnings you heard from Wooyoung just went way past your head.

You hurried over to your study table and started writing your reply.

Hi, Seonghwa!

I’m so happy to hear from you. I didn’t expect to actually receive a reply from you but I am so glad you decided to send me one. It must be hard in there, but I’m glad you have someone to talk and relate with.

My life is pretty boring so I don't know what to tell you. All I did after I sent you the letter was study the whole time, it’s our exam week so of course, I had to. It’s hard but I manage, tomorrow is the last day of my exams and I can finally rest until summer break.

I don’t have many friends, aside from Wooyoung. He’s the only friend I have ever had since I started college. I didn’t expect college to be any different from high school and surprisingly, I was right. Aside from the heavier workload and level of seriousness, everything is pretty much just the same. Or maybe it’s just me.

I’m sorry, there’s really nothing that’s interesting about me. I hope you’ll understand.

But when you receive this mail, just know that I’m well.

How about you? I’d like to know more about you and I look forward to getting to know you as well.

Sincerely,

Y/N L/N

You quickly wrap the letter up, leaving at the same time to go to the post office to have it sent. You’re not exactly sure when you’ll receive the next reply but no one would be stopping you from dropping by every day.

It became a part of your life ever since then.

What you thought would start as something not so serious and child’s play lasted a year. The amount of commitment you both had in sending each other letters had you wondering sometimes. But you were just happy whenever you received a letter with your name written at the back of the envelope in Seonghwa’s handwriting.

It started from something casual, from you both asking about how your lives have been, information about yourselves, interests, hobbies and principles in life, until it grew into something personal you, not surprisingly, expected it to be.

You become open with any information about each other and you find yourself sharing everything you normally wouldn’t share with anyone—even Wooyoung. Maybe it’s because of the fact that you would never get to meet Seonghwa face to face (although, at some point, you started wishing you could) but you can’t tell, Seonghwa just feels like someone who will always be free from judgement.

... really, baby? I didn’t expect that from you. You just never seemed to be the type that will be into that sort of stuff. I admit I’m surprised but it’s good to know that you’re aware of what you like and what you do not want.

Have you tried talking about this with anyone yet? A boyfriend, perhaps? Or maybe friends with benefits? Fuck buddies? Do you want to try that with someone you love or is it fine even if it wasn’t? How would you like it to happen? How about aftercare?

Your cheeks grow hot, and you immediately start fanning your face with the letter the moment you finish reading it, savoring the way Seonghwa spoke to you—how he called you baby. The first time he’d said it, it had taken you nearly ten minutes to calm down.

At this point, you had told Seonghwa almost everything about yourself to the point that there’s nothing left to hide. Seonghwa’s aware what program you were majoring in, your university, your siblings, parents and he even started addressing the mail to your apartment building so you could easily check whenever a letter would arrive.

There’s no harm done, and a year has already passed. You doubt there would be anything bad that’s going to happen now, you’re way past those thoughts. Seonghwa’s got a life sentence, you doubt he’ll ever get out of prison or would even try to break out of it.

And Seonghwa made you feel safe, as if everything about him and everything he ever told you would be safe.

So you don't think anything could happen at this point.

You can’t tell exactly when your letters started transitioning into something that’s edging on intimate, maybe it’s the writer in him or maybe it was just natural of him, but Seonghwa just has his way with words that he smoothly transitions into calling you a term of endearment.

But you didn’t find it in you to point it out, or even try to correct the man.

You were too over the moon to even try, so you said nothing about it.

And Seonghwa continues doing so.

It was a hopeless kind of relationship you shared if you started wishing for something more than just this. So you try hard to limit yourself in thinking about Seonghwa, after all, this is nothing but just a fleeting moment for the both of you.

I actually haven’t tried yet. I’m too scared to even try. I might seem like the type who doesn’t care sometimes but I’m afraid that people would start thinking I’m weird once I told them about what I like.

It’s not everyday you learn that someone loves being forcibly violated during intercourse so it has been nothing else but just a fantasy of mine. Maybe someday, but I don’t know if I would ever meet someone who would be into that.

I don’t have a boyfriend and I’ve had one night stands here and there. I don’t want it to be extremely planned out, I like the spontaneity of it, take me by surprise type of thing. Does that make me sound like a pervert? I think it does. I’m sorry.

You send your reply, only slightly embarrassed about the contents of the letter since you’ve been talking about stuff like this for months now. Seonghwa has helped you discover things you didn’t know about yourself.

The man was too intelligent, filled with random knowledge even you didn’t know. Maybe it came with his age. It was either Seonghwa was naturally a genius or there’s just a lot of things you don’t know.

It was exactly four days later when you received a reply, opening the mailbox to see a letter from no one else but Seonghwa.

You readied yourself to read a long letter once you had reached your apartment, but you didn’t expect to see a paper containing only a sentence. Seonghwa has never done that before, so to see him do so made you frown in confusion.

What’s your safe word?

You read it once more, and then read it again. You reach for the envelope, turning it over to see that it did come from Seonghwa and it was addressed to you so there really was no mistake.

You thought a lot about it, and wondered why that was the only thing he had sent you since he usually sends two to three pages long.

But you still stand up, going to the study table and grabbing your pen. You pause and stare at the blank paper, thinking about what else you should write but considering Seonghwa didn’t answer your past questions and answered you with a single question, you resorted to doing the same.

You don't know what Seonghwa wants to do with the information but you answered him honestly. Like you always did.

Just the basics. The traffic light system, green, continue. Yellow, slow down. Red, stop everything immediately. Unless I say them, everything I say is not considered, like no, or stop. All that stuff.

Why?

The moment you sent that letter, you never received a reply from Seonghwa again.

You wondered whether you had gone a little overboard in sharing your preferences. Anxiously you think about how maybe you had finally weirded Seonghwa out after everything you had told him.

You’re aware it wasn’t normal, considering it’s something that shouldn’t be taken lightly. But you thought Seonghwa understood. He had indulged you, asked you about it, encouraged you, and comforted you—reassuring you that there was nothing wrong with having kinks that fell outside what most people consider typical.

You were grateful that you could finally talk about it openly with someone—grateful that Seonghwa understood you and was someone you could rely on. He made you feel there was nothing wrong with wanting to be forced beyond your limits during sex, and that it was a good thing to know yourself so well. It left you feeling more at ease with what you wanted.

You thought you had finally built up the confidence to try something you’d wanted for a long time, especially after Seonghwa kept telling you not to be afraid of any judgement.

But since his silence, it was as if you went back to where you first started again. Way back to your hometown, surfing the internet hoping it had the answers to why you wanted to be taken against your will and why the thought of it turned you on.

That feeling of anxiety started creeping in on you again just like it had back then.

You should’ve listened when Wooyoung warned you about it. When he had spoken about how prisoners could easily manipulate someone. If you have heeded his warnings then maybe you wouldn't be feeling this way now.

Tomorrow would mark three weeks since you’d sent your letter. Seonghwa had never gone this long without replying, so if there was still nothing waiting for you when you got home tomorrow, you’d decided you would force yourself to let it go and start moving on.

Even then, you knew it would take a long time before you could truly forget.

You stopped by your mailbox right after you had come home from a night class you dreaded having. Your heart was hammering in your chest, nervous and all the more hopeful that there would be something inside, an envelope that contained a letter and bore Seonghwa’s handwriting in it.

But you were met with disappointment when you tugged it open and found nothing.

Your mouth pursed, heart sinking as you closed the metal loudly. You considered staying there, lumping down the floor to curl up and bask on the lingering feeling of pain and betrayal in your chest. But you push yourself to start walking towards the elevator, trying so hard to suppress the tears threatening to fall as you walk inside the elevator.

Your mind spaces out, the tears you were trying so hard to hold back finally vanishes and results into blank—empty.

You walk out of the elevator when it chimes, signaling your arrival to your floor. You were way too out of your mind as you walked along the hallway, not even noticing your surroundings, too deep in your feelings to even start worrying about anything else.

You stand right in front of your apartment door, shoulders sagging as your hands reach out to type the code in. Your eyes were distant, mind blank as you sighed.

There’s usually no one along the halls at this time of the night since people resorted to resting in their units. You rarely see your neighbours even except in the mornings when people tend to get busy especially on weekdays.

So when someone crept up behind you without making a sound—the warmth of their presence sending a shiver across your skin—you froze where you stood.

Your movements paused and your eyes widened, rising from its gaze on your hands on the pad to looking ahead right at the wood of your apartment door.

Your first thought was it could be a ghost, or a creepy feeling you had never felt before in your entire life, something paranormal and scary—but when you felt something sharp placed right on the side of your torso, you finally got the idea of what was happening.

Your heart began to race, and sweat started to gather on your forehead as a wave of adrenaline washed over you.

You raise your hands slightly, trembling in fear as the man grabs you by the shoulder while the other stays right at your side while holding something—which you could suspect as nothing else but a knife.

“Open the door,” The man commands. His voice was deep and a little raspy, and the power it held had you automatically obeying.

You immediately continue with typing your code in, turning it to the side and twisting it open. The man behind you pushes you in and follows right after you.

Your head was tucked, fear overcoming you as all thoughts circled your mind. What could this man possibly want? What could you even offer? You have nothing. You’re not even that rich to be involved in this kind of incident. You surely don't have enemies as far as you know. So why the hell was this happening?

“I-I don’t have much money,” you begin, words stuttering out as you continue looking ahead, refusing to turn as this might trigger the man. “But you could take anything—everything, I have my laptop over there and my phone—my money is—“

The man chuckles, in amusement or in a way to mock you—you don't know and you could care less. You just want to know what this man wants from you, “That’s not what I want.”

You pause, wondering what else the man could take from you aside from material things.

One thing came into your mind, but you deeply hoped that wasn’t the case.

“Turn around,” The man orders.

You did as you were told, albeit hesitantly. You refused to look at the man’s face when you had made a full turn, eyes cast down to the floor.

There was a moment of silence and you were so close to tears when you felt a warmth on your chin, forcing you to lift your face and you did, trembling in fear as you followed the movement and you finally got to see the man’s face.

“What else can you offer?” The man says with a tilt of his head and a smirk on his lips.

You stared, taking in the sight of the man in front of you, and your face relaxed—contorting into something akin to relief as realization dawned on you.

You haven't seen this man in person, nor have you met him personally even once, but you know him. You were just exchanging letters with him a few weeks ago, talking about everything you could never talk about to anyone and shame finally overcame you.

Your fear was gone in an instant, almost non-existent as embarrassment took its place.

You almost utter out the man’s name, but Seonghwa comes close, wrapping you up in his warmth as his lips graze your ear.

Seonghwa was tall, and the way he carried himself—the way he stood, the weight of his presence—made you want to shrink into yourself.

Seonghwa’s hand rounds your body, reaching behind you, hand low before it finally comes in contact with the supple flesh of your ass.

You gasp, eyes widening in surprise as you try to hold back any more sounds you could make as Seonghwa starts to caress you there.

You don't know what to do with yourself nor where this was leading to. You haven't even talked to him in three weeks now, and seeing him here was more than just a surprise.

But the way Seonghwa was holding you, the way he had started whatever he was doing to you excited you to no end. This was what you were just talking about with him a few weeks before, and now Seonghwa’s giving you exactly what you wanted.

“Please … stop,” you mutter, voice weak and quiet as you shut your eyes tight. The words coming to you naturally, your skin prickling, buzzing with heat as the thought of what’s happening burns your loins.

A smile spreads across Seonghwa’s lips. He didn’t expect you to play along immediately considering you had never seen each other in person like this. He expected you to push him away or tell him to leave.

He guesses you really are just too fucked in the head.

Lucky him.

Seonghwa pulls away, seeing that your eyes are shut tight and he grinds his teeth. He grabs a fistful of your hair, pulling you into a kiss and you push on his chest, lips shut tight as Seonghwa tries to force them open with his tongue.

He grabs your jaw, tightening his hold to coax your mouth open and you wince, the pain unbearable. You had no choice but to open your mouth, welcoming his tongue in.

There were so many thoughts circling your mind, so many questions you wanted to ask—confusions you hoped he would finally clear up after you’d gone so long without hearing from him.

But you couldn’t think straight as the lust flooded your mind. You could feel your panties getting wet at the contact of Seonghwa’s thigh in between your legs.

The man was everything but gentle, he pushed you backwards by walking forward, hand still clutching you by the jaw as your lips did not break contact. You weren’t even reciprocating the action.

You were just there, mouth slacked and tongue lolled out as Seonghwa sucked you in as if he’s been starved for so long and you whined at the thought of being used.

You push on his chest, finding the man unbudging before the back of your knees make contact with your bed and you fall against the sheets, forcing your mouths to break.

You sit there, looking up at the man who was looking down at you , eyes clouded with lust and you turn away, catching your breath. You already know where this is leading to but you don't know what Seonghwa’s planning.

Seonghwa pushes his hair back, reaching for his pants and unzips it. He positions himself right where you sit in front of him, your brows furrow as you sit there looking up at him.

He pulls his dick out, stroking himself a few times before he grabs your hair, forcing you to turn your head towards his dick and he smiles at the sight of it.

You pull back, trying to turn away but the hold Seonghwa had on you had you stilling, his grip against your hair tight and painful.

“Suck,” he says, voice authoritative as he grazes the head of his cock against your lips. The action made your pussy clench, finding yourself getting wetter at the thought of him forcing you to take him down your throat.

“N-No,” you beg, pressing your lips together but his hold on your hair tightens making you hiss in pain.

“I wasn’t asking,” Seonghwa grunts, gaze piercing and you shiver.

Your eyebrows pinched together and tears welled up at the edge of your eyes, but your mouth fell open slightly, until Seonghwa opened it wider by thrusting his dick in without remorse.

You choke, pulling back at the force, pushing him by his hips but Seonghwa holds you there, laughing at your struggle.

“If you don’t do it properly, you’re gonna choke. Come on,” he pulls his hips back, giving you time to readjust before he pushes once more, thrusting his dick in and this time, your throat is more relaxed as tears fall down your cheeks.

Seonghwa’s mouth falls open, almost cumming at the face you were making. You looked so pretty, eyes filled with tears looking up at him, eyebrows pinched as you glared, mouth full with his dick, sitting there, pliant and powerless as you let him use you.

“If I feel teeth, I’ll kill you right here,” he threatens and your throat tightens around his cock as you whine.

Seonghwa groaned, throwing his head back as he thrusts in your mouth, gradually getting rougher and faster. It had you closing your eyes, hands raising once more to hold him by his hips to slow him down but the man refused to do so.

“Your throat is twitching, do you actually like that, huh?” He grunts, panting as he chases his high.

You find yourself choking in discomfort and you try to pull away once more, pushing yourself up further by the bed in hopes of getting away.

Seonghwa lets you go, his cock coming out of your mouth filled with spit and his precum. You heave, catching your breath as if drowned.

Seonghwa watches you, amusement dancing in his eyes as you climb up the bed until the back of your head collides with the wall, finding yourself cornered.

“I haven't even cum yet,” He mutters, climbing up the bed on his knees as he strokes himself, his cock dripping wet. Your hand raises, covering your mouth with the back of it.

“Please … no more, I can’t do it,” You plead, turning your face away.

“You were amazing, baby. It’s like you were born to be used,” Seonghwa says, voice mocking and the smile on his face sinister.

You look at him in fear when he grabs your hair once more, he holds his dick with the other and lines it up again against your lips.

His cock grazes your lips, his precum spreading on it and he bites his bottom lip at the sight. “So pretty, aren’t you? How many dicks has this mouth sucked, huh?”

Seonghwa slaps his cock against your lips teasingly as your eyes scrunch close in humiliation. You’re pretty sure there was a wet spot forming in the middle of your jeans from everything he was doing to you. You hated how much you loved this but it was everything you ever wanted.

“Open wide, baby,” He says and you do so, not wanting to disobey the man further and push the wrong buttons.

Seonghwa thrusts fast almost immediately, chasing the high he was on earlier and you keep your eyes closed, throat clenching sporadically as he holds you still, face pressed right against his pubes as warmth finally spreads across your throat.

Your eyes rolled to the back of your head, gulping down the spurts of cum Seonghwa was releasing in your mouth as he refused to pull away, determined to make you swallow everything and you did just that, choking and gasping for air.

You hadn't even fully recovered when he tugs you down, turning you over, and forcibly bends your body across the bed face shoved in the pillows causing you to tremble.

“Wait—Please, haven’t you had enough?” You say, voice scratchy and breathless as you try to look over your shoulder at Seonghwa but he firmly holds you by the nape.

“You call a mediocre blowjob enough? Who would be satisfied with that?” Seonghwa chuckles, the sound is too humiliating to your ears.

Seonghwa towers behind you, pushing you harder on the bed when you try to struggle. The man hovers right behind your head, you feel the hand on your nape let loose only to reach for your hands on each side of your body to tie them together behind you.

You freeze, heart hammering loud in your chest at the thought of being unable to fight back or do anything but lay there and take whatever he was going to do to you.

A familiar heat swept across your skin, and you squeezed your eyes shut as a whine escaped you, mentally berating yourself for being so obvious.

Seonghwa chuckles, almost breaking out of his own character and pushes himself up after successfully tying your wrists with his belt.

He hovers behind you once more, hands pressing on either side of your head as he lowers his face right at your ear and whispers, “Isn’t this supposed to be the part where you struggle, baby? You love it too much, you're breaking out of your own character.”

You grit your teeth, wiggling your body and thumping your head back to try to knock him off balance to no avail. “Let go of me.”

Seonghwa tilts his head to the side, amazed at the shift, and smirks at your struggle. "You do realise you're not going anywhere, right? I'm going to fuck you, and you're going to take it whether you want it or not. But judging from the back of your jeans, I don't think that's going to be an issue."

He shifted back and flipped your body over so you were on your back, and you gasped at the sudden movement, your wrists still locked together behind you.

Seonghwa grabs your jaw, forcibly making you turn to face him and spares no time smashing his lips against yours. You clench your jaw tightly when his tongue tries to pry your mouth open.

The hold on your jaw tightens in retaliation, the stinging pain making you wince. You were left with no choice but to relax your jaw, unable to bear the pain as his tongue made its way into your mouth.

Seonghwa was relentless. It was as if he was sucking you in just like before. The hold he had on your jaw was more relaxed now, just angling your head to lift it higher so he could kiss you better—deeper.

You whimper as he sucks on your tongue, fidgeting and rubbing your thighs together for some sort of relief for your neglected pussy that’s been left untouched.

Seonghwa seems to notice this. He lowers both his hands, easily unbuttoning your jeans and yanking down the zipper. You struggle once more, all the more surprised and overwhelmed.

“Wait—” you blurt, frantic. You turn your face to the side to break the kiss, and Seonghwa’s lips collide with your cheek.

You try to reach for his hands on instinct until you remember that your hands are still bound, and you whimper in helplessness as Seonghwa finishes pulling down the rest of your jeans along with your panties. Seonghwa relishes the sight of you naked from the waist down in front of him as he drops the items to the floor.

He spreads your legs open and you immediately turn your head away in humiliation as if that would make you feel less exposed but it didn’t, not even one bit and fresh tears gathered in your eyes from the shame.

Your hole twitched and Seonghwa smiled, no matter how much you tried to deny it, he knows just as much as you do that you loved this.

It would take a fool not to notice.

And Seonghwa’s not a fool.

He fits himself between your legs, rubbing his cock against your bare cunt, and feels you trembling against him—whether in shame or excitement, he couldn't exactly tell. "You're a pervert," he whispered in your ear, leaning down.

You whimper, biting your bottom lip, embarrassed that Seonghwa thinks you’re a pervert—and that he knows it, too.

You’d been physically open and vulnerable with one-night stands before, but none of them knew what you liked the way he did. And even though you were excited and looking forward to what would happen next, you couldn’t ignore the humiliation and shame simmering beneath your skin.

But you find yourself liking that as well.

So, Seonghwa’s right.

You are a pervert.

Seonghwa grinds his hips forward again, lingering for another moment as he revels in the way his cock rubs against your slit and brushes your clit. You can't help thrusting your hips up to meet his, your eyes fluttering in pleasure.

You don't even notice when he swiftly inserts two fingers into your entrance, making you throw your head back—you weren't prepared for the sudden intrusion. Still, you try to fight it, pulling your hips away, but Seonghwa only grows more persistent. One hand reaches out to hold your hip still while the other pushes his fingers deeper inside you until they're buried knuckle-deep, drawing an involuntary moan from your lips.

Fuck, you're so tight," Seonghwa cursed, his mind flashing with images of his cock sliding in and out of you instead of his fingers. His fingers graze against the gummy walls of your pussy, looking for something that he knew without a doubt would add to your pleasure.

He knew he found it when your thighs began to shake, your breathing growing faster and heavier, resulting in you squirming even harder, trying to get away from Seonghwa’s relentless onslaught.

“Stop! Stop! Wait, please—slow down!” You beg, eyes wide in panic as you grow nearer to your climax but that only riled Seonghwa up.

Unless he heard exactly the word that signified it being too much for you, he wasn’t going to stop anytime soon.

“Stop—Please! I’m coming!!” You scream, voice high and pitchy. Your thighs close, trapping Seonghwa’s arm in between your legs as if that would stop him.

Seonghwa arches his fingers, pushing against that one spot inside of you so hard you choke on a moan, coming hard and fast, your thighs shake, mouth falling open as your eyes fight to stay open.

He pulls his fingers out, his hand wet with your release almost to the point it reaches his wrist and laughs before licking it off of his fingers. Sweat gathered at his forehead, making his hair stick to it and he pushed it back with his free hand.

“I fucking knew you would be good for this,” Seonghwa comments, looking down at you as you shivered from how hard your orgasm was.

You roll onto your side, curling in on yourself as much as your bound arms allow, trying to ride out the afterglow—but Seonghwa doesn’t give you any time.

He tugs on your shoulder, making you turn to face him once more and you do, eyes hooded and hazy as you look up at the man who stares down at you with lust and satisfaction swimming in his eyes.

“Open your mouth,” he commands, holding you by the jaw.

You were way past fighting back now, so you do as he says, mouth falling open at the command and Seonghwa’s gaze lowers to your mouth. “Tongue out.”

You did what you were told and rolled your tongue out, the muscle wet and Seonghwa gathered saliva in his mouth, spitting it right into your own and closed it with his hold on your chin.

“Swallow, bitch.” He says and you don’t hesitate, groaning at the action. Seonghwa slaps your cheek, the force leaving a mark on your skin and you whimper slowly, eyes closing in a daze.

It was so filthy, so dirty and lewd, you couldn’t believe how much you liked it.

“Good girl,” Seonghwa praises. His hand grips your chin, holding you by the cheek as he caresses you there, and you nuzzle into his palm on instinct.

He grabs your shoulder again, turning you over, and pushes your head down into the pillow. “Raise your hips.”

You do so obediently, knees holding you up as you present yourself for Seonghwa to see and he smiles, loving the obedience.

“What a good bitch I have right here. Should I just lock you up? Keep you out of the world and tie you up right here, just for me, hmm? Just for me to use and fuck whenever I want.”

You shake your head despite the difficulty, appalled at what Seonghwa suggested and the man just laughs at your reaction. You’ve been panting so hard, mouth falling open as spit drips from your lips. You don’t know what to do with yourself, you have never been so lost in pleasure like this.

“I think you would be a great cock sleeve, baby.”

Seonghwa raises his hand, slapping one of your ass cheeks harshly and it immediately starts to sting. You wince at the pain, body jolting up at the force as you feel something drip out of your pussy.

You have never been like this before.

“Fucking slut,” Seonghwa whispers, landing another slap on the other cheek and your toes curl.

Seonghwa tugs on his cock, inching closer to your awaiting hole before he notices your hands fisted into a ball, wrist bruised from the tightness of the belt and he stops himself.

He reaches for the belt, tugs it loose and throws it off the bed.

A question pops inside of your head after the action but the relief that came with it when you were finally able to rest your arms on the bed washed it away.

Seonghwa pushes your shirt up, eyes peering down at your waist and wraps his hands around it. He lines himself up against your entrance, watching the way your hole gives in so easily to the head of his cock and he groans at the sight. Your pussy immediately wraps around his dick like a vice, so warm and tight Seonghwa couldn’t help but moan as he pushed his way inside.

You choke on a gasp as he buries himself to the hilt. Seonghwa’s cock was so big it was as if he occupied your insides, leaving no space for anything else. You couldn’t bring yourself to open your eyes from the pressure alone.

With the little ounce of fight left in you, you reach behind you, trying to push Seonghwa’s hips away when it finally comes in contact with your ass. Seonghwa grips your hand, and reaches for the other.

He pins them both behind your back steady with one hand before he pulls your hips back with the grip and thrusts in. His free hand presses on the bed beside your head, holding himself steady as he thrusts in hard.

You jostled on the bed, mouth falling open in a silent moan as the head of his cock grazed your cervix right on.

Your thighs tremble, chest heaving in heavy breaths as Seonghwa fucks you without remorse. Your face turns to the side, mouth open and eyes unfocused as the urge to close your legs starts flooding your mind, the intensity of Seonghwa’s thrusts makes your legs shake, toes curling at the unimaginable pleasure.

It was the first time you had ever felt like this. Everything you knew about sex was gone with the way Seonghwa was fucking you. It was as if it was your first time all over again, only this time you were actually enjoying it.

You whine, teeth clenching as Seonghwa never once moves from that spongy spot inside of you. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” You moaned, hands trying to claw their way out of Seonghwa’s grip to clench the sheets but Seonghwa refused to let them go.

He lowers himself, lips coming in contact with your shoulder and kisses you there. He raises himself to your ear and whispers, “You like that?”

He thrusts in, deeper and harder, the sound of skin slapping drumming in your ears and you relish in the filth of it. It was so unreserved and wild, you can’t bring yourself to open your eyes as you moan without a care.

“Fuck,” you whimper, burying your face in the pillow as you try to pull your hips away from Seonghwa’s brutal thrusts.

The buildup of your orgasm didn’t take long, you were already getting closer and closer as Seonghwa didn’t even try to hold himself back, pushing more when you tried to pull away, leaving you not even the smallest chance of escaping his onslaught.

True to his word, he fucks you like some cock sleeve only meant to be used.

And you take pleasure at the thought. Eyes closed, moans escaping uncontrollably as your mouth fell open.

Seonghwa lets go of your hands, lowering himself on your back and pins you down with his entire body as he chases his high.

You just lie there, taking his harsh thrusts before the man tugs you by the hair, making you yelp in surprise as he turns your head back and captures your lips. Seonghwa pins your hips down, knees spreading open on the bed as his thrusts grow faster and faster, finally coming close to his high.

He bites on your lower lip, pulling a pained whine from your mouth before he pulls away. “Fuck, you feel so good.” He groans, voice heavy with lust as he pants right in your ear.

It was so heated, so heavy and hot as your pants and moans echoed in the room. Your cunt clenched down on his dick as you came, surprising yourself and even Seonghwa as you clenched tighter around the man’s cock.

Seonghwa’s hips still, groaning at the pleasure that wracks his body and grinds his cock in. It took everything in him not to paint your insides with his cum, but he didn’t want this to be over so soon just yet.

Seonghwa pulls out, turning you to face him and pushes on your inner thigh spreading you open once more. Your hand raises to hold his hips back when he starts lining himself up against your throbbing hole once more.

“A-Aren’t we done?” You asked, voice weak and face filled with confusion.

Seonghwa just looks down at you as if you just asked the stupidest question that ever was. “Did I cum?”

“B-But I just came, I’m still sensitive—”

“I don’t give a fuck,” he says, slapping your hold on his hips away and pushes inside once more, sighing at the warmth that envelopes his cock and tosses his head back.

You tense, jolting uncontrollably at the sparks of pleasure as tears hit the edges of your eyes from the oversensitivity. Seonghwa thrusts almost immediately, fucking you with no intentions of stopping and your thighs tighten around his hips.

You feel the familiar buildup, only this time it feels different.

“Wait—Wait, Seonghwa!” You call out his name, frantic. You try pushing the man by his chest, but he smacks your hand away.

You try to fight, thrashing in his hold as he didn’t make a move to stop his hips, fucking you like it’s his first time and your tears fall on instinct.

“No! Stop! I think I’m gonna pee!!” You almost scream, frantic at the thought and he laughs at you.

“If you really want me to stop, you know what to say.” Seonghwa replied, not even trying to slow down. His thrusts grew faster, pushing you up on the bed as your body jostled from the force of his thrusts.

You cry out, legs shaking so hard as your pussy starts releasing clear liquid, spurt after spurt of it shoots out of you making you sob in shame.

You clench around Seonghwa’s cock one last time, holding him tight like a vice, leaving the man with no choice but to bury himself deep inside of you and cum.

Seonghwa trembles from the force of his climax, releasing his cum right inside of your sloppy pussy and makes no move to pull out until he has filled you with every last drop. He looks down at you and sees you shaking as your eyes start to lose focus, clouded with haze as he basks in the force of his orgasm.

Seonghwa lowers himself, lips brushing against your ear. “That’s not pee, you dumb bitch. You just squirted like the slut you are.”

You don’t say anything, you just whine as Seonghwa finally pulls out of you, his cum oozing out of your pussy.Your legs close, body shaking as the pleasure wracks your whole body.

And then you pass out.

You blink, shuffling on the bed as you finally come to. Your body was heavy the same way your eyes were and your muscles were sore. You momentarily forgot how you got into that situation until the smell of cigarettes entered your nostrils.

The room was cold, but the blanket wrapped around your body provided the warmth you needed.

Your eyes open fully taking in the man resting against the headboard right beside you blowing out smoke from his lips.

You sit up despite your aching back’s protests, catching Seonghwa’s attention as you do, and the reality of what just happened finally sinks in. You fume—confused, overwhelmed, and even more embarrassed.

“You’re finally awake,” Seonghwa says and you can’t believe what you’re seeing and hearing.

Seonghwa was here.

It’s not him in the form of a letter, handwriting or an envelope. It’s him right beside you, smoking a cigarette, eyes piercing and deeper than his image indicated on the website, his hair was silver and it reaches up to the nape of his neck, features soft and his lips are quirked up in amusement.

You gape, not knowing what to say.

“What?” He says, chuckling. Obviously too amused at the way you were gawking at him.

“Well—I didn’t expect you to be here.” You tell him, voice scratchy from overuse and you clear your throat, ashamed as the memories of why that was floods your mind again.

Seonghwa chuckles once more, crushing his cigarette on a paper he had laid out by the bedside table and leans closer to you, caressing your hair.

“Well, I came for you, baby.” He says, leaning closer to reach for your cheek and plants a kiss on it.

“But… But don’t you have a life sentence? How come you’re here? How’d you get here?” You ask, question after question running through your mind.

Seonghwa pauses, caught off guard but he tries hard not to let it show.

“Does that matter?” He asks back, chuckling as his hands lower to your arm tugging you closer to try and capture your lips but you turn your face away slightly, brows furrowing.

“Seonghwa,” you begin, your eyes unfocused as your face relaxes and your mind tries to make sense of everything. “I never got to ask.”

Seonghwa pauses, pulling back to give you a bit of space as you press a hand lightly to his chest.

“How’d you end up in prison?”

Seonghwa studies your face, noticing how you refuse to meet his eyes, and a grin plays at his lips. Out of what? you couldn’t tell.

“You really do ask the right questions, baby.” He says, leaning back on the headboard as the grin never once vanished from his face.

He stays leaning there, eyes looking ahead as the smile slowly fades and his face morphs into something you can’t understand when you finally lift your eyes to look at the man you barely knew.

“You wanna know what crime made me end up with a life sentence?” Seonghwa asks, turning to look at you as your eyes finally meet.

Only this time, your eyes faltered as Seonghwa’s turned piercingly cold.

“It’s rape.”

A/N: it feels wrong to upload this an hour after leaving from church. I gotta go repent

[seungari]

🗡𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐒𝐊𝐙 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 — PROTECTION PROTOCOL (CHANGBIN) 🗡 𝐀 𝐲𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐝𝐞𝐯𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞.

⚠️ Contains explicit sexual content, graphic violence, blood/gore, kidnapping. All sexual acts are consensual within a coercive, obsessive relationship dynamic.

he'll protect you no matter what. no matter the cost.

You don’t call it a date.

That’s important, somehow. It’s in the way you say it when you’re sitting on the blanket and he passes you a strawberry, in the way you keep your legs stretched out like you’re here to catch sun, not feelings.

“It’s not a date,” you remind him, lips brushing the fruit when you take it from his fingers. “You said, ‘Let’s hang out at the park.’ That’s a hangout.”

Changbin sprawls across from you on his elbows, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, shoulders already going warm from the afternoon. The plastic container of fruit is wedged by his ribcage, your tote bag is half open, and the picnic he packed looks like he robbed a deli.

“Right,” he agrees easily. “A hangout with sandwiches. And macarons. And that pasta salad you said you liked once, in March, and then never shut up about.”

You squint at him. “I mentioned it twice.”

“Three times.” He grins, unabashed. “First when you ate it. Second when you couldn’t find it again. Third when you said you were going to sue the grocery store for discontinuing it.”

“That was a joke.”

“Was it?” His mouth curves. “You looked very litigious.”

You try not to smile and mostly fail. The park hums around you—kids shrieking in the distance, dogs negotiating leashes, the faint rush of traffic at the edge of the green. The blanket is big enough that you’re not touching unless you mean to. He picked a spot under a tree, half-shade, half-sun, with enough space that no one’s too close.

You noticed that when you sat down. The way he scanned the grass and gently steered you away from the busier patches with a hand at the small of your back, like it was just chivalry.

“Eat another,” he says now, nudging the container closer. “You’ve had, like, four molecules of food.”

“I had breakfast.”

“You had coffee.” He says. “That doesn’t count.”

You snort and reach for a grape. His eyes drop, briefly, to your hand, then lower—to the hem of the sundress. Yellow, soft, loose enough to breathe in, short enough to keep his imagination running wild. The fabric has ridden up an inch on your thigh; the breeze toys with it when you move.

Changbin looks away so fast it’s almost funny. His ears go pink.

You pretend you don’t see that either.

“So,” you say, popping the grape into your mouth. “Is this, like, a Changbin-approved hangout? Five-star rating? Would you recommend this hangout to a friend?”

He rolls onto his side, propping his head on his hand. The motion makes his t-shirt pull tight over his chest; you try not to notice and do about as well as he did with the dress.

“I don’t know,” he muses. “The company’s a little mean.”

You gasp, affronted. “I am delightful.”

“You insulted my playlist on the way here.”

“You played four versions of the same song.”

“They’re different live arrangements.”

“Uh-huh.” You narrow your eyes. “And the part where you almost missed the exit because you were doing ad-libs?”

He laughs, quick and bright. “Okay, I’ll give you that one.”

The thing about Changbin is that he really is exactly how he seems. He laughs with his whole chest, talks with his hands, makes stupid little drum fills on his knees when he’s thinking. He listens when you talk about school and work like it’s interesting, even when you know it isn’t. He remembers what you like and the things you hate and how you take your coffee without ever making it feel like he’s keeping score.

Your friends adore him. Obviously.

“He’s so good for you,” one of them had said last week, in that tone that was half teasing and half gentle shove. “Like, actual boyfriend material? For once?”

You’d made a face, because the word boyfriend itches right now, like a sweater in too-hot weather.

“He’s nice,” you’d said. “And we’re… you know. Whatever we are. It’s fine.”

It is fine. Mostly. As long as you don’t look too closely at the places where his sweetness sharpens.

On the blanket, he reaches for the sunscreen and twirls it between his fingers. “Did you put any on your shoulders?”

“Yes, mom.”

He lifts his brows. “Show me.”

You roll your eyes, but you turn anyway, tugging the straps of the dress aside to bare the tops of your shoulders. The sun has already kissed your skin a little pink.

He exhales through his teeth. “You’ll burn.”

“I won’t. I tan.”

“You fry first,” he counters, flipping the cap. “I’ve seen it. You complain for three days and then pretend you didn’t.”

A cool line touches your skin. His fingers follow—warm, broad, smoothing the lotion into your shoulder with careful, circular strokes. You expect teasing, something obnoxious; instead he’s quiet, focused, thumb feathering along the edge of the strap.

His touch is gentle. It’s always gentle. That’s part of the problem.

“You know,” he says after a moment, voice softer, closer to your ear, “you don’t have to laugh when they make jokes like that.”

“Like what?” You keep your gaze on the tree in front of you.

“The ‘boyfriend material’ thing.” His fingers pause, then resume. “If you don’t want them to, you can just tell them to shut up.”

There’s something in his tone you can’t quite name. Not angry. Not hurt. Just… aware.

“It’s fine,” you say, shrugging a little. “They’re just talking.”

His hand settles on your shoulder, warm and solid. “They’re talking about you.”

You huff. “You’re taking this very personally for someone who keeps insisting he’s cool with us just… being what we are.”

“I am cool.” He sounds offended. “I’m the coolest.”

You glance back over your shoulder. His face is very close now, sunglasses forgotten on the blanket. His eyes flick down to your mouth and back up again.

“Yeah?” you say, trying to drag the conversation out of the weird depth it’s threatening to sink into. “You sure? No secret resentment? No hidden agenda?”

He smiles, slow and lopsided. “Oh, I have an agenda.”

You arch a brow. “Do I want to know?”

“Eat,” he says, tapping your nose with a sunscreen-slick finger. “And drink water. And maybe let me—” His jaw ticks, so fast you almost miss it. “Maybe let me look after you without acting like it’s a crime.”

You turn fully back to him, pulling your straps up. “Bin…”

“What?” He shrugs, light, as if he hasn’t just said the quiet part out loud. “I like taking care of you. It’s not that deep.”

You want to believe him. You mostly do.

Mostly.

The third time your dress flutters up in the breeze, his hand shoots out without thinking, flattening the fabric to your thigh. His fingers splay, firm. His eyes flick sideways, scanning the park, checking who might have seen.

You laugh, because that’s your first language with him. “Relax. I’ve got shorts under.”

He doesn’t move his hand for a beat too long. When he does, he clears his throat, like he’s embarrassed at himself. “I know. Just—” His jaw tightens again. “People look.”

“People look at everything.”

“They shouldn’t,” he says automatically, then winces like he heard himself. “I mean, they should—in a normal way. Not in a… creepy way.”

“Are you saying I’m hot enough to cause chaos in the park?”

“Shut up,” he groans, flopping onto his back to stare at the sky. “You know you are. That’s half the problem.”

Your heart does a stupid little flip it has no business doing. You lie there too, shoulder to shoulder now, sun polka-dotting your faces through the leaves.

“So what,” you say after a moment, eyes on the blue. “You want me to wear a sack next time?”

His fingers find yours where your hands rest between you. He hooks his pinky around yours, not quite holding, not quite not.

“No,” he says quietly. “I like this dress.”

You can feel him looking even without turning your head. Your cheeks heat in a way that has nothing to do with the sun.

The rest of the afternoon is easy. You throw crumbs at passing pigeons and argue about whether they’re cute or not. He tells you a story about his friend almost getting his head taken off by a stray frisbee; you’ve heard it before, but he embellishes it every time, adding sound effects and impressions until you’re doubled over.

He takes photos when you’re not paying attention. You know because you catch the click once, the little flash of guilty smile when you turn.

“Delete that,” you say, reaching for his phone.

“Nope.” He’s faster, holding it away. “For my private gallery.”

“Ew, that sounds creepy.”

“It’s literally just you eating grapes.”

“Changbin.”

“What? I like your face.” His tone goes briefly, startlingly sincere. “I don’t get to see it as much as I want.”

You pause at that, stomach doing something you don’t have a name for. He looks like he wishes he could pull the words back, but they’re out there now, soft and bare in the space between you.

You blow out a breath. “You see me all the time.”

“Not when you’re with other people.”

There it is again. That quick shadow. The sentence he doesn’t finish.

“Good thing I ditched them for you today,” you say lightly, trying to smooth it over.

He looks at you for a long moment, something easing marginally at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah,” he says. “Good thing.”

By the time the sun starts dipping, the blanket is a chaos of crumbs and empty containers, and you are comfortably full, pleasantly warm, and a little too aware of how close he’s sitting.

You’re shifting around to grab your cardigan when his hand closes around your ankle.

“Careful,” he says, thumb brushing a stray blade of grass from your skin. “You’re gonna flash the whole park.”

You glance down. The dress has ridden up again. His eyes are on your leg, but the look isn’t leering. It’s… intense. Focused. Like he’s memorizing.

“Bin,” you tease, “if you’re that stressed about my thighs, maybe you should’ve picked a less windy day.”

“I’m not stressed,” he says. “Just… aware.”

“Of my thighs?”

“Of the fact that other people have eyes,” he says, voice going rougher. “And no self-control.”

You open your mouth to make a joke and then shut it again, because the expression on his face has shifted. There’s a flush on his neck that wasn’t there a second ago. His grip on your ankle tightens, just a little.

“Changbin,” you say, suddenly too conscious of the little gap between his knees and your hips. “What are you—”

“Come here,” he says.

It’s not quite a question. It’s not quite an order either. It’s something in between, dipped in please.

You go.

He catches your waist as you crawl closer, steadying you like he’s afraid you’ll fall in a straight line. Your knees bracket his thigh, your dress bunching dangerously high. His breath stutters when you end up half in his lap.

“Oh,” he says faintly. “Okay.”

“You did this,” you point out, hand on his chest to keep your balance.

“Yeah,” he says, staring at your mouth now like he’s forgotten how English works. “I… yeah.”

The kiss isn’t new. You’ve kissed him before—on your couch, in his bed, against the back door of a bar when you were both too keyed up to bother with a cab yet. You know the way his mouth fits, the way he tastes when he’s had too to drink, the little sound he makes when you bite his lower lip.

It still knocks something loose in you every time.

His hands slide up your back, fingers spanning your ribcage like he’s afraid you’ll float away. You tilt your head, deepen the kiss, press closer; his breath hitches, chest rising against yours. The park blurs, noise dropping to a dull ache at the edges of your awareness.

He pulls back once, just enough to rest his forehead against yours. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide.

“We should go,” he says.

You blink, dazed. “Oh. Um—sure. It’s getting late.”

“I mean now,” he clarifies, voice low and a little wrecked. “Like… right now.”

“Why?” you ask, even though you already know. You can feel the answer pressed against the inside of your thigh.

“Because if I keep you here,” he says, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, “I’m gonna be the guy who ruins a nice park for children.”

You snort, but your pulse is pounding. “Wow, so responsible.”

“I’m very responsible,” he says solemnly. Then his mouth tips. “I brought condoms.”

You choke on a laugh. “You—”

“Just in case,” he adds quickly. “Not, like, in a creepy way. I just—” He trails off, embarrassed. “You’re wearing this dress, and I have, like, two brain cells.”

You look at him—from the bright ears to the careful way his hands still hold you, like he’d let go if you even hinted at it.

“Car,” you say, feeling your own brain cells short-circuit. “Now.”

His relief is almost comical. “Yeah. Okay. Yeah.”

He helps you up, fussing unnecessarily with the hem of your dress, his body a shield between you and the rest of the park as if anyone is actually looking. He packs up the blanket with military efficiency, bags everything, checks twice that you didn’t forget your cardigan, your phone, your keys.

It’s sweet. It’s annoying. It’s him.

He hustles you to the car like he’s escorting royalty across a battlefield—basket thunked into the trunk, blanket balled under one arm, his other hand hovering at your lower back as if the wind might shove you somewhere without his permission. You’re still laughing when he opens the back door and the heat rolls out, summer trapped in the upholstery.

“Backseat?” you say, amused.

He swallows. “Unless you want me to crash us into a tree.”

“Responsible,” you tease, climbing in. “Very responsible.”

The door thuds shut. The world narrows. Sunlight stripes the seats, dust motes slow-dancing in the air. He slides in after you and pulls the door closed with a deliberate click, then hits the lock, then the child lock like a compulsion, like the doors themselves need to know you’re not to be disturbed.

“Tint’s good,” he says, mostly to himself, peering out and then back at you. His voice drops. “You look…”

“Like someone who’s going to ruin your day in a good way?” you offer, palms braced on his shoulders as you crawl into his lap again, your dress riding up and hitching at your thighs.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Exactly like that.”

He kisses you like he’s been holding his breath for an hour. You let him have you for a minute—mouth to mouth, teeth catching, the soft glide of his tongue when you open for him. His hands settle low on your hips, heavy and warm, but careful, always careful.

When you pull back, he chases you instinctively, a small, hungry sound catching in his throat.

“Bin,”  You kiss the corner of his mouth, the line of his chin, the spot under his ear that makes his shoulders jump. “Let me.”

“Let you what,” he says, even though the way his eyes go dark when you slide to your knees between his spread thighs says he already knows.

You tug his jeans down just enough, knuckles grazing the hard line of him through cotton. He exhales something hoarse, head tipping back against the headrest, veins standing up along his throat.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” you remind him.

“I won’t,” he says too fast, then corrects himself, breath breaking on a laugh. “I mean— I’ll tell you. If I do. Promise.”

“Good boy,” you say without thinking.

His hands flex on the seat, a full-body shiver rippling through him. “Fuck.”

You curl your fingers under the waistband and free him, heavy and already flushed, the tip slick and shining. He’s so hard it looks like it hurts; you wrap your hand around him just to ease the ache a little and he groans, hips jerking once, the sound punched out of him like you took his air.

“Eyes on me,” you say, because he told you that on the blanket and because you like the way it lands now—command and gift in one.

He drags his gaze down and locks it, obedient. His mouth is parted. His ears are pink even though he’s had you like this a dozen times before.

You stroke him slow at first, learning him again, thumb smoothing over the bead of slick until he’s slippery in your fist. The car ticks as the engine cools; somewhere outside, a dog barks. In here, there’s only the wet slide of your hand and the shaky way he breathes, each inhale stumbleing over your name.

“Is this why you wanted to leave the park?” you ask, feigning innocence, and squeeze a little harder.

“Hng— I wanted to— I—” He shuts his eyes for a beat, then forces them open like you told him. “I wanted you somewhere… ours.”

“Ours,” you echo, and lower your mouth.

His hand shoots to your hair, stopping an inch before he touches, hovering, shaking with the effort not to guide you. You take the head into your mouth and he whimpers, whimpers, the sound strangled like he’s embarrassed by it.

“Shit—baby—” He bites his lip, breath sawing. “You—feel so—”

You sink a little deeper, cheeks hollowing, your tongue teasing the underside where you know he’s sensitive. His thighs tense under your palms. You breathe through your nose, steady, and let the pace find itself: up, down, twist, flick—listen to the way his sounds change and chase the ones that make him fall apart.

When you look up, he’s staring like you’ve turned into religion personified—knuckles white on the seat, chest heaving, pupils blown. The possessiveness he tries to hide crackles at the edges of his expression, but it’s tempered by awe, by the way he keeps checking your face for any hint of no.

“Tap me if you need me to stop,” he manages, voice shredded, a beat late but still there. “Or— or pull off. Just—mmh—don’t hurt your throat for me.”

“Who says it’s for you?” you murmur around him, and take him deeper.

His head thumps the glass with a soft, helpless sound. “Oh my— god. Okay. Okay, shit.”

You breathe, relax, let him slide along the warm press of your tongue until your eyes sting a little. He tastes like heat and salt and summer. You keep one hand curled around the base, anchoring yourself, and the other on his stomach to feel how hard he’s trying not to thrust.

Outside, voices drift past, too far to be real, too close for his comfort. You feel the moment he hears them—the way every muscle in his body coils, the way his palm finally settles, careful, at the back of your head like a shield. His jaw ticks; his nostrils flare. His eyes cut toward the window, then back to you, guilt and greed warring in the look.

“Windows are tinted,” you whisper, letting him slip free with a wet pop just long enough to speak. “No one’s seeing anything.”

“They better not,” he grits out, then swallows hard when you lick him slow from base to tip, lazy, like you’ve got all day. His voice breaks. “Ffff–uck  you’re trying to kill me.”

You smile and take him in again, faster now, your hand working in tandem. He starts to unravel—little choked-off curses, breath hitching into rough, desperate sounds. His thighs tremble under your palms; his hips stutter despite how obviously he’s fighting for control.

“Please,” he says, and the word ruins you a little, all gravel and need. His fingers finally thread into your hair—not forcing, just holding, shaking. “I’m— I’m close, I’m gonna— tell me where, tell me—”

You pull back just enough to speak, stroking him with your slick fist. “In my mouth.”

He makes a sound you’ve never heard, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “Baby—”

“You’ve been good,” you add, because he has, because he’s trying so hard not to be everything he is all at once. “Let me have it.”

His eyes squeeze shut, like the words hit a switch. The next time you take him deep, he breaks—hips jerking, breath catching on your name like a prayer torn in half: “—fuckfuck, ___—”

You hold him through it, swallowing, letting him shudder apart under your hands. He spills hot and messy over your tongue, a helpless, wrecked groan rolling out of him, head thrown back against the headrest, tendons standing out in his throat. His grip on your hair never tightens past careful. He shakes like he’s been electrocuted and then goes boneless, trembling, a disbelieving laugh fleeing him on the exhale.

You ease off slowly, kiss the softening head just to be cruel, and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, smug.

He looks down at you like you’ve personally rewritten his DNA.

“Come here,” he says, voice rough, reaching for you. You crawl back into his lap and he hauls you in, kissing you like he needs proof you’re real. He tastes himself on your tongue and groans, deep and filthy. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“You say that like it’s a complaint.” You nudge his nose with yours, pleased with yourself and not bothering to hide it.

He laughs, breathless, palm spreading over your lower back, big and warm. Then the laugh fades into something softer. He tips your chin up with two fingers, studying your mouth, your eyes, like he’s cataloging you again molecule by molecule.

“You okay?” he asks, and the sincerity there is pure, no edges. “Jaw, throat… anything?”

“I’m good,” you say honestly. “Very proud of my work, actually.”

His mouth tilts. “Employee of the month.”

“Unionizing for better benefits.”

“Oh?” His hand slips lower, thumb rubbing slow where your thigh meets your hip. His pupils track your hemline like a magnet. “Name your demands.”

“I want you,” you say, dragging the words against his lower lip. “Now.”

He grins, wrecked and pleased, already shifting like he’s going to slide down the seat. “Then let me—”

You catch his jaw in your fingers and shake your head. “Later. I want you to fuck me.”

Whatever he was about to say dies in his throat. The look that hits his face is pure, starving yes. He gets his hands under your skirt like he’s been waiting all afternoon—palms hot, urgent, pushing the fabric to your waist. The air hits your thighs; he swears, low and reverent.

“Scooch,” you murmur, reaching behind you to shove the headrest down a notch. “No time.”

He doesn’t argue. You straddle him facing forward, knees planted, the dress bunched around your hips like a belt, panties tugged to the side with a quick, decisive hook of your thumb. He drags his mouth up your shoulder through the thin cotton, teeth catching on a strap, breath going rough when he gets eyes on exactly how wet you are for him.

“Fuck,” he says softly, almost a laugh. “Look at you.”

You reach down and wrap your fingers around him again—still thick, still heavy, already slick from your mouth. A glossy string stretches when you lift him and it snaps hot against your skin. He jerks under you.

“Stop teasing,” you say, sliding the head along your slit, letting him drag through everything you’ve made for him. “I want it.”

He plants his feet, spreads his thighs, hands branding your hips. You hover, grind, let the weight of him nudge against your clit until your legs shake. He can’t help it; his hips push up once, hard, like a reflex he can’t swallow.

“Impulsive,” you gasp, biting back a smile.

“Starving,” he mutters, voice shredded. “Sit, baby.”

You do. Slow, then less slow because patience snaps like a cheap hair tie; the blunt head finds you and you push down, stretch around him, take the thick heat in one long, stuttering glide that punches a sound out of both of you. Your hands slap against the fogging window to brace yourself. He’s swearing into your shoulder, jaw clenched, every muscle in his thighs strung tight as wire so he doesn’t ruin you in one thrust.

“Fuck—” you breathe, dizzy, full. “Bin.”

“That’s it,” he hisses, fingers digging into the soft just above your hips as you sink the rest of the way. “Take it. Take all of me, baby.”

You bottom out and stay there because his hands hold you there, because your body pulses around him, greedy, and you want to feel him—every inch, every heartbeat—before you move. He groans, low and animal, head falling back, throat bared, sweat shining along his collarbone. The car ticks again, heat pressed close; the glass is already blurred with your breaths.

You rock first: forward, back, small mean circles that drag him against every nerve you want burning. He counters without thinking, a hungry lift of his hips that punches you up and down his lap, makes the seat creak, makes the belt buckle clack against the door. The pace sets itself—messy, needy, your body chasing pressure like you’ve been wound tight all day and he’s the only thing that fits.

“Look at you,” he groans, palms sliding up to your waist and then higher to cup your breasts through the dress, thumbs brushing over the thin cotton until your nipples harden under his touch. “Bouncing on me in a fucking sundress. I knew this was going to make me crazy.”

“You are crazy,” you pant, leaning forward, hands fisted in the headrest, dress strap slipping down your arm as you slam back onto him. “Give it to me.”

He does. Whatever restraint he had burns off. He braces his feet wider on the floor, one hand cinched at your waist to drag you down, the other spread low on your belly like he wants to feel himself every time you swallow him. The noises are obscene—wet, hot, the sticky clap of skin on skin, the little punched sounds falling out of you when he catches the right angle and hammers into it. He curses into your shoulder, into your hair, into the crook where your neck meets your jaw, filthy and sweet at once.

“Mine,” he mumbles against your skin between thrusts, like he can’t help it. “My pretty girl—fuck—look at how you take me, look at it, you hear yourself? So messy for me, so sweet—”

You grind down hard and he breaks off with a helpless noise, eyes rolling. Your clit drags against the base of him with every drop; the pleasure spikes hot and mean, building at a cruel, perfect pace. He finds it too, the exact angle that wrings those breathless little yelps out of your chest, and chases it like a man who’s tasted water after a week in the sun.

“Right there,” you gasp, snapping your hips down, not even pretending at patience now. “Don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop.”

He snarls a laugh, delirious. “Try me.”

The car becomes a metronome: your body, his body, the creak, the slap, the breath, the string of fuck, fuck, fuck that you don’t realize you’re saying until he answers with a wrecked yes, that’s it, give it to me, take it, take it. His hand slides from your stomach to your throat, thumb under your chin to tilt your head back so he can see your face when you fall apart.

“You’re so pretty like this,” he says, eyes wild, reverent. “Ruined and cock-drunk, all for me.”

“Shut up,” you moan, because the words go straight to your spine. “Shut up and make me come.”

He obeys like it’s the only order he’s ever wanted. Hips piston, relentless, mean in the exact way you like, every thrust punching the whine out of your lungs. Your thighs are shaking; your calves cramp; your vision blurs at the edges. It hits fast and hard—everything in you winding tight, tighter, then snapping, pleasure tearing through you in hot, rolling waves that make your back arch and your voice break on his name.

He feels it. Of course he does. You clamp down around him and he loses what little composure he had left, a guttural sound ripped out of him as he drives up into you like he can’t not. “Fuck—fuck, that’s it—good girl—milk me, baby—don’t stop—”

You don’t. You ride it, ride him, grinding through the oversensitive aftershocks until he’s the one falling apart, until he’s swearing into your mouth and grabbing at your hips like a drowning man. His thrusts go ragged, deep, wrecked; he pulls you down hard, buries himself, holds you flush while his whole body locks and he spills hot inside you with a broken, disbelieving groan.

You stay there, shaking, both of you panting in the dense, humid air, the windows gone completely opaque. His forehead rests between your shoulder blades; his arms band around your waist, crushed close, like he’s anchoring himself in your body because he doesn’t trust gravity. You can feel him throb once, twice, inside, the lazy afterpulses making your breath catch.

“Holy—” he laughs, raw and stunned, mouth against your skin. “Jesus.”

You smile, spent and smug, and lick your thumb, dragging it through the spit-slick mess at the corner of your mouth like you’re thinking about round two already. His fingers tighten on your waist, as if the thought alone might short out his brain.

“Don’t move yet,” he mutters, voice low and possessive, hands strong at your hips. “Stay right there.”

You press down just to hear him curse, savoring the sticky ache, the way you fit together too well in the too-small space.

“Not a date,” you murmur, catching your breath, watching a bead of sweat roll down the fogged glass and cut a clear path through your reflection.

His laugh is wrecked and satisfied against your shoulder. “Whatever you say.” His palm smooths over your belly again, broad and protective, like he can keep you and every piece of this inside you just by wanting it enough. 

Three days later, it’s an ordinary afternoon until it isn’t.

You’re downtown, heat bouncing off glass and concrete, the city in that in-between mood where people are half-rushing, half-lingering. You and Changbin have been drifting in and out of shops, arguing about ugly sneakers, sharing sips of iced coffee. Your bag is on his arm even though you’ve tried to take it back twice.

“Stop,” he says, batting your hand away for the third time. “I got it.”

“I’m capable,” you remind him.

“I know.” He glances at you, mouth soft. “I like doing it anyway.”

You roll your eyes, but it pulls something warm through you. You’re used to that with him now—the way the sweetness sits just on the right side of too much. He walks closer to the street side of the sidewalk. He shifts you around puddles that dried hours ago. He stands a half-step behind you in every doorway.

It’s protective. It’s thoughtful. It’s a little intense, sometimes, if you look straight at it.

“Wait here a second,” he says, stopping outside a cramped electronics store that smells like plastic and dust every time you pass. “I need to grab something.”

“What thing?” You eye him. “If you buy more headphones, Bin, I’m starting a support group.”

“For who? The headphones?” His mouth twitches. “It’s not headphones. Just… some stuff I ordered for the studio.”

“Wow. Clarifying.”

He steps closer, fingers briefly adjusting the strap of your dress where it’s slipped down your shoulder, the motion quick and familiar. “Just stay right here, okay? Two minutes.”

“Changbin—”

“Please.” His eyes hold yours, the word threaded with something you can’t quite shrug off. “I’ll be fast.”

You could argue. You don’t, because he’s already halfway to the door, bell chiming when he pushes it open. He looks back once, like he’s checking you’re where he left you. Then he’s gone, swallowed by fluorescent light and shelves.

You check your phone. Scroll through notifications. The plaza around you hums—students with backpacks, someone on a bike weaving through too fast, cars idling at the light.

“Excuse me?”

You look up.

He’s young. College sweatshirt, strap of a backpack cutting across his chest, hair in that permanent mid-flop that says he ran a hand through it a lot on the walk here.

“Yeah?” you say.

“Do you… know where East Hall is?” he asks. His smile is apologetic, already bracing for rejection. “I thought it was this direction but then Maps glitched and now I’m just—” He breaks off, grimacing. “Lost. In public.”

You huff a little laugh, glancing past him. “Yeah, you’re close. Two blocks down, then left at the light. See that café with the blue awning?” You point. He leans in to follow your line of sight. “You pass that, it’s the big brick building behind it. Sort of ugly, can’t miss it.”

His shoulders drop with visible relief. “Oh my god. Thank you.”

You shrug. “Yeah, no problem.”

He pauses. You see the moment he registers you: dress, hair, the whole picture. His ears go pink. “Uh—sorry, this is— you’re just… really pretty.”

You blink. “Thanks.”

He shifts his weight, fingers drumming once against his phone. He looks as if he’s already decided not to say what he says next.

“Can I—” He winces. “This is probably weird. Forget it.”

You tilt your head. “You’ve already committed. Might as well finish the sentence.”

He laughs, nervous. “Okay, yeah, fair. Um. Could I maybe… get your number? If you wanted. If you don’t, that’s totally fine, like, absolutely no pressure, ‘stranger danger,’ all good.”

He’s so obviously ready to be turned down that you find it kind of adorable.

“I’m flattered,” you say, and you mean it. “But I’m not really in a place for that kind of thing right now.”

“Oh.” He blinks, then nods quickly, the embarrassment immediate but not ugly. “Yeah, yeah, of course. Sorry. I shouldn’t have— I mean, you helped me with directions, I’m not entitled to your phone number. That’s—sorry.”

You smile. “You’re fine. Really.”

He backs away a step. “Have a good day.”

“You too,” you say.

He turns to go. He’s still looking back at you when his foot catches the uneven edge of the curb. It happens fast—he goes sideways with a startled curse, backpack dragging his balance. You barely have time to react before his full weight lurches into you.

You grunt, stumbling back into the wall, your shoulder hitting brick. His hand clamps around your upper arm, fingers digging in reflexively as he tries to keep both of you upright.

“Shit,” he gasps, faces close enough that you can see the panicked flecks in his eyes. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry—are you okay? I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine,” you start, pushing off the wall, shaking out the arm he grabbed. “Really, I’m—”

“What the fuck.”

The voice ghosts over your skin before it hits your ear, cold enough to raise the tiny hairs on your neck.

You don’t recognize it at first. It’s too flat. Too empty.

Then you turn and see him.

Changbin is already moving, cutting through the milling bodies like they’re shadows. His jaw is locked, his eyes gone dark and sharp, none of the usual lazy warmth or crooked amusement anywhere on his face. There’s nothing soft about him now. He is straight lines and hard edges and intent.

“Bin—” you start, instinctively putting a hand out.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing,” he says, not to you, voice ironed smooth and deadly.

The kid’s gaze rockets between you and Changbin, horror dawning in real time. His fingers drop from your arm like he’s burned himself.

“I—nothing, I swear,” he stammers, hands lifting. “I tripped, I just— I fell—”

Changbin’s hand hits his chest.

It’s not a punch. Not yet. Open palm, a shove—but he puts his whole weight behind it. The boy slams back into the wall hard enough that you hear his skull crack against brick. The sound is sharp, nauseating.

“Changbin!” you yell. “Stop—”

He doesn’t even flinch.

“You think you can put your hands on her?” he asks, stepping in, crowding the boy’s space until there’s nowhere left to go. His voice is soft. Awful. “You think you can grab her like that and walk away?”

The kid’s eyes are wide, already glassy. “I didn’t— I wasn’t—ask her, I just—”

He doesn’t get to finish.

Changbin draws back and hits him.

You’ve seen him at the gym. You know what his body can do with a bag that doesn’t hit back. This is that same force, all that power, compressed into the short distance between his fist and another person’s face.

Knuckles meet cheekbone with a sick, dull crack. The boy’s head whips sideways; his cheek blooms red almost instantly. His knees sag. Only Changbin’s grip on his shirt keeps him upright.

The little world of the sidewalk contracts. Sound gets weird, distant and sharp at once. Someone gasps. Someone else swears. A phone is already in a stranger’s hand, camera up.

“Changbin, stop it!” you shout, lunging forward, fingers closing around his arm. “He didn’t—”

He shakes you off with a violent jerk that doesn’t quite shove you, but it’s close. His eyes don’t even flick to you.

“He put his hands on you,” he snarls, hauling the boy closer. Spit flies; his breath is hot and fast. “I saw him.”

“It was an accident!” the kid sobs, blood starting to slick his lip. “I swear, I tripped—”

Another punch. This one splits his mouth. Red spatters the concrete, the front of his sweatshirt, Changbin’s knuckles.

Your stomach lurches.

“Bin—Bin, stop, you’re going to—”

He hits him again. And again. And again.

The boy’s protests dissolve into wet, choked sounds. His head lolls, neck snapping back with every blow, body gone slack in Changbin’s grip. His face is a mess of swelling and blood now, but Changbin’s expression doesn’t change. There’s no flare of remorse, no flicker of humanity. Just focus. Just an ugly, bright satisfaction like something in him has decided this is justice and is intent on carrying it out to the end.

A woman’s voice somewhere behind you is high and panicked. “Oh my god, somebody call the police—”

The words cut through the buzzing in your ears.

“Changbin!” Your voice cracks. “He’s done, he’s unconscious—stop, stop, stop—”

“Should’ve thought about that before he touched you,” Changbin says, not even winded yet. His arm pistons, fist thudding into the boy’s ribs. “Before he decided he could put his fucking hands—”

“Bin!”

Your body moves before your brain finishes the thought.

You shove yourself into the space between them, wedging your shoulders against Changbin’s chest, arms flung out to cover what’s left of the boy crumpled against the wall. You’re not tall enough to be much of a barrier, but you’re all that’s there.

“Stop,” you scream. “Stop, I mean it—”

He’s already mid-swing.

You feel, rather than see, the split-second where recognition slams into him. His fist, all momentum and intent, is a breath away from your face

He twists.

The punch collapses into an open hand, but physics doesn’t care. All that force has to go somewhere. It arcs through his arm, his palm connecting with the side of your face in a brutal, ringing slap.

Pain explodes along your cheekbone. Your head snaps sideways; white light bursts behind your eyes. The world tilts. Your knees go loose and you slam against the wall, shoulder scraping brick, one hand flying up too late to shield yourself.

For a second, everything is soundless.

Then it roars back in—blood rushing in your ears, people shouting, a distant siren building and winding closer.

You taste copper. Your vision doubles, then stutters back into one.

“Shit.” It’s Changbin’s voice, raw. Hands grab your arms, trying to steady you. “Fuck—baby—shit, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

You jerk away like his touch burns.

The boy slumped against the wall doesn’t move. His chest rises in shallow, fluttering breaths. One eye is already swelling shut; blood runs from his nose in a steady trickle, down his chin, onto his shirt.

“Is he breathing?” someone asks.

“We need to keep him upright—no, don’t move his neck—”

“Ambulance is on its way,” another voice says. “They said two minutes.”

Two minutes.

Blue flash reflects off glass at the far end of the street, still distant but coming.

You’re shaking. Your cheek throbs with a hot, spreading ache; when you touch the corner of your mouth, your fingers come away smeared red.

Changbin’s face is too close, eyes blown wide, his breathing ragged for the first time. His knuckles are split and wet. There’s blood on his forearm, his shirt, a fleck on his jawline. It doesn’t feel real.

“Hey.” His hand hovers, then tries to settle at your elbow again. “We need to go.”

His hand hovers, then lands on your elbow, fingers careful like he’s afraid you’ll shatter. The same hand that split someone’s face open three feet away.

You stare at it. At the blood drying in the cracks of his knuckles. At the way his thumb rubs over your skin like he’s soothing you, not steering you.

“Don’t touch me,” you say, but he just grabs your wrist and pulls you away.

You stumble after him because you don’t have a choice, heels scraping on the pavement. He cuts along the edge of the forming crowd and down the nearest side alley, ducking between a dumpster and a fire escape. The noise from the street dulls slightly, replaced by the drip of some unseen pipe and the buzz of a flickering light.

“Let me go,” you say, yanking at your arm.

He does, immediately. Your hand slips free and you wrench yourself backwards, putting two steps of dirty concrete between you. The brick at your back is cold through your dress. The air smells like old grease and damp cardboard.

For a second, all that terrible focus flickers. The blank rage drains out of his face, leaving something rawer underneath. He looks…lost. Like he just woke up in the middle of a nightmare scene and isn’t entirely sure how he got there.

“Baby,” he says, voice cracking around the word. “Your face.”

You reach up on reflex. The left side of your cheekbone throbs under your fingertips. Your skin’s already tender, swelling under the touch. You can feel the heat radiating off it, the sting.

He watches your fingers hit the bruise like he’s watching himself get kicked.

“I hit you,” he whispers, horror blooming slow and huge in his eyes. “I hit you. Fuck—”

“You think?” you snap.

The siren is closer now, the wail bouncing off glass. People are still clustered around the boy on the ground. You catch a glimpse of paramedics pushing through the crowd, kneeling, gloved hands moving fast.

Changbin steps in, like he wants to shield you from the view. Like that’s the problem.

“Come with me,” he says. “Please. Just—come on.”

He reaches for you again and you flinch back before he makes contact. His fingers curl on empty air.

Something in his face caves in.

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” you say. Your voice isn’t loud, but it’s steady. “You just almost killed somebody.”

“He grabbed you,” he says automatically, like that single fact is supposed to clear him of all sin. “He put his hands on you, I saw—”

“He tripped,” you cut in. “He tripped, he grabbed me so he didn’t crush me, and you didn’t even give him half a second to explain before you started swinging.”

“He had you against the wall,” Changbin grits out. “I come out and you’re pinned, his hands on you, and I’m supposed to what, stand there and ask for a fucking thesis statement?”

“He was apologizing,” you say. “You know, like normal people do when they bump into someone. And you—”

You gesture at the mess behind him, at the smear of blood drying on the brick.

Your throat closes.

“—you did that.”

His gaze follows your hand, lands on the boy. The paramedics have him on his side now, someone holding his neck steady. There’s too much red on his shirt. One of the medics is talking to him, voice slow and clear. You can’t hear his answers.

Changbin’s jaw locks. For a moment, he looks like he might argue with that reality too.

Then his eyes come back to you and it’s like watching a building collapse in slow motion.

“I never meant to hit you,” he says. It sounds like confession, like a prayer. “I swear to god, I saw you at the last second, I turned my hand, I would’ve knocked you out if I hadn’t—”

“You almost killed someone,” you say. “That’s the only part that matters to me.”

He staggers back a step like you’ve physically hit him in return. His hand comes up, fingers covering his mouth. He’s breathing too fast now, little uneven inhales that don’t seem to get all the way in.

“I hurt you,” he says, muffled. “I hurt you. I hurt you.”

You don’t know if he’s talking to you or himself.

The siren hiccups as it cuts off. Doors slam. Voices sharpen somewhere to your right—firm, authoritative. The police have arrived.

You straighten.

“I’m going to talk to them,” you say.

His hand drops. “No.”

“I saw what happened,” you insist. “I’m not going to pretend I didn’t.”

“You’re in shock,” he says quickly. The words spilling out. “You’re scared, you’re not thinking straight. Later, when you calm down, you’ll regret saying anything, and we can’t take it back if—”

“You,” you say, “can’t take it back. That’s your problem. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

His eyes flash. “You stepped in front of my fist.”

“To stop you from beating a kid to death!”

“He deserved—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” you say. Your hands are shaking again. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence.”

He stops.

For a heartbeat, you just stand there, looking at each other. The city moves around you in tilted, blurry pieces. Somewhere, an officer is asking people to step back. Someone says they caught some of it on video. Someone else mentions your name—“the girl he grabbed”—but the words don’t stick.

All of your attention is on Changbin.

On the way he’s starting to sway on his feet like he’s standing on the edge of something very high and very steep.

“Bin,” you say quietly. “You need help.”

“I need you,” he says without missing a beat. No hesitation, no doubt. It comes out like fact. “I just need you.”

The simplicity of it makes your stomach turn.

He takes a slow step closer. You hold your ground this time. If he’s going to get in your space, he’s going to have to do it while you’re watching.

When he’s close enough, he lifts his hands in front of his chest, palms out like he’s showing you something.

They’re wrecked. Split knuckles. Skin already swelling.

“This is what hurt you,” he says, voice thin. “Right?”

“Yeah,” you say warily. “Your hands. And your choices.”

He looks down at them like they’re a foreign object.

Then, before you can process the change in his expression, he turns and drives his right hand into the brick wall.

The sound is awful—bone on stone, a wet crunch layered under the thud. He grunts through his teeth, eyes squeezing shut, but he doesn’t pull back. His knuckles tear open, fresh blood smearing across the already stained wall.

“What the hell are you doing?” you choke.

He doesn’t answer. He stares at his hand instead, chest heaving, like he’s checking to make sure it hurt enough. Something wild and lit flickers in his eyes.

“This is what hurt you,” he repeats, more to himself than to you. “So it needs to hurt more.”

“Changbin, stop,” you say. “This isn’t—”

He grips his own index finger in the other hand.

You realize what he’s about to do half a second before he does it.

“Bin, don’t—”

He wrenches.

The finger snaps sideways with a sharp, wet pop. His breath explodes out of him in a strangled sound, knees buckling. He leans his shoulder into the wall, jaw clenched so hard you can see the muscle jumping, eyes blown wide and unfocused for a moment.

“Oh my god,” you whisper. “What is wrong with you?”

“One,” he rasps. His voice is shredded, barely there. “That’s one.”

He grabs the next finger.

You lunge. “Stop it, what the fuck—”

He twists.

Pop.

This sound is worse because you see it clearly—the way the bone dislocates, the finger bends at a wrong angle, the skin blanches then floods with red. He shudders, a full-body tremor riding up his spine.

“I hurt you,” he gasps. “I can’t— I can’t just walk away from that.”

“There are other ways to be sorry than breaking your own bones!” you shout, grabbing at his wrists. “Are you insane?”

“Yes,” he says simply.

He says it like it’s not even worth arguing.

Tears are forming at the corners of his eyes now, from pain or whatever the hell else is happening behind them. He finally lets you catch his hands, but even then he tries to wrench free, like he’s not done, like there are more fingers, more joints, more parts of him he can ruin in penance.

“Look at me,” you snap.

He drags his gaze up, pupils blown, breathing ragged.

“You’re hurting yourself for what?” you demand. “To prove what, exactly? That you feel bad?”

“It’s not enough to say it,” he says. His voice is shaking like his bones. “Words don’t fix anything. I did this.” His eyes flick to your bruised cheek, the smear of red at the corner of your mouth. He makes a soft, broken noise. “If I hurt you, I hurt me. That’s how this works.”

“That’s not how anything works,” you say. “That’s not romantic, Changbin, it’s fucked up.”

“Romantic,” he repeats, and laughs once, hoarse. “You think this is about being romantic?”

“What else would it be about?”

“It’s about the fact that you’re it for me,” he says, like he’s stating the weather. Rain. Sun. You. “There isn’t a world where someone touches you and walks away smiling. There isn’t a world where I hit you and don’t pay for it. I can’t live in that version. I won’t.”

You stare at him. At the two fingers on his right hand already swelling, twisted at ugly angles. At the way he’s still, even now, trying to lean toward you, trying to close the gap you’re desperately keeping.

“You can’t keep doing this,” you say. “Hurting other people, hurting yourself, calling it protection. Calling it love.”

“It is love,” he says, absolutely sure. “You think I’d break my own fucking hand if it wasn’t?”

“That’s not love,” you say. “That’s obsession. Control. Whatever nightmare stew is boiling in your head, it’s not love.”

“It feels like love,” he says quietly. “It feels like the only thing that’s ever been real.”

You can see the red-and-blue flicker reflecting off his face when he half-turns, listening.

Voices echo down the alley: “…witnesses said he ran this way…”

Your stomach drops.

You tighten your grip on his wrists before he can bolt deeper into the shadows.

“I’m going to tell them everything,” you say.

His head snaps back to you.

“What?”

“I’m going to tell them what you did,” you repeat. “To that boy. To me. All of it.”

For a heartbeat, there’s nothing in his expression.

Then something sharp and ugly slices through it.

“You’re upset,” he says, too calmly. “You’re scared. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“The fact that you keep trying to gaslight me into thinking I’m hysterical is really not helping your case,” you say. “I know exactly what I saw.”

His eyes narrow. “You’re going to hand me to them.”

“I’m going to tell the truth,” you say. “Whatever they do with that is out of my hands.”

His lip curls, just a little. “You think they’re going to help you?”

“This isn’t about me,” you say. “It’s about the kid you beat half to death because he asked for directions.”

“He touched you,” he repeats, as if you hadn’t spoken.

“You touched me too,” you say. “You hit me. I’m including that.”

He goes utterly still.

“…no,” he says.

“Yes.”

“You’re not telling them that.” There’s no heat in the words now, just flat certainty. “You’re not telling them anything about us.”

“And you don’t get to decide that.”

His gaze slides over your face like he’s cataloging every freckle, every tiny tremor. Then he steps closer, slowly, like you might bolt if he moves too fast. The broken fingers on his right hand hang at odd angles; his left comes up, hovering near your cheek.

“Can I…?” he starts, then just does it—his thumb brushing feather-light under the bruise, skimming the edge of your jaw. He’s so gentle you barely feel it.

You let him. You don’t know why.

“Does it hurt?” he asks, voice rough.

“Yes,” you say.

His throat works. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I am so fucking sorry, baby. I’d rather they cut my hands off than feel you flinch from me like that again.”

“Then maybe stop giving me reasons to flinch,” you say.

His eyes close briefly, lashes wet. When he opens them again, they’re brighter. Clearer. That awful calm has returned, but it sits differently now, like a decision has settled in his bones.

“You’re going to tell them,” he says.

“Yes.”

“And then what?” he asks. “You think we’re done? You think you walk away, I go to jail, and you… what? Pretend none of this happened? Pretend I don’t exist?”

“I think I don’t see you again,” you say. “That’s the plan.”

He laughs. It’s a small, disbelieving sound with no humor in it.

“You really don’t get it,” he says.

“Enlighten me.”

“I love you,” he says.

It lands like a stone. No fanfare, no build-up. Just there, suddenly, undeniable.

Your breath catches.

He sees it. His mouth softens, almost fond.

“I love you,” he repeats, like he’s savoring it. “Not the way your friends mean when they say they ‘love’ your outfit. Not the way you ‘love’ that stupid pasta salad. I mean… I love you like there isn’t a version of my life without you in it. Like if you’re not in the picture, the whole thing might as well burn.”

“Bin—”

“I love you,” he says over you, stubborn. “I love you when you’re laughing at me, and when you’re ignoring my texts, and when you’re asleep drooling on my chest, and when you’re pissed off and pretending you’re not. I love you when you wear that dress and I can’t think straight. I love you when you’re in my car with my dick in your throat, and I love you when you’re yelling at me in an alley because you think I went too far.”

“Because you did,” you snap.

He nods easily. “Yeah. I did. And I’d do it again.”

You stare at him.

“You’re insane.”

He smiles faintly. “For you? Yeah.”

“This isn’t healthy,” you say. “Or normal, or safe. You can’t just confess and think that cancels out literally everything else.”

“I don’t want it to cancel anything,” he says. “I want you to understand. This is what it looks like. This is what I am. And you’re still mine.”

“I am not yours,” you say, each word sharp and separate. “We are not together. We weren’t together before this, and we’re definitely not together after.”

He tilts his head, studying you like you’re saying something fascinating and slightly wrong.

“You can say that,” he agrees. “You can think it. You can pack your things and never answer my calls and pretend I’m just some guy you fucked a few times. But it doesn’t change reality.”

“What reality?”

“That you’re mine,” he says simply. “And I’m yours, whether you want me or not. It’s not a choice I can un-choose.”

Your skin crawls.

“I’m going to the police,” you say again, more to yourself now than to him. “And then I’m going home. Alone. If you show up at my door, I’m calling them again. If you text me, I’m blocking you. If you come near me or any of my friends—”

“Baby,” he says.

His voice is soft, but something in it makes you stop.

At the mouth of the alley, two officers move past at a trot, scanning the side street. One glances in but doesn’t clock you properly, eyes bouncing over the shadowed space and back to the brighter sidewalk. “Check the other side,” his partner says. Their footsteps fade.

Changbin waits until they’re gone.

Then he exhales.

“I’m not letting you tell them,” he says.

You smile, brittle. “You don’t—you can’t stop me.”

“Of course I can,” he says, like you’ve just suggested gravity is optional.

He looks at his ruined right hand, flexes it once. The broken fingers spasm. Pain flashes across his face, but it’s distant now, filed away, irrelevant.

Then he moves.

It’s not a wild grab this time. There’s nothing sloppy about it. He steps into your space and hooks an arm around your waist in one smooth motion, dragging you into him so your back hits his chest. His other hand—bloody, shaking—covers your mouth before you can scream.

You thrash on instinct, nails digging into his forearm, heel slamming into the toe of his sneaker. He grunts but doesn’t let go. He’s not even breathing hard.

“Shh,” he murmurs in your ear, like you’re just startled, like he’s comforting you after a nightmare. “Don’t fight me. You’re going to make it worse for yourself.”

You try to bite his hand. He just adjusts his grip, thumb pressing your jaw up, fingers bruisingly tight on your cheeks.

“Easy,” he says. “I know you’re mad.”

Mad. That would be funny if you could breathe.

“Listen to me,” he continues, voice threaded with that same awful patience he used when teaching you how to deadlift. “If you walk out there, you’re not just telling them about me. You’re walking into cameras and statements and court dates and a hundred strangers saying your name. They’re going to drag you through it. They’re going to make you repeat every detail. They’re going to ask what you were wearing, why you were talking to a stranger, why you didn’t move faster when he grabbed you.”

You shake your head, trying to get free, but his arm is an iron bar across your ribs.

“They won’t protect you,” he says. “They never do. They’ll protect themselves. And they’ll take you away from me. I can’t let that happen.”

You manage to wrench your mouth away enough to gasp, “I’d rather be anywhere than here with you.”

He flinches. You feel it, a tiny jerk against your back.

Then he laughs, low and almost fond.

“I know you think that right now,” he says. “You’re scared and you’re hurt, and you’re looking at me like I’m the monster in the story.”

“Because you are,” you spit.

His grip tightens.

“No,” he says calmly. “I’m the only one who’s actually on your side.”

You open your mouth to scream again. His hand clamps down, cutting it off. He spins you, half-carrying, half-dragging, deeper into the alley, away from the open street.

“Bin—Bin, stop, stop—” The words are a muffled mess against his palm.

He doesn’t answer. He’s focused, efficient, like all the jittery panic burned out of him the second he decided on a course of action. He shoulders through a dented metal door you didn’t even notice before—some service entrance propped almost-closed. It gives under his weight with a groan, spilling you both into a dim back corridor that smells like cleaning chemicals and old grease.

The door swings shut behind you, cutting off the hum of the city, the buzz of police radios.

It’s suddenly very quiet.

He lets go of your mouth long enough to slam the bolt.

You suck in air so fast you choke on it, stumbling away from him, hand flying to your throat.

“What are you doing?” you rasp. “You can’t—you can’t just—”

“Kidnap you?” he supplies.

The word sits there, heavy and real.

He doesn’t look ashamed.

“Yeah,” he says. “I can.”

You stare at him.

“Changbin,” you say carefully. “If you walk out there right now, this is still… fixable. You can tell them you lost it, you can get a lawyer, you can get therapy, you can—”

He steps closer. You back into a stack of crates.

“I don’t care about them,” he says. “I don’t care about ‘fixable.’ I care about you.” His gaze drags over your face, lingering on the bruise, the fear in your eyes. He winces like it physically hurts him. “I know you hate me right now. I can live with that.”

“You can’t keep me here,” you say. “I’ll scream.”

“And then what?” he asks. “You can never get away from me, baby. I’ll always find you.”

You open your mouth.

He cups your cheek with his left hand, gentle, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth where your skin is split.

“I am so sorry I hurt you,” he says. His voice shakes. “I will spend the rest of my life making up for that. I will break every bone in my body if that’s what it takes.”

“Try starting with leaving me alone,” you snarl.

A small, broken smile ghosts over his mouth.

“Can’t,” he says. “You’re mine.”

“I’m not,” you snap.

“You can say that until your throat bleeds,” he says softly. “It won’t make it true.”

You feel your eyes sting. Not from his fingers, not from the ache in your jaw. From the realization that he believes this. Absolutely. Unshakably.

“I’m going to hate you,” you whisper. “If you do this, I am going to hate you forever.”

His expression cracks, just for a second.

Then he leans in, presses his forehead to yours like he did in the car, when everything was still sweet and stupid and easy.

“If that’s the price,” he murmurs, “I’ll pay it.”

His breath is warm on your lips. His broken fingers hover near your neck, not quite touching, trembling.

“Because even if you hate me,” he says, “you’ll be alive. You’ll be here. You’ll be mine.”

You try to shove him away.

He’s ready for it. His arms close around you again, unyielding, pulling you into his chest—into his dark, echoing orbit where his love and his violence are the same thing.

Outside, faint through the walls, a siren wails and then fades.

He doesn’t look back.

taglist: @cookiewookie9t @wickedbutlovely

[yestodayys]

𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐢𝐭 - song mingi x fem reader

wc: 5.1k

cw: 18+ MINORS DNI!!!, recreational drug use (weed), porn with no plot at all apart from they love eachother, a lot of perving on mingi, dom!mingi and he does what he wants to you basically bc you want him so bad but he’s just as desperate, really they're down bad your honour

synopsis: you and your boyfriend are smoking and he looks too fucking good.

a/n: me thirsting over mingi as your resident stoner cousin but as a fic

sw: they fuck high but they’re both very consenting, masturbation (while u watch), nipple play (while he watch), a lot of manhandling, a lot of dirty talk like filthy stuff he doesn’t shut up please believe me, they're both sleazy and dirty, some degradation, like 2 lines of daddy kink because i do what i want, p in v unprotected, praise, big dick mingi and he knows how to use it, one line of ‘little girl’, wet messy dirty sex, begging, riding, backshots, talks to ur pussy, creampie, breeding kink kinda heavy

It’s all getting to be a bit too much. 

There’s way too much of your boyfriend’s skin exposed right now, and it’s too much to handle. Mingi's thighs are spread, muscular, honey toned skin contrasting deliciously against the black leather of the sofa, and a small rolling tray rests upon his lap. His dark baggy basketball shorts have rolled up with his movements to show those thick, thick thighs, and the dark hair littered across the softer skin that you can see has your mouth watering. Surely you must be ovulating, looking at your boyfriend like he’s a piece of meat that you could fucking devour right now, fingers twitching in your lap like they do when you want another toke except you want to suck on something else.

His black tank top ensures that you can see his arms, bulging slightly when he moves, and his big hands and his fingers… they’re long, dexterous, packing the weed into the paper. Not only were they deep inside of you last night, but they were shoved into your mouth afterwards, accompanied by a light tap to the face with his other hand, his plump lips curling up in a pleased snarl but his eyes filled with love and devotion. You sigh, body heating up. Your eyes rake his frame, and you land on his face. 

He’s smirking, and you see his tongue poke out between plump lips, hands bringing the paper to his mouth. Your brain becomes filled with thoughts of his tongue poking elsewhere, between your legs, against your pussy that must be sopping by now - something else he did last night, until you were crying and shaking after three orgasms and begging him to leave your poor clit be - he didn’t, forcing another one out of you with a dark chuckle until you really kicked at his chest with your socked foot.

“Mean,” He’d mumbled, eyes glinting with mischief as his long fingers wrapped around your ankle, catching your movements. He tutted, crawling over you. He’s so big that you shivered, stomach bubbling with arousal all over again. “After I just made your little cunt feel so nice too. Don’t tell me I have to split it all the way open to make you be a good girl for me.”

Your cheeks heat up. You clear your throat. The entire environment is making you dizzy, and you’re not sure if it’s the smoke dissipating across the room or the way Mingi just fucking is.

He must’ve finished rolling while you were staring, because he’s sealed the paper shut and he begins to pack the joint, wrapping his fingers around the cone and tapping the base of it down on the tray absentmindedly. You clear your throat again, rub your eyes as if it’s going to help and really, you expect to have gotten away with it - but while he’s making the jerking motion with his hand, his head rolls back against the couch and his eyes finally fixate on you. 

“Oh,” You sigh. It looks like he’s jerking off if you just look at his face, seeing the movement of his arm from the corner of your eyes. You feel like a teenager again, slicking up in your cotton panties over something so simple. 

His eyes are too intense, always are, always have been, and they’re half lidded now, the whites a little pink. He’s high. You know he’s high, because you’ve smoked two joints with him already, but you also know there’s something else swimming in there. He licks over his lips, slow smirk forming and you realise - he’s horny too, and he’s being crude about it. Your pussy pools in your underwear. “Mingi. Why-“

“What were you doing? Getting wet, perving on me?” He’s blunt about it, always has been since the start. It works on you, always has. He leans closer, making your breath hitch. You think you’ve gotten him without confessing to your desires openly, the smoke filled scent of him enveloping you. Suddenly it all stops, and he’s turning back to the tray, twisting the end of the joint. He’s smiling cheekily now, his teeth visible in the soft lamp light, the sudden change giving you whiplash - what is he doing to you? “You’re going to have to work harder than that, baby.”

“Wha- Mingi?!” You splutter, floored. “Okay, one, yes. I was perving on you. Two, Mingi, you’re easy.”

“I am,” Despite his words he’s like the cat who got the cream, the epitome of smug, slotting the joint between his plush lips. It hangs out of his mouth, and he discards the tray to the side table before turning back to you, spreading his thick thighs further, straining against the hem of his shorts. 

Your gaze goes down again, unable to control it when you’re buzzed. He’s hard. He’d swear he always is around you simply due to your presence, but it’s obvious when it’s Mingi because he’s so big, and it’s thick and long and heavy in there, tenting his shorts. You can see the outline of it - even the shape of his round, fat balls a bit lower down. He stretches his thighs open further, relaxes into it a bit because he knows you’re watching, and the way you heat up would be almost embarrassing if you didn’t know that he’s doing it deliberately. “This weed is supposed to make you a little horny. I’ve been horny as fuck. I can just jerk off and make you watch, though. I know you’d listen to me. Such a good girl, aren’t you?”

“You wouldn’t really do that,” You argue, having nothing to say to the second part because you would listen because you love him so badly. Would he do that? He’s typically dominant, sure, but he’s never denied your pleasure; he actually likes to give you so much of it that you’re sobbing and begging for him to ease up on you.

Mingi clicks the lighter and the joint is lit. You watch him inhale, the way his chest raises and the way it falls when he exhales. He licks over his bottom lip and smirks again, confident, nodding at the floor, “wouldn’t I? Get on your knees.”

“What?” You blink. He takes another drag and places the joint at your lips, allowing you to take a few drags. The weed is sharp, a stronger strain than what you’d normally get but with your big, high tolerance boyfriend staying for a couple of days, you had no choice. It’s not long before he’s tapping your hip, urging you onto the floor. When you don’t move, continuing to smoke, enjoying the way it makes your limbs tingle his hand comes down on your ass, a lot harder than the sweet taps he’s just given you.

“That’s enough now, baby. On your knees.”

Your head is spinning just from the few tokes you took, and you make the conclusion that the way he’s acting is making it worse. Still, you scurry to the floor, knees hitting the hardwood of your living in your pyjama trousers, mind fuzzy.

Mingi takes a second to examine you. Your chest is heaving already, and you haven’t dared touch, not until he says, and his teeth bite into his bottom lip as he watches you. He’s pretty up there, long, dark hair boyish in his eyes and he blows it out of the way when he exhales, jaw clicking. He moves the joint to the ashtray on the side table to free up his hands, and then he lifts his hips to push his shorts down those thick thighs.

He’s not wearing underwear underneath. It doesn’t surprise you, given the amount of detail you could see when he was clothed and also that he’s a massive slut for you, self-proclaimed, always trying to get your attention. He immediately takes his swollen shaft in his hand with a soft huff. Even with the size of his hands, his dick looks huge, thick and veiny in all the right places. His cockhead is a little pinker than the rest of it, flushed with arousal, and he’s so fucking hard too, swiping at the precum with his thumb. You’re pretty sure you’re about to have an aneurysm when he pushes it down to tap the tip against your lips. 

He grabs the joint, pushing the head of his cock between your lips. “Spit on it f’me, baby,” He exhales, and you feel debased by the way he’s still smoking while you do this, placing the end of the joint between those lips, one hand yanking up his shirt so that you can see the base of his tummy. The shape of his v-line is visible now, up to the bottom of his bellybutton and the trail of dark fuzzy hair that leads to his pubes. 

It’s only working to make you more aroused, and you let out a shaky breath before somehow pooling saliva on your tongue and spitting on his cockhead. The weed’s made your mouth a little dry, but it works - the wetness dripping over his shaft makes him groan instantly, and he uses his palm to rub over his piss slit and spread your spit all the way down. “That’s good, so good for me. Bet your pussy’s wetter, though. Is it all wet and messy? Bet your little clit’s swollen too, your hole clenching like it does when it wants me to ruin it.”

“Y-yes,” You stutter - you know it is, and Mingi chuckles. He knows it too, and the thought of it is driving him insane, head rolling against the sofa. He always babbles when he gets horny, lost in his own fantasies, spare hand gripping at the cushions. His own chest is heaving too now that he’s working at his cock, palm pumping his shaft. It’s hard for him to hold back already, and his eyes are low, watching your face as you stare down at his cock. “Can I- can I touch myself too?”

“No,” He’s abrupt, firm, despite how his cock is leaking like a faucet over the way you’re just sitting there, watching, so submissive for him, and it makes you whine. He jerks his cock, speeding up his hand, squeezing his tip until it leaks more pearly precum. It drips over his fingers and you moan, wanting nothing more than to lick it up, your tummy curling at the sight. His eyes scrutinise you, chest exhaling shaky breaths as he works himself to his orgasm. “Oh, you’re so fucking- pull your shirt up, gimme somethin’ to work with. Show me your tits, baby, show daddy.”

“Pervert,” You mumble, but you’re yanking the fabric upwards anyway because your pussy is too wet to think. As soon as he sees your skin, Mingi groans, and you swipe your thumb over one nipple for good measure. If it’s pissing him off that you’re touching yourself he doesn’t show it, only starting to leisurely fuck upwards into his fist, eyes fixated on you like you’re the best porn he’s ever seen, moans and whimpers tumbling from his lips. 

Your underwear is sticking to your pussy at this point, swollen bud throbbing for attention as he just waves his cock in front of you, the most tempted you’ve ever been - he’s too fucking hot, and he knows exactly how to get you going, one of the things you love about him. 

“I wanna fuck them, best fuckin’ tits I’ve seen,” He blurts, and you flush, letting your hands brush over them, cupping and jiggling the flesh. He moans high when you do it this time, sucking his teeth with furrowed eyebrows, so you do it again, and his hips buck into his fist. “Dirty- dirty girl, touchin’ your tits for me. My little pornstar, so pretty.”

“Mingi, please, I wanna-”

His other fist forms a circle around his cockhead, and he moans, long and gravelly, cutting you off. “Fu-uck, fuck, baby, wait,” He babbles, shaking his head, and his hips pick up pace. He’s fucking both fists as if they’re a pussy, and his eyes clench shut, head rolling back. You think you might cum at the sight of him, finally moving your hands to rub up his thighs to give him something and he whines this time, eyes looking at you like you’ve hung the moon - he can’t believe you let him treat you like this. It gets his dick rock hard every time, and he’s always so eager, handsy and pleading as much as he makes you take it. “No, almost- shit, get up here.”

You clamber to your feet almost immediately. It’s embarrassing, but Mingi’s hands have already moved from his cock, making their way to your waist, fingers digging into your flesh. He pulls you to sit yourself on top of him and hooks two fingers into your underwear, all so sudden, yanking them to the side. A web of arousal connects the fabric to your folds, and he licks his lips upon seeing your cunt, so pleased to see the hole that belongs to him. 

“That’s so fucking hot. Shit, you’re that wet from seeing me stroke my cock? Can I just put it in?” He asks, and you nod eagerly, moving closer to him with a hand on one broad shoulder. He’s wide, and you have to be spread wide to accommodate him, thighs lax over his and his overpowering presence making your tummy burn with arousal. You’re so close now that he yanks the t-shirt you’re wearing up - his, so big that it reaches your thighs, and lets his cock brush against your tummy with his movements. He’s impatient, lifting you up by your waist to bump his tip against your clit and let it slide through the mess of slick on your pussy. The glide is easy, his shaft slicking up with your arousal. “I’m gonna make you wait again if this is how wet you get, honey.”

He’s smiling wide, toothy, pleased, pushing his cock through your noisy, sticky folds over and over and you grumble. “Don’t you- fucking dare- god, give it- ah-“

He takes that moment to pull your hips down, sliding his cock inside of you, still effortlessly hard and so big. His lips part as if to prompt you to keep talking, eyebrow raising, but you’re rendered completely wordless on his lap. 

“Ah, there you go. That’s nice, isn’t it? Nice ‘n big,” Mingi thrusts up just once, letting himself get fully situated inside of you. He gives you the moment to adjust and reaches to the ashtray, lighting the joint once again. This time, he passes it to you, making sure you get your fix. It would be a nice gesture if his large palms didn’t immediately go to your ass, spreading your asscheeks open and planting his feet on the floor to thrust upwards hard.

“Mmngh- oh, oh my god, Mingi!” You keen, struggling to keep the joint in your hand. Still, you take your three puffs like a good girl just as he wanted and hold it to his lips yourself. He grinds into you so sensually, plump lips parted just enough to hold the joint between them as he inhales, eyes fixated on you as he shoves his cock deep and gets so stoned you’re not sure how he fucks you so good. He looks good now too, cheeks dusted pink from his high and eyes low, lips curled in a satisfied little smirk. He’s making sure you feel every overwhelming inch of him before he begins to chase his pleasure. “That’s good. Oh, Mingi, it’s so deep, s’good-“

“Shut up and take it, n-nasty little girl,” He mumbles, smoke tumbling from his mouth and you can tell by the way he says it that he’s hesitant to speak to you like that. The response he gets has him more confident. 

You keen, high and loud in your throat, and you’re so dizzy with it all, arms going limp yet still trying to grip onto his biceps for dear life. You let him manhandle you onto your back on the sofa and you don’t even complain when he blows smoke in your face with his other tokes. It’s erratic, the air is hot and heavy from the smoke and the passion is consistent between the two of you, making you struggle to focus - you’re just letting him do whatever he wants, as per usual, the way you both like it. He spreads your thighs wide, letting the pits of your knees rest on his forearms. 

The change in position only drives his dick deeper and you swear you can feel him deep in your guts, aided when his palms press flat against your tummy to keep you in place for him. Like this, he kisses you for the first time since you started playing, body curled over yours and joint discarded in the ashtray once again. 

Mingi would swear there’s nothing better than kissing you, not even a joint after a long day. He moans deeply into the kiss, hips moving on autopilot. The kiss is all tongue and teeth, tasting of weed, tongue licking over yours and his own teeth biting into your lip. 

Your pussy cries for him, wet slapping noises reverberating loud enough to drown the light music and your wet kisses out and Mingi looks ruined when he finally leans back again - his chest is flushed pink beneath his tank top, his lips covered in saliva and eyebrows pinched where he looks down at where you’re connected, his shaft slick with your juices. You get this wet for him every time and he mumbles something about this is why you’re made for him, your pussy forming a ring of white cream around his base, curling his pubes with it.

He moans, staccato and broken up by the slow, steady thrusts he’s giving you. “You’re so fucking wet, baby, so good for me, y-yeah? Shit, feels so good around my cock, I-“

“F-Faster,” You murmur, against his lips. He wraps your hair around his fist and pulls sharply, a warning, and you cry out in protest, feet thudding against his back. “Faster, faster, please, I’ve been good, want more!”

“You have, fuck, you have, taking me so good,” He muses, chest heaving, driving his cock inside of you over and over. He pulls his tank top off from behind his neck, and you’re suddenly exposed to way, way too much skin that you want to scratch and mark up and bite into, dragging your nails down his stomach like you love to do. 

Thankfully, he’s quick to crowd into your space, large palm pressing down on your stomach and fucking in sharply, making you feel it so deep you’re sure his cum is going to be there for days when he gives it to you. “I’ll give it to you, baby. Take this fat fucking cock, listen to this- this fucking messy cunt, talkin’ to me, tellin’ me how good I’m makin’ her feel.”

His hips snap against yours quicker now. You can hear it over the sounds of your wails, the sounds your hole makes as it gushes and throbs around his shaft, and you claw at his biceps. The heat licks at your stomach and his incessant thrusts don’t make it any better, the high he’s put you in making it feel too fucking good and he’s so big, so sexy, so yours - his lips meet yours for another few messy kisses, as speechless and pleasure drunk as you are, arms wrapping around your waist.

Mingi’s so close that your clit starts to grind on him, where the mess of dark hair is, and the sudden sensation makes you squeal into the crook of his neck, bucking upwards and fucking onto him. His fat cockhead reaches that spongey spot that makes you cross eyed and you do exactly that, going limp in his hold, pussy gripping so tight he has to push hard to move although you gush so messily, down to his balls.

“There it fuckin’ is, there it is,” He grunts, palm wrapping around your hip to pull you down against him. He bounces you in time with his thrusts, fucking against your g-spot until your eyes water and you finally bubble out a sob, eyes red and desperate. Mingi’s eyes focus back in on you and he curses, thumb swiping over your bottom lip. “Gonna cum on this big dick, nice and easy, aren’t you?”

His pubes stick to you with your arousal, and before long your pussy is clenching so tight he can barely pull out, only able to bounce you against him. It does the trick, keeping his cockhead focused on that spot, and you nod with a whimper; he nods back at you, fond. “I am, I am, mmngh- gonna cum so good for you, please, please-”

He coos, letting you suck his thumb, eyes full of adoration as if he isn’t fucking you like he hates you. He knows your body so well, knows what you like and what gets you off - he knew you were going to cum before you did, knows that the man you love fucking you braindead is what you love the most. “Let me feel you. You’re so close, aren’t you? Can feel it, this little cunt always squeezes so tight when you- o-oh, there- there it is, f- fuck, baby, shit-”

Your orgasm hits your whole body, cunt creaming on his wide shaft and making his own eyes roll at the wetness. He manages to fuck you through it, your toes curling amidst hard, deep thrusts that focus on your g-spot, and you cry Mingi’s name over and over as tears stream from your eyes. Your pussy throbs and throbs even as you come out of it, blinking through the damp of your tears to see your boyfriend’s face, the smug smile and still red eyes he has until he leans down to kiss your hairline.

“So sexy when you cum hard for me,” He murmurs, hips slowing to a gentle rock, until he leans backwards on his knees and pushes your legs apart, holding your legs in a vee. Even the gentle movement starts to feel overwhelming when he stretches you taut like this, and you whimper, nails scrabbling at the sofa. His abs flex as he holds you there, looking down at where you’re connected, where your abused pussy sucks his fat cock back in over and over despite your strangled little noises. “Gonna use you now. Gonna- gonna use you like my toy and fill you up with my cum, you want that?”

“Please, please-“

“Not talkin’ to you,” He huffs, thumb moving to your clit. It’s too sensitive, and you try to writhe away but his grip holds you where you are, cock fucking a bit quicker now, sharper. “Talkin’ to her. Fuck, listen to your little pussy. Is it too big, sweetheart? No, you like it like this, don’t you? You like when a big cock splits you open, so fucking easy.”

Your cunt is loud, squelching after your orgasm and only louder as he rubs messily over your clit, spreading your arousal over your mound. He’s lost the plot, you think, too drunk in it and babbling endlessly to your goddamn pussy - this is new but he’s gonna make you cum again, and you both know it. Your teary eyes and tortured, overstimulated noises do not match his smug grin and deep, gravelly groans, however, and his lips kiss over your hairline a few more times before he pulls back to spit down against your tight hole, only making it flutter noisily. 

“I love you so much, you know that? Love how good your cunt takes me, how desperate you get for me,” He murmurs, voice surprisingly clear and you sob wetly, nodding, quiet but he knows what you mean. His hips start to snap against yours, your hole feeling so swollen that it’s barely allowing him access but he pushes through your folds, using you for his own pleasure, his breath shaky as he moves to press his lips against yours. Your head swims with it, loving when he take take takes like this, pussy aching like you’re not sure if you’re gonna break or cum again. Mingi’s movements start to stutter when you moan airy and loud. “Need you on your tummy, baby, daddy’s gonna- fuck- daddy’s g’na give you his cum, okay? On your tummy, like a good little breeding bitch, can you do that?”

You don’t have to, which is what you expected - Mingi always likes to move you around himself, loves how pliant and fuzzy headed and whiny you are when he fucks you stoned and needy. He doesn’t pull out as he flips you over by your waist, letting your body automatically arch because you know exactly what to do for him, knees parting and tits flat against the sofa, t-shirt pushed up above your chest in his frantic movements.

It’s exactly how he wants you, ass pushing back into him and he moves, slow and steady, dick moving in and out and in and out at such a dirty grind. You let out a strangled noise at his cock moving inside you again, and his hands move to your asscheeks, pulling them apart - it stretches your pussy again, aiding the smooth movements and letting you feel every inch and vein. You realise you’re fucked and you’re gonna cum again if he carries this on, his fat, heavy balls hitting your clit, your nails scratching on the blanket, shaking your ass against his crotch in the hopes he fucks you faster. 

“This fat fucking ass,” He groans long, breathless, digging his blunt nails into your flesh. He spreads you apart further, swings his leg upright so his foot is flat against the cushions and forces his cock in deeper. You’re making so much noise, barely lucid, so high from the weed and what he’s giving you, pussy only able to seize loosely from his wide cock and flood him pathetically. You can’t see him, your own eyes screwed shut and head buried in the sofa anyway but you can imagine him, his tongue licking over his bottom lip over and over and his strangled breaths tumbling out, body moving so erratically, pecs clenching as he chases his orgasm. “Been hard since before we started smoking, you know that? You’re t-too fucking hot- shit, I can’t help it. I-I’m gonna cum in this fucking pussy, baby, o-oh my god-“

“Please,” You heave, voice so high pitched he groans at how pathetic you sound, pulling your ass back against him now, fucking your cunt open so good you think it might gape for days. He’d like that, you think, so pervy he’d love the idea of leaving you open from the size of his cock, able to shove it back in whenever he wants to claim you again. The thought makes you whine again, thighs shaking, “fuck, please, Mingi, I want it, please breed me, please fill me up, I love you, pleasepleaseplease-“

“-love you too, little girl, I’ll give it to you, that’s it that’s it, shit,” He babbles, shaking his head like he can’t believe how good it is, thrusting once, twice more until you feel it - your cunt flutters around him pathetically, in such a quick, responsive orgasm from his own that you cry through it, and his cock floods you with warm pearly cum. It’s a lot, always is, filling you up beyond belief and bubbling out over Mingi’s cock as he continues to move slowly, riding his orgasm out, groaning and huffing and fucking his load deeper into your stretched hole. 

“F-fuck-“ He chuckles breathlessly, pulling you back by your ass, curving his broad chest over your back. He groans loudly, fat cock still throbbing inside of you, and you realise when he pushes in again that he’s still cumming, piss slit flooding you with his release. “So good, so good, shit, gonna give you it all.”

You squirm when he keeps moving, his shaft so slick it slides in and out deliciously, making your pussy throb again. He’s still hard, too, you can feel it, cock so big it takes him a while to soften. He eventually collapses on top of you with an exasperated huff, plump lips kissing your shoulder. His hips still move slightly, a gentle, slow grind as he comes down from his high, and you wriggle underneath him. 

“‘M not pulling out yet,” He admits, kissing your skin again, trailing up to your cheek until he’s messily kissing over your lips. From the angle, he barely reaches your mouth but it makes you giggle, eyes still wet from the brutal fucking and hands barely managing to push yourself up to kiss him back. It lasts a few seconds, wet, messy kisses until he finishes with a nuzzle to your cheek with his sharp nose and a deep breath. “Love you so bad. I love you. Can I stay inside of you forever?”

It makes you laugh again, but you know he’s being serious. His hips bury into you further, flush against yours and you hum, pleased. “I love you too, baby. I wanna- let me warm it while we nap, please?”

You’re so dizzy you’re still begging, and he groans, pulling you onto your side without pulling out. It’s an answer of itself, and you know he’s too high and too sated to do anything but rest inside of you, right where he wants to be despite the mess between the two of you, his thigh slinging over your hips to bring you closer. 

“Nap, and then I’m rolling us another one,” He yawns. You yawn too, suddenly so sleepy, letting his body warm you up. “Shit, I fucked myself to sleep. Pussy too good. Pussy amazing, actually-“

“Go to sleep, Mingi.”

“Right, yeah,” He hums again, inching closer like he’s not already plastered to your heated skin. It’s somehow soothing. “Really, it’s the best pussy though. Love you so much. Amazing pussy, amazing girl.”

“Mingi.”

“Right, sorry.”

You can’t help but smile. “I love you more, baby.”

[skzophreniic]

FUCKBOY!CHAN

*°࿐ cw: explicit sexual content rough sex, creampie, size kink/size difference, praise & light degradation, possessive/jealous fuckboy behavior, strong language, mild emotional vulnerability.

in which chan, who never sleeps with the same person twice, starts to realize that he can't keep away from you.

*°࿐ notes: made for this request! i've been feeling so burnt out lately, and this really helped ngl. tysm for requesting nonie~

fuckboy!Chris who never, ever fucks the same girl twice… until he meets you.

fuckboy!Chris who treats you like you’re just another number at first—another pretty face at some house party, thigh warm against his on a stranger’s couch, his hand lazily kneading at the bare skin because he’s already decided how the night ends. He gets your name once and then tells you his, slow and smug, testing how it’ll sound when you’re moaning it back at him.

fuckboy!Chris who’s so much fucking bigger when he crowds up against you—broad chest, thick arms, thighs that bracket you and make you feel tiny even before he touches you. The kind of size that makes your brain go soft because you know he could just pick you up and put you where he wants you, and the worst part is how badly you want him to.

fuckboy!Chris who shoves your back against his bedroom door that first night, one hand sliding under your ass to haul you up. Your legs fly around his waist on instinct, and he holds it there, his grip firm, fingers digging into the soft skin of your thigh. You gasp against his mouth when your hips accidentally roll over the thick, hard line of his cock, and he laughs into the kiss, low and breathy.

“Easy,” he murmurs, teeth catching your bottom lip. “I’ll take care of it.”

fuckboy!Chris who fucks like a man with something to prove. He’s used to girls falling apart in ten minutes and he’s bored of it, so with you he takes his time just to see what happens. He lays you out on his bed, gets your dress rucked up around your hips, panties shoved to the side, and spends way too long just… looking. Big hands spreading you open so his thumb can swipe through your slick, middle finger teasing at your entrance but not pushing in yet.

fuckboy!Chris who talks you through it like he’s slipping under your skin—voice all gravel and honey right by your ear while his thick cock stretches you out, inch by inch, until your nails leave crescents in his shoulders. He hitches your knees up high, folding you almost in half so your feet barely have anything to press against, your whole body pinned and helpless under the weight of him.

“That’s it,” he groans, head dropping to your throat as he bottoms out, so deep you swear you feel him in your lungs. “Take all of it for me. Knew this pretty pussy could handle me.”

fuckboy!Chris who loses his mind over the size difference—how your hand looks when it wraps around just the base of him, how your thighs tremble against his ribs when he really starts to move. He watches you in the mirror across the room, the way your tits bounce with every rough snap of his hips, your face going slack and pretty when he hits that spot inside you over and over until your voice cracks.

“Look at you,” he pants, leaning back just enough to cage your wrists above your head with one hand, the other bracing under your thigh as he pounds into you. The bedframe slams the wall, your whimpers spilling into the room. “So fucking pretty under me… you hear yourself? All those little noises just for my cock?”

fuckboy!Chris who swears he doesn’t kiss girls, not really, not the way that matters—but somehow his mouth keeps finding yours mid-thrust, stealing your breath, swallowing your broken, wrecked sounds. He groans when your legs lock around his waist like you’re trying to keep him there forever, like you’d die if he pulled out.

“Fuuuck—yeah, hold on to me,” he rasps, voice fraying. His forehead presses to yours, sweat-slick and desperate. “Clingy little thing, aren’t you? You want me to stay?”

fuckboy!Chris who was supposed to pull out. He always does. That’s the rule. No sleepovers, no cuddling, no finishing inside. But then your nails rake down his back and he feels you clamp down around him so tight he sees white.

His hips stutter, rhythm breaking as he drives into you harder, deeper, chasing it.

“Shit, baby, I’m—fuck, I’m gonna—”

He should pull back. He knows it. Instead his hand flies to your jaw, thumb pressing into your cheek as he forces your head up so you’re looking right at him when he spills, cock throbbing, hot and thick inside you. He groans into your open mouth, eyes squeezed shut.

“Fuck… shit, look what you made me do,” he pants, staying buried, cock twitching as his cum leaks out around the seal of you, sticky and obscene. 

fuckboy!Chris who tells himself that’s it. One time. You were good, sure, but there’s always someone else. Except then he’s in the shower later with his head against the tile, jerking himself off to the memory of your fucked-out face, the way you gasped when he lifted your hips and pushed you down onto him like a doll. He comes too fast, embarrassingly fast, and the worst part is he still isn’t satisfied.

fuckboy!chris who tells himself he only comes back because you’re convenient. Because you’re close. Because you’re good. And you are—fuck, you’re good. You look up at him with those glassy eyes while you’re on top of him and he has to brace a hand against the mattress so he doesn’t shake, veins in his forearms popping as he rasps out, “slow down, baby, fuck— you tryna make me fall in love or what?”

fuckboy!Chris who starts seeing you everywhere after that—your lip gloss in the corner of his sheet, your hair tie on his nightstand, the faint bruise your teeth left on his throat. His phone lights up and he pretends he’s not waiting for your name, but his stomach flips every time it’s someone else.

fuckboy!Chris who texts you at 1:43 a.m. u up? fully expecting you to ignore him. When you actually answer, his fingers tighten around his phone, a slow grin spreading across his face.

yeah. why?

you know why, he sends back before he can talk himself out of it. come over.

fuckboy!Chris who never, ever fucks the same girl twice—who built a whole persona on that, on being untouchable, unbothered, too busy chasing the next warm body to even think about repeats—until you.

Until he’s on his knees between your thighs the next time, shoulders spread wide against your inner legs, licking into you like a man starved because just feeling you around his cock isn’t enough anymore. Until he’s growling against your pussy, voice rough and wrecked:

“Gonna ruin you for everyone else, you know that? You feel what I’m doing to you? No one’s ever gonna have you like this but me.”

fuckboy!Chris who starts staying after. He’ll finish with you—deep, messy, your cunt still fluttering around him—and then he’ll realize he’s still inside you ten minutes later, just lazily rocking his hips while you whimper into his neck, your fingers tracing patterns on his back. He tells himself he’s just catching his breath, that’s all.

fuckboy!Chris who hears his friends joking about how he never sticks around, never calls, never double-backs… and doesn’t say anything about the fact he’s already been in your bed three times this week. Or the way his jaw tightens when you mention some guy from class, tongue pressed into his cheek when your phone lights up with another name while you’re straddling his lap.

fuckboy!Chris who suddenly gets really opinionated about your love life for someone who “doesn’t do relationships.”

“Why you even talking to him?” he mutters, peeping over your shoulder at your phone. “His texts are dry as hell. You seriously into that?”

fuckboy!Chris who pretends it doesn’t bother him when you say, half-teasing, “Relax, you’re not my boyfriend,” after he snatches your phone and flips it screen-down. He scoffs, leans back on your pillows with his arms behind his head like he’s unbothered, shirt riding up just enough to show the cut lines of his stomach.

“I know,” he says. “I’d be a shit one.”

But he fucks you mean that night, rougher than usual, your knees hooked over his forearms as he drives into you, eyes dark and focused like he’s trying to fuck the word boyfriend right out of your vocabulary. Every thrust is deep, punishing, your breath hitching into little choked-off cries.

“Not your boyfriend,” he grits, hips slamming into the backs of your thighs. “But you let me fuck you like this, yeah? You let me be the only one who sees you like this?”

fuckboy!Chris who can’t stop talking once he’s in deep and losing it.

“Look at this little cunt,” he pants, eyes fixed where you’re stretched around him, where his cock disappears inside you again and again. “Always so ready for me, always so tight—shit, bet you’d take whatever I give you, huh? Fingers, tongue, anything I want.”

You whine his name, broken and high, and feel him shudder behind you.

“Fuck, you’re so fucking hot,” he gasps, eyes rolling to the back of his head. “You were made for this fucking cock, swear to God.”

fuckboy!Chris who starts doing stupid things, out of nowhere. Like showing up with takeout on a night you didn’t invite him. Like remembering how you take your coffee without ever meaning to. Like shrugging off his hoodie and tugging it over your head when you shiver, grumbling, “you say you run hot and then complain about being cold, unreal,” while his brain quietly short-circuits at how cute you look in it.

fuckboy!Chris who gets reckless with his own rules. You spend the night once because it’s late, and then again because you “accidentally” fall asleep on his chest, and then again because he mumbles, half-asleep, “Just stay, yeah?” into your hair, and you do.

fuckboy!Chris who wakes up hard against you, arm heavy over your waist, face tucked into your neck, and realizes—horrified—that he feels… calm. Not trapped, not itchy to leave. Just… good. Your breath soft and even, your hand curled around his fingers like you trust him with something fragile.

fuckboy!Chris who panics and pulls back. Starts answering slower. Starts making excuses. Starts trying to prove to himself he’s still the same as he was before you, going out more, letting girls press up on him in clubs, flirting just enough to remind himself he knows how.

fuckboy!Chris who can’t follow through. He gets them back to his apartment, hands on autopilot, mouth saying all the right things—until they touch him in a way that isn’t yours, until they laugh at the wrong moment, until they look up at him and he thinks, not you. Everything in him goes flat.

“Actually,” he says once, stepping back with a crooked, apologetic grin, “I just remembered I’ve got an early morning.” “Now?” she scoffs. “Seriously?” 

He shrugs, already walking her to the door. “Yeah. Sorry, sweetheart.”

fuckboy!Chris who shuts the door on someone else and somehow ends up in his car, engine rumbling under his hands while his brain short-circuits. He tells himself he’s just going for a drive, just clearing his head. Definitely not typing your address into his GPS even though he could get there blindfolded by now.

fuckboy!Chris who’s halfway up your building’s stairs before he realizes he doesn’t have a reason to be there. No real one, anyway. Not one that doesn’t sound pathetic when he says it out loud.

I missed you.

He stands outside your door for a full minute, fingers flexing uselessly at his sides, heartbeat loud in his ears. He almost turns around. Almost.

He knocks.

You open the door in an old t-shirt and tiny shorts, hair a little messy, eyes going wide when you see him.

“Chris?”

He did not plan what to say. Panic hits so fast his brain grabs the first thing it can find.

“I’m sick,” he blurts.

You blink. “…What?”

“I’m—” he fakes a cough on the spot, winces at himself halfway through it and commits anyway, hunching his shoulders like he’s in a drama. “S’bad.”

There’s a beat of silence where you just stare at him, taking in the hoodie, the faint smell of cologne.

Then your mouth curls, unimpressed. “If you wanted to come over to fuck,” you say flatly, “you could’ve just said so.”

His ego flares like a personal emergency. Absolutely not. No way is he admitting that he bailed on another girl and came here because he—what, missed you? Needed you?

He coughs again. 

“Nah, I’m serious,” he insists, putting a hand to his forehead like he’s checking for a fever. “Think I’ve got, like… the plague or some shit.”

You squint at him. “You walked here with the plague.”

“Drove,” he corrects, like that helps. “Didn’t wanna give it to anyone. ‘Cept you, I guess. Sorry, baby.”

You exhale, half a laugh, half a sigh. “You’re so stupid.”

But you step back to let him in.

fuckboy!Chris who instantly sheds his shoes and beelines for your couch like he lives there, flopping down with a dramatic groan. He drapes an arm over his eyes, other hand fisted in the hem of your throw blanket like he’s on his deathbed.

“Let me feel,” you mutter, stepping closer.

His brain promptly exits the chat.

“Feel what?” he asks, voice pitching up, because there are about five different answers he’d like to give that have nothing to do with health.

“Your forehead, dumbass.” You plant a hand on your hip.

He swallows and sits up a little, and it hits you—he does look off. Not just tired. His hair is a little damp at the hairline, cheeks flushed in a way that doesn’t look like his usual post-gym glow. His breathing isn’t labored, exactly, but there’s something… off-rhythm about it.

You reach out, press your palm flat to his forehead.

fuckboy!Chris who has had your hands on every inch of him and somehow still feels like he’s going to combust from the simple, cool weight of your palm on his skin. His eyes flutter shut on reflex, lashes brushing his cheeks, shoulders slumping.

“You’re hot,” you say, even though he’s not.

He opens one eye. “In a sexy way or—”

You smack his shoulder. “Christopher.”

He winces, but there’s a ghost of a grin there. It fades when you lean in again, thumb brushing the side of his neck like you’re checking his pulse. Your brows knit.

“On a scale of one to ten, how fake is this illness?”

He peeks at you from under his arm, lashes low. “Nine point seven,” he admits. Then, quickly, “But the part where I feel like shit is real.”

Your expression shifts, just a little. “Headache?”

“Yeah.” He swallows, the lie burying itself under the truth. “Headache.”

You hover for a second longer, still clearly suspicious, then your shoulders drop. “You could’ve just said you were having a bad night,” you mutter, brushing a bit of his hair back from his forehead with your fingers before you can stop yourself.

He goes very still under your touch.

“I’m having a bad night,” he says quietly.

fuckboy!Chris who says it like a joke at first—even now, his instinct is to twist everything into something lighter, something you can both laugh off later. But it sits between you too heavy to be funny, and when you don’t immediately fire back, he realizes he said it a little too honest.

You exhale, the edge in your shoulders softening against your will.

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “I kind of figured.”

You end up herding him toward your bedroom like he’s some oversized, sulky cat. He sits on the edge of your mattress, suddenly shy in a way that makes no sense given how many times he’s had you naked and begging under him.

“Top on or off?” you ask, rummaging for an extra blanket.

His brain immediately supplies a slideshow of you asking that in very different circumstances. His cock twitches in his sweats. Not the time, not the time, not the time—

“On,” he croaks, in case his body betrays him. 

You snort. “Relax, I wasn’t trying to strip you. I just don’t wanna wash hoodie lint out of my sheets if you start writhing around in your ‘death throes.’”

“I don’t writhe,” he mutters, which is a lie and you both know it.

You flick off the lamp by your dresser, leave the one by your bed on low. The room shrinks around the soft pool of light, everything quieter, edges blurred. You toss the extra blanket onto the mattress, then gesture.

“Lie down properly,” you say.

He hesitates, then swings his legs up, sitting stiffly with his back against the headboard like he’s in a waiting room. His hands are flat on his thighs, fingers drumming restlessly.

You crawl onto the bed beside him, the mattress dipping with your weight. That gets his attention; his gaze tracks the movement of your body, the hem of your t-shirt riding up just a touch as you settle.

You pat your lap. “Here.”

His brows lift. “There?”

“No, the floor,” you deadpan. “Yes, here.”

He stares at you like you’ve offered him something dangerous and he’s not sure he should touch it. This is stupid, he thinks. He’s put his head between your thighs without blinking and now he’s nervous about putting it on them.

“You sure?” he asks, and even he can hear how rough it comes out.

You roll your eyes, softer this time. “Chris. C’mere.”

fuckboy!Chris who has never, ever laid his head in anyone’s lap in his life like this, not unless it was on the way to sliding down their body. 

fuckboy!Chris who has never been shy about taking what he wants when it comes to your body, but somehow feels like he’s crossing a line just by shifting down the bed, turning, and easing his head onto your thighs. The mattress springs sigh, your warmth seeping through the thin cotton of your shorts.

You adjust him without ceremony—one hand at the back of his neck, thumb rubbing at the tense knot there as you guide him until he’s exactly where you want him.

“Better?” you ask.

He didn’t know he needed this until the second his head finds the curve of you and everything inside him… drops. Unwinds. Lets go.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “That’s… good.”

Your hand finds his hair like it’s been waiting there all along. You start to card your fingers through the strands, slow and deliberate, nails scratching lightly at his scalp.

fuckboy!Chris who has taken you apart with his hands, his mouth, his body—who has bent you and folded you and held you down—and yet somehow, this undoes him more than any of it.

His eyes slide shut before he can stop them. His shoulders, always so squared and ready for impact, gradually sink into the mattress. Every stroke of your fingers sends a little shiver down his spine, not sharp, not electric—just… warm. Soothing. Intimate in a way he doesn’t have a category for.

“Tired?” you murmur after a moment.

“Mm.” His voice vibrates against your thighs. “Yeah.”

“How bad was it?” you ask quietly. “Your day.”

He swallows. His first instinct is to say it was fine. To make a joke. To say something glib and easy that keeps everything on the surface where it’s always been safe for him.

Instead, your nails catch on a tender spot behind his ear and his answer slips out softer than he means it to.

“Shit,” he says. “It was shit.”

You hum, fingers never stopping. “Yeah?”

He could tell you about the girl he almost fucked tonight and couldn’t. About how he stood in his own kitchen with someone’s hands on him and felt… nothing. About the way his chest has been tight for days, like there’s a fist around his ribs that only loosens when you’re close.

Instead, he swallows it all down.

“Doesn’t matter now,” he mutters.

You don’t push. You don’t pry it open or ask for details or turn his bad day into a post-mortem. You just make a quiet, noncommittal sound and keep stroking his hair, nails lightly scratching at his scalp in slow, steady passes.

It’s such a small kindness it shouldn’t knock the air out of him.

But it does.

He feels it in the way his body reacts—like some invisible tension wire inside his chest finally snaps loose. His shoulders sink further into the mattress, muscles unspooling one by one as your fingers comb through his curls, carding from his hairline all the way back to the nape of his neck.

He lets out a sound he doesn’t recognize.

It’s tiny. Half-sigh, half-whine. It slips out of him on the exhale, vibration buzzing against the soft skin of your thigh. He goes still immediately after, like he can pull it back in by force.

You’re an angel for pretending you didn’t hear it.

Your hand just changes angle, fingertips dragging from his temple, over the shell of his ear, back to that spot at the base of his skull. You circle there, gentle pressure and lazy scratches that make his toes curl in his socks.

He doesn’t mean to, but another little noise escapes him—deeper this time, a soft, broken-edged hum that sounds suspiciously like a whimper.

“Feels that good?” you murmur, almost amused.

His cheeks burn. “Shut up,” he mutters, but it comes out breathy, not sharp at all.

“Didn’t say it was a bad thing,” you say. Your thumb strokes along his hairline, catching the dampness there, smoothing the flyaways back. Your nails skim his scalp again, slower, firmer.

He shudders.

The hand on your leg tightens, fingers digging into the flesh of your thigh like he needs something to hold on to. His other hand, the one on his chest, slides lower to grip the hem of his hoodie, knuckles going white as he clenches.

You keep touching him like you have all the time in the world. No rush, no goal, just long, repetitive strokes that make his thoughts blur at the edges.

It’s obscene, almost, how good it feels. Every drag of your fingers through his hair sends a warm, lazy heat spilling down his spine, settling in his chest, his stomach, the backs of his knees.

“Mm,” he hums, eyes squeezing shut when you scratch a little harder at his scalp. “Fuck, that’s…”

He trails off, jaw slackening. Another small sound slips out, embarrassingly close to a whine. It makes the corner of your mouth twitch.

“Good?” you supply.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “S’good. So good.”

You slow it down even more, changing the pattern—fingers threading through his curls, separating them, letting them slip through the spaces between your knuckles. You use the pads of your fingers to massage small circles into his scalp, working from one side to the other, like you’re trying to erase every leftover thought clinging to his brain.

His breathing changes.

It’s softer now, coming in slow pulls. Every exhale brushes warm over the inside of your thigh. You can feel the way his body keeps reacting in tiny involuntary flinches: the twitch of his shoulders when you scratch behind his ear, the little kick of his foot when you drag your nails right at the nape.

A soft, breathy whimper falls out of him, high in his chest, broken off halfway like he tried to swallow it and failed.

You don’t stop. If anything, your touch gentles, fingertips tracing the curve of his skull with almost ridiculous care.

“There you go,” you murmur, more to him than anything. “Just relax.”

He lets out a helpless huff of laughter. “I am,” he says, voice fuzzy. “That’s the problem.”

“Is it?” you ask.

He doesn’t answer, not really. Just hums again, the sound low and wrecked, pressing his cheek more firmly against your thigh like he’s trying to burrow inside it.

You can feel how warm he is. Not sick, not feverish, just thoroughly undone. His lashes lie dark against his cheeks, his mouth parted around soft, involuntary breaths. The notorious fuckboy, the one who always has the upper hand, the exit strategy, the next option—reduced to a whimpering puddle because you’re playing with his hair.

Your fingers slide down, combing through the curl at his nape, then drifting to stroke the side of his neck. You trace absent patterns there—little loops and lines that make his pulse jump under your touch.

He squeezes your thigh, a small, desperate gesture.

fuckboy!chan who starts to melt in earnest, muscles slack, hand slipping from a grip on your thigh to a loose, warm weight. Every so often, he makes a sound—tiny, half-formed, the kind of whine he’d mock someone else for—but he’s too blissed-out to care.

If he could hear himself, he’d be mortified. If his friends could see him, he’d never live it down.

But it’s just you here. Just you and the soft light and the quiet and the gentle drag of your fingers through his hair. And for once, he lets himself have this without thinking about what it looks like.

Without thinking about what it means.

He tips his head a little to the side, just enough that his nose brushes the inside of your thigh through the fabric. He inhales, deep and slow, like he’s trying to memorize your scent. Your hand automatically slides down again, cupping the back of his head, thumb stroking behind his ear.

“Y’gonna fall asleep on me?” you ask after a while, voice barely above a whisper.

“Maybe,” he whispers back. His words are getting fuzzy at the edges, each one a little slower than the last. “You’re… dangerous, you know that? Could get anything you want from me like this.”

“Good to know,” you say, amused. “I’ll start drafting my list.”

He huffs a quiet laugh that dissolves into a tiny, breathy “ah—” when your nails scratch lightly behind his ear again. His toes curl under the blanket. He has never been this defenseless in front of anyone, and somehow it doesn’t scare him. It just… feels right.

“You are so adorable, Channie,” you murmur without thinking, the words slipping out on a breath.

His entire body jolts.

Heat rushes up his neck, flooding his face, his chest. He feels it burn all the way to the tips of his ears. A strangled noise catches in his throat and he grips your thigh again, harder this time, fingers biting into your skin.

He doesn’t know what to do with that. With you. With the way his tough-guy persona, the fuckboy mask, all of it feels so flimsy in the face of this quiet, devastating tenderness.

So he doesn’t do anything.

He just lies there, whimpery and boneless, letting you pet him like he’s yours. Letting himself be soft where no one else can see.

fuckboy!Chris who can talk you through every way he wants to fuck you, who can narrate your own pleasure back to you in filthy detail without flinching—completely wordless now beneath your hands, all his slick lines burnt away by the simple, devastating luxury of being petted and held.

fuckboy!Chris who thought he’d come over tonight to take the edge off, to use your body like a distraction—now humming quietly into the softness of your stomach, eyes half-closed, letting you turn him into a whimpery, pliant mess with nothing more than your fingers in his hair and the steady warmth of your lap.

[myloveforyunho]

plsss i need jongho fucking you in the mating press position, omg immagine him thrusting so fucking hard into you, watching your eyes get teary, hearing you complain about how you can’t take it anymore and wrap his hand around your throat to keep you quiet. he'd be so shy after... pleasee

something new came out of jongho… you just couldn’t understand it. but who is to blame? mingi. randomly enough, mingi got jongho a book of sex positions. after months of waiting for jongho to pop up with something new… as he had the book for quite some time… he finally came to you.

he introduced the position, and surprised you when he said it would be the most perfect position for breeding. usually jongho is this shy and coy boy, very kissy instead of explicit… i guess he has just been more daring lately. so casual, so nonchalant, later in the evening he had you in that very position.

“i can’t i can’t i can’t..” you take a whiny breath, “i can’ttttttt…!!!” you whine, you’ve never felt your g-spot hit at such a high speed of pressure, looking down to see your stomach forming a bump at his every thrust. your mind was so overwhelmed that you gave up, letting your mouth make whatever sounds it must, your hands gripping at the sheets. to your unfortunate reality, mingi and yeosang were chilling in the room next to you. you didn’t know they were that close, but being aware of them being in the house with you, you tried to keep it down as much as you could.

“you wanna shut up???” jongho asks in front of your face, shock filling your brain as his dominance is making you want to squirt all over him. you moan out loud, not being able to take the pressure in your abdomen any longer. you start clenching on his thick cock, making him wince in anger at you already being ready to cum. this made him pleased, and of course he wanted to be able to make you cum this fast. but he did not want you to cum just yet, not this fast.

“shut…” he wraps his hand around your neck, making sure not to completely trap your airways, “up… shut up… there are people next door, ah.. you like when other boys can hear you feeling good? hm?” he asks in your face, wincing once more when you release a sudden whimper, teary eyes rolling to the back of your head as you release on his throbbing dick.

your cunt contracting on his cock was enough for his hips to start stuttering, his face extremely focused on cumming now that you have. he wanted to spend more time fucking you, but you both couldn’t handle how good the position felt. so he pulled out, spewing his hot load all over your body, never have ever seeing so much cum come out of his pink cock. he attends to you immediately, brushing your hair out of your face and holding your jaw to get your attention.

“maybe i can breed you when you’re ready to hold your cum for me… yea princess? so horny…”

⋆˙ writing master list ˙ ⋆

[last-words-ofashootingstar]

Human Resources

ಠ_ಠwarning/content: RATED X MATURE AUDIENCES ONLY. DEAD DOVE, DON'T EAT IT IF YOU'RE SQUEAMISH.

➯non-con disclaimer: things depicted in this story are NOT okay in real life. this is ONLY EVER acceptable in FICTIONAL settings (and even then it's fucked up). if you're genuinely curious as to why i write non-con, see my navigation. i (obviously) do not support these things in real life.

mean co-worker yeonjun x shy reader, reader wears skirts and heels, condensed story telling in the first half, sexual harassment via comments about readers body / rubbing against her ass, korean culture but no specificity about readers background, korean drinking culture, HEAVILY implied stalking, non forceful / violent kidnapping (reader is too drunk to realize what's happening at first), he is VERY condescending: indirectly calls her stupid, manhandling, non-con: p in v, unprotected + multiple creampie, minimal prep, spit as lube, fingering, hickeys and biting, dacryphilia, skirt kink (? maybe ?), shockingly non-violent during the actual act, reader dissociates/lets it happen after a certain point and passes out afterwards, pet names: (silly, pretty, little, poor) girl, angel, thing, baby

not proof read, and won't be for some time

♡masterlist + navigation !♡

Your coworker makes your life a living hell each day you clock in.

You don't know how, or why, you'd gotten on his bad side — but it's clear that you have. It started subtly, it really did. You almost thought he was just snarky like that to everyone; like that's who he just is.

It isn't.

Comments about your clothes or your slightly rushed makeup when you happened to be in the break room at the same time. Asking about your weekend just to smirk when you say you spent it at home. A small little pout as he said you're always welcome to come drinking with them after work so you can try and make some friends.

He doesn't even have a lot of business being on the floor you work on — not nearly enough to warrant as much you find him there. He works for human resources. Which is fucking irony at its finest, you think.

The one department of the company where you might go to complain about him. And he's the secondary manager.

He's said so himself, who would really believe you? And it's not like he's doing anything bad! He's just making conversation.

Until conversation got... physical.

Patting your head while patronizingly telling you 'good work'. Pressing his hand against the small of your back to move past you in the copy room. Tucking back an out of place hair while telling you to 'look professional'.

Then physical got intense, real fast. Out of blue, really.

He was slumped as the elevator doors opened, eyes drooping and holding back a yawn. But he lit up like a kid on Christmas morning when he saw you, and you alone, in the elevator.

Your already exhausted face fell even further, and you debated on whether you should get out and just brave the stairs. But you debated too long and he was in the elevator, pressing the button, before you could decide.

You pressed up against the corner, nodding a bit whenever you felt him look at you. If you'd had looked at him, you would have witnessed the evil grin he wore.

He was crowding you writhing the next half-second, his hands on either side of you; white-knuckling the bars. "How was your day?" Was his question; as if he wasn't so close he could feel the nervous shudder you let out.

"Good, and- and you?" You tried to always stay polite with him, with all of your co-workers. Even if he was scaring you so badly that you felt like a cornered prey animal with the way his eyes zeroed in on you, pupils dilating.

Maybe he'd give up eventually if you didn't show any reaction. But it's already been months, so you're starting to doubt that.

"Fucking miserable," he said plainly, eyeing you up and down. "And that fucking skirt of yours didn't help, I was thinking about bending you over all day long."

He didn't laugh like you thought he would have whenever you looked up from the floor with wide eyes. Shock written all over your face. He didn't wear his signature teasing smile. He was dead serious.

"Wh-what?"

He spun you around quickly, his grip on your shoulders felt bruising.

He was even closer. His slacks pressing against your smooth, professional pencil skirt as he pinned you to the elevator wall. "You're a little fucking tease, did you know that? I bet you see how I look at you- you torture me on purpose wearing all these pretty clothes."

You were too confused to respond, your breath was stuck in your throat and the smell of his cologne made it hard to breathe.

"I want you to wear the blue skirt on Monday," he said, like it was natural for him to be giving you commands. Like it was normal. Okay. "The pleated one."

"Why?" You managed to croak out as you felt his bulge coming to life on the round of your ass.

The elevator dinged. And he was walking out like nothing ever happened, only sparing you a flat, "because I said so."

That was two days ago now. Today is Monday.

You smooth out your blue pleated skirt as you exit the bathroom, jumping as you come face to face with him. "God!" You yelp as you put a hand to your chest, bowing immediately in apology.

"You wore it." He smiles — smirks — as he tilts his head, taking his time to really look at you for the first time today in the empty hall.

You look like a frightened newborn deer, wobbling in your short heels under his gaze. He feels like a wolf. Ready to eat you whole.

"Yeah?" You say like a question. You don't know why you did. You really shouldn't feed into his ego. But he scares you.

His eyes are always just a little bit too intense when he looks at you. Like he's on the verge of doing... something.

"Good girl." His blunt praise makes your gut churn, makes you heat up with embarrassment. It's even worse when he pairs it with a warm hand cupping your jaw and his lips on your head.

He leaves you there. Completely stunned. Walks away like he never even stopped to speak to you.

You go to your boss's office after that and put in your two weeks notice.

Fuck this. You quit. You're done putting up with his nonsense. If you can't go to human resources, if they won't take you seriously; you quit. And they haven't — taken you seriously, that is.

When you filled a complaint, it never got responded to. When you talked to the primary manager, saying Yeonjun was harassing you, she looked at you like you'd sprouted another head.

You quit. His teasing has already been messing with your mental health, and you won't take anymore. His lips on your body was entirely too much — even if it was just on your head.

He isn't right in the mind. Whether or not you did something to get on his bad side and make him start acting strangely towards you — you don't care anymore.

You lean against the cool metal of the elevator later that day, having just clocked out late once again. A few things your boss asked you to finish before you leave.

Yeonjun doesn't light up when he sees you in the lift. His eyes get darker as he steps inside.

You can feel it. His anger. His resentment. His... something. It rolls off his tense shoulders in waves. He must have heard.

"We're going drinking." He says, plain. Unwavering.

"Oh, no, tha-"

"I wasn't asking."

The world moves in slow motion as he grabs your hand and yanks you from the elevator the second the door opens. But, at the same time, as he drags your protesting form down the street — everything is going so fast it's blurry.

Being around him is always frightening, but right now it's activating your fight or flight. You want to fly. You want to run. Something in your gut, something primal, tells you that you're in danger. But his grip is too strong and when he finally lets go, you're in the bar.

Surrounded by co-workers who cheer when they see you, excited that you've finally joined them.

This fucker really decided to use drinking culture against you. It's rude to deny a drink from a co-worker, especially if they're older. And, unlucky for you, a majority of your company is older by a few decades.

You decide it's fine. Maybe he just wants you to drink with them at least once before you leave.

What can he really do to you, anyway? You're surrounded by people.

You take the shot that your older co-worker offers and pour one for her as well.

In what feels like no time at all, you can't even see straight. You failed to notice that Yeonjun, who had only drunk enough to be tipsy, was directing anyone who came to him — over to you. And they were all more than pleased to drink with you after months of working together and never getting the opportunity.

You don't even know who he is when he pulls your arm over his shoulders and hauls you up while you giggle. You have a brief, far off memory of being uncomfortable that comes with the smell of his cologne; but his blurry figure smiles so sweetly at you that you forget all about it.

"Let me take you home, pretty girl," he grins like a cheshire cat, swiping away some of your smudged lipstick with his thumb, "don't want you to get taken advantage of, now do we?"

You can't even register the sinister sarcasm in his voice, only pouting and nodding, asking him, "take care of me?" With your voice slurred and your eyes heavy as you try your damnedest to remember why this man is making you anxious when he's just looking out for you.

The sweetness, the vulnerability in your voice and dizzy eyes makes his heart slam against his chest. Why hadn't he done this earlier?

He holds you steady by holding your arm over his tall shoulders, his other hand on your waist as he flags down a taxi.

You pretty much fall over even as he helps you into the back seat, your skirt riding up a bit and making him tut his tongue as he sits next. "This is why I was worried about you," his voice is disingenuous. But you're too drunk to notice and the driver doesn't give two fucks as Yeonjun reaches over and slips his hand between your exposed thighs.

His fingertips graze your panties and you whine, squinting your eyes as the passing lights make your head pound. You shove at his wrist. It feels nice but, first and foremost — you're in public. And second, you still can't remember who he is. "No-" Your little grumble gets the drivers attention now, making him look at you in the rear view.

"Are you okay, miss? You know this guy, right?"

Yeonjun laughs, light and airy as he moves his hand away from you, reaching into his pocket, "it's okay, I'm her boyfriend. See?"

You catch a glimpse of his home screen as he shows it to the man.

A photo of you, posing with a smile at a park. Taken two months ago. But — you don't remember posing for him. You were posing for your best friend.

The man nods, accepting that as proof. How else would this guy who's helping you sit upright have a posed picture of you?

"Where 'we going?" You slur, blood pumping in your ears. You don't have any reason to, but you feel unsafe. You know he isn't your boyfriend. But your inebriated brain still isn't connecting the dots as to who he is.

Is he a friend you've made recently? He's wearing formal clothes, maybe he works at your office-

You stare at him, blood running cold. "Yeonjun-ssi," you say slowly, "where are we goin'?"

"Home, silly," he says, lucky that the driver stops just when you come to your senses. "Thank you, have a nice night," he slaps the money into his hand and quickly pulls you out of the car; grabbing your hand tightly as you hang onto the door.

"Wait a s-"

"Up we go," he groans, yanking you away and slamming the door closed with his foot.

The driver hesitates for a moment, foot hovering over the pedal as he watches him all but carry you up the stairs of the apartment building. You grab onto his collar, looking at him with wide, drunken eyes. "Ah, kids these days." He shakes his head before pulling away.

"Yeonjun-ssi, wha-"

"Shhh, don't worry about it, sweet thing," he cuts you off quickly, smoothing out your skirt as you enter the lobby; his hands lingering on your ass a moment too long.

Everything in your mind is screaming, every instinct on red alert. But you're so confused that you let him lead your stumbling form up the flight of stairs and up to a door, clinging to his button up as he fishes his keys from his pocket. "Yeonjun-ssi-"

He all but throws you into his apartment, slamming the door behind him as you fall to your knees from the way he's slung you.

"You really thought you could just leave?" He chuckles as you try to lift yourself up before practically tackling you, forcing you flat against the hardwood. "You're stupider than I thought. Poor baby, I knew I should have done this sooner... You can't be out there all on your own."

Your brain is still lagging behind even as your body sobers up with fear, fighting against him clumsily as he unbuttons your top. "Fuck are you doing?" You whine, arms falling flat when he pushes them, too tired to keep up the useless fight.

"Don't worry, I'm going to take good care of you." His fuzzy figure looms over you with a dark smile, looking satisfied. "Okay?" He grips your chin as your head rolls drunkenly, forcing your eyes on him, "even though you've been a teasing little thing, I know it's only because you wanted my attention. Even if you've don't know it..."

Soberness seems to smack you in the face as he yanks down your panties. Skirt, socks, and heels be damned — he pulls them straight off you and puts them in his pocket as he kneels, allowing you the space to scramble out from under him. "What the fuck?!" You scream as you shove your hand between your thighs and use your skirt to hide yourself from his prying eyes.

He only cocks his head, staring at you. Greed and lust in his glare.

"No..." You let out a breath as you realize his intentions, terror washing over your drunken nervous system, "you can't."

"And you can't stop me." He says like it's a fact, there's no way you can win against him — especially at the moment. "So where does that leave us?"

You grab the couch next to you and haul yourself up in a hurry, but he's already up by the time you're on your wobbly feet; wrapping his arms around yours tightly and pinning them to your sides as you cry out, "no!"

"I'll tell you where it leaves us," he groans while dragging you towards his bedroom, your attempts at digging your heels into the floor all in vain, one of them falling off in the struggle, "I'm going to fuck you like I've wanted to for months. And you're going to be a good girl and fucking take it."

It feels like your head spins around in your skull as he tosses you onto the bed, your breath heavy and your limbs even more so as you try to gather yourself and slap at his hands weekly as they come and finish what they started unbuttoning your blouse.

He's right. You can't stop him. Your depth perception is off, your reflexes are slow, and your rapid heart is cracking open your chest. You always felt like Yeonjun didn't like you, but you had no idea he'd go so far as... this.

He pulls your top off and tosses it without care, a large hand slipping under your back to unclip your bra as you give up your fight and can only simply whimper with fear, "why do you hate me?"

It gives him pause for a second before he chuckles, sliding your bra away to expose your chest to him. "I don't hate you, angel... I could never hate you."

Disgust starts weaving itself into the unpleasant knot in your stomach as he straddles over you and leans; lips bold on your neck.

The feeling of it — of him — makes your tears flow no matter how hard you try to keep a brave face. "Then why- why are you doing this?"

"Because, silly," he laughs, like it's obvious, as he gropes at your chest all too gently for your liking, "I don't hate you. I'm in love with you."

Your eyebrows pinch together with a fresh wave of confusion, trying in drunken vain to process his words while he slips a hand down to find your cunt. You squeeze your eyes shut as he comes up from your neck and stares down at you; refusing to meet his eyes.

"You th-" You gasp as he traces a finger up your slit to find your clit, shaking your head as he begins circling it, "you think I won't turn you in?"

He lets out an amused huff of air, smirking as he leers at your chest; watching your breathing pick up.

"You think I'm letting you go?"

His words hit you like a ton of bricks, sobs immediately wracking your pliant body while he spreads your legs and flips up your skirt. A single sharp gasp interrupts your sobs whenever he shoves two spit-covered fingers into you. They return tenfold as you hear him whisper to himself, "fuck, so warm..."

One of your feet decides it wants to kick at him, and you're only rewarded with him pinning your thighs to his mattress with his knees. "Be still, baby, I don't want to hurt you." You can only babble pleas that fall into deaf ears, wrapping your arms around your chest to console yourself as he fingers you open. "Hey, look at me."

You refuse. Sniveling and shaking your head and keeping your eyes screwed shut tightly. "C'mon, don't be like that, pretty girl..." Still, he gets nothing. He takes a deep breath while biting his lip, containing his anger by reminding himself how scared you must be.

He really hates that it has to be this way. But not really. He'd prefer if you weren't crying your eyes out, but at the same time your tears are making him harder than ever.

He wants to take care of you. In his own fucked up way. Maybe making you quit was his goal all along. A shy, cute, little thing like you isn't built for the corporate world. The amount of times he'd watched people walk over you like a placemat makes his heart hurt for you. And it was so fun to do the same as them.

"Fine, have it your way."

You almost breathe a sigh of relief when his fingers slide out of you, when he wipes them on your cunt — then you hear his belt buckle and a fresh spike of fear makes your lips tremble.

You flinch when he presses his lips against yours, nothing but a soft peck as the sound of his zipper fills the air alongside your sniffles. "You're so perfect," he whispers onto your trembling lips before leaning back and spitting into his palm; making quick work to jerk himself off while scanning you slowly.

All you can do is cry. Keep your arms around yourself tightly to hide from his predatory gaze — you can feel it. Force yourself to try and even out your breathing as you feel his tip gliding against you.

"Yeonjun, pl-ease!" Your shaky plead turns into a scream as he breeches you. Not all at once, not quickly. But he doesn't stop as you whimper and cry from the stretch. Slow and steady even as you start fidgeting; he only wraps his arms around your shoulders tightly and hugs you while pinning you to the bed with his chest.

"Fuck..." He moans deeply, almost flinching whenever you move your arms to hug him tightly — to ground yourself, he knows. But it still makes him smile widely as he bottoms out inside of you, pressing his nose to your head and inhaling deeply.

It's like an instantaneous high. One that can't even begin to be rivaled. Your warm, tight hole encasing his length perfectly, your weakened arms clinging to him, the scent of your shampoo that he's only gotten whiffs of before now.

He's too much. Anything is too much when you don't want it. It's uncomfortably heavy inside of you as the stinging stretch slowly fades. It curves up and sits against your g-spot. It might have felt nice if you had a choice in the matter.

But you don't.

He keeps it slow. Revels in the warmth of your cunt as he bends down and nips at your neck. "There you go, sweet girl," his voice is almost like a purr, like a cat pleased with the mouse it's caught, "you just be good for me and I'll be gentle... Mh, can't mess up such a pretty thing, can I?"

"Don't k-kill me."

Your plea — grounded in reality and filled with fear — makes him chuckle. A soft laugh against your neck as he slowly pulls out, just an inch, before pressing back in.

"I'm not going to kill you, silly baby," his hands trace down your shoulders and find your wrists, pulling your arms away from your chest and pinning them down on the mattress. "I'm just going to keep you all to myself."

Everything is too much.

Too confusing. The entire situation; you know it's not right, you know he's hurting you — so why is he being so soft with his words and his slow, stretching thrusts?

Too big. His body over yours. His girth inside of you.

Too hot. His breath against your cheek. Too fast, even as he moves slowly. The hurried nature is in his button down shirt pressed against your naked chest and your heel lost in the hall.

Too intimate. His fingers sliding up your wrists, caressing your skin as he laces them with yours. His forehead pressing against yours.

"Look at me, angel," he says — and your body reacts without your consent. His eyes are frighteningly soft as you meet his gaze.

His hair is clinged to his forehead, a drop of sweat tracing his jaw. His shirt is gone. His thrusts are still contained, but they're never ending. Your insides are almost numb, but you feel something other than your minimal wetness and his spit slicking up his movements.

Your brows pinch together, pout on your smudged lipstick as you crane your heavy head and look between you. A mess of white being stirred up between your thighs by his length.

How long has this been happening?

Your tears have ran dry, kissed up off your face by his greedy lips — not that you remember that. You've been in and out of your own mind. Not that that ever stopped him when he noticed.

He cradles a palm to your cheek, pressing your head back into the mattress and making you look up at him. The dazed and fuzzy look in your eyes makes his heart flip in his chest; overworked cock aching inside of you.

"Please, Yeonjun," you whimper, eyelids drooping and swollen from crying, "so tired..."

"Give me a kiss and I'll stop."

And what really do you have to lose?

He does you the favor of bringing his lips down to yours, you only have to struggle to lift your head the last inch to press and massage your lips into his clumsily. You're in your brain for this last time he cums inside of you, an unpleasant clench in your chest as the warmth comforts your sore cunt.

He lets you fall back, completely limp against his bed as he slowly pulls out for the first time in almost an hour.

And you're already asleep, passed out cold, as he stands up and takes a step back. Your other heel was lost sometime during the hour, discarded on the floor. Only your crumpled skirt protects your body; and only the sliver of your waist that it clings to.

Your neck and shoulders are littered with small bites and large fresh hickeys. Your legs tremble slightly in your sleep, still spread how he had you. His cum seeps out from you, getting caught by your skirt.

"Silly girl," he whispers to himself, "thought you could leave me."

You'll be doing no such thing.

He manages to wipe you semi-clean without waking you, trading your skirt for a pair of his boxers before pulling you up to lay with your head on his pillows.

He nearly feels bad whenever you curl up in your sleep, holding yourself and pulling your knees close to yourself. Nearly. Because the satisfaction when he remembers that you're curling up in his bed after he's just fucked you overtakes any and all guilt he may have had.

"Pretty angel," he curls up behind you, arms trapping you in a hug that soothes your unconscious mind while he shushes you. "Shhhh... Don't worry. You're all mine, I got you."

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thank you for reading !

₊‧⁺stardust˖⋆ @sunnysidesins @onyxmango @devilzliaison @ateezswonderland @queenofdumbfuckery @emilysecresy @kyomiingi @pansexual-and-eating-pancakes @klllerwaifu @seonghwasslytherin @yoonglesbae @wolviejex @estrnrea @lover-ofallthingspretty @willowwyy @jaerisdiction @peelingpaint-heavyheart @satsuri3su @bubbly-moon @hannahstacos @life-is-a-game-of-thrones @prchiquita8 @bambiihee @ramadiiiisme @birdy-bat-writes @0323yuyu1024 @jkayy-prodian @hyunj00 @xzoria @lady-haitani @ottersdeservelove @sugar-spice-bitch @itsskierr @starryunho @yukisroom97 @raicecakes-and-buldak @mallielovssyou @wolywolymoley @ayoo-bangtan @tunafishyfishylike @beomelmyu @cypher-03 @belongjoong @faeriful @violatedvibrators @stxrrywoo @a1avav

[mulloey]

prove it to me

PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS! sugar daddy x sugar baby dynamics. not central to the plot (there is no plot) but mentioned. consensual bdsm/kink dynamics. workaholic hongjoong. studio play. daddy kink. babying. corruption kink. pussy smacking. thigh smacking. degradation. panty sniffing (he makes u smell them sorry) panty gagging. starts out sweet and tender then gets gross. basically just 2k words to make you say girl, stand up…

You knew Hongjoong was rich.

You’d seen it online—the outfits, the jewelry, the first class flights and the team rings he’d apparently dropped a pretty penny on. So yeah, you knew he was rich.

You didn’t realise how rich he was until you actually met him.

Until the fancams and Fromm messages turned to his eyes on you—only you—and hands on your skin.

His hands—strong, steady, careful—on your bare skin.

On your hands, at first, then your wrists. Then just above your knees. A little higher—to the middle of your thighs, then further. Then your waist, where your shirt rode up just a little and he snuck his hand in underneath it.

You still don’t know how it happened; why he chose you, out of everyone. You wonder if he knows, actually; he doesn’t tell you either way. Says it’s nothing for you to be worrying about. That’s not your job, worrying. Your job is to be soft and sweet and spoiled and do what he tells you to do.

Right now, that involves sitting on his lap in the studio while he works. Quietly. Unmoving. Not causing trouble. He came here to work, and you came here to help.

He finds he works better with you around. Helps to see where the money from this track is going, he joked once.

He sighs, leaning back in his seat; his hand moves from the keyboard and comes to rest on your thigh, on the soft, bare skin he seems to find some sort of grounding in. His other hand curls around your waist and rests on your tummy. He hums. “How’s school going?” He asks. “I didn't ask you today.”

“I finished my project,” you tell him. “And my essay. Submitted them.”

“Ah, did you?” You nod and he smiles; a look of satisfaction, of pride, that makes your chest feel warm. “Good girl. You’re doing so well. Ah, I should be keeping up with you more, shouldn’t I? I’m sorry I haven’t, I’ve just…”

He glances back at the computer, at the screen that hasn’t changed in almost an hour, and grimaces, lips set in a thin, frustrated line. “It’s okay,” you say softly. “You’re working hard.”

He nods, and you feel him relaxing a little—but not quite. His jaw is still tight; shoulders still tense. Hands still digging into your side like he’s trying to ground himself in your skin. You pause, chewing on your lip. “Daddy,” you whisper. He grunts; a noise of acknowledgment. “Can I… can I put my head on your shoulder?”

He’s never actually said no, but with Hongjoong it’s always better to ask. He appreciates it, in any case.

“Yeah, honey,” he says. Then, quieter, “please.”

He’s warm, always is; you nuzzle your head into the crook of his neck like you’re trying to hide yourself inside him. His grip on your waist loosens, the pressure against you coming away enough for his grip to feel strong and protective rather than tense and desperate. His hand slips between your thighs then sneaks upwards—slowly, surely. You sigh. “You’re stressed.”

“I know,” he murmurs. He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something else; before he can, though, his eyes seem to catch on something. They narrow, scrutinising. You shrink back like you’ve been caught in the act of something. “What is this?”

“What’s what?”

He pushes your skirt up, over your thighs and around your waist. It’s black, short, pleated, one of his favourites. What’s not one of his favourites, it seems, are the panties sitting snug on your hips. He stares at them for a moment, then up at you, brow raised. “Did I put you in panties this morning?”

Ah. “Um…”

“I don’t think I did,” he says. “Interesting.”

“I just— the skirt is short.”

“I know it is. That’s why I chose it.”

“I didn’t want anyone to see,” you argue. “You don’t like it when other people look at me.”

He hums. “I suppose you got me there. But just for good measure—” His hand draws back suddenly then slams down, right over your covered cunt; you shriek, half in surprise and half in pain, and he smacks it again. “Don’t sneak around me again,” he chides you. “Clear?”

You nod, breathing shuddered, a little dizzy; the pain fades almost as quickly as it came, the sharpness now a small, faint stinging—it’s the fact that he did it so quickly, so casually, so… procedurally, that’s getting to you now.

“Sorry, daddy,” you mumble. “I should’ve asked you.”

“Now you know.”

His palm comes to rest on your cunt now, gently this time, soothing the sting and sparking, you quickly find, an ache of an entirely different sort. You squirm a little, thighs trying to clench instinctively but blocked by his hand between them. He clicks his tongue, sighing, but says nothing. Then the pressure increases, just a little bit, so his fingers are pressing against your clit.

He starts to move slowly. Nothing dramatic. Nothing hard to take. But you’re so needy right now.

“Daddy,” you grunt. “C’mon, I…”

“Be good,” he says. “Daddy’s working. I’ll buy you something pretty when I’m done, alright?”

You huff. “You know that’s not what I want.”

He sighs again—you’ve found it’s one of the things he tends to do when you’re being bratty—but his lips are curved and you can tell he’s amused. Endeared a little, though he’d never admit it.

“I’ll fuck you too,” he says. “That’s what you’re fishing for, isn’t it? A nice, deep fucking, that’s what you want.”

You shudder; it wracks through the entirety of your body like a rogue wave. “Yeah.”

He tuts. “I really have corrupted you, haven’t I?” He chuckles. “You were so innocent when I met you. Just a little one, so scared to be touched; I practically had to coax you into submission. Now you can’t sit still without my dick in your cunt.”

“That’s not true,” you frown.

“Which part?”

“Both.”

“Prove it, then,” he says. The smugness in his voice tells you he knows as well as you do that you can’t. “Sit still until I’m done. Be a good girl and don’t bother me. Prove you aren’t the cockwhore I think you are.”

“What’ll I get if I do?”

“Dick,” he tells you. “As much as you like, all night.”

Well that does sound appealing. “And… if I don’t?”

“Dick,” he says again. “As much as I like. And maybe a spanking to remind you not to lie to your daddy. You’d probably like that, though.”

He knows full well you would. The first time he spanked you you almost came over his lap from the smacks alone—something he never fails to hold over your head. You’re surprised he hasn’t mentioned it now.

“Okay, deal,” you say. “May the truth prevail.”

He just rolls his eyes.

You lose catastrophically, of course. He keeps you on his lap—refuses to let you slip away and retreat to the couch as you'd intended and banked on—his hands on your waist, holding you loosely enough that you can move but tight enough that you can't ignore the feeling of his hands on you. You’re certain, as well, that he’s flexing his forearms on purpose. Deliberately doing things on his computer that force him to move his hands and his fingers in just the way that sets you off.

And you just can’t help yourself.

In minutes, the feeling starts in your tummy. It goes to your head a while later. And then, before you can stop it—you squirm. Breath sucked in. A small whimper breaking past your lips.

Hongjoong goes still. His finger stills above the mouse.

“You just squirmed.”

“I—”

“You lost,” he cuts you off. His voice is level, steady, but a layer of smugness seeps through on an undercurrent, and you doubt it’s by accident. He’s enjoying this—of course he is. “You told me you could keep control, and you didn’t. You are a whore. You need dick, or you can’t stay still. You just proved it.”

“Hongjoong,” you whine. “That’s not fair.”

“It doesn’t need to be,” he says. “I told you to do something, and you failed. Stand up.”

You’re shaking as you clamber to your feet, knees weak after what feels like eons perched on his lap; he steadies you with two hands on your waist then lets you go. His expression is calm, eyes gentle, but his lips curl into a small sneer as he looks you up and down. “That was a pathetic display,” he says. “I really did corrupt you. You were such a good little girl when I found you, you know? So sweet. Not desperate and disobedient like you are now.”

You know he’s teasing, you know he’s just playing the game, just enjoying his victory; still you can’t help but whine, pouting, shoulders slumping like a scolded child. “Joong—”

He raises an eyebrow. You know that look by heart—know the warning. “Daddy,” you correct yourself.

“Better,” he says. “You made a fool out of yourself there. Being so out of control. I thought I taught you discipline.”

“You did.”

“Evidently not enough. Take off your panties.”

You hesitate for just a second too long. Hongjoong hooks an arm around your waist and tugs you towards him, turning you around so you’re facing away then lands five sharp, rhythmic slaps on each of your thighs. You squeal, trying not to squirm as he lays them down, and he turns you back around without a word.

“Currently,” he says, “I don’t plan on giving you the spanking I threatened earlier. Don’t make me change my mind. I’d hate to do it here—the walls are soundproof, but only so much. A crybaby like you, I’m sure the whole floor would hear. Take off your panties.”

You don’t hesitate this time—Hongjoong has never threatened you with anything he wasn’t prepared to follow through with. It’s part of his philosophy, his ethos; honesty in all cases. You can’t and shouldn’t trust someone who makes promises they won’t keep—even if those promises are things you’d much rather they didn’t.

You pull the panties down your thighs, stepping out of them. Hongjoong holds up a hand, stilling you, before you can put them down.

“Hold them up to your face,” he orders. You do. He adjusts himself in his seat, only slightly, eyes on you. “Smell them.”

You baulk. “What?”

“Smell them,” he repeats. “And tell me how wet you are.”

You run your fingers across the fabric, the soaked crotch that’s practically dripping onto the floor. “They’re wet,” you say. “I— I can tell from this.”

“That’s lovely,” he replies. “Now do what I told you to do.”

On some level, most of them really, you want to protest. To refuse. But you don’t. Your safeword—the little word both of you live by, that he drilled into you like a mantra and, the one time he asked you it before you started a scene and you couldn’t recall it, genuinely belted you for being careless enough to let it slip your mind—is the last thing on your mind as you lift the fabric up to your nose and sniff it.

You’ve done a lot of degrading, debasing things with Hongjoong. You’d even call some of them dehumanising. But there’s something uniquely humiliating in this; in smelling your wet, soiled panties while your boyfriend watches on, simply because he told you to. Because you’d do anything he told you do.

Your boyfriend, you notice, is rock hard; evident even through his pants. It makes you pulse.

“Well?” He asks. “Wet?”

You nod. “Yes, daddy. Wet.”

“Creamy?”

You nod. He tilts his head, silently menacing, and you rush to correct yourself. “Yes, daddy. They— they’re creamy.”

He hums. “You know what you’re smelling, baby?”

“Um…”

“Your lack of control,” he answers for you. “You let your cunt do the thinking for you. Daddy taught you to use your brain, didn’t he?”

It’s actually the opposite, and you both know that; Hongjoong takes great pride and pleasure in having reduced you to thinking with your pussy, guided by need for him, need to please him, above all else. In having dumbed you down to the extent that you’ll follow your leaking cunt and throbbing clit anywhere he takes you. But he also takes pleasure in acting like he didn’t want this at all; like your perversion, your more ‘bimbo like’ qualities, as he calls them, are flaws to be corrected. Like it’s his solemn duty to beat them out of you.

And honestly—you love it just as much. Feeling like a disappointment for how stupid you are for him. Feeling taken in hand by him; pretending he’s doing all this for your own good.

“I’m sorry, daddy,” you whisper.

“You’re going to have to prove it,” he says. “I just hope you do a better job than you did the last time you tried to prove something to me. Give me your panties.”

You push them into his outstretched hand; you know what he’s going to do next before he does it. “On your knees and open your mouth.”

You obey, slowly but steadily—careful, rather than hesitant. The taste of salt on your tongue as he stuffs the wet fabric past your lips is an unsurprising one.

“That’s better,” he smiles, satisfaction evident in his voice. “That’ll teach you modesty. You stay like that until daddy’s done. Then we’ll get you home and give you that fucking you earned, yeah?”

“Yes, daddy,” you say around the fabric, voice muffled.

Hongjoong pats your head, pinching your cheek gently.

“Good puppy.”

been utterly haunted by the concept of dilf/sugar daddy ateez recently. here’s the sugar daddy. dilf may come later.

[memorabxlia]

Kinkmas Day 11: Soaked — 민기

genre: smut synopsis: you’ve been trying to link up but never had the time, letting the tension grow, can mingi help it if he’s a little rough warnings: hair pulling, fingering, anal, big dick mingi, language, gentle biting, rough sex, kissing, lots of cum, possessiveness, mentions slight condom breaking pairing: situationship!mingi x fem!reader wc: 3.1k

The door of his apartment clicking shut behind you, the waiting was fucking over. Mingi stood there, his dark eyes holding yours, and he didn’t say a word. He just reached out, his fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of your neck, and pulled you into him. The kiss wasn’t soft. It was a hungry, open-mouthed claim, his tongue sliding against yours, tasting of the whiskey he’d had earlier. You could feel the hard ridge of his cock, already straining against his jeans, pressed into your stomach.

He broke the kiss, breathing hard. “I’ve been thinking about this all goddamn week.”

“About what?” you breathed, your own hands sliding under his shirt, feeling the hard, warm planes of his stomach.

“About bending you over my kitchen counter and fucking you so deep you scream.” His voice was a low rasp. “About seeing how much of my cock that pretty mouth of yours can actually take. About making you come so hard you forget your own name.”

Your heart hammered against your ribs. “So do it.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. He spun you around, your back pressing into his chest. His hands slid down your arms, then to your hips, pulling your ass back into him. You felt the massive, thick length of him, even through the layers of fabric. God, it was huge. You’d felt it before, through clothes, seen the outline, but this proximity made your mouth water and your pussy clench with empty, needy pulses.

“This,” he murmured into your ear, his lips brushing the sensitive skin there. “This is what I want first.” He guided your hands forward, placing them flat on the cool granite of the kitchen island. He nudged your feet apart with his own. With one hand, he gathered your hair, wrapping it around his fist and pulling just enough to arch your back, to make your ass stick out for him. The other hand went to the button of your jeans. He popped it, yanked the zipper down, and shoved both your jeans and panties down to your knees in one rough, efficient motion. The cool air hit your exposed skin, followed immediately by the heat of his palm slapping your ass cheek—not hard, a sharp, stinging promise.

“Look at that,” he growled, his fingers sliding through the slickness already gathered between your pussy lips. They were swollen, plump, the inner lips puffy and dark with arousal. His thumb found your clit, circling it once, twice, making your knees buckle. “Soaked for me already. You’re fucking drenched.”

You heard the tear of a condom wrapper, then the rustle of his own clothes. Then, the blunt, broad head of his cock was pressing against your entrance. He wasn’t gentle. He used his grip on your hair to hold you steady as he pushed forward, a slow, inexorable invasion that made you gasp. The stretch was immediate, intense. Your pussy walls, already slick and hot, had to open wide to accommodate his thickness. He pushed deeper, inch by impossible inch, until his hips met your ass cheeks with a solid smack.

“Fuck,” you moaned, the word torn from your throat. “Mingi… it’s so much.”

“It is,” he agreed, his voice strained. He held himself there, buried to the hilt, letting you feel every centimeter of him stretching you wide. Then he pulled back, almost all the way out, until just the fat head of his cock caught at your entrance, before slamming back in. The pace was brutal from the start. Each thrust was a hard, driving piston-stroke that jolted you forward on the counter. His balls slapped against your clit with every inward drive, a secondary, rhythmic pressure that started a steady thrum of pleasure low in your belly. But it wasn’t enough, not to push you over. The penetration was overwhelming, filling, fucking incredible, but your climax hovered just out of reach.

He fucked you like that for what felt like ages, the sound of skin on skin, your ragged moans, and his grunts filling the kitchen. Your breasts, freed from your bra earlier, swung heavily with each impact, the nipples hard and aching.

“Need more,” you panted, pushing back against him.

He slowed, his thrusts becoming shallow grinds. “Tell me how.”

“Fingers. Your hand. I don’t care. Just…”

He released your hair, his hand snaking around your hip. His fingers were deft, finding your swollen clitoris immediately, slippery with your own juices. He pressed the flat of two fingers against it, rubbing in tight, fast circles that matched the punishing rhythm of his hips.

Yes. The dual sensation was electric. The deep, full feeling of his thick cock spearing you, combined with the precise, frantic stimulation on your clit, sent sparks shooting up your spine. Your moans grew louder, more desperate. Your inner muscles began to flutter around his shaft, a wet, gripping pulse.

“That’s it,” he grunted, his breath hot on your neck. “Squeeze my cock. Milk it with that tight fucking pussy. I wanna feel you cum all over me.”

His words, the filthy, precise description of what was happening to your body, pushed you higher. The pressure built, a coil winding tighter and tighter in your lower belly. Your vision spotted. The sounds you were making didn’t sound human anymore. His fingers worked you relentlessly, his cock pounding into you, hitting a spot deep inside that made you see stars.

It broke. Your orgasm erupted through you, a violent, shaking wave that started in your clenched pussy and radiated outwards, making your toes curl and your entire body seize. You screamed, a raw, ragged sound, as your channel convulsed around his invading length, gripping and releasing in rapid, juicy spasms. He fucked you through it, his strokes becoming harder, more erratic, chasing his own peak.

As the last tremors shook you, he pulled out suddenly. Before you could process the empty feeling, his hand was on your shoulder, pushing you down. “On your knees. Now.”

You slid bonelessly to the floor, turning to face him. His cock stood out, glistening with your wetness, purple and thick and veined. It looked impossible. He fisted it, stroking twice. “Open up. I’m gonna cum all over that pretty face.”

You opened your mouth, sticking your tongue out. He aimed the broad head at your lips. The first hot, thick rope of cum hit your tongue, salty and bitter. The second painted your cheek. The third splashed across your forehead. He kept coming, pulses of it covering your chin, your neck, the swell of your breasts. It was profuse, abundant, a messy, hot claim. You kept your mouth open, swallowing what you could, the taste flooding your senses.

He was breathing like he’d run a marathon. He looked down at you, his eyes black with lust and satisfaction. “Fuck. Look at you.”

You just panted, coated in him, your pussy still throbbing from the recent climax.

He leaned down, his voice dropping to a whisper. “We’re not done. I’m not done. Get on the couch. I want that ass next.”

Your legs feel like water as you stumble from the kitchen, his command ringing in your ears. The open-plan apartment feels vast and dark, the only light spilling from the range hood over the stove. The couch is a large, dark shape against the wall. You reach it, your knees still shaky, your skin sticky with his drying release. You turn, leaning back against the cushions, about to follow his last order.

But Mingi doesn’t let you get that far.

His hand closes on your shoulder before you can sit. “No,” he says, his voice a low thrum in the quiet room. “I said I wanted that ass. Not on your back. Not yet.”

He turns you, your back to him, and guides you forward until your hands brace against the back of the deep, plush couch. The fabric is cool and rough under your palms. He nudges your feet apart with his foot, widening your stance until you’re bent at the waist, your ass presented to him. Your jeans and panties are still a tangledconstraint at your knees, a frustrating barrier. With a low grunt, he hooks his fingers into the denim and yanks them the rest of the way.

His hands are warm and huge as they settle on the globes of your ass, kneading the flesh. “Look at this,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. His thumbs part your cheeks, exposing you completely. You feel utterly vulnerable, open. A shiver runs through you that has nothing to do with cold. “So fucking pretty. All pink and wet from me fucking your pussy. But this…” His thumb, slick with your own juices from where he’d touched you earlier, drags down the cleft, not touching your entrance, just tracing the sensitive skin around it.

His touch send a jolt of pure, undiluted heat straight to your core. Your pussy clenches around nothing, a fresh trickle of wetness easing out.

“You want it?” he asks, his voice right behind you. He’s close, you can feel the heat of his body, the hard press of his re-hardened cock against your lower back. It’s already thick and heavy again, a relentless engine of desire.

“Yes,” you whisper, the word barely audible.

“I didn’t hear you.”

“Yes, Mingi. I want it.”

“How do you want it?” His thumb circles the tight ring of muscle, applying the barest hint of pressure. It makes you gasp, your fingers digging into the couch fabric.

“I want… I want your cock in my ass.”

“Good girl.” The praise is a dark caress. “But my cock is thick, baby. You felt it. It’s gonna take some work to get it in this little hole.” His thumb presses again, a little harder, and this time it sinks in just past the first knuckle. The intrusion is sudden, a sharp, stretching burn that makes you stiffen. “Breathe,” he commands, his other hand rubbing your lower back. “Just breathe through it. Get used to my finger first.”

He works it slowly, in and out, the drag of his skin against your inner walls sending confusing signals—a burn that slowly melts into a deep, strange fullness. He coats his finger in more of your wetness, then presses back in with two. The stretch is intense, a burning pressure that borders on pain. You whimper, pushing back against him instinctively.

“Easy,” he soothes, but his voice is tight with his own restraint. He crooks his fingers inside you, searching, and a jolt of unexpected sensation rockets through you, making your eyes fly open. “There we go. Just getting you ready for me.” He scissors his fingers gently, stretching you wider. The burn recedes, replaced by a throbbing, empty ache that begs for more. He pulls his fingers out with a soft, wet sound.

You hear the tear of another condom wrapper. The sound is sharp in the quiet. Then you feel him, the broad, blunt head of his cock, slick with lube from the packet, pressing against your prepared entrance. It’s so much wider than his fingers. The sheer size of it makes your heart hammer against your ribs.

“This is it,” he says, his voice gritty. He wraps one arm around your waist, holding you steady against him. The other hand returns to your hair, fisting it at the roots, pulling your head back just enough to arch your spine. “You take this for me. You take every fucking inch.”

He pushes.

The initial penetration is a white-hot brand of pressure. You cry out, a sharp, broken sound, as the massive head begins to breach you. Your body fights it, clenching furiously against the invasion, but he is relentless. He holds you immobile with the arm around your waist and keeps pushing with a slow, steady pressure that feels like it splits you in two. You feel every ridge, every vein on his cock as it forces its way inside, stretching you to a breathtaking, impossible width.

“Fuck, Mingi… wait…”

“Shhh,” he murmurs into the skin of your shoulder, his lips brushing you. Then his teeth graze the same spot, a gentle, playful bite that shocks you with its tenderness amidst the violence of the penetration. “You’re doing it. You’re taking it. Just like that. Breathe, baby. Let it in.”

You suck in a ragged gasp. The burning stretch crests, and then, suddenly, it gives way. The head pops past the tightest ring of muscle, and he sinks another inch, then two, into the clutching, hot channel of your ass. The feeling is overwhelming. It’s a deep, filling pressure that radiates through your entire pelvis, a constant, demanding presence. He holds still, buried partway, letting your body adjust to the monumental girth.

“Feel that?” he groans, his own control fraying. “Feel how fucking thick I am inside you? Your ass is hugging me like a goddamn fist.”

You can only moan in response, a low, continuous sound of strain and shocking pleasure. The fullness is incredible. He begins to move, shallow pulls and pushes that make your inner muscles flutter around him. Each withdrawal is a slow, dragging agony of sensation; each thrust back in is a conquest. The pace builds, his hips starting to pump in a harder, faster rhythm.

His grip in your hair tightens, keeping your back arched, your ass tilted up for his use. The position, bent over the couch, makes every thrust drive deeper, angling into you in a way that makes you see sparks. The sound is obscene—the wet, slapping noise of his hips meeting your ass cheeks, the low, animal grunts from his throat, your own choked-off cries.

“This ass,” he pants, his voice raw. “This tight, fucking perfect ass. It’s mine now. You understand? I’m claiming this hole.” To emphasize his point, he slams into you, a hard, deep pound that makes you scream. The speed intensifies, his pumping going wild, a brutal, piston-like drive that shakes your whole body. Your breasts sway heavily with the force, your nipples scraping against the rough couch fabric with every jolt. The pressure in your ass is immense, a constant, thrilling stretch that walks the line between pleasure and pain.

But just like before, the penetration alone, as overwhelming as it is, isn’t tipping you over the edge. The pleasure is a deep, resonant thrum, but your climax is a distant star. You need more.

Frantically, you slide one hand from the couch back, down over your trembling stomach, through the coarse hair of your mound. Your fingers find your clitoris, swollen and puffy and throbbing in time with your heartbeat. The second you press against it, a bolt of pure electricity shoots up your spine. You rub in frantic, messy circles, the stimulation a bright, sharp counterpoint to the deep, pounding fullness in your ass.

The combination is devastating.

“Yeah,” Mingi growls, watching your hand work. His thrusts become more focused, driving into you at a punishing, steady pace that steals your breath. “That’s it. Play with that fat little clit. Get yourself ready. I’m gonna fill this ass up. I’m gonna pump my fucking load so deep inside you it’ll leak out for hours.”

His filthy, precise words are the final catalyst. The coil in your belly, wound impossibly tight by the dual assault, finally snaps.

It’s a different kind of climax than the one before—deeper, more internal, a rolling quake that starts in your clenched asshole around his invading cock and radiates outward in violent, shaking waves. Your whole body locks up, your back bowing against his restraining arm. A raw, guttural scream tears from your throat as your muscles clamp down on his shaft in a series of fierce, gripping spasms. Your pussy, untouched, pours out a fresh flood of wetness that drips down your inner thighs. The sensations overload your nerves, a white-noise buzz of pleasure-pain that whites out your vision.

Mingi lets out a choked roar. Your convulsing triggers his own release. He rams into you one last, final time, burying himself to the hilt, and holds there. You feel it—the thick, heavy pulses of his cum inside the condom, deep in you. Each jet is a hot, distinct flood, a claiming shot that seems to go on forever, pumping his release into the deepest part of you. He grinds against you, milking every last drop, his body shuddering against yours.

For a long moment, there is only the sound of heavy breathing, the feel of his sweat-slicked chest against your back, and the incredible, stuffed-full sensation in your ass.

Slowly, carefully, he pulls out. The condom, stretched and filled, slips from your body with a soft, wet pop. The sudden emptiness is profound. A weird, hollow ache replaces the intense pressure. You feel loose, stretched, used in the most exquisite way.

You slump forward over the couch, completely spent. Mingi’s hands are on your hips, turning you around. You’re too boneless to help. He sits heavily on the couch, pulling you down with him, until you’re straddling his lap, facing him. Your sensitive ass cheeks settle on his powerful thighs. His own cock, softening now, lies against his stomach. He looks wrecked, his hair damp with sweat, his eyes dark and satisfied.

He doesn’t say anything for a minute, just traces the line of your jaw with his thumb. Then his gaze drops, looking down between your bodies.

“Look,” he says, his voice hoarse.

You follow his look. There, at your entrance, a thick, white glob of his cum is seeping out from inside you, pearling at the tight, stretched ring of your asshole before dripping slowly down onto his thigh. The condom must have broken, or he’d taken it off… you’re too foggy to remember.

“See that?” he murmurs, dipping a finger in the mess and bringing it to your lips. “That’s my claim. Deep in your ass. And it’s gonna keep leaking. Every time you move tonight, you’re gonna feel it. You’re gonna remember exactly where I was.”

You open your mouth, and he slides his cum-smeared finger inside. You suck it clean, the taste bitter and salty and purely him. The act is degrading and impossibly hot. Your oversensitive clit gives a feeble throb.

He leans in, his forehead resting against yours. “You’re a fucking dream,” he breathes. Then he nods toward the hallway. “Bathroom’s there. Go clean up. But don’t you dare try to push all of it out. I want to see it on you when you come back.”

He smacks your ass, a stinging punctuation to his order.

taglist: @minkilicious @kpopandprozac

nets: @blossomnet @daydreamnet @eighteez-net

[mingimura]

Cheese!

pairing: jung wooyoung x reader

warnings/tags: fem!reader, hatesex, dub-con, degrading, wooyoung is a fully blown asshole, use of slut, whore, and so on, reader likes san, slut rumors, deep throating, cervix bruising, creampies, bratty behavior, throat fucking, and more.. do they really hate each other??? read and find out (pls) don't like, don't read

in no way, shape or form, does this depict how mentioned idol acts in real life, please keep in mind that this is a human being, and this work of fiction is not supposed to display their actual personality, thank you

a/n: hate sex...wooyoung hate sex...starts drooling... dividers by @/cursed-carmine and @/enchanthings

wooyoung was the worst. irritating, arrogant, obnoxious, cocky, and worst of all - a guy with a huge mouth, who never knew when to shut up. he would bad mouth you to everyone, make up stuff about you, mock you right in front of your face, and grin into it like he didn't have a care in the world. most bad rumors were created and set up to make rounds by him.

san, the man you liked and wooyoung's best friend, was the complete opposite of wooyoung, kind, caring, a gentleman and an absolute sweetheart as well. he would try to comfort you after, tell you he has no idea why wooyoung is acting like that, and that he's a good person at heart, yet you were having none of it. you didn't just hate jung wooyoung, you despised him. but how could you despise someone so much, when he felt so incredibly good nestled deep inside of you? when his cock drags roughly against your walls, your cervix long bruised. his seed mixed with your own liquids from 2 orgasms ago. it created the filthiest of messes pooling at your cunt. it only made it easier to abuse the cunt he "hates" so much.

in your hazy state you almost forgot, whose cock was pounding you into the mattress right now, whose moans were ringing in your ears. only being able to make out glimpses of his face between the scattered strands of hair around your face, and your blurry vision from the tears of pleasure you've been shedding. wooyoung's hand was squeezing your ass like his life depended on it, his other pressing down on the side of your head, his hand dug into your cheek, to keep you silent and all pliant for him. he had to make sure you just take it nicely, without any protests. wooyoung hated you, after all. the sheets beneath you two were soaked through, bed probably fucked through as well. but neither of you could care less, not when wooyoung's finally getting proof on the slut rumors he's been spreading about you, and you're getting dicked down until you could think of nothing but him. by the time, he's released a third time into you, the warm seed spilling into your womb, the fear of getting knocked up long forgotten now, he's pulling your head up, just to see your cocky grin flashing back at him, and it fueled him with something more cruel than rage. despite the stinging pain from all the bruises on your body, you were still leaking, still dripping. his cum slowly flowing back out of you, and he started twitching again. fucking brat. and a good actor at that. "that's all you got, woo?" you glanced up at him, your cheeks tear stained, and throat sore from all the moaning. oh, so you really are a slut, huh? a filthy slut that was good for nothin' but running her mouth? he wasn't sure why he is surprised. still, that's when it all snapped inside of him, was when all the strings, you were carefully tugging on, finally ripped. it was the first time you had seen him this way. "you fuckin' whore" you could practically hear him gritting his teeth, his cockiness turned into nothing but pure anger, mixed with endless arousal. his knuckles digged into your flesh so deeply, they were turning white, his eyes now filled with fury you'd only see in movies. before you knew it, you were thrown to the edge of the bed, your head dangling off the bed. you should've appreciated your freedom to move when you had it, before wooyoung took it from you. both of your wrists now pinned to each side of the bed, as his cock hung heavy right before your face. you could watch it grow back to life right in front of you, the little twitches making drool pool in your mouth, and if you hadn't been so overstimulated, it might had been enough to make you cum again. there was no way for you to fight it, and it made you throb even harder, clench around the emptiness that was once filled with so much pleasure disguised as hatred. when he tilted his head just right, you could see the condescending look on his face, a look that almost made it look like he felt sorry for you. but there was not a singular thought of pity crossing his mind, when he shoved his length down your throat. involuntarily the small space tightened around it. when it hit the back of your throat, you could only gag around him, pulling several strained groans from him. on his forehead the veins slowly began to pop out. there was no opportunity for you to breathe, his cock shoved so far down, that all you could do was squirm and struggle against his grip.

"yeah, that feels nice, doesn't it? just the right treatment for a slut like you.." wooyoung shamelessly spat those words at you, as he didn't even attempt to lighten his grip on your arms, holding you still against the sheets. he wasn't even moving, just restricting your airways, making you choke around his length. in absolute panic, your throat closed itself even further around him, massaging his cock like you meant it.

"ffuck…pulsing around me, bitch? you like this shit? hah..'course you do.." you hated him, hated how good it felt, how endlessly wet it was making you. how endlessly wet he was making you. and he knew, oh he fucking knew. he reveled in it, fed his disgustingly big ego with it. eventually, he started to move, slow shallow thrusts. normally it wouldn't be an issue, but the position made it impossible. tears started to well at your lash line once again. you tried to relax your wrist against his grip, focusing on situation right in front of you, and it slowly got easier with each thrust. this is fine, you're fine, it'll be fi- "you like sannie, don't you?" his words cut through your train of thought, a venomous undertone to it. he watched your eyes widen in confusion, shock and so much more. he hit a weak point. "you think he'd like a slut like you? a bitch that whores herself out for his asshole bestfriend?" he blew every thought out of your brain, he just watched you mindlessly swallow around his dick. ' "should we take a little picture for sannie, hm?" the noises around his dick became dismissive, disagreeing, begging not to. the tears now flooding the sheets. "yes? oh how nice, he'll be so happy!" his tone was nothing but mocking now. "be good." a command before he let go of your wrists, his hand now reached for his phone. you had every chance to pull off him now, you could go, avoid this situation — but you didn't? your lips stayed wrapped around his dick, not even trying to move. "would you look at that! you can listen." his laugh was humorless, shallow. through your blurred sight, you could only make out his silhouette, and then the flash of his phone. it didn't take long for his phone to vibrate with a notification. kitty! has sent a message

©mingimura - do not steal, modify, translate or repost my work.

[justwonder113]

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🎧How they try make you forgive them after an argument - Hyung line 🎧

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📖 Summary: basically what the title says.

🖋️ Author’s Note: Suddenly came up with an idea so I immediately started writing. Hope this helps me get out of writer's block i'm experiencing.

⚠️ Warnings: Cursing as always because I have no shame. Not proofread. reader is gender neutral. As the title says mentions of arguments and our favorite boys here groveling. Beimg stood up on a date. Being called clingy and nagging. Nothing too extraordinary. If I missed anything please tell me^^

📝 Word Count: 3.5k

📜 Masterlist:

☕ Ko-fi:

💬 let’s talk! reblogs/comments = love, motivation, serotonin

Published 15.12.2025

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Bang Chan

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For a second you felt dramatic. Dragging your belongings, AKA your pillow and the blanket, to the living room to sleep on the couch. Then you remembered that Chan had forgotten your date night and stood you up.  The date you warned him about countless times over the week. And he had the guts to act like you were being dramatic for being upset with him. And it felt justified. Your anger was justified. The hurt.

You had been looking forward to that date for ages! You even brought a nice outfit for it which was way out of your budget plans because you wanted to be pretty for him. You took extra time to look nice and presentable and you got stood up! God the pitying looks of the restaurant staff were so humiliating!

Getting into that restaurant was a whole another deal. The new prestigious place was basically always swarmed. Everyone wanted to go there basically. Getting a reservation was an absolute nightmare! But you managed it, but for what?!

You had barely left the bedroom door when your legs left the floor and basically you were in air jail. Chan held you up like you weighted nothing and even had the audacity to look at you like you committed the gravest sin ever.

“Chan let me down.” You heard yourself groan out. Your voice carrying the hint of pain and disappointment.

Chan only grunted. Clearly displeased with your request. Again acting like you were the problem here and getting on his last nerve.

In few swift strides you he carried you inside the bedroom and basically placed you on the bed like you were some precious little thing. Which is ironic because the next second he basically plopped onto you without a care in the world. Trapping you between himself and the mattress. Honestly, it almost looked as if he wanted to physically restrain you from leaving, hence the dramatic act.

When you tried to wiggle out of his hold Chan only tightened his arms around you and glared at you. “You’re not leaving.” He warned you and placed his head back onto your shoulder, nuzzling against your neck, his breath tickling your skin. For a second you thought it was cute but then you remembered how upset you were.

“Chan let me go.” You repeated again.

“No.”

“What do you mean no?! You can’t just hold me captive here!” You were getting more and more annoyed with each second, trying to wiggle away from him but with no avail. Chan’s grip wasn’t loosening even for a second.

Chan’s glare intensified when you started to poke his sides, trying to let him loosen his grip. You hated how hot he looked even now. You had to gather all your willpower to not fold. You glared back, not backing down. Your fingers digging into his warm skin more and more.

When he did the unthinkable.

He leaned down and captured your lips in a kiss that was just pure sin. There was no better way to describe it! All your mixed feelings and inner turmoil flew out the window when he deepened the kiss and his tongue brushed against yours. You tried to resist at first, in your defense, but you quickly gave in.

Your whole body felt like it was ablaze. Your head spun with ecstasy. There was only him. You could only feel and focus on him even as it felt like your whole body was melting, even if all the thoughts started to drift away.

After taking your whole breath away Chans lips moved to your jaw, then neck. Placing rough kisses that would surely bruise on the sensitive skin. God it was unfair how weak he could get you in a second. His grip on you was still iron clad, it was almost like he was afraid you would leave.

“You’re not leaving the bedroom.” He rasped out after he made sure your neck was covered with enough marks and bruises, almost looking like those polka dot dresses grandmas like to wear. “Scream at me, yell at me, do whatever you want.” – He whispered against your lips before leaning in and capturing your lips in yet another searing kiss. “But you are not leaving the bedroom. You are not sleeping on the couch! Not a chance!”

God you tried. You really tried but your boyfriend was too intoxicating for you to resist.

The smirk finally overtook his stoic face when he noticed your resolve slowly crumbling under his presence. This motherfucker knew exactly what he was doing!

He then took your hand in his, his hold finally loosening a little on you but still firm enough, in case you decided to leave again. He brought your conjoined hands to his lips and kissed your every knuckle. “I acted like an asshole. I’m sorry.”

His sincere tone honestly surprised you enough you stopped squirming and getting on his nerves.

Chan noticed the remaining conflict in your eyes and continued to talk. “I should have been more considerate with you, and I should have listened to you better when you reminded me about this date. I’m sorry for getting distracted with work and letting you think that I don’t care about you. For making you think that you’re not the biggest priority in my life.” – Another kiss, now to the inside of your wrist followed by a soft yet possessive bite. “I promise I will make it up to you. Whatever you want. Just name it. And it’s yours.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Yup you were never gonna win this war.

Lee Know

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Everything started with you just simply offering that he take care of himself and not strain himself too much when you noticed how much he was sagging and had barely any energy when he returned home after spending all day at the studio.  Of course he took that as an attack and one simple comment turned into a big argument. And now your whole house felt like a landmine. One wrong move and everything would explode.

You were upset, because you just wanted what’s the best for him. You were worried because he was straining himself too much, overworking. He barely slept, drank or ate. Of course you would be worried. Heck you would be worried even if you weren’t together. So his outburst and him calling you overbearing and too motherly really stung. You only wanted to help in return you were told you were nagging him.

So you hadn’t said anything to him all day.

And he took that as an even greater offence. Because apparently only he could get mad at you.

You were working on your laptop when he came home. Usually you would greet him with a warm hug and a big kiss. But you didn’t really feel like it. You were pretty hurt.

You didn’t even have to look up to know that Minho was looking at you with the most unimpressed expression ever. After putting his things aside he came to you. Well hovered would be more accurate description.

“Hello.” His voice was gruff,expectant.

“Hi.” You didn’t even look up.

He stood there for a few minutes as if expecting you to give in, but you proved him wrong.

“Are you hungry?” - He asked after a few seconds of silence broken only with your typing.

“No.”

“Have you eaten dinner?”

“I am not hungry Minho.” Your voice was curt, holding a hint or irritation. It irked you how he was casually talking to you now as if he didn’t hurt you in the morning.

He sighed and left for the kitchen after a while when he noticed that you weren’t in the mood to talk to him. When he noticed that you were actually really upset with him.

So you sat alone as you continued to work. Not going to lie, you were pretty upset that he didn’t even acknowledge it. It hurt to see how casual he acted about it.

After a while he came to you with a steaming plate of your favorite meal.

“Eat.”

You looked up at him, and you noticed how tired he looked. How dark his eyebags were. How he looked really worn out. It broke your heart to see him in such state. It broke your heart even more how he used your love against you. “I told you I wasn’t hungry.”

“Well I guess I know better than to believe that. I know you haven’t eaten yet.” He deadpanned casually like he did know better but you weren't planning on giving in yet. For once you wanted him to know, to feel that he hurt your feelings.

“I told you. I am not hungry.” You hadn’t eaten yet, true, but how dare he!

Minho sighed. He paced around for a second then he stopped in front of you. For a second he just stared at you. Then without a word he took your laptop and out it away.

“Hey give me that!” - You didn't even bother this time to hide your annoyance.

Minho glared at you as if you were being the unreasonable one. He then sighed and kneeled in front of you. His hands on your thighs.

“I know I acted like an asshole. I know I shouldn’t have said what I said. I get why you’re upset with me.” He paused for a second to look into your eyes, looking genuinely upset now. “I know you’re hurt. But that doesn’t mean you should skip meals.”

You appreciated that he was apologetic but it didn’t mean that your hurt would disappear.

“Not hungry…”

Something in minho’s eyes glimmered that looked similar to amusement. “Liar.” He leaned in to kiss your cheek. He looked at you for second his expression softer, full of love. “If you don’t eat I won’t eat. And I know you’re too kind to allow that.” His lips brushed against yours as he spoke before gently kissing you. “You’re too sweet” another soft kiss, “and caring” another kiss, “and gentle”. With each word his kisses getting longer talking your breath away. Melting all your irritation and hurt. What a smooth, charming bastard.

“I guess both of us are starving then.” – you deadpanned.

Minho smirked before leaning in to kiss you with more passion. His hands sliding up to your hips holding tightly as if afraid you’ll leave. He kissed you with the desperation of a starving man. Like you were the air he needed to breathe.

Sometimes you hated how weak you were for him.

“I’m sorry.” He muttered against your lips when he leaned back for some air. His voice was genuine. You knew he meant it. “I’ll go cut you some fruits too. Please eat.” He left to go to the kitchen.

After a while he returned with a big bowl of neatly cut fruits. When he had noticed that you had started to eat the meal a subtle yet proud smile appeared on his face.

He looked at you for a second before sitting down next to you. His head immediately found it’s place on your shoulder. “I know sorry doesn’t fix it but please let me make it up to you.” He paused to take your hands in his. “I’m really sorry i snapped at you when you were only trying to care for me. It was really shitty of me. I won’t do it again.”

“I know… I really regret it. I’m sorry…” His voic3 was sincere, carrying a hint of vulnerability he didn't like to show.

You sighed. “You really hurt me Minho.”

“The food…is tasty.” - You heard yourself admit after few seconds of awkward and charged silence.

Minho smiled at you and leaned in to kiss your jaw. “I love you.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

You looked down at him to flick his forehead. “I love you too.”

Seo Changbin

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Honestly it wasn’t that bad. Sure you were upset at first but it really wasn’t that bad. It was only just a mug after all. Your favorite mug but, at the end of the day, still a mug. Also the way it happened...It wasn’t like you were going to be mad at him.

Your boyfriend, bless his heart, had a day off. Unfortunately, you were swarmed with work and you had to leave early. Changbin noticing how tired you were decided to do something nice for you. So he decided to clean the house and make you a dinner.

God he was lucky he was cute. Because that man should be nowhere near the kitchen.

When you returned home after a draining day from work you were greeted with the smoke first and the sound of something shattering the second. When you managed to open the window and finally got to your boyfriend he looked like he was about to cry.

“Baby I broke your mug.” He whined similar to a man going through the biggest tragedy of his life.

Apparently he got distracted by removing one nasty stain from the countertop. And well… Multitasking was never his strength. So basically, he burned the food. You didn’t even know what he was attempting to make. and when he started to frantically move around the kitchen, running around like a headless chicken, he also knocked over your favorite mug making it shatter into thousands of little pieces. So basically after a shitty day you had to clean up after him too. And well you couldn’t manage to hide the annoyance. And he thought you were mad at him.

A whole week passed after that.

For A whole week he made sure you woke up to various beautiful boquets and breakfast, which he ordered because he learned his lesson, not to go near kitchen any time soon. And he replaced your mug on the second day despite his busy schedule. He even got you two so that your mug could have a fucking buddy!

The point was  He was too precious for his own good!

You tried to tell him million times that you weren’t mad and that you had forgiven him immediately, but your boyfriend was one true stubborn man.

So you had to catch him in the act. The next morning, despite how much your body protested, you got up earlier than usual.

 You swung the door open the second he put the new bouquet on your counter. “Seo Changbin!” Changbin jumped so high you felt bad for a second.

“Whatever it is I did I’m sorry!” Changbin immediately apologized like he did something wrong.

God he was too cute for his own good. Not being able to stop yourself, you wrapped your arms around him to bring him closer to you. Feeling his warm body against yours immediately soothing your nerves.

Changbin tried to protest but you cut him off with a kiss. Changbin, being the multitasking king he is, immediately forgot what he wanted and melted into the kiss.

“Binnie. As much as I love them, you have to stop with all the presents.” - You tried to sound as calm and sweet as possible. You didn't want him to feel bad anymore.

“You’re not mad?” Changbin looked up at you with wide eyes that made you scream on the inside.

Honestly the cuteness aggression he gave you sometimes was to be studied. Not being able to help yourself you covered him with tons of kisses. Changbin immediately melted into your touch his lovesick smile contagious.

“Of course not baby." -you started, taking his hand into yours as you started to drag him and the breakfast bag towards the bedroom. "Come on bunny let’s get you inside. We can have breakfast together.”

Changbin’s face immediately lit up. He looked at you almost like you hung the stars yourself. “You mean that?” He sounded almost too eager. His hands holding onto your hips tightly.

God you loved that man.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Of course.”

Hwang Hyunjin

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

To be honest you didn’t even remember what you were mad about, but it didn’t matter because you were a person on a mission!

You had a point to prove!

The point being that you were more stubborn than Hyunjin.

As you said, you didn’t even remember what got you upset in the first place, but you remembered perfectly well just how much it pissed you off when your boyfriend stated all smug and confidently that you would cave in because you couldn’t resist him.

The audacity was simply astonishing! Honestly your boyfriend could be such a brat sometimes!

It was safe to say you were determined to prove him wrong and the way your masterplan was working successfully was simply delicious.

It started with a silent treatment, not cuddling him when you two went to bed. You even went above and beyond and didn’t give him kisses when he went to work or when he returned home. You just casually ignored when he looked seconds away from whining and making a scene for your attention when you did so.

Oh the sweet taste of victory.

You were peacefully enjoying your drink as you watched your show when you felt your skin start to heat up from your boyfriend’s glare. Because of course he took it as an offence that you stood your ground and didn’t give in.

“You hate me don’t you.” There it was - the whining.

“Oh my god you finally got it. And here I was wondering when you would get the hint.” You rolled your eyes still not looking at him. Determined to make him grovel.

Hyunjin very visibly and very audibly scoffed.

“Give me attention!” You heard him demand. You only glanced for a second at his pouting and offended at the same time face.

“No.” You decided to be curt. You were not giving in easy to him.

“What do you mean no?” Hyunjin looked at you like you grew a second head.

“Just that. No.”

Hyunjin scoffed yet again. He got up now and stood in front of you. Effectively blocking the tv.

“You’re blocking the tv.” – you deadpanned. Your voice cold, unamused. For a second even you were surprised how apathetic you sounded. Hyunjin, even more peeved by it took the remote from next to you and shut the tv off.

You sighed. “Very mature.”

“Baby… give me attention!” – he whined.

Somewhere deep, deep within you felt bad…Too bad you were still not giving in, no matter how much he whined. You were just as much if not more stubborn and petty.

“No.”

Hyunjin just like that , feeling defeated and whiny, more than anything missing your contact decided then and there that If you weren’t giving him attention he would get it himself.

So in his grown ass and mature age he decided to just plop on you. Knocking all air out of your poor lungs with that stereotypical oomph sound.

“You’re squishing me!”

Hyunjin glared at you like you were completely in the wrong here, even as he was crushing you with his body.

“Hyunjin!” You wheezed out again. That’s when he decided to humour you and shifted his weight a little. With newfound determination he started to cover you all over with obnoxiously loud smooches. You couldn’t even call them kisses. They were smooches so loud with every one you had ringing in your ears. His hands greedily moving against your body holding and caressing you everywhere.

“Hyun…” – he didn’t let you finish as he kissed you so filthy you almost forgot how to breathe for a second his hold on your waist so tight you wouldn’t be surprised if they would bruise. The way his lips moved against yours was just sinful. You hated how weak you were for him and how you were folding by the second and melting in his hold.

“I’m sorry.” – he muttered against your lips when he finally leaned back for some air. Honestly, you were so distracted and breathless you barely registered what he was saying.

“The Hwang Hyunjin is apologizing? I must be dreaming.” – you muttered against his lips, a triumphant smile slowly creeping up on your face.

Hyunjin’s sigh was so dramatic one would think something horrible had happened. He glared at you again, but this time there was a hint of amusement in his eyes.

“You win. I’ll admit anything. Just give me attention! I hate when you ignore me! Sorry I upset you! Even though I see nothing wrong with you being whipped for me!”

You couldn’t help but chuckle at his desperation. God you loved this drama queen. Finally letting yourself to lean into his touch, you gave in. “Okay, okay Tinkerbell I’ll cuddle and kiss you.”

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[kalisburnerphone]

Lugar Seguro || Choi Seungcheol

Summary: Your rare quiet night in is interrupted when your drunk boyfriend shows up clingy and demanding kisses. Between his handsy behavior and declarations about marrying you someday, he reveals insecurity about not being able to give you a normal, public relationship. You reassure him he’s enough, which leads to an intense makeout session before he falls asleep wrapped around you possessively while mumbling about your future together.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Warnings:idol!seungcheol x manager!curve/plus size!reader, drunk, clingy, koala bear Cheol. Lots of kissing because his lips were made for slow, filthy makeouts that make your toes curl. Groping because Cheollie can’t keep his hands to himself, brief talk about an insecurity he has. I’m probably missing something but that’s basically it.

W.C: 4.1k

Being the manager of an artist in a kpop group wasn’t supposed to be a permanent thing, just something to help you pay your bills and tuition fees but now it’s been over ten years since you started working with Pledis and seventeen. You had started in administration fresh out of high school and the beginning of your first semester of university.

Your first management role was Joshua, something easy the company had said, since English was your first language but being an idols manager is no easy task. Between balancing their schedules and yours, you were often running on fumes but it’s not like you didn’t enjoy your job.

Still nights like this, where you didn’t have to worry about schedules for the next four days were rare and so you had pampered yourself as much as you could in the comfort of your hotel room instead of staying through dinner with everyone else.

You’ve just finished changing into your sleep wear that consists of an oversized t-shirt when you hear your room door being unlocked. There’s only one person with the extra key to your room and soon he’s coming in to view with a dopey grin on his face.

“Babyyyyyyy,” he drones out immediately wrapping his arms around you where you stand applying your the rest of your skincare routine. You can smell the alcohol on him the same way you can tell he’s drunk but not white girl wasted—he can hold his liquor—but whenever Choi Seungcheol has alcohol in his system he becomes a koala,very clingy and affectionate.

Choi Seungcheol who has been your assigned idol for the past five years and your boyfriend for three.

You let out a soft sigh that’s equal parts exasperation and fondness as Seungcheol’s weight presses against your back, his arms wrapping firmly around your waist. The warmth of him seeps through the thin fabric of your oversized t-shirt.

“How much did you drink?” you ask, continuing to pat the essence into your skin despite having a five-foot-ten man-child draped over you. His reflection in the mirror shows that dopey grin,eyes slightly glazed but still focused entirely on you, cheeks flushed pink from the alcohol.

“Not that much,” he mumbles into your shoulder, contradicting himself immediately by swaying slightly and tightening his grip to steady himself. “Wanted to see you.”

“You saw me at the venue and during dinner,” you remind him, though you can’t help the smile tugging at your lips. Even after three years together, his clinginess when drunk never fails to amuse you. It’s such a stark contrast to the composed leader the world sees.

“Not the same,” he protests, nuzzling against your neck. “The kids kept stealing your attention and you left dinner early.”

You set down your skincare product and turn in his arms, finally giving him your full attention. His long hair is slightly mussed, likely from the way he always runs his hands through it when it’s at these lengths and his eyes are soft as they trace over your face.

“I needed some alone time,” you explain gently, reaching up to smooth down his hair. “We’ve been going non-stop for weeks.”

“Mm, I know.” He leans into your touch like a cat seeking affection. “That’s why I came to check on you.“​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

“After going to Chan’s room to be a menace?”

“How’d you—”

“He texted and sent a video of you being clingy with his dad and told me to be prepared.”

Seungcheol has the decency to look sheepish, though the effect is somewhat ruined by the way he’s still clinging to you. “I wasn’t that bad with Chan.”

“You boldly told his parents that you were drunk and then proceeded to cuddle his dad,Cheol. Then you kept telling him you love him,he recorded it.”

A soft laugh rumbles through his chest. “He’s my baby. I do love him.”

“Uh-huh.” You pat his cheek affectionately before trying to gently extract yourself from his grip. “Come on, let me finish my routine and then we can—”

“Nooo,” he whines, actually whines, tightening his hold. “Stay here. You’re so warm and you smell good and I missed you.”

“I’m not going anywhere. I’m literally just moving three feet to put my stuff away.”

“Three feet too far.”

You can’t help but laugh at the pout on his face, the same pout that millions of Carats gush over when they catch a glimpse of it. The same pout that’s been your undoing more times than you’d care to admit over the past ten years.

This is the Seungcheol that only you get to see. Not S.Coups, the fierce leader and oldest member of Seventeen. Not the charismatic performer who commands stages worldwide. Just Seungcheol—your Cheol—who gets clingy when drunk and seeks you out even when he should probably be resting.

“You’re impossible when you drink,” you murmur but there’s no real complaint in your voice.

“Impossibly in love with you,” he counters with a lopsided grin, looking far too pleased with himself for that line.

“That was terrible.”

“But you’re smiling.”

He’s got you there. You are smiling, even as you shake your head at his antics. “Fine. But you’re helping me put everything away first and then you need to drink some water.”

“Can I sleep here tonight?” His voice is softer now, almost vulnerable in a way that makes your chest tighten.

“When have I ever said no to that?”

His answering smile is bright enough to rival the stage lights he performs under and he finally loosens his grip enough to let you move though his hand immediately finds yours, fingers lacing together as if he can’t bear to not be touching you.

These quiet moments, stolen between schedules and appearances and the careful dance of keeping your relationship private, are what make everything worth it. The exhaustion, the secrecy, the constant juggling; it all fades away when it’s just the two of you like this.Even if he is a clingy drunk.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

You have him sat on the toilet as you apply cleansing oil to his face knowing that he probably only removed his makeup and didn’t wash his face but, even that proves difficult because when it’s time for him to actually wash his face he refuses to let you move from where you stand between his legs. His arms tighten where they’re wrapped around your plush thighs and the look he’s giving you is one you know all too well.

“No.”

“But—”

“Nope, we’re washing your face, you’re going to shower because you smell like barbecue and soju and then we’re going to bed and do nothing but cuddle.”

Seungcheol’s bottom lip juts out in an exaggerated pout that would be more effective if he didn’t have cleansing oil smeared across his face. “You don’t like how I smell?”

“I didn’t say that. I said you smell like barbecue and soju, which means you need a shower.” You gently tap his nose, leaving a small dot of cleanser there. “And I know that look, Choi Seungcheol. The answer is still no.”

“What look?” He tries for innocent but the way his hands are slowly sliding higher up your thighs betrays him entirely.

You catch his wrists, firmly placing his hands back at a respectable position. “That look. The one that says you’ve conveniently forgotten that you’re drunk and we have a rule about this.”

“I’m not that drunk,” he protests, though the slight slur in his words undermines his argument.

“Drunk enough for our rule to apply.” You run your fingers through his hair, gentler now. “Come on, Cheol. Let me take care of you properly.”

He sighs dramatically but doesn’t argue further, knowing you’re right. It’s a boundary you’d established early in your relationship, one born from mutual respect and the understanding that consent goes both ways. Drunk Seungcheol might be affectionate and handsy but sober Seungcheol had been the one to suggest the rule in the first place.

“Fine,” he mumbles, finally loosening his grip enough for you to step back and turn on the water. “But extra cuddles to make up for it.”

“All the cuddles you want,” you promise, dampening a washcloth with warm water. “Now close your eyes and let me get this oil off before it gets everywhere.”

He obeys, tilting his face up toward you with surprising docility now that he’s accepted defeat. His hands settle on your hips, still touching, because he apparently can’t help himself but at least he’s behaving.

“You take such good care of me,” he murmurs as you gently wipe away the oil cleanser, his voice going soft and fond in that way that makes your heart squeeze.

“Someone has to,” you say lightly, though you both know it goes deeper than that. “Okay, all clean. Now go wash your face and then shower while I get you some water and painkillers for tomorrow morning.”

“Will you still be here when I get out?”

The vulnerability in his question makes you pause. Even after three years, sometimes he still needs the reassurance; that you’re not going anywhere, that this is real, that he gets to keep you.

You lean down and press a soft kiss to his forehead. “Where else would I go? This is my room, remember?”

His laugh is warm and relieved. “Right, your room. That I have a key to.”

“That you have a key to,” you confirm. “Now go, before you fall asleep on my toilet.”

He stands, swaying only slightly and steals one more quick kiss before heading toward the bathroom. At the doorway, he pauses and looks back at you with surprising clarity in his eyes despite the alcohol.

“Love you, baby.”

“Love you too, you menace. Now shower.”

His answering grin is pure sunshine before he disappears into the bathroom, and you’re left shaking your head fondly while reaching for your phone to text Dino back, letting him know his leader is accounted for and being properly managed.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

The moment he’s showered and changed into a t-shirt you stole from him and boxers that he started packing into your suitcase for days like this, he’s draping himself on you in bed after downing the water you gave him.

His face is smushed between your boobs and he’s got one of your thighs hooked over his hip while his big hand rests on your ass cheek, squeezing the flesh periodically.

“Choi Sseung,” you mumble—the nickname you’d started using after watching Love Nextdoor together—when he gives you a particularly rough grab after a light smack.

“Mmm?” His response is muffled against your chest but you feel his lips curve into a smile against your skin through the thin fabric of your shirt.

“Hands,” you warn, though there’s no real heat behind it.

“‘m not doing anything,” he mumbles but his hand does still for all of two seconds before he’s kneading the flesh again, like he can’t help himself. “Just…you’re so soft. Love touching you.”

You run your fingers through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. “You’re very handsy tonight.”

“Always wanna touch you,” he admits without shame, tilting his head up to look at you with those slightly glazed but adoring eyes. “Can’t when we’re working. Gotta make up for it now.”

Before you can respond, he’s shifting up slightly, his face leaving your chest so he can press his lips to yours. It starts soft,almost chaste but then his hand tightens on your ass and he’s deepening it, his plush lips moving against yours with purpose. He kisses like he does everything else when it’s just the two of you—thoroughly, completely—like you’re the only thing that matters in the world.

His tongue traces the seam of your lips and you part for him automatically, the kiss turning slow and languid. He tastes like the minty toothpaste you keep in your toiletry bag, with just the faintest hint of soju underneath. The hand on your ass slides up to your waist, fingers splaying wide across your ribs through the thin t-shirt as he uses the leverage to pull you even closer.

When you finally pull back for air, he makes a soft sound of protest, his eyes still closed, lips parted and already seeking yours again.

“Cheol,” you breathe, but he’s not listening.

“More,” he murmurs and there’s something almost reverent in the way he cups the back of your neck, threading his fingers through your hair as he draws you back in. This kiss is hungrier, more insistent. His lips are impossibly soft but demanding, coaxing responses from you with each deliberate slide and press. He kisses you like he’s trying to memorize the taste of you, like he’s been starving for this.

His thumb strokes along your jaw as his tongue tangles with yours, the kiss turning messy and deep. You feel the soft rumble of satisfaction in his chest when you thread your own fingers through his hair, tugging slightly. He angles his head, fitting his mouth more firmly against yours and the kiss goes molten,slow but absolutely filthy in the way only he can manage.

When you finally break apart, both breathing hard, his lips are kiss-swollen and glossy, that bottom lip looking even fuller than usual. He chases your mouth immediately, landing a quick peck, then another, like he can’t bear to not be kissing you.

“Better?” you ask against his lips, trying to catch your breath.

“Mm-mm.” He shakes his head, being completely shameless now as he peppers small kisses along your jaw. “Need more. Always need more of you.”

“You’re insatiable when you’re drunk.”

“‘m insatiable for you always,” he corrects, his hand sliding from your waist back down to your ass, slipping under your shirt to touch bare skin. His palm is warm and slightly rough with calluses as it spreads across the curve of your backside, squeezing possessively. “You’re gonna marry me, right?”

The question comes out of nowhere, slightly slurred but completely serious. You blink down at him.

“What?”

“Gonna marry you,” he announces, nodding as if it’s already decided. His hand kneads your ass in slow, deliberate movements. “Gonna put a ring on your finger and marry you and then you’ll be mine forever. Officially.”

“Cheol, you’re drunk—”

“So? Still gonna marry you.” He’s pouting again, that bottom lip jutting out in a way that shouldn’t be as effective as it is. “You don’t wanna marry me?”

“I didn’t say that—”

“Then say you’ll marry me.” His other hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing over your cheekbone with surprising gentleness considering how firmly he’s still gripping your ass. “Say it. Wanna hear it.”

“Baby, we can’t exactly—”

“Don’t care about exactly,” he interrupts and there’s something almost desperate in his voice now. “I know we can’t do it now. I know it’s complicated. But someday, right? You’ll let me marry you someday?”

Your heart clenches at the vulnerability in his expression. “Yeah, baby. Someday.”

His entire face lights up like you’ve given him the world. “Promise?”

“I promise.”

“Good.” He seals it with another kiss and this one is different; deeper, more intense, like he’s trying to brand the promise into your very soul. His lips move against yours with devastating precision, that plush bottom lip dragging across yours in a way that makes your toes curl. He takes his time, kissing you until you’re dizzy with it, until all you can focus on is the wet slide of his mouth and the warmth of his hands on your body.

When he finally pulls back, you’re both panting. He immediately burrows back into your chest but his hands don’t stop moving,one sliding back down to grip your ass again, the other tracing patterns on your hip under your shirt.

“Kiss,” he demands after a moment, tilting his face up without actually moving from where he’s planted between your breasts.

“I just kissed you.”

“Want another one.”

You lean down and press a kiss to his forehead. He makes a disgruntled sound.

“Not there. Here.” He puckers his lips exaggeratedly and you can’t help but laugh at how ridiculous he looks.

“You’re being very demanding tonight.”

“‘m your boyfriend. ‘m allowed to demand kisses.” But even as he says it, something shifts in his expression, a flicker of insecurity that makes your chest tight. His hand on your ass squeezes, almost unconsciously. “Right? I’m…I’m a good boyfriend?”

The question is quiet, almost hesitant, so at odds with his demanding tone just seconds ago.

“Of course you are, Cheol. What kind of question—”

“But I can’t give you normal,” he interrupts, his hand on your ass squeezing, like he needs to ground himself. “Can’t take you on proper dates without disguises and planning. Can’t hold your hand in public. Can’t post about you or tell people or—” He breaks off, pressing his face harder into your chest. “You have to pretend to just be my manager and I can’t even look at you too long when other people are around and—”

“Choi Seungcheol.” You cup his face, making him look at you. His eyes are glassy, though you’re not sure if it’s from alcohol or emotion. “Baby, look at me.”

He does, reluctantly.

“You’re a wonderful boyfriend,” you tell him firmly. “The best boyfriend. You leave me notes in my suitcase when we travel. You memorize my coffee orders and my schedule and what days I’m going to be stressed. You sneak into my room just to hold me. You—”

“But it’s not normal,” he insists and now you can see the tears gathering. “You deserve normal. Deserve someone who can show you off and take you to nice restaurants without booking the whole place out and—”

“I don’t want normal,” you interrupt, running your thumb across his cheekbone. “I want you, you ridiculous man. Drunk and clingy and demanding kisses at 2 AM. This is enough. You’re enough.”

“Really?” His voice is so small.

“Really.” You lean down and kiss him properly, slow and sweet, trying to pour all your reassurance into it. Your lips move softly against his, tender and loving. You kiss the corner of his mouth, then the other corner, then his top lip, his bottom lip, each press deliberate and full of affection.

He melts into it, a soft sigh escaping him as his hands flex against you. When you pull back just slightly, he follows, not ready to let you go. His nose brushes against yours as he catches his breath.

“Again,” he whispers and there’s so much love in his eyes it makes your chest ache.

You give him what he wants, kissing him again and again; small, sweet pecks that gradually deepen. His tongue traces your bottom lip and you open for him, letting the kiss turn slower, wetter. He explores your mouth like he has all the time in the world, like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be than right here with you.

When you pull back this time, he’s looking at you with such open adoration it makes you ache. “Love you so much,” he mumbles, slightly breathless. “So, so much. Gonna marry you and then everyone will know you’re mine.”

“I’m already yours, ring or not.”

“Mine,” he agrees, sounding pleased. His hand slides from your face back down to grab your ass again, the other one joining it. Both palms knead the flesh possessively. “All mine. My baby. My girlfriend. My future wife.”

“Cheol, your hands—”

“Can’t help it. You’re so—” He squeezes, punctuating his words. “—perfect. Love your body. Love you. Wanna touch you all the time.” He nuzzles into your chest again, completely shameless and you feel his lips press against the curve of your breast through your shirt. “So soft. So pretty. Can I have another kiss?”

“You literally just kissed me.”

“Want more. Always want more.” He’s back to pouting, looking up at you from between your boobs with those big pleading eyes. “Please? I’ll be good.”

“You’re already being handsy, that’s not being good.”

“I’ll be less handsy,” he negotiates, though his hands don’t move from where they’re firmly gripping your ass. “…After one more kiss. Or five. Or—”

“One,” you say firmly, even though you both know you’ll give him more.

He grins like he’s won, already shifting up to claim his kiss. And this one—this one is different from all the others.

He takes his time, tilting his head to get the perfect angle. When his lips meet yours, they’re soft and warm and impossibly plush, moving with a deliberate slowness that makes heat pool low in your belly. His mouth is sinfully good at this, those full lips of his designed for kissing and he knows exactly how to use them.

He kisses you deep and slow, his tongue sliding against yours in a lazy rhythm that’s absolutely filthy despite the unhurried pace. It’s wet and messy and thorough, each stroke of his tongue purposeful. One of his hands abandons your ass to slide up your body, fingertips dragging along your spine before cupping your breast through the thin t-shirt. His thumb finds your nipple, circling it slowly as his mouth continues its devastating assault on yours.

You gasp against his lips and he swallows the sound, kissing you deeper, harder. His hand on your breast kneads in time with the hand still gripping your ass, both touching you with a possessiveness that makes your head spin. The kiss turns absolutely obscene, all tongue and teeth and those perfect lips working against yours until you’re not sure where you end and he begins.

He pulls back just enough to catch his breath but his mouth doesn’t leave yours. He traces your bottom lip with his tongue before sucking it into his mouth, his teeth grazing it gently. The hand on your breast squeezes as he releases your lip with a wet sound, only to immediately capture your mouth again in another deep, drugging kiss.

“Love kissing you,” he mumbles against your lips, not really breaking contact. “Love your mouth. Love you. So perfect.” He punctuates each word with another kiss, his tongue delving deep, exploring thoroughly. “Could kiss you forever.”

His hand abandons your breast to tangle in your hair, angling your head exactly where he wants it as he kisses you like he’s trying to devour you. The hand on your ass pulls you tighter against him and you can feel every inch of him pressed against you as his mouth claims yours over and over.

The kiss seems to go on forever, slow and filthy and so intense you forget to breathe. His lips are swollen and slick when he finally, finally pulls back, both of you panting. A string of saliva connects your mouths for a moment before breaking and his eyes track it with dark satisfaction.

“Fuck,” he breathes, licking his lips. “Love you. Love you so much.”

Then he’s diving back in for more and you let him because how could you not when he kisses like that? His mouth moves against yours with renewed hunger, those sinfully plush lips dragging across yours in a way that makes you dizzy. The hand in your hair tightens as his tongue sweeps into your mouth again, tasting, claiming, branding.

When he finally breaks away this time, you’re both breathless and flushed. He presses his forehead against yours, his eyes half-lidded and hazy with affection and alcohol and want.

“Okay,” he finally concedes, voice rough. “Maybe that’s enough. For now.” His hand slides from your hair back down to your ass, giving it one final squeeze as his other hand cups your breast again through your shirt. “But I’m keeping my hands right here.”

“Cheol—”

“Shh, ’m tired now,” he mumbles, settling back down with his face between your breasts, arms wrapping around your waist possessively. Both hands stay exactly where they are, one on your ass, one palming your breast. “Gonna sleep just like this. Gonna marry you,” he mumbles again, already starting to drift. “Gonna be the best husband…gonna kiss you like that every day…”

His words trail off as sleep finally starts to claim him but his hands stay on you, groping gently even as consciousness fades, like even unconscious he can’t seem to let go.

You run your fingers through his hair, your own lips feeling thoroughly kissed and swollen. Your heart feels too big for your chest as you listen to his breathing even out.

“Yeah,” you whisper into the darkness, pressing a soft kiss to the top of his head. “You will be.“​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

[k-hotchoisan]

Hiii, umm I am still kinda new here so, I don't actually know if you can see this or not... but I just want you to know YOUR FICS ARE SO GOOD!!!! I always come back to read them :O Can I request a fic or something for Jongho please? If not a fic, can I request #15 for Jongho please? He is my bias but I can't find many fics about him......

15. Roleplay with Hongjoong or Unprotected sex with Jongho?

I saw his recent selfies on twt and bOY I’ve prefaced it before (though not here) that he’s so fucking handsome??

As always, thank you for waiting & enjoy! 🩷

Just because he doesn’t like just anyone touching him, doesn’t mean that he doesn’t get touch starved.

Warnings: smut, pwp, cream pie, unprotected sex, riding, touch starved!Jongho

Taglist:

@bro-atz @diamond-3 @mcarebearsstuff @choisansplushie @voicesinmyhead-rc @pre1ttyies

K’s 500: this or that masterlist here!

When you were first introduced to Jongho, it was established that he didn’t like physical contact, and so you helped him draw that boundary, giving him that physical space.

But as you spent more time with him, what you didn’t realise was the way his hand resting on your shoulders when he was behind you when he was trying to whisper something into your ear if it was too crowded, the way he’d let his knees and shoulders bump into yours when you’re running your mouth about something, the way he’d lean in closer as an excuse to hear you better when he just wanted to close the distance between the both of you, and the way his hands would intentionally cover yours when he wanted to take something off your hands.

He wonders if you’ll ever notice. He wonders how much more he can take before he breaks.

A lazy Thursday evening, when you’re over at his place as usual, playing video games with Jongho. The both of you were playing a coop game, and losing composure at each other, laughing whenever the physics of the game made zero sense. When Jongho accidentally tosses a whole cooked steak down the hot air balloon, you shriek and slap his thigh on instinct, before you playfully yell at him for fucking up. The brunette’s eyes brighten while trying to hold in his laughter, staring at you with the most dumbfounded smile. His hand grasps yours, playfully apologising for messing up as he waves your hands in his to gain your forgiveness.

By instinct, you let your fingers naturally link in between his as he continues to shake your hand while coming up with 101 excuses. Your eyes land on your hands and you realise your fingers are intertwined with his, and you internally panic—shit, you didn’t mean to do that. As you smile and nod, feigning forgiveness, you gently release your grip, hoping Jongho didn’t notice.

But of course he does.

“We’re taking 5 and then we’re switching over to Wario Ware”, you giggle as you settle the controller down, getting up to raid his fridge. Jongho’s gaze follows your movements, and he, himself also settles his controller down to tail you.

You pull open the fridge door, the cold air immediately prickling your cheeks. He mostly has sprite cans lined up neatly. You turn to ask him, but your voice is stuck in your throat when you’re staring right into Jongho’s eyes, while he was evidently lost in yours. The silence hangs between the both of you, and you realise the proximity between you and Jongho, only the whirling sound of the fridge running accompanying the silence.

Jongho glances down at your lips. He detests kisses, and the both of you know that clear as day.

But he feels himself snap—from the way you’re just staring into his eyes, then to his lips before flickering back to his eyes once more. His hands cup your cheek and you shut your eyes, fireworks going off the moment you feel his lips on yours. He pushes the fridge door shut behind you and has you pinned against the fridge as he tastes every part of your mouth.

He pulls back, and the both of you are breathless, your heart skipping a beat when he strokes your cheek.

Your gaze finds his, and he doesn’t hesitate to lean in for another kiss before he separates from you again.

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” You ask, glancing up his flushed face.

“I should be asking you that. I’ve been holding back since forever”, he replies, before he leads you back to the couch.

His touches feel so desperate—he feels you up and down several times as he collides his lips with yours above you, making sure his palms brush every inch of your skin while he undresses you article by article. He peels his pants off him, letting his cock slap against his lower abdomen, before his lips send you shocks down your spine as sucks on sensitive spots on your neck. You sigh, letting your hands wrap around his neck, your fingers tangling against his soft, brown hair.

He pushes two fingers in after wetting them with his spit, his gaze glued to yours to watch for any discomfort. You contract your abdomen, your legs spreading wider pulling his fingers deeper into your cunt, feeling him search for a particular spot. The moment you gasp and whimper, he knows he’s found it, and Jongho’s determined to make you come undone just from his fingers.

He watches the way your eyes roll back, the way it looks like you’re running out of air, looking fucked out, the way you’re jolting every time his finger tips press against the spongy surface of your spot, and especially the noises you make, all just for him to hear.

Your sobs are shaky as your orgasm completely wipes any ounce of coherent thought in your head, other than the desperation to be fucked by Jongho, and it fills Jongho’s ears like a melody.

“There we go. Let it go babe”, he hums, his gaze lowers down to his fingers stained with your wet release, before he lets you suck his fingers clean.

He joins you on the couch, and it’s an automatic response to climb onto his lap, the heat radiating off his thick cock luring your cunt in almost way too quickly. You decide, fuck it, especially when you see his eyes slowly looking more glazed and mesmerised while you’re on top of him.

You lift your hips and slowly sink down on his thick length—the overstimulation of his cock dragging across your walls making your legs shake, while Jongho has his eyes shut, forcing himself not to bust when he’s just barely entered you. His eyes flutter open as he struggles to regulate his breathing.

His hands which are on your thighs, trailing upwards so agonisingly slow until he his hands are cupping your cheeks once more, before he pulls you in for another hungry kiss. Your body feels like it’s on fire from the way he’s teasing you with his touches.

Jongho’s hands slides down to your ass, grabbing a fistful of it as he carries your ass up, and begins making you bounce on his dick. His fat cock stretches you out, and it’s driving you insane.

“That’s it. You feel so fucking good”, he groans, burying his head into your shoulders, keeping up with your bouncing with his hip thrusts. White begins to form around the base of his cock as he continues to fuck into you from below.

Your cunt flutters around his cock, as you let go again, leaving scratches on his upper bag as your second orgasm completely engulfs your senses, the only thing leaving your lips are broken moans as your thighs continue to shake from the overstimulation.

“You came and you didn’t tell me? Bad girl”, Jongho whispers as he fits in one more heavy thrust into your cunt before he calls out your name weakly, spilling his load deep into you.

“It’s so much, Jongho”, you twitch in under his grip. You don’t see it, but you feel load after the load threatening to leak out of your sopping cunt. His thighs are stained with the mixture of your releases, and Jongho carries you to his bathroom. His touches never leave yours throughout the whole ordeal.

Sharing a spite after a hot shower together where he made sure to breed you for another round, the both of you are back on the couch, snuggled up and comfortable, still deciding if you should start up Wario Ware.

You pull back to stare at him, and that gets his attention.

“I thought you didn’t like physical affection?”

“Well, there are exceptions, obviously. One of them just happens to be you.”

Jongho doesn’t want to let you know much he’s been craving to touch you, how much he wanted you to reciprocate, but as the relationship blossoms, he makes sure you do.

[k-hotchoisan]

HI HI CONGRATS ON 50000000 ‼️ 🤭 for the “this or that” could you do 8 and/or 22 (i cant choose between those two LMAO 🥲) when you have the chance pretty plsss ? I love the way you write ateez 🧎‍♀️

8. Make Seonghwa cum in you or Yunho cum in your mouth?

It’s the breeding kink for me,,, thank you for the lovely words 🩷

Warnings: smut, pwp, creampies, it was protected sex for like two seconds until y/n is too fucked out from pleasure that she begs to remove the condom, dom!seonghwa

Taglist: @bro-atz @diamond-3 @mcarebearsstuff

K’s 500: this or that masterlist here!

“I think we should use a condom”, you tell Seonghwa breathlessly as he’s drowning you with his lips, leaving barely any area of skin untouched. He’s been so pent up from his schedule recently that the moment he sees you, his hands are all over you while your clothes were not. It doesn’t take very long for him to roll a condom over his hard erection before he slips himself into you, as he watches your face contort into pleasure when he slowly fills you up.

Seonghwa is now rutting into you, groaning at how your cunt is swallowing him deeper to accommodate his length, but despite the pumps of dopamine that releases every time he feels himself twitch in you, he feels that something is missing. He bites his inner cheek, growing frustrated as his thrusts grow harder, watching the way you’re squirming against his body every time your tits and ass bounce when he fucks into you harder. His palms graze along your legs before he bends them to have his cock reach deeper parts of your throbbing cunt. Fuck, that feels a lot better but he’s still not satisfied.

His attention shifts to the condom that hugs his cock, and he grunts. He really wants to pull it off so bad, but he stops himself from letting his dick think for him (as if he isn’t borderline dancing on the fence is euphoria with his dick pumping in and out of you). He really needs to fucking breed you the more he hears your desperate sobs of begging him to fuck you harder. Seonghwa thinks he’s holding up pretty well, deciding to let himself attempt to slowly chase his orgasm. That is, until you mutter, “not enough”, staring up at him with those glazed out eyes he cannot get enough of.

His hands find your cheeks, the warmth of his palm engulfing your skin, as he watches you pant and whine into his palm. You lock your eyes with his.

“Hwa”, you whine, your abdomen flexing when he hits your sweet spot once more.

He hums in reply.

“Get the condom off.”

Seonghwa’s eyes widen. He completely stills in you for a moment. He blinks twice.

You stare back with scrunched eyebrows and a pout, your body tingling with crave to be just fucked raw.

“Are you sure?” Seonghwa asks, giving your thighs soft strokes.

“Yeah. It’s okay. Please. Fuck, I need you raw”, you plead. Seonghwa bites his lip, his rationale is thrown out the window when you beg him so nicely like that.

And when he pulls out, your hands reach over to yank the condom off his cock, dropping the worn latex off somewhere on the floor. Seonghwa watches you as you wrap your legs around his waist, sinking back into his cock with a relieved sigh. Seonghwa groans as his cock envelopes into your heat once more, now more sensitive and so mind breakingly good.

“Fuck. That feels so good. So warm”, Seonghwa sighs, pulling your body closer to him as he begins mindlessly fucking you into the bed again. He’s dizzy with pleasure every time he sinks his cock into your warm pussy. Your toes are curled from your sweet spot being hammered over and over again, and you fucking swear through the stars bursting through your eyelids that you were made for him to ruin and bred stupid. Your eyes water from the pleasure as you leave pretty marks down his back.

Seonghwa grunts, and he pulls back slightly, watching the way you cream on his cock before slamming right back in, while sucking the perfect spot on your neck. Your eyes roll back and you completely let go on his cock, your thighs shaking when your mind goes completely blank, clawing his back and crying about how it’s all too much.

“You wanted to get rid of the condom, Angel. Now you’re complaining how it’s too much?” He teases as he fucks you through your orgasm, drawing it as long as he could, the overstimulation making you cream even more.

“I’m cumming, babe. Ah, fuck. Why do you have to feel so fucking good?”

Seonghwa is desperately rutting into you now, his orgasm just dangling over him.

Your legs tighten around his waist as you keep him close to you, finding the energy to whisper softly into his ears with words that you know would drive him over the edge.

“Fucking dump it all in my cunt, Hwa. You know you want to.”

Seonghwa spits broken curses once more as his hips jerks deeper into you, his orgasm crashing into him as ropes of cum unload into your cunt.

He stays above you for a moment, trying to regulate his breathing as his arms stay curled around your body. Then Seonghwa slowly pulls out, not missing out on the soft groan that leaves your lips when he does.

He presses a kiss on your temple before snuggling up behind you, his arm snaking around your waist as he pulls you close to him.

“You sure that was okay? Like removing the condom?” He asks, a hint of worry in his voice as his fingers draw gentle circles on your thigh.

“Yeah. I suddenly remembered that I have birth control”, you reply, as you absentmindedly play with his fingers.

Seonghwa’s eyebrows scrunch as he slowly gets up from the bed, and now he’s above you with a funny glint in his eye.

“Ah, so I should make sure you’re swollen with cum by the end of the evening, shouldn’t I?”

You stare back at him, blinking while wearing the most blank expression before you realise it.

Fuck.

[hanjisngs]

sleeping beauty

pairing: felix x fem!reader

cw: smut, established relationship, somnophilia, perv!felix, unprotected sex (don’t), creampie, cum eating, nipple play, masturbation (m), oral sex (f!rec), fingering (f!rec), no direct consent said!!!

a/n: this is FREAKY guys i really hope you enjoy!! MDNI BELOW THE CUT!

——

he got home too late again. he didn’t mean to, really. especially today, he wanted to surprise you by coming home early. it’s 2:30am. his mouth presses into a thin line when he sneaks a look at you, bag still thrown over his shoulder, and exhales throught his nose when he sees your hair falling over the silk pillows, mouth slightly parted.

he tiptoes into the room, placing his bag down, walking over to the bed and pressing a soft kiss right in the middle of your forehead and going straight for the bathroom. he showers relatively quickly, using your cinnamon body wash, and puts his pjs on. he joins you in bed after that, trying to be quiet as he plugs his charger in, then settles face to face with you.

you’re so beautiful when you’re asleep. so peaceful, resting in the bed shared with him. everything smells like you here. his eyes drift from your hair to your parted lips, glossy from your lip mask, your neck, then down to your thin pajama top. he lets out a shaky breath when he sees that it’s just a little twisted to the side, showing more skin than usual. the top leaves little to the imagination anyway, dark nipples poking the fabric visibly, like you know he’s looking at them.

his hand moves then, from your hair, knuckles brushing your cheek, your neck, down to your collarbone, stopping above your breasts. he closes his eyes, shaking his head like that would erase the thoughts he’s having right now. you’d let him. he asked about this exact scenario jokingly, and you didn’t hesitate to say yes. it has been messing with his head since.

just a little, he thinks. he just wants to see how far he can go before you wake up. nothing wrong with that, right? you’ve woken him up with your mouth on him multiple times, so how is this different? he feels terrible, but the aching is worse. he’d been trying to find a time to have sex with you, he knows you miss it too, but you both like it more when you have time and it’s not a quickie. that’s mainly why he was trying to get home early today.

his fingers finally brush the top of your little tank top, pulling it down gently to expose one of your breasts. he gulps so loud it’s embarrassing when he sees your eyebrows furrow just a little, and you shift in your sleep. he bites back a groan, fingers tracing circles over your nipple so lightly he’s sure you can’t even feel it. but his other hand is already drifting down his own stomach, palm pressing into the bulge in his pants. his hips kick forward and he leans in, mouth attaching to your collarbone, moving down, fingers never stopping on your nipple.

he hears you let out a soft sigh, just enough to make him leak into his underwear as he stiffles another moan. he’s impatient, hand sliding down between your thigh, pulling your pajama shorts to the side and running a finger over you. you’re wet, soaking actually, and he wonders if your body knows it’s him. it must know by now, and it gives him the green light every time. he circles your clit once, then whispers a little “just this once, angel” before pulling his pants down, turning you just a bit so you’re laying on your back completely.

he just watches you for a few seconds, cock chubbing up more with every second, his hand tugging on it once, twice, just to make sure he’s fully hard. he knows he is though, he’s been hard since he saw you laying here so pliant. he whispers again, just incase your body needs to hear it. “spread your legs a little, that’s it” he spreads your legs himself,pushing your shorts to the side again and finally letting out a shuddering moan when he sees how wet you are. you’re still unmoving, so he takes his chance.

the thing is, if he wanted you to wake up, he could’ve woke you up. but he doesn’t want to. he wants you to wake up only when he’s fucking you dumb on his cock, all sleepy and messy and surprised. the thought has his hips kicking again into his hand, so he moves, pressing the tip to your entrance. he looks at your face once more before pressing the tip inside. you let out a surprised noise, but you’re still asleep. he grunts, pressing deeper “jesus christ, pretty little cunt”

his hips move on their own, pulling out and pressing in halfway again, thumb pressing into your clit as he watches your face. your eyebrows are furrowed, tits moving a little. his cock twitches painfully when you whisper a little, barely coherent “felix” and he can’t take it anymore. he presses in again, long and deep, until he’s buried all the way, hand settling in the bend of your knee, pressing it towards your chest as he fucks into you, not fast, but hurried in a way.

“oh—oh god, angel, want you to cum for me” he breathes, eyes focused on the white ring you’ve made around his cock every time he pulls out. you clench around him just once, a sleepy little moan leaving your lips, and he’s cumming inside you, filling you right up “fuck—right there, right—“ his voice breaks, hips moving slower and deeper until he can’t take it anymore. he groans when he sees the tiniest bit of cum leaking out when he pulls out, adjusting your shirt and your pants and gulping down the guilt rising up his throat. he kisses your nose, muttering a little “pretty” just against your cheek, and he goes to sleep. you both sleep well.

——

you wake up with an unusual feeling. you’re not sure what it is until you’re completely awake, rubbing your eyes and sitting up. felix is asleep next to you, murmuring something like “come back” in his sleep. you’re sore. it takes you a few seconds to think back to last night. you don’t remember him coming home. did he—

“lix?” you call softly, and you gasp when you feel something dripping out between your legs. did you get your period? no, no that can’t be it. his eyes open then, and when he sees the concern on your face, he sits up too. “angel? you okay?” you gulp “yeah, it’s— i’m fine, i just feel..” you don’t know what to say. if it’s what you think it is, then he should know, right? if he was the one. suddenly it all falls into place. did he cum inside?

he sees it on your face, and puts his hand on your cheek. “lay down for me” you nod, laying right back down. he moves between your legs, cheek pressing into your inner thigh as he watches your face “does it hurt?” you shake your head. “then what is it?” he kisses up until he reaches the hem of your sleep shorts. you’re already gasping, hands running through his hair. “tell me” he says again, and you try to say something “lix, did you.. what happened last night? when you came home?” his ears turn pink at the question, but he’s not embarrassed. he’s turned on. he smiled, pulling your shorts down when you nod, and the sight has him biting down on his lip.

“fuck, baby” he whispers, eyes glued to where he’s dripping out of you, finger tracing up through your wetness and his until it catches in your clit. his eyes are wide, mouth open, and you’re just confused. confused and insanely turned on, now that his eyes are glued to you, his finger circling your clit gently. his words shaky you out of it a little. “i’m sorry i didn’t— i didn’t want to wake you last night. but i needed you so bad, angel” he says, fingers never stopping on your clit, but his eyes are on yours now.

your head falls back with a little gasp when his fingers press a little harder, and you genuinely couldn’t care less about what happened right now, or if you’re sore. it’s the sexiest thing ever, how obsessed he is with you even when you’re asleep, and you feel a little gross about thinking this way, but that thought vanishes as soon as his mouth replaces his fingers. “ah—felix, god” you whimper, hips chasing his mouth instantly. he moans into it, small hands pressing your thighs further apart until he has you right where he wants you.

you’re helpless under him, and you wouldn’t want it any other way. he’s relentless, chasing his pleasure more than yours, always, tongue flat and then circling, fingers pressing and proding right on your entrance, mouth attatching to your clit softly, sucking just until your hips buck. he builds you up fast, then breaks it down like he never wants it to end. and he never does. not when his fingers slide inside, pressing his cum right back where it belongs, then it drips out again when he pulls out and leaves you clenching around nothing.

he doesn’t let it go to waste, fingers replacing his tongue, and you whine, until he licks a filthy, noisy stripe up, sucking everything that might get lost like he needs it to survive. and in his mind, he does. you find it outright filthy, and when his tongue catches in your clit again, you’re cumming with a loud, surprised moan, and he doesn’t let you go until you’re begging him to stop.

his kisses and licks turn gentler, moving to your inner thigh, up your tummy, your tits until his mouth finds yours. before he could apologize for anything or start talking, like you read his thoughts you press a finger to his mouth right when he pulls back. “i like that” you smile, and it takes him a second to understand that you mean last night and this morning as well.

filthy or not, he will never forget that you let him do this. and neither will you.

tag list: (comment or dm if you wanna be added or removed!!)

@1leeknowsaurus1 @felixsonlyrealwife @mariahxrrera @innjeong @xyvzvee @luvvvivi @hyunskzlov @gxtwllsn @hyvneluv @thatonegirlonhere @akaridolly @moonyxivy @velvetmoonlght

[jakeyswifeblog]

heyyy idk if you take reqs but jake choking reader while he fucks her roughly in this love motel that has like mirrored ceilings and he makes her watch???👀

hii, yess i take requests 😊 so feel free to message me any ideas 🫶🏼

anyways, here we go…

dom!sim jake x reader

choking (obv), manhandling, degradation, dirty talk, roughness, possessiveness, begging, creampie, overstimulation

the hotel room air hangs thick with the scent of sweat and desire as jake pins you down on the king-sized bed, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave marks. above you, the mirror on the ceiling reflects every raw, heated moment—the way your body arches beneath him, your breasts bouncing with each powerful thrust.

he drives his thick cock deep into your soaking pussy, stretching you wide, the rough rhythm making the headboard slam against the wall. “look up, baby,” jake growls, his voice low and commanding, laced with that dominant edge that sends shivers racing down your spine. he grabs your chin roughly, forcing your gaze to the mirror. “watch me fuck you. see how your tight little pussy takes every inch of my cock.” your breath hitches as you obey, eyes locking onto the mirror overhead. there you are, legs spread wide, thighs trembling around his waist while he pounds into you relentlessly. his muscles flex with each brutal snap of his hips, sweat glistening on his broad back. the sight makes your core clench tighter around him, heat building like fire in your veins. he leans down, capturing your mouth in a kiss, your tongues battling as he swallows your moans. “such a slut for me, right?” then his hand slides up, fingers wrapping around your throat in a firm grip—not too tight, but enough to make your pulse thunder under his palm, stars dancing at the edges of your vision. “that's it,” he rasps against your lips, his thrusts growing harder, deeper, slamming into that spot that makes you cry out. “feel how i own this pussy. you're mine to fuck, mine to make scream.” the pressure on your neck heightens every sensation, your body igniting as his cock pistons in and out, slick sounds filling the room.

you gasp for air when he loosens just enough, but the passion surges wilder, your nails digging into his back, urging him on. in the mirror, you see your face flushed, lips parted in ecstasy, his hand claiming your throat while he ravages you. “fuck, you're so wet for me,” he breaths hot on your ear as he grips you again, timing it with a deep thrust that has you seeing yourself shatter in the reflection. “gonna make you cum watching how i wreck this perfect body. beg for it, y/n—tell me you love being my fucktoy.”

your voice breaks in a whimper, the words tumbling out amid the building climax. “please, jake... i love it... fuck me harder...” that makes him release your throat just enough for you to suck in a ragged breath, but his hand stays there, a constant reminder of his control now. “that's my girl,” he murmurs, voice filled with lust, before slamming his cock into your pussy even harder, the force jolting your entire body upward on the bed. the mirror above captures it all—your legs shaking, wrapped tight around his hips, pulling him deeper as he slams into you without mercy. his fingers pressing firmly into your skin, cutting off your air in teasing pulses that make your vision blur with intoxicating need. each thrust punches the breath from your lungs anyway, his thick cock dragging against your inner walls, hitting that deep spot over and over until your toes curl and your back bows off the mattress. sweat slicks your skin, mingling with his as he leans in close, his chest heaving against your breasts, nipples hardening from the friction.

“fuck, y/n, you feel that?” he growls, his free hand pinning your wrist above your head, stretching you out like an offering. “my cock owning this dripping pussy, stretching it wide just for me. look at yourself—see how you take it, how you beg for more like my perfect bitch.” your eyes flick up involuntarily, shocked by the reflection: his ass clenching with every powerful drive forward, your folds gripping his length as he pulls back only to plunge in again, slick and obscene. the passion surges like a wildfire and your heart is pounding in sync with his brutal rhythm. he loosens his grip on your throat, letting you gasp his name, but then tightens it once more, timing the choke with a grind of his hips that rubs his cock right against your clit. your free hand clawing at his shoulder, nails breaking skin as waves of pleasure crash through you.

“j-jake..., yes... don't stop,” you whimper, voice hoarse and broken. he then kisses you, not gentle but devouring—teeth nipping your lower lip, tongue thrusting into your mouth in time with his cock in your pussy. the overstimulation makes you clench around him, milking his cock as he chokes you lighter now, drawing out the sensation, making every nerve ending scream with ecstasy.

“you're gonna cum for me, aren't you?” he demands against your mouth, breath hot and erratic. “scream it while you watch me fuck you senseless. show that mirror how i break you open.” your body obeys before your mind can catch up, the coil in your core snapping tight. he pounds faster, hips snapping with unrestrained force, his balls slapping against your ass with wet smacks that echo in the room. the mirror reflects your undoing—face contorted in bliss, throat marked by his hand, pussy stretched and pulsing around his invading cock. “cum now, y/n,” he orders, choking you firmly as he buries himself to the hilt, grinding deep. “let me feel you shatter on my dick.” the orgasm rips through you like lightning, your walls convulsing wildly around him, juices flooding as you cry out, the sound muffled by his palm. he doesn't let up, fucking you through it, his own groans turning guttural as your tightness pushes him closer.

“jake-, harder, p-please” you mumble and he eases the pressure on your throat for a split second, letting you drag in a shaky breath, but his fingers linger, a possessive collar that keeps you tethered to his will.

“you want harder?” he vows, voice that vibrates through your chest. “i'll ruin you, y/n,” without warning, he rears back and slams his hips forward, burying his rigid cock to the root in one ferocious plunge that forces a scream from your lips.

the bed creaks under the assault, the headboard battering the wall like a drum, while the ceiling mirror frames the chaos—your body jolting upward, tits heaving wildly, pussy lips stretched around his penis. he doesn't give you time to recover, setting a punishing pace that has his balls smacking against your ass with every drive.

sweat beads on his forehead, trickling down his tensed abs as he grips your hips tighter, bruising fingerprints appearing on your skin like badges of his possesion. “fucking watch it,” he demands, snatching your jaw again to yank your head up, compelling your eyes to the reflection. there, you see yourself unraveling—thighs quaking as they clamp around him, your slick folds devouring his shaft over and over, juices coating his length and dripping onto the sheets below. the sight sends arousal flooding your core, making each thrust slicker, deeper, more devastating.

hand returns to your neck, squeezing in rhythmic pulses that sync with his pounding rhythm—tighten on the in-stroke, release on the pull-back—turning your gasps into desperate mewls. the warm air amplifies everything, the burn of his cock splitting you open, the slap of skin on skin echoing like applause for your submission, the way his free arm hooks under your knee to fold you nearly in half, opening you wider for his relentless assault.

“fuck, look at that greedy hole swallowing me,” he growls, leaning in to nip at your earlobe, his breath scorching your skin. “you're dripping all over my dick, begging to be filled. tell me again—scream how much you need this cock wrecking you.” the passion boils over, your body a live wire under his touch.

you arch into him, nails raking red trails down his back, drawing beads of blood that only spur him on. he chokes you firmer now, thumb pressing into the hollow of your throat as he grinds his hips in a slow, torturous circle, his cockhead battering your cervix while rubbing against your swollen clit. stars burst in your vision, pleasure building viciously tight in your belly. “jake... yes, harder... own me,” you choke out, voice fractured and raw, the mirror showing your eyes rolling back.

he devours your plea with a brutal kiss, teeth clashing, tongue fucking your mouth as savagely as his hips fuck your pussy. the thrusts blend into ecstasy, your walls fluttering around him, squeezing like a vice. he breaks the kiss to rasp against your swollen lips, “that's right, you‘re my filthy slut—cum for me. let that mirror see you break, see my cock make you explode.”

his thrusts turn erratic, faster, the wet squelch of your lips filling the room alongside your rising cries. the orgasm crashes over you like a wave, your pussy convulsing in violent spasms, milking his throbbing length as waves of heat rip through your limbs. you shatter beneath him, body seizing, a guttural moan tearing from your throat despite his grip. in the reflection, it's pornographic poetry—your face twisted in rapture, throat marked red under his hand, legs locked around his waist as your juices squirt around his plunging cock. jake doesn't relent, riding out your climax with deep, grinding strokes that prolong the bliss, his own release building as your tightness drags him under.

“shit, y/n... gonna fill this pussy up,” he groans, voice breaking for the first time, his choke loosening to let you gasp as he hammers through your aftershocks. one final, bone-jarring thrust, and he buries himself deep, cock pulsing as hot ropes of cum flood your depths, marking you from the inside. he collapses half onto you, both panting, bodies slick.