🪺𝐻𝒶𝓃 𝐻𝓎𝓊𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓃🪺

𓂃˖˳·˖ ִֶָ ⋆★⋆ ִֶָ˖·˳˖𓂃

[pandacherryblossoms]

⌈𝓦𝓮𝓵𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓮 𝓽𝓸 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓫𝓵𝓸𝓰 ⌋

𐙚 𝓦𝓮𝓵𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓮 𝓽𝓸 𝓶𝔂 𝓫𝓵𝓸𝓰, 𝓲’𝓶 𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓮 𝓽𝓸 𝔀𝓻𝓲𝓽𝓮, 𝔂𝓸𝓾’𝓻𝓮 𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓮 𝓽𝓸 𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭—𝓼𝓸𝓾𝓷𝓭𝓼 𝓵𝓲𝓴𝓮 𝓪 𝓹𝓮𝓻𝓯𝓮𝓬𝓽 𝓶𝓪𝓽𝓬𝓱. 𝓢𝓽𝓲𝓬𝓴 𝓪𝓻𝓸𝓾𝓷𝓭 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝓶𝓸𝓻𝓮!ㅤ 𐙚

𐙚 𝓕𝓵𝓾𝓯𝓯, 𝓢𝓶𝓾𝓽, 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓐𝓷𝓰𝓼𝓽 𝔀𝓲𝓵𝓵 𝓪𝓵𝓵 𝓫𝓮 𝔀𝓻𝓲𝓽𝓽𝓮𝓷 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝓸𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓫𝓵𝓸𝓰, 𝓼𝓸 𝓲𝓯 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓯𝓮𝓮𝓵 𝓾𝓷𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓯𝓸𝓻𝓽𝓪𝓫𝓵𝓮 𝓯𝓮𝓮𝓵 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓮 𝓽𝓸 𝓫𝓵𝓸𝓬𝓴 𝓶𝓮.. 𐙚

𐙚 𝓜𝓲𝓷𝓸𝓻𝓼 𝓭𝓸 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓻 𝓪𝓼 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓲𝓼 𝓪𝓷 18+ 𝓫𝓵𝓸𝓰.. 𐙚

───── ⋆⋅𖤐⋅⋆ ─────

╰┈➤ Masterlist

╰┈➤ Stan List

╰┈➤ What I Do/Don’t Write About

╰┈➤ Who I Write For

╰┈➤ TagList

[pandacherryblossoms]

please pleaseeee can i have something about win from mcnd?? like headcanons 😭😭 i cant find anything about him

(tag me if u do it pls pls)

I plan on making a comeback in August so I will definitely be adding him to the list of people that I write for and I’ve been meaning to write for him anyway he’s my biases and I have a few things drafted out for MCND so I will definitely tag you!!

[pandacherryblossoms]

Hey, it was my birthday around a week ago, and I'd appreciate a little present. Maybe Wolf! Nicho chasing after Human! me in the forest in heat?

I was just checking in on this account when I saw this. I’d like to say Happy Belated Birthday!! I hope you enjoyed it however, I am on a hiatus and don’t know when I’ll be back. But when I do come back I wouldn’t mind writing you a Nico as long as it follows my writing guidelines. If you’d like to know what they are I can link them here and you can send in a new request according to it if you’d like. 😊

Writing guidelines

Temporary Hiatus

[pandacherryblossoms]

Hey everyone,

I just wanted to let you know that I’ll be taking a break from Tumblr for a while. I’m not sure how long it’ll be, but I really need some time away right now.

I’m so incredibly grateful for everyone who’s supports me, follows me, and reads my work. Hitting 1k means the world to me, and it honestly hurts that I didn’t get to celebrate it properly. Thank you for all the love, encouragement, and kindness you’ve shown me — it truly means everything.

Outside of finishing Kinktober, I won’t be posting anything else for the time being. You’re still welcome to leave asks, but I won’t be answering them until I return.

I just need a bit of space to breathe and get back to myself, and I hope you can all understand. Thank you again for being here and for making this space feel so special to me. I’ll be back when I can.

♡ ♡ ♡

[pandacherryblossoms]

I’m not giving up on you guys or kinktober I’ll just be busy until the 15th so I’ll have all days up to date by the 17th!! 🙏💖💖

…..…….……………………….…..:><:………………………………………

Taglist: @17ha @moonstruckbae @galaxy4489 @notinthemoodbeach @voucearse @lze325 @demonlineswhore

[pandacherryblossoms]

𐙚 “Grind Me Down” - Kim Chan Mi 𐙚

Kinktober Day 9

wc: 2.8k

Genre: Smut MDNI 18+

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, Fingering, Scissoring, Dry humping, Soft dom/sub dynamic, Brat-taming energy, Power play, Multiple orgasms



The TV in the living room murmurs through the apartment — a late-night drama you’ve half-watched before, the kind where the music swells dramatically even though nothing’s actually happening. You hum under your breath without realizing, hips swaying gently as you dry a plate and slide it into the cabinet.

You’re not dressed for anything, really — just one of those big shirts that’s basically a dress, sleeves pushed up past your elbows, hem brushing the tops of your thighs. Bare legs. No bra. Clean skin from a recent shower and a mind mostly turned off.

You reach for another plate, but before your fingers even graze the cabinet handle, a pair of warm arms wrap around your waist from behind.

You flinch at first, startled, but then melt just as quickly.

“Hi,” comes the soft voice against your shoulder, lips brushing bare skin.

“Hi,” you say back, smiling without turning. “You scared me.”

“Did I?” Chungha hums, already sounding amused. She rests her chin against your shoulder for a second, arms still wrapped tight around your waist. “You always hum when you’re doing dishes?”

“Sometimes.”

“Cute.”

You chuckle, reaching again — but her grip tightens slightly.

“You’re not done, are you?” she murmurs.

“I was trying to be.”

Chungha doesn’t answer right away. She shifts behind you, her body pressing flush against yours. You feel the heat of her — soft pajama shorts, bare legs, her chest rising and falling against your back.

Then her lips find your shoulder again.

This time slower.

Lingering.

You freeze, hand hovering over the cabinet handle.

She kisses you again, higher now — the curve of your neck — and then again, right behind your ear. The touch is featherlight but deliberate, the kind of kiss that isn’t asking for attention as much as it’s claiming it.

“I was trying to finish,” you repeat softly.

“I can see that.” Her voice is velvet, quiet, edged with something teasing. “That why you wore this shirt?”

You snort. “I’ve worn this a million times.”

“Exactly.” Another kiss. “You always wear it when you want attention.”

“That’s not true.”

“Mm.” Her fingers slide under the hem of the shirt, brushing your stomach lightly, just enough to make you twitch. “So you’re telling me you weren’t thinking about me seeing you like this? Reaching up on your toes, this shirt barely covering your ass, singing off-key to some dramatic-ass drama in the background?”

You huff a breath, trying not to smile. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“You’re so bad at lying.”

Her hands settle on your hips now, thumbs rubbing small circles, her mouth still teasing at your neck. It’s not aggressive — not yet — just… persistent. Like she’s waiting for you to give up pretending you’re not affected.

You keep trying to ignore it.

Drying another plate. Sliding it into place.

She leans closer.

“You gonna keep putting dishes away,” she whispers, “or are you gonna let me take care of you?”

Your breath stutters. Just slightly.

She hears it.

You feel her smile against your skin.

“I don’t need taking care of,” you try.

“Mmhm.” Her hands glide lower, fingertips brushing the waistband of your underwear beneath the shirt. “Then why are you shaking?”

“I’m not.”

“Liar.”

Before you can say anything else, she spins you gently by the waist and presses you back against the counter.

Your breath catches.

Her body covers yours, hands planted on either side of your hips, her eyes burning slow and low as she looks at you — taking you in from top to bottom, pausing at your flushed cheeks, your bitten lip, your still-slightly-wet hair.

She leans in, and her voice drops.

“You look real pretty pretending not to want me.”

Your knees nearly give out.

Her lips meet yours.

It’s not rough, not rushed — but it’s needy. Her mouth moves like she’s been waiting all night, like she’s starved for something she knows she’ll get. Her fingers slide up your thighs as she kisses you deeper, and you make the smallest sound against her lips — part whimper, part sigh, all surrender.

She pulls back just enough to speak.

“Still thinking about dishes?”

You shake your head, dazed.

She grins. “Didn’t think so.”

Her hand slips under your shirt completely now, splayed across your lower back as she guides you away from the counter. You stumble a little at first, legs wobbly, balance tilted by the sheer presence of her — but she steadies you with a firm grip and that ever-present smirk.

“Come on,” she says. “Let me really take care of you.”

You barely register the kitchen fading behind you as she pulls you down the hall. Your shirt is already halfway off your shoulder, her fingers tugging at the hem as she leads you into the bedroom.

The second you hit the bedroom, she turns.

You almost stumble into her, but she catches you easily, both hands landing on your hips. She’s smiling again — that same knowing, slow curl of her lips that says she already knows what you want, even if you haven’t said it yet.

“You gonna behave for me now?” she asks softly.

You swallow. Nod.

Chungha hums, pleased. “Good girl.”

Your whole body buzzes.

She backs you toward the bed, not breaking eye contact, not even when her hands slide up the sides of your thighs, under the hem of the oversized shirt. She lifts it over your head in one smooth motion, and the way she looks at you now — eyes hooded, mouth slightly parted — makes you feel like you’re being worshipped.

“Lie down,” she says, voice barely above a whisper. “Right in the middle.”

You do. The sheets are cool against your skin, but only for a moment — she’s there again in seconds, crawling over you slowly, deliberately, like a cat with something to toy with.

Her knees settle on either side of your waist, straddling you gently.

Her hands slide over your stomach, up to your chest, pausing there like she’s memorizing the shape of you. Then she leans down and kisses your collarbone. Your shoulder. The space just under your jaw.

“Don’t move,” she murmurs between kisses. “Just let me have you.”

You exhale shakily, eyes fluttering shut. “Okay.”

She keeps kissing you — slow, unhurried — while her hands explore every inch. You feel the drag of her nails down your ribs, the softness of her thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. Her touch is confident, but not demanding.

She’s not rushing to get anywhere.

She’s enjoying this.

Her lips trail back up to your mouth and she kisses you again, a little deeper this time. Her tongue slides against yours and you moan before you can stop it — quiet, needy. Your hands twitch where they rest on the sheets, but you don’t move. You want to be good. You want to let her lead.

Chungha smiles into the kiss like she knows exactly what you’re thinking.

When she pulls back, her eyes are soft but her voice is edged with something playful.

“You were acting shy in the kitchen,” she murmurs, “but look at you now.”

You’re already flushed, breathless, squirming slightly beneath her.

“Not so mouthy anymore, huh?” she adds, thumb brushing over your bottom lip.

You shake your head slowly. “Didn’t think I’d be on my back this fast.”

Her smile widens. “That’s your fault. You wore that shirt.”

You huff a soft laugh, eyes flicking over her face. “You were already thinking about this?”

“I think about this all the time.”

She says it so easily. Like it’s not embarrassing. Like it’s not devastating.

Then she leans down again, presses a kiss to the center of your chest, and slides lower.

And just before her mouth finds the edge of your underwear, she looks up and says:

“Let me show you what I think about.”

voice is warm silk, sliding over your skin as her lips trail lower. She kisses the inside of your ribs, your hipbone, and down — her hands moving slow as she hooks her fingers into your underwear.

You lift your hips for her without needing to be told.

She peels them off, eyes never leaving yours. You can’t look away either — not when her gaze drags over your thighs, not when she bites her lip the second she sees how wet you are.

“God,” she whispers, almost like it’s for herself. “You’re soaked.”

Your breath stutters.

“I haven’t even touched you yet,” she adds.

“You’ve been touching me since the kitchen.”

She smiles — that same cocky, slow smile — and tosses your panties to the side.

“Yeah,” she murmurs, crawling back up to kiss you. “But now I’m really gonna touch you.”

Her thigh slides between yours as she kisses you again — not teasing anymore, but consuming. Deep, full kisses that make your toes curl, that steal your breath. She rocks against you gently, letting her bare skin press into the slick between your legs.

You moan into her mouth the moment it hits — her thigh firm and warm, grinding up just right.

She groans softly, hips rolling forward, her own breath catching at the feeling.

“Shit.”

You can’t help the way your legs spread wider, the way your hands clutch the sheets like you’re drowning. Her thigh flexes again and you gasp.

“Already like this?” Chungha murmurs, her lips brushing your jaw. “I haven’t even gotten you into position yet.”

“I can’t help it.”

She grins. “You don’t have to.”

Her fingers brush your jaw as she kisses you again, slower this time. Then she leans back just enough to maneuver you — lifting one of your legs over hers, guiding herself between them until your hips slot together like you were made for this.

Your stomach flips.

She shifts again — and suddenly, she’s there. Slick against slick. Your thighs tangled, stomachs pressed flush, her hands planted on either side of your head as she leans over you, breath hot and shaky.

You’re not ready.

You’re so ready.

Chungha’s hips start to move.

The first grind is gentle, testing — just enough to drag her wetness across yours. You both gasp at the contact.

The next one is harder.

You cry out before you even mean to, hands scrambling for her waist, her shoulder, anything.

Her moan is low, breathless. “Fuck. You feel that?”

“Yes—”

“So wet for me,” she groans. “I can hear it.”

And you can too — the sound obscene and perfect. Wet skin dragging against wet skin, every grind making your body jolt with the pressure, with the heat. Your hands claw at her back, her hips, and she just keeps going — faster now, finding a rhythm that makes your thighs shake.

“Keep your eyes on me,” she pants. “Don’t look away.”

You try.

You really try.

But your head keeps falling back, your body arching, your eyes fluttering from the intensity.

Chungha grabs your face.

“Look at me.”

You do — flushed, panting, wide-eyed.

She leans down and kisses you like you’re hers. “That’s better.”

Her hips grind harder, and you cry out.

“Right there,” she breathes. “Fuck—right there—”

You’re both soaked now, the sheets under you ruined, your thighs burning from the friction, but she doesn’t stop. Her hands grip your waist, pulling you up into her with each grind. She watches you unravel — eyes locked, lips parted, moaning each time your bodies connect.

You can’t think. You can’t breathe.

All you can do is feel.

“Chungha—please—” you gasp.

“I’ve got you,” she whispers, kissing your cheek, your jaw, your neck. “I’ve got you. Just let go.”

You’re close. So close.

Every movement, every grind — the pressure is perfect, the rhythm relentless, and when she presses her forehead to yours and breathes, “Come with me,” you do.

You fall apart.

Your hips jerk, your thighs clench, your whole body locks up around hers as you come hard — back arching, mouth open in a moan that doesn’t stop. You don’t even realize you’re crying until she kisses the tears off your cheeks.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” she gasps. “I’m so—fuck—I’m right there—”

You feel her stutter against you — her hips twitching, grinding in tight, desperate circles until she shudders on top of you, thighs trembling, voice cracking on a moan that sounds like your name.

She collapses against you.

You’re both shaking, sweating, panting into each other’s necks, your bodies still tangled.

You don’t say anything right away.

There’s nothing to say.

Just the sound of your breathing, the soft whimpers in her throat as your slick skin sticks together, her arms wrapped tight around your waist like she can’t let you go even if she wanted to.

Eventually, she shifts — slow, careful — and rolls to the side, still holding you.

You both lie there, legs intertwined, bodies flushed and slick and completely spent.

She’s the first to speak.

“Jesus.”

You laugh. Or try to.

It comes out more like a choked, breathless sound.

“Are you okay?” she asks, brushing hair from your forehead.

“I don’t know.”

“Too much?”

“No. Just… so much.”

She smiles. “That’s the goal.”

Your skin is still buzzing when you feel Chungha move.

She’s slow about it — not like she’s getting up, more like she’s adjusting her grip. Her hands smooth gently over your back, sliding along the dip of your spine like she’s checking to see if you’re still breathing. Her cheek rests against yours for a second longer, both of you sticky and tangled and quiet.

“You okay?” she whispers.

You nod into her shoulder. “More than okay.”

She chuckles — soft and a little smug — and finally rolls onto her back, taking you with her. You end up half-sprawled across her chest, one leg draped over her thigh, your bodies still impossibly close.

She kisses the side of your head.

“Stay right here,” she murmurs.

You don’t plan on going anywhere.

After a minute or two, she shifts again — carefully, like she doesn’t want to let go even as she sits up.

You blink, dazed. “Where are you going?”

“Not far.” Her voice is sweet. “Just getting something.”

She disappears for only a moment, and when she returns, there’s a warm towel in her hands.

You try to cover your face. “Don’t look at me.”

Chungha laughs, crawling back into bed. “Baby, I just made you cry and come at the same time. You really think I’m gonna stop looking at you now?”

You whimper and hide your face in the pillow.

But she’s gentle with you — always. She wipes you down softly, careful around every sore spot. Her fingers move in slow circles over your thighs, your hips, your belly, and when she finishes, she leans down and presses a kiss just above your knee.

Then your inner thigh.

Then higher.

Not teasing — just honoring.

She tosses the towel aside and climbs under the covers with you, tucking herself behind your back like a second heartbeat.

Her arm wraps around your waist. You feel her legs tangle with yours. Her breath fans across your neck as she presses a lazy kiss to your shoulder.

“You did so good,” she whispers. “I’m never gonna stop thinking about that.”

You hum, eyes fluttering shut. “I can’t believe I was doing dishes ten minutes ago.”

She laughs — a full, bright sound that makes you smile even in your haze.

“Can’t believe you ignored me for dishes,” she says. “That’s what really hurts.”

“I didn’t ignore you.”

“You tried. I came up behind you kissing you and you were still reaching for a plate like it was more important.”

“I was multitasking.”

“You were stalling.” She kisses your neck. “Being a brat.”

You try to argue, but she slips her hand between your legs again — not to do anything, just resting there, her palm warm, her thumb gently stroking the top of your thigh like she already owns the space.

“Do you know how wet you were before I even touched you?” she murmurs. “How soft you got the second I said your name?”

You whimper. “Stop.”

She smiles against your neck. “Can’t. It’s all I’m gonna think about.”

You go quiet for a moment. The sheets rustle softly when you shift closer, her arm tightening around you without even thinking.

“I felt safe,” you whisper.

She pauses. Then: “Good.”

You feel her smile in the press of her lips against your shoulder.

“Because you are.”

Silence again, but it’s the kind that hums — full, not empty. You reach down and intertwine your fingers with hers, feeling her press a kiss to the crown of your head like she could fall asleep just like this.

And maybe you will.

But right before you do, she murmurs one last thing, voice low and sweet and soaked in satisfaction:

“You”

…..…….……………………….…..:><:………………………………………

Taglist: @17ha @moonstruckbae @galaxy4489 @notinthemoodbeach @voucearse @lze325

[pandacherryblossoms]

𐙚 “Discipline Me Properly” - Song Hangyeom 𐙚

Kinktober Day 9

wc: 2.7k

Genre: Smut MDNI 18+

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, Impact play (face, thigh, and pussy slapping), Brat taming, Rough sex, Soft dom/sub dynamic, Mild praise/degradation, Mild Cockwarming, Slight overstimulation

You don’t even remember how it started.

One minute, you were grinding against him, mouth on his, tugging at his hair just to hear that growl you like—the one that sounds like he’s holding back from pinning you to the bed. The next, you were already there—on your back, legs open, breath caught somewhere in your throat as Hangyeom fucked you deep enough to bruise.

Everything’s hot.

Fast.

Close.

Sheets pushed down, your thighs slick and trembling, his hands planted firm on either side of your hips as he drives into you over and over—hard, controlled, but with that edge like he’s one wrong breath away from snapping.

You feel powerful like this. Wrecked, but still mouthy.

“You’re gonna have to do better than that,” you pant, voice breathless but bratty, sharp enough to cut.

He stills.

Just for a second.

And then he slaps you.

Not hard enough to hurt. Not even long enough to register right away.

But sharp. Quick. His palm cracks against your cheek with a sound that freezes the air around it.

Your mouth opens.

But no words come out.

His eyes go wide, panicked, like the movement wasn’t premeditated—like his body moved faster than his brain. You’re both frozen. Heat blossoms along your cheek, not from pain, but from something you can’t name fast enough.

He stutters. “Fuck—I didn’t mean—”

You shake your head once, barely.

“I—shit, I didn’t even think, I just—”

But you don’t stop.

You grab his wrist and drag him back down into you, not saying a word. Not even looking at him fully.

It wasn’t planned. But it happened.

The rhythm picks back up—frantic, a little messy now. His fingers curl tighter into your skin, his mouth moves against yours, desperate to distract, to erase the moment or make up for it somehow.

Neither of you say anything about it. Not then.

But it lingers.

Even after he finishes. Even after you’re clean and dressed and curled against him with his hand resting over your stomach like always.

Even after you fall asleep.

The sting fades before morning.

But the memory doesn’t.

You try to tell yourself it wasn’t that serious. That it was nothing. That you’ve been through rougher, wilder, messier. And yet—your cheek still tingles every time you think about it.

Not because you’re angry.

But because you liked it.

You liked it.

Not the slap itself, not in isolation, but what it meant. What it did to you. That sudden shift from bratty to breathless. The heat that surged through you like a second heartbeat. The way Hangyeom’s eyes darkened before his panic kicked in. The way your whole body reacted like it had been waiting for something like that.

It doesn’t come up for a few days.

Not because you forget—it’s impossible to forget—but because you’re waiting for the right moment. Something about it feels too sharp for casual teasing, too loaded for a passing joke. And honestly… you kind of like that.

Letting it sit there between you, unspoken but buzzing.

You’re on the couch when it finally happens. Lazy afternoon light drifting in through the windows, Hangyeom’s arm thrown over the backrest while he flips through something on his phone. You’re curled against him with a blanket over your legs, mind somewhere else entirely.

He’s warm. Relaxed. One of his fingers draws idle circles on the curve of your thigh.

You don’t look at him when you say it.

“So… you slapped me the other night.”

The finger freezes.

You smirk just a little. “Mid-sex. You remember?”

Hangyeom stiffens like you electrocuted him. “Shit. Yeah. I do. I—fuck, I’ve been meaning to bring it up.”

Your brows lift, playful. “Oh?”

“I didn’t mean to.” His voice drops, serious now. “It just happened. You said that thing and I was so in it, and I wasn’t thinking—”

“I know.”

He stares at you.

“I’m not mad,” you add gently. “I’m just… bringing it up.”

Hangyeom shifts, turning toward you slightly. His expression is searching now, cautious. “You sure? ‘Cause I felt like an asshole the second I did it.”

You lean your head against the cushion and hum. “You looked like one too.”

He groans, dragging a hand down his face. “I knew it—”

“But.”

He pauses.

You look up at him, calm and collected. “I liked it.”

Silence.

The kind of silence that makes the air go still.

Hangyeom blinks. “You… liked it?”

You nod once, slowly. “Not just the slap. The whole moment. The heat of it. The way it surprised me.”

His jaw tightens like he’s trying to control a whole storm of reactions. “So when you pulled me back down—”

“I wanted more,” you say simply. “I didn’t want to stop.”

He exhales a breath that sounds almost like relief—but it’s laced with something darker, deeper.

“That why you’ve been looking at me funny all week?”

You shrug, barely hiding your smile. “Maybe.”

His hand slides further up your thigh now, less playful, more deliberate.

“And if I said I’ve been thinking about it too?” he murmurs.

“Then I’d say you should do it again.”

That definitely gets a reaction. His eyes flash, mouth twitching like he can’t decide between smirking or groaning.

“You’re serious?”

You tilt your head. “If I said the wrong thing… would you?”

He leans in, voice lower now. “You want me to slap you again just because you’re a little mouthy?”

“I want you to mean it,” you whisper. “Like you did that night.”

He swears under his breath, his hand gripping your thigh tighter.

You can feel the air shift between you, the teasing fading into something slower, hungrier.

“Would you let me take my time with it?” he asks, brushing a kiss against your shoulder. “Not just slap you—handle you?”

You nod.

“I want you to,” you say.

And that’s when he moves—pulling you gently into his lap, his mouth grazes your ear, and his hands slip lower—gripping your waist, pulling you tighter into his lap until you feel him hard beneath you. The air shifts, thick with something heavier than teasing. You tilt your head slightly, lips brushing his jaw, your voice soft but testing:

“What if I said the wrong thing right now?”

Hangyeom’s breath hitches. His grip tightens. His eyes flick down to your mouth like he’s thinking about kissing you—or owning you.

“You wanna find out?”

“I think you want me to.”

He exhales through his nose, sharp, amused. “You’re such a little brat sometimes.”

You smile. “And?”

Slap.

It’s not soft. Not a test. His palm cracks across your cheek quick and clean, and your head turns just slightly with the contact. You gasp—shocked, not from pain, but from how right it feels. Your body pulses immediately, thighs clenching over him.

His hands are back on you in a second—one gripping your jaw to tilt your face toward him, the other splayed wide on your lower back.

“Tell me you liked that.”

You nod. “I liked it.”

“Then we’re done playing cute.”

He grabs the back of your thighs, hoisting you up, carrying you toward the bedroom without waiting for another word. His mouth is on your throat as he moves, teeth grazing skin, and you cling to his shoulders, breathless.

By the time your back hits the mattress, your whole body’s buzzing.

Hangyeom doesn’t rush.

He peels off your clothes slowly, watching you squirm with anticipation. Your top first, tossed to the floor. Then your shorts, panties—everything. He doesn’t even kiss you yet. Just steps back, staring at your bare form sprawled across the sheets.

“You look good like this,” he says, voice low. “All soft and sweet after mouthing off.”

You raise your brows, cocky. “Maybe I’m just trying to provoke you again.”

His head tilts. “Maybe you need to be reminded who you’re dealing with.”

You smile. “Then come remind me.”

He climbs over you, palms pressed into the mattress on either side of your shoulders, gaze locked on your face.

“Tell me how far I can take it.”

“As far as you want.”

His lips brush yours.

“Use your words.”

“Yes,” you whisper. “You can slap me. You can mark me. I want it.”

He grins against your mouth. “That’s all I needed to hear.”

The kiss that follows is rough—tongue, teeth, control. He devours your mouth like he’s claiming it. One hand tangles in your hair, the other trails down your chest, over your stomach, until his fingers slip between your legs.

You’re already soaked.

“Fucking hell,” he breathes. “Look at you.”

You whimper when he starts circling your clit with two fingers—slow, steady, no mercy. Your back arches, thighs shaking.

Then—slap.

Your cheek again. The opposite side this time. The rhythm doesn’t break.

Your head turns, a moan leaving your lips like it’s been forced out.

“Good girl,” he growls. “You want more?”

“Yes,” you gasp.

He moves lower. His tongue replaces his fingers, licking you open until you’re a mess under his mouth. And right as your legs start to tremble, as your moans get louder—

Slap.

Across your thigh this time. Then again, the other side.

You cry out, the heat of his palm making your whole body jolt.

“Keep those legs open.”

You try.

You really try.

But you’re falling apart already.

He pulls back, licking his lips, dragging himself up your body until his cock nudges your entrance.

“You think you can handle this?”

“I want all of it.”

Hangyeom pushes in slow, stretching you, groaning against your neck as your walls clench tight around him.

“Fuck—you’re tight.”

He starts to move—deep, slow thrusts that fill you completely. His hand wraps around your throat, firm but not tight, holding you in place as he fucks you like he owns every part of you.

Then he slaps you again.

Your cheek.

Then your thigh.

Then your cheek again, just hard enough to sting.

And you melt for it.

You moan louder with every hit, every pump of his hips. Your body’s flushed, your eyes glassy, your lips parted as your mind starts to float from how good it feels.

You’re cockdrunk, shameless, breathless.

“You’re being so good for me now,” he pants. “All it took was a little discipline.”

“More,” you beg. “Please.”

He obliges.

The next slap lands between your legs—light, teasing, but filthy. Your entire body jerks.

“Fuck—Hangyeom—”

“You gonna come just from that?” he taunts. “From me slapping your pretty pussy?”

“Yes—yes, I’m close—”

He grabs your hips and fucks into you harder. The bed creaks. Your moans grow ragged. He spanks your inner thigh again—then your cheek—alternating in rhythm with each thrust until you can’t even speak anymore.

“Look at you,” he growls. “Blushing all over. Wetting the sheets. You love when I do this to you, don’t you?”

You nod, crying out. “I love it—”

“Then come for me. Come with my handprint on your skin.”

You shatter.

Your orgasm rips through you, violent and overwhelming. Your back arches off the mattress, fingers gripping the sheets, mouth falling open in a scream you can’t contain. Your legs quake, your body convulses, your mind goes blank—

And you feel it.

Another slap.

One more.

Right on the same cheek.

You come again. Harder.

Hangyeom watches you unravel, his eyes blown wide, his thrusts stuttering.

“Fuck—fuck, you’re perfect—”

He slams into you one final time and groans, long and low, as he comes inside you, hips pulsing against yours, arms shaking from the force of it.

You both collapse, tangled and gasping.

He doesn’t pull out.

Doesn’t move far.

Just hovers over you, pressing slow, panting kisses to your chest, your throat, your cheek—right where he slapped you.

“Still okay?” he asks softly, fingers brushing your hair back.

You nod, dazed. “So okay.”

He kisses you again. “You were amazing.”

“So were you.”

He pulls the blanket up over both of you, still inside you, still close, holding your face in his hands like you’re the most delicate thing he’s ever touched.

The room is quiet except for the sound of your breathing—deep, uneven, syncing up little by little as the heat fades into something softer.

Hangyeom’s weight is still half on top of you, his hand cradling your face, thumb stroking the skin he slapped like he’s trying to soothe away something that isn’t even there anymore.

“You’re okay?” he murmurs again, voice rough, lower than usual.

You nod, eyes fluttering open just enough to look at him.

“I’m perfect.”

He exhales slowly like he’s been holding it in, and presses a kiss to your cheek—that cheek. Gentle. Slow. The kind of kiss that tells you he’s still thinking about every second that led up to now.

You blink up at him, cheeks warm in a completely different way now. “You didn’t hold back.”

He smiles against your skin. “You told me not to.”

“Still.”

His nose brushes yours. “You took it so well, baby. I could’ve kept going.”

“Next time,” you whisper, and he lets out a soft laugh.

You stay tangled like that for a while. His arm stays around your waist, the other cupping your face with a kind of reverence that makes your heart squeeze. His fingertips trail lightly along your cheekbone, your jaw, the hollow of your throat—like he’s making sure you’re still real.

You hum as his thumb passes over the side of your mouth. “You like seeing it, don’t you?”

He nods. “Your skin all flushed? My handprint on your thigh? Yeah. I like seeing what I did to you.”

You shift closer, burying your face in his neck.

He wraps you up tighter.

The blanket’s pulled over both of you now, and the bed smells like sweat, sex, and him. One of your thighs is still sore from where he held you down. Your lips are puffy from how hard he kissed you. Your voice is half-gone from the things he made you say.

And you feel good.

Not just wrecked. Not just used.

Held.

His voice is softer now, barely there. “You trust me with that?”

You nod into his chest. “Yeah.”

He kisses your forehead. “You’re safe with me. Always.”

You smile.

It’s quiet again for a while, just his fingers tracing lazy patterns over your back. You press your cheek into his collarbone, still warm from the heat between you.

“I don’t think I’ve ever felt like that before,” you admit.

“Like what?”

You hesitate. “Like it wasn’t just sex. Like it was something deeper. Something… bigger.”

His arms tighten.

“That’s what it was for me too,” he says. “It wasn’t just about slapping you, or taking control. It was about you letting me.”

You look up, and he meets your gaze with something raw and open.

“You didn’t flinch,” he adds. “You didn’t stop me. You took it—and you wanted it—and you trusted me the whole way through. That…” He trails off, voice thick. “That meant more than I thought it would.”

You lean up and kiss him, slow and sweet.

“I’m yours,” you whisper against his mouth.

His hand cups your cheek again—no slap this time. Just warmth.

“And I’m yours,” he says.

Eventually, you both start to drift—legs tangled, breath slowing, skin still humming from every touch. And before sleep pulls you under, Hangyeom presses one last kiss to your cheek.

…..…….……………………….…..:><:………………………………………

Taglist: @17ha @moonstruckbae @galaxy4489 @notinthemoodbeach @voucearse @lze325 @kinichportablecharger

[pandacherryblossoms]

𐙚 “Through The Screen” - Park Jihoon 𐙚

Kinktober Day 8

wc: 3.9k

Genre: Smut MDNI 18+

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, Long-distance phone sex, FaceTime mutual masturbation, Masturbation (f and m), Dirty talk, Praise, Possessive language, Orgasm control, Orgasm denial (consensual), Exhibitionism, Voyeurism, Overstimulation, Ownership dynamics (consensual), Soft emotional aftercare

It’s almost two in the morning when you give up pretending sleep is coming.

The apartment is quiet—too quiet. The kind of silence that makes your thoughts louder, the kind that sinks into your bones. You’ve flipped your pillow three times, turned the fan on and off, and scrolled through your phone like the blue light might burn away the ache curling in your chest. It doesn’t.

Jihoon’s name sits at the top of your messages. You haven’t texted him in a few hours. Not because you didn’t want to, but because he was still filming late and you didn’t want to distract him. Even if all you’ve been doing is refreshing your last thread, rereading the words he sent you this morning, and watching that one video he sent on set—shirt sticking to his back from the heat, hair messy, grin sleepy as he waved at the camera and said, “Almost done, baby. Can’t wait to be in bed with you again.”

You’ve watched it enough times to memorize the creak in his voice.

It’s been two and a half weeks. Not the longest he’s been away, but somehow it feels worse this time. Maybe because things had been so good before he left. Maybe because you’d gotten used to having him fall asleep wrapped around you, hand slung over your stomach, breath slow and warm on your shoulder.

Now the bed is too big. Cold on his side. You keep reaching without meaning to.

You sigh, deep and frustrated, thumb hovering over his name.

You shouldn’t call. He’s probably asleep. You’ll probably get voicemail.

But the ache wins.

The phone rings twice before you hear the quiet shift of static, then—

“Hey.” His voice is rough, low, thick with sleep.

You freeze. “Oh—I didn’t think you’d pick up. I’m sorry, did I wake you?”

Jihoon exhales a soft laugh. “Nah. I was just thinking about you.”

That one sentence does something to your heart. Your fingers twitch, like they want to reach through the screen. “You were?”

“Mhm.” You hear the sheets rustle, the sound of him turning over. “Was trying to wait ‘til morning to call, but guess we’re both pathetic.”

You laugh, a little breathless. “Guess so.”

He’s quiet for a second. Then, gently, “You okay?”

You hesitate. “Just… couldn’t sleep.”

Another beat of silence. Then his voice, softer: “Missing me?”

“Yeah.” The word barely makes it out.

He hums again. You can imagine the way he’s smiling—lazy and crooked, like it’s your favorite secret. “I miss you too. It’s late though, baby. You should try to get some rest.”

“I tried,” you admit. “Didn’t work.”

“You want me to talk to you ‘til you fall asleep?”

You pause. Your throat feels tight. “I don’t think that’s what I need.”

Jihoon’s voice dips immediately. “No?”

You shake your head even though he can’t see it. “It’s not just that I can’t sleep. It’s that I can’t stop thinking about you. About how it feels when you’re here.”

He’s quiet again, but it’s not silence—it’s thick. Weighted. You can hear his breath through the line, the subtle shift as he sits up a little.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks, voice low and cautious.

You close your eyes, cheeks heating. “The way you hold me when I’m cold. How you rub my thighs under the blanket. How you kiss my neck when you think I’m still half-asleep.”

He groans, soft and drawn-out. “Fuck, baby.”

“I keep replaying it in my head,” you whisper. “And it just… it hurts. I miss you.”

You think he might say something, but he doesn’t. Not at first. And when he does, it’s different—his voice is deeper, slower.

“What are you wearing?”

The question knocks the air from your lungs. You shift on the mattress, suddenly too aware of the tank top sticking to your skin and the thin blanket bunched at your thighs.

“Jihoon…”

“Tell me,” he murmurs. “Please.”

“Just a shirt,” you say, voice small. “Yours. The one you left last time.”

You hear a harsh exhale on the other end. “Nothing else?”

“No.”

He groans again, longer this time. “Shit, baby.”

Your stomach flips. “What about you?”

“I’m shirtless,” he says without missing a beat. “Boxers. Not for long, if you keep talking like that.”

You smile, teeth sinking into your bottom lip. “You started it.”

“Mm.” He hums, then his tone drops, sharp and a little breathless. “You touched yourself tonight?”

You shake your head slowly. “No.”

“Not even a little?”

“I haven’t touched myself since you left.”

“Fuck.” The word punches out of him. “Why?”

You swallow. “Because it’s not the same without you. I’ve been waiting.”

That’s when he breaks.

“Don’t say shit like that when I’m not there to ruin you.”

Your thighs press together automatically.

“You think I’m just gonna sit here and listen to you say things like that? You want me to go crazy?”

“I want you,” you say, honestly, breath catching. “Even if it’s like this.”

The line goes quiet, but you can hear it—the shift in him. The change in his breathing, the low scrape of movement as he lies back down, possibly dragging his hand over his stomach.

“Are your legs open for me right now?”

You gasp softly. “Jihoon—”

“Are they?”

You nod, voice shaky. “Yeah.”

“Good.” His voice is a little hoarse now, rougher with need. “Then let’s pretend I’m there.”

“You’re touching yourself for me, right?”

Jihoon’s voice is quieter now, coaxing. Like a secret pressed to the shell of your ear. “I want you to lie back. Let me hear it when you move.”

You shift slowly on the bed, lying against the pillows with the phone pressed close. Your heart’s racing. You can hear your own breath in the silence between his words.

“Is your shirt still on?” he asks.

“Yeah…”

“Take it off.”

You obey without thinking. The cotton peels off your skin, nipples brushing the fabric as it comes over your head. You toss it to the side, exhaling through your nose as cool air kisses your chest.

“There you go,” he says softly, almost like he’s watching. “Now touch yourself. Slow. Like I would.”

Your hand slides down without hesitation, fingers slipping past the waistband of your panties. You’re soaked—embarrassingly so. You bite your lip, dragging your fingers lightly through your folds just to tease, just to feel.

Jihoon hums when he hears your breath hitch. “Already dripping?”

You nod, then whisper, “Yes.”

“That’s my girl.”

You whimper.

“That loud already?” His tone twists playful, amused. “I’m barely talking, baby. What happens when I really start?”

You roll your hips against your own hand, thighs twitching. “I can’t help it—”

“I know.” He sighs, like he’s the one being ruined. “I’d give anything to be there right now. You’d be lying on my chest, legs spread just like that, begging me not to stop.”

“I would,” you breathe. “I’d beg.”

“You’d sound so fucking pretty, too.”

You can hear the slick sound of his hand now. The rhythm—steady, practiced. He’s stroking himself, trying to stay composed, but every now and then you catch the subtle breaks in his breath, the curse under his breath when you moan just a little louder.

“Fuck,” he says again, groaning. “I miss the way you taste. Miss having your thighs around my head.”

Your back arches. “Jihoon—”

“No, baby. Don’t finish yet.”

You whimper again, hand still moving but your muscles straining to slow down. The heat is building fast—too fast—and he knows it. He always knows.

“Just keep it steady,” he murmurs. “Rub your clit in slow circles. That’s it. Like that.”

You obey, biting back another moan as your hips lift slightly off the bed.

“God, you listen so well.” He sounds breathless. “I could do this all night. Just listen to you fall apart for me.”

“Jihoon, please—”

He groans again, the rhythm of his strokes picking up for a second before he reins it back in. “You want to come so bad, don’t you?”

“Yes—fuck, yes.”

“You want my cock that bad, baby?”

You nod frantically. “Please.”

“Say it.”

“I want your cock. I want it so bad, Jihoon—”

“Keep going. Don’t stop.”

You whine, fingers pressing harder, rhythm breaking under the weight of your own desperation.

“I’ve been thinking about this every night,” he says through a ragged breath. “Touching myself to the thought of you whining into my mouth. The way your legs shake when I hit that spot.”

Your eyes flutter shut, thighs trembling now. “Jihoon, I’m close—”

“No.” His voice sharpens. “You don’t get to come yet.”

“Please—”

“You wait for me.”

You cry out, hips jerking as you fight the edge.

“That’s it,” he coos. “Good girl. Just like that. Hold it for me.”

“I can’t,” you whimper.

“Yes, you can. You’re mine.”

The possessiveness in his voice makes your stomach flip.

“No one else gets to see you like this. No one else gets to hear you like this. Just me.”

You breathe hard, eyes wet, thighs clenching. “Tell me what you’re doing.”

Jihoon groans again—louder this time. “I’ve got my hand wrapped around my cock, baby. It’s so hard. I’m leaking everywhere just thinking about you—how wet you are, how good you’d feel. You’d be choking on me by now if I was there.”

“Oh my god.”

“I wouldn’t even let you catch your breath. Just keep you full. Make you take it all.”

Your hand is moving faster despite yourself. You can’t help it. You’re burning up.

“I’d fuck you into the mattress,” he growls. “Make sure you couldn’t walk straight. You want that?”

“Yes,” you cry. “I want it so bad.”

His voice cracks on a groan. “I’m so close, baby—but I’m not coming until I see you. Let me see you. Please.”

You hesitate, overwhelmed, chest heaving.

“Baby. Please.”

His voice is trembling now. Desperate.

You fumble to unlock the screen, thumb shaking as you hit the FaceTime button.

Jihoon’s face fills the screen, soft shadows curling around the edges where the bedside lamp barely lights his room. His hair’s a little messy, his eyes heavy but wild when they land on you. He looks like he hasn’t breathed since you left.

“Fuck.”

His voice is raw. No teasing now. No control.

You shift, holding the phone above you, and his gaze drops instantly—chest rising when he sees the way your other hand dips beneath the covers.

“Show me,” he says, rough like gravel. “Please.”

You angle the camera down, your face still in frame as you spread your thighs. Your fingers move slow at first, slipping through the slick mess you’ve made, and Jihoon chokes out a curse that makes your whole body throb.

“God,” he groans, mouth parted. “You’re fucking perfect.”

You whimper, chest rising and falling in sharp little gasps.

“I’d give anything to be there right now,” he whispers. “I’d be between your legs in seconds. Licking you until you screamed.”

“Jihoon—”

“You’d be soaked all over my face, baby. Don’t even pretend you wouldn’t.” His hand moves faster now—you can see the way his muscles tense, the strain in his wrist. “I wouldn’t stop until you came on my tongue. And even then, I’d keep going. Just to feel you squirm.”

You’re breathing hard, phone nearly slipping in your hand. “You make me feel so—so—”

“I know, baby. I know. I can see it.” His voice shakes. “You look so good like this. Fuck. I need you. I need you so bad.”

You tilt the camera again, giving him a clearer view of your hand, the slick glide of your fingers as they circle your clit. Jihoon lets out a strangled moan, hips jerking as he grips his cock tighter.

“Look at me,” he says. “Don’t take your eyes off me.”

Your gaze finds his again and your whole body burns at the look on his face. Like he’s hungry. Like he’s devastated. Like he could fall apart just from watching you.

“I’d pin you to the mattress the second I walked in,” he says, voice almost breaking. “Not even take your clothes off. Just pull your panties to the side and fuck you right there.”

You moan, louder now, thighs trembling. “I want that.”

“I’d make you cry. You’d take every inch for me, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes—yes—”

“I’d go slow just to hear you beg.” His eyes are locked on you, pupils blown wide. “I wouldn’t stop until you were shaking, until you couldn’t even breathe without moaning my name.”

“Jihoon—”

“Say it.”

“Jihoon,” you whine.

He jerks forward, head tilting back with a guttural sound that makes your toes curl.

“You’re gonna make me come just saying my name like that.”

You’re both trembling now, the distance between you almost unbearable. His hand is slick, fast, desperate—your fingers slipping and stroking as you try to match his pace, try to stay tethered to the sound of his voice.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he says, breathless. “I think about you all the time. Even when I’m filming. Even when I’m on set. I have to sneak away just to jerk off to the thought of your mouth.”

You let out a shaky cry, legs twitching.

“You know how bad that is?” he pants. “I’m in the middle of scenes—sweating, covered in fake blood or dirt—and all I can think about is how soft your tits are. How good they look bouncing while I fuck you.”

You bite your lip, nearly sobbing. “I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” His voice drops to a growl. “You will. Not yet.”

“Jihoon, I need—”

“I know. I need it too. Fuck, I need it so bad.”

Your screen shakes as your hand trembles, camera wobbling, and Jihoon moans when you try to adjust it but can’t stay still long enough.

“Angle it lower,” he begs. “Let me see everything.”

You move the phone just enough so he can see the mess you’ve made of yourself—fingers soaked, lips parted, legs wide. He curses again, louder, like it actually hurts to be apart.

“I’d ruin you, baby. You wouldn’t be able to think for days.”

“I don’t care,” you gasp. “I just want you.”

His face contorts, eyebrows drawn, mouth slack. “You have me. Even now. You fucking have me.”

And the way he says it—hoarse and possessive and wrecked—nearly pushes you over the edge.

You whimper his name again, high and breathless.

That’s when it happens.

“Fuck,” Jihoon gasps. “Fuck—baby, I’m—”

His hips buck and he lets out a choked moan as he comes, messy and raw. His head drops back against the pillow, chest heaving, lips parted as he rides it out. You watch him fall apart in real time and it almost breaks you.

He barely recovers before he’s urging you again.

“Don’t stop. Please. I wanna watch you come too.”

“Jihoon—”

“You’ve been so good,” he rasps. “Let me see you fall apart.”

The edge is too sharp now, the burn too deep. You’re panting, eyes stinging, fingers moving frantically as you chase your high while his voice guides you through it.

“Come for me, baby. Come thinking about my cock filling you up. About my hands all over you. Come knowing I’d never let you go without making you scream my name.”

That does it.

Your body seizes, pleasure crashing down in waves that make you sob. Your legs shake, your hand goes still, and your breath catches in your throat as you come, full and hard, Jihoon’s name breaking from your lips like a prayer.

You don’t even realize you’re crying until you blink and tears streak down your temples.

Jihoon’s face is still there, flushed and wide-eyed, whispering your name like it’s sacred.

“Baby,” he breathes. “You’re so beautiful.”

Neither of you say anything for a moment. The sound of your breathing is the only thing between you, soft and unsteady. The silence feels warm. Heavy with something that lingers past release.

You curl the blanket over your chest, still holding the phone. Jihoon’s hair is damp, lips parted, eyes soft as he watches you like you’re the only thing in the world.

Then, softly:

“Don’t hang up.”

Jihoon’s voice barely carries over the line. It’s not a command—it’s a plea.

You shift the phone, your body still trembling from the aftershocks. The blanket’s tugged halfway over your chest, your skin damp and flushed, fingers twitching at your sides. You angle the camera toward your face again, and when Jihoon sees you—blown out and teary-eyed—his whole body reacts.

“God, you’re unreal,” he whispers. “Even now.”

You watch him breathe. His chest rises and falls under the soft lighting, skin flushed down to the collarbones, his arm flexing slightly as he props the phone up against a pillow. The camera wobbles, then steadies. And when the view clears, he’s still naked, still hard—because of course he is.

“I’m not done,” he murmurs.

Your lips part. “Jihoon…”

“Just watch me.”

You shift again, pulling the blanket down, letting him see the glisten still slicking your thighs. His breath stutters through the speaker. You trail your fingers lower, dipping between your legs again—not out of need, but to show him you’d do it if he asked. Still open. Still his.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans. “You’re gonna kill me.”

His hand starts moving again, slower this time. You watch his throat flex, his brows pinch together as his hips roll up in lazy thrusts.

“I want you to see,” he says through gritted teeth. “What you do to me.”

You can’t look away.

Jihoon’s legs are spread just enough for you to see everything. His hand wraps tight, stroking with a rhythm that feels more intimate now, more indulgent. He’s not chasing the high anymore—he’s showing you. Letting you see how much he needs you. How hard it is to stop.

“You moaned my name like it hurt,” he says. “Like I was inside you.”

“You were,” you whisper. “It felt like you were.”

He groans, long and low, like that pushed him over a line he was barely holding.

“Touch yourself again,” he pants. “Even if you’re sensitive. Just—fuck, I need to see it.”

You nod, shaky, and slide your hand back down. Your legs twitch the second your fingers make contact, but you do it anyway. You do it for him.

Jihoon watches with unblinking eyes, hand working faster now. “You’re still dripping. Look at you.”

“I’m trying—fuck—I’m still so sensitive—”

“I know,” he gasps. “That’s what makes it good.”

You cry out again, not as loud as before but sharper—more raw. Jihoon’s mouth parts like he can feel it, like every sound you make cuts into him directly.

“I’m close,” he groans. “Again. Shit—baby—don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”

You can barely keep the camera still. Your hand shakes as you rub small, tight circles, hips jerking, another wave building too fast, too soon. Jihoon’s voice is ragged through the phone, coming undone in front of you.

“I wish I could taste you,” he says. “God, I’d fucking ruin you all night.”

“You already did,” you choke out.

And that’s it.

Jihoon groans loud, hips thrusting into his fist as he finishes again—messy, loud, drawn out. His face goes soft and stunned, mouth parted, hair damp with sweat.

You’re not far behind. You come again, not as violently, but it leaves you breathless, your body twitching as your muscles slowly give out.

Everything slows.

Jihoon collapses back into his pillows, his chest rising and falling in heavy waves. Your hand slips away from between your legs. The only sounds are the soft clicks of your phones adjusting focus, and the quiet breaths you share across the distance.

Neither of you move, not really. The phones stay where they are—balanced in soft sheets, propped on pillows, pointed at flushed skin and dazed expressions. Jihoon doesn’t speak right away. He just watches you. Bare and still trembling, your chest rising slowly as you try to catch your breath. The blanket is back over your stomach, your arm tucked beneath your head.

The silence between you is full, not empty.

“You look…” His voice is low, hoarse. “God, baby. You look so good like this.”

You smile weakly. “Like what?”

“Ruined.”

You roll your eyes, but it’s barely a gesture. You’re too tired to tease him back. “You said that like it’s a compliment.”

“It is,” he says softly. “It’s the highest one I’ve got.”

He shifts a little, adjusting the phone until it’s angled against his pillow. His head rests on his arm, dark strands of hair sticking to his forehead. You can see his throat moving when he swallows.

“I should’ve been there,” he murmurs. “I should’ve been the one touching you. Not your hand. Mine.”

“You were there.”

His gaze flicks to you again, quiet but intense.

“I saw you,” you add. “You were with me the whole time.”

Jihoon exhales, a little shaky. “That’s the problem. I saw you. And now I can’t stop seeing you.”

You tuck your chin into your blanket, trying not to melt. Your heart’s still going strong, but now it’s from something softer. Thicker. The ache hasn’t gone away—it’s just changed shape. It’s not just the sex. It’s him. His voice. His stare. The way he says your name like it’s a vow.

“I miss you so much,” you whisper.

His face crumples a little, like it physically hurts to hear you say it.

“I’m trying to be strong,” he says. “Trying to stay focused. But every night I fall asleep thinking about you. Waking up without you is…”

You hear it—what he doesn’t finish.

It’s lonely.

You nod slowly. “It’s hard.”

“Harder than I thought,” he admits. “And I knew it was going to be bad. But I didn’t expect it to feel like this.”

Your hand tightens around the edge of the blanket. You wish you could reach for him through the screen. Brush the sweat-damp hair off his forehead. Lay your palm flat against his chest and just stay.

His voice drops lower.

“Don’t touch yourself again while I’m gone.”

You blink.

He’s watching you too closely now. “I mean it.”

Your throat works. “Why not?”

“Because I want to be the one who makes you feel like that. I want it to be me, every time.”

You don’t say anything for a beat. Then—quietly—

“Okay.”

Something in his face softens, but it’s not relief—it’s something closer to claiming. He shifts again and lets out a soft sigh as he settles into his sheets.

“When I get back, I’m gonna spoil the hell out of you,” he says, voice slower now, like he’s already drifting. “Get your favorite takeout, make you stay in bed all day. You’re not gonna have to lift a finger.”

“You’re gonna cook for me?”

He hums. “If I have to.”

“You’re gonna run my bath and everything?”

“Already thinking about what soap I’ll use.”

You grin against your pillow, nose scrunching. “You’re such a sap when you’re sleepy.”

“And you love it.”

You do.

He props his phone a little higher, lets his arm drop under the pillow like he’s pulling you into bed with him. His eyes are still open, but barely. You’re already curled in your own sheets, face angled toward the phone like it’ll make him closer.

He says your name once, so soft you almost miss it.

“Yeah?” you whisper.

His eyes flutter shut. “Even through the screen… you’re mine.”

The sound of his breathing steadies. You don’t know if he falls asleep first or if you do. But the call stays connected, the screen glowing faint in the dark, two heartbeats pulsing quietly on either end.

…..…….……………………….…..:><:………………………………………

Taglist: @17ha @moonstruckbae @galaxy4489

@moonstruckbae @voucearse @lze325

[pandacherryblossoms]

𐙚 “Discipline” - Oh Sungjun 𐙚

Kinktober Day 8

wc: 3.6k

Genre: Smut MDNI 18+

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, Dom/sub dynamics, Jealousy, Punishment and “lesson” theme, Light bondage (wrist restraint), Rough sex, Degradation, Power imbalance (consensual), Orgasm control, Orgasm denial, Creampie, Aftercare, Emotional tension, Possessive behavior

There’s always been a line with Sungjun.

A soft, teasing edge to your relationship that feels like play—even when it borders on sharp. The way he narrows his eyes when someone stands too close to you. The way he drags you back by the wrist when you wander too far ahead. It’s not possessive, not exactly. It’s just… him.

And maybe it’s cute, the way his jaw tics when you get a little too flirty with the others. Maybe it feels good, sometimes, to know he watches.

But lately, the air around him’s changed. Still quiet, still collected—but tense. Watchful. As if he’s waiting for something to confirm what he already suspects.

He’ll never admit he gets jealous so easily.

You caught it the first time last week—after practice, when he saw you laughing with Hwi by the vending machine. It was nothing. A dumb joke and a sideways nudge. But Sungjun lingered behind the others, his mouth tight, his eyes unreadable.

He didn’t say anything then.

He didn’t have to.

The conversation came days later, and it started as casually as anything with him ever does.

“You flirt without noticing.”

You blinked at him, confused. “What?”

Sungjun didn’t look at you. He was sitting at the edge of your bed, back straight, hands clasped between his knees. Calm. Too calm.

“You do it with everyone,” he added. “The laughing. The touching. You don’t even see it.”

You laughed, not because it was funny, but because it felt ridiculous. “Are you seriously jealous of Hwi?”

His jaw flexed. “I’m not jealous.”

“Then what are you?”

He looked at you then—slowly, like the answer tasted bitter in his mouth.

“Maybe you see it. And you like it.”

The words hit you harder than they should’ve.

You’d expected him to let it go. To roll his eyes and drop it like he always did when things got too close to the bone. But instead, he looked at you like he wasn’t sure he could trust what he saw anymore. And that stung.

That conversation stayed with you.

You replayed it in your head when he wasn’t looking. Turned it over like a coin between your fingers.

And slowly—maybe selfishly—part of you started to wonder what would happen if he was right.

It starts small.

During practice, you laugh a little too long at Hwi’s jokes. You let him tug your wrist when you’re switching formations. When he offers to adjust the mic on your collar, you don’t flinch away.

You know Sungjun’s watching.

He hasn’t said a word since you walked into the room. But you can feel his presence across the space like static—charged, sharp, waiting. Every time Hwi leans close, you feel Sungjun’s stare between your shoulder blades.

It’s subtle at first.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t scold. Doesn’t even look directly at you.

But his movements are stiffer. His rhythm more precise. The way he wipes sweat from his neck with a towel looks like it takes effort not to tear it in half.

You go a little further.

You whisper something to Hwi between takes. Laugh at whatever dumb response he gives. You don’t even know what you’re saying anymore—just letting the heat rise, letting it build.

You’re not sure what you’re trying to prove. That he sees you? That he still wants you, even when he doesn’t say it?

The room thickens with tension.

Even Hwi notices. He doesn’t flirt back—not really. His eyes flick past you more than once, landing on Sungjun like he’s checking for a reaction.

You think maybe he’s about to ask if everything’s okay when the instructor finally calls break.

You exhale like you’ve been holding your breath.

But across the room, Sungjun still hasn’t looked away.

Practice ends in a blur of movement—water bottles being tossed, someone pulling off a shirt, a few of the guys laughing about dinner plans.

You’re wiping sweat from your neck when Hwi bumps your shoulder again.

“Yo,” he grins. “You trying to beat me in karaoke later or what?”

You smile. “Only if you’re ready to lose.”

It’s harmless. It should be harmless.

But then you hear it—cutting through the noise, low and final:

“Car. Now.”

The room stills.

Everyone hears it. Everyone feels it.

Sungjun doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to.

Your head turns slowly. He’s standing near the door, towel slung around his neck, bag already over his shoulder. His eyes are locked on you—sharp, unwavering, not angry, but absolute.

You freeze for a second. Then nod.

No one says a word as you follow him out.

The car ride is silent.

Not quiet—silent. The kind of stillness that crackles under the weight of everything unsaid.

You sit rigid in the passenger seat, hands curled in your lap, while the city flickers past the windows. Streetlights paint Sungjun’s face in gold, then shadow, over and over again.

He doesn’t speak.

His hand grips the wheel tight enough to show the flex in his knuckles, but otherwise, he’s perfectly composed. No yelling. No sighing. Not even a glance in your direction.

You don’t know if that makes it better or worse.

Your heart pounds.

You want him to say something—to break the silence, to do something—but instead, he keeps driving. Calm. Focused.

Until he turns into your complex, pulls into the usual spot, and kills the engine in one smooth motion.

The car stills.

Then, finally—softly—he speaks:

“Inside.”

He doesn’t look at you when he says it.

He just opens the door, steps out, and shuts it behind him. Quiet. Controlled.

You follow.

Every footstep up the stairs feels too loud, too heavy.

And the tension doesn’t stay in the car. It follows you both all the way to the door, pressing against your spine like a hand.

When the lock clicks behind you, the air shifts.

Sungjun doesn’t speak.

He doesn’t even look at you as he toes his shoes off, walks past you toward the hallway, and disappears into the living room. His movements are calm, measured—like he’s not angry. Like he’s thinking.

And somehow, that’s worse.

You follow slowly, tension crawling up your spine. The apartment is dim, quiet. No music. No hum of the TV. Just the distant sound of traffic outside and the low thud of your heartbeat in your ears.

Sungjun doesn’t pace. He doesn’t slam a cabinet or throw his keys on the counter. He sets them down gently. Peels off his jacket. Folds it in half, lays it over the back of the couch like it matters. His sleeves get rolled next—one slow turn, then another—until his forearms are bare, hands braced on either side of the counter as he exhales once, steady.

It’s too calm.

“You wanted my attention,” he says finally, voice quiet. Low.

You flinch.

His eyes are on you now—dark, unreadable. There’s no raised tone, no outward fury. Just the kind of stillness that promises consequences. The kind that makes it clear this conversation won’t be loud, but it will cut deep.

“You got it.”

You don’t answer. You’re not sure you should.

Sungjun steps away from the counter. Walks toward you slowly. Stops just close enough that you have to tilt your chin up to meet his gaze.

“You think I didn’t see the way he touched you?”

He’s not asking. He’s already sure. Every word is delivered with quiet precision, like a verdict being handed down.

“He didn’t even have to try,” Sungjun continues, his tone sharpening just slightly. “You let him get close. You laughed in his face. And you knew I was watching.”

Still, you say nothing.

Because he’s right.

His jaw tightens. “Say something.”

You swallow. “You said I wanted your attention.”

“And you got it,” he repeats. “But I want to know why.”

You open your mouth, then close it. The weight of his stare pins you in place, heat curling low in your belly—not from fear, not exactly, but from the pressure. From knowing he’s standing there, so in control of himself it’s crushing.

“You wanted to see what would happen if you pushed me.”

He leans in, voice dropping an octave.

“Now you will.”

He steps back, nods once, and gives the quietest command you’ve ever heard from him.

“Bedroom.”

It’s not a request.

It’s not even a threat.

It’s a promise.

You obey without thinking, pulse fluttering, footsteps soft as you turn and walk down the hall.

You can hear him behind you. Slow. Unhurried.

When you reach the room, he doesn’t slam the door.

He closes it like a gentleman, not saying a word as he walks past you toward the dresser, opens the second drawer from the top—the one you both know holds nothing but intention—and pulls out the thin, black silk tie he’s used before. Not to hurt. Just to hold. To remind.

He turns, tie in hand, and crooks two fingers.

“Come here.”

You do.

He doesn’t touch you right away. Just stares, eyes traveling over your body like he’s deciding what kind of lesson you need tonight. His head tilts slightly. A breath, measured and slow.

Then he speaks.

“Hands.”

You lift them.

He steps closer and wraps the tie around your wrists—nothing rough, nothing fast. Just tight enough that you feel the edge of it. Then he holds them there, his thumbs brushing over your pulse like he’s tracking every beat.

“You crossed a line tonight.”

His voice is calm. Unshaken. He’s not mad. Not yelling. And somehow that makes your breath catch more than if he’d raised his voice.

“I let a lot of things slide when it comes to you,” he says. “I know what you’re like. I know how you smile when you want something. I know when you’re just being friendly.”

The tie tightens just slightly.

“But tonight wasn’t that.”

Your mouth opens, but he shakes his head once.

“You don’t get to talk yet.”

He guides you back two steps until your knees bump the bed. You sit without being told, and Sungjun kneels in front of you, eyes level with yours.

“You wanted to know what it looks like when I get jealous.”

His fingers slide under the hem of your shirt, slowly peeling it upward.

“So look.”

He undresses you without rushing, without fumbling. Every movement deliberate. When your top is gone, he presses a kiss just below your collarbone—soft, careful—and then moves lower, undoing the button of your jeans like he has all the time in the world.

By the time you’re bare, wrists bound and chest rising fast, he’s still fully clothed. Perfectly composed.

“Lie back.”

You do.

And then he begins.

“You let him touch you,” Sungjun says, one hand resting firmly on your hip. “You smiled like it was nothing. Like I wasn’t standing ten feet away.”

His fingers trail down your thigh. “So now I’m going to touch you. And you’re going to feel the difference.”

You moan when his hand slides between your legs—but it’s not enough. He brushes lightly over your center, just enough to make you writhe, never enough to satisfy.

“Don’t close your legs,” he murmurs. “You were so eager to spread them for someone else.”

Your hips jerk. “Sungjun—”

The slap of his palm against your thigh shuts you up instantly.

“Did I say you could speak?”

Your breath catches. You shake your head.

“Then don’t.”

He presses two fingers to your clit—not to rub, just to hold. Enough to drive you wild.

“Answer when I ask. Nothing more.”

“Yes,” you breathe.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, Sungjun.”

He leans down, kisses the inside of your knee.

“Good girl.”

The teasing continues—fingers barely dipping, circling, never giving you enough. He watches you squirm, eyes fixed on your face, studying every reaction. When he does slip two fingers in, it’s slow. Precise. His thumb stays still against your clit, refusing to move.

“You think he could’ve made you this wet?”

You don’t answer fast enough. The fingers still.

“No,” you gasp. “No, only you.”

He smiles. “That’s right.”

The thrusts deepen. His pace is still slow, almost punishing in its control.

“You don’t need their attention,” he says. “You need mine.”

Your wrists pull against the silk as your back arches. He’s so composed—so quiet—but it’s killing you in the best way.

“I pay attention to everything. You know that?”

He curls his fingers just right. You sob.

“I see the way you move. The way you look when you’re turned on. When you’re playing dumb. When you want to be punished.”

Your body is trembling now, sweat beading along your chest.

“And I give you everything,” he says. “So don’t pretend like anyone else could ever fucking touch you the way I do.”

His voice breaks—just slightly. The first real crack.

You look up at him, wide-eyed, lips parted. His fingers still moving, still fucking into you slow and deep, but something’s changed. His brows knit faintly. His jaw clenches. And then—

“You wanted to see jealousy?” he says quietly. “Here it is.”

He pulls his fingers out and leans down, mouth replacing them in one fluid motion.

Your cry breaks the silence.

He licks into you like he’s starving, like you’re the only thing that could ever satisfy him. Tongue flat, wide, slow at first—then sharper, focused. His hands keep your thighs spread, pushing down hard when you try to close them.

“Sungjun—please—”

His lips drag up to your clit and suck, just once, sharp and wet and perfect.

“You don’t get to cum yet.”

You whine.

“Not until I say so.”

His mouth moves lower again. Your hands are still tied, useless against the blankets as you writhe under him. Your body begs for release, but he keeps it just out of reach.

“I know you,” he murmurs between licks. “I know how you like this. Slow. Messy. Desperate.”

Your orgasm is building—hot and tight, hovering close—but you don’t dare let go.

He looks up at you, lips slick.

“Hold it.”

You nod, panting. Your legs are shaking. Every muscle tight.

He slides two fingers back in and finally—finally—starts moving fast.

“Now,” he says. “Cum for me. Now.”

You fall apart instantly.

It tears through you, your body convulsing, toes curling, hands yanking against the silk restraint as you scream his name.

And through it all—his hand never stops. He fucks you through it, wringing every last tremor from your body until you collapse back into the mattress, chest heaving.

But he doesn’t let go.

You’re still shaking, still catching your breath when his fingers slip free—and then you feel the blunt press of his cock, hot and hard against your soaked entrance.

“Sungjun—”

Your voice breaks, but he doesn’t respond. He grabs your thighs and pulls you closer, shoves them up, folds you open like you belong to him—and he still doesn’t kiss you.

“You think we’re done?” he mutters, voice ragged but cold. “You think one orgasm teaches you anything?”

He drags the head of his cock through your folds, not pushing in—taunting. The slick sound of it makes your core clench again, involuntarily.

“You flirted with him knowing I’d see,” he growls. “So you’re going to feel me now. Every inch.”

And then he thrusts into you in one hard, punishing stroke.

You cry out—more from shock than pain—but he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t give you time to adjust. He sets a pace immediately, fast and deep, every snap of his hips sharp and angry.

“Is this what you wanted?” he grits out, voice shaking. “Wanted to push me this far?”

He fucks you like you asked for it. Like you earned it. Like the only way to silence the jealousy in his chest is to ruin you.

Your hands scramble at the sheets. He grabs your wrists—still flushed from the tie—and pins them above your head with one hand. The other grips your hip hard enough to bruise, forcing your body to take every thrust, no matter how deep.

“I told you not to make me jealous,” he pants. “You didn’t listen.”

Your eyes blur with tears. He leans in close, mouth near your ear, and growls:

“Now take it.”

And you do—because you have no choice. He fucks you with the same brutal control he used when he tied your wrists, when he held your orgasm in his hand and refused to give it to you. Now he’s giving it to you all at once—his cock slamming deep, his body pinning yours to the bed, hips unrelenting.

You gasp his name again, but it’s ragged, breathless, almost a sob.

“Sungjun—too much—”

“It’s not,” he snaps, thrusting harder. “You can take it. You wanted this.”

He lets go of your wrists just long enough to grab under your knees and shove them back, folding you open so deep his cock hits your cervix. You cry out, and he fucking smiles.

“Yeah,” he grits. “Right there. Feel that?”

You nod, lips trembling.

“That’s mine. All of it. This pussy. That body. That fuckin’ mouth you used to laugh at him like I wasn’t standing right there.”

He slams in again—deeper.

“Was I invisible to you?”

“No,” you whimper.

“Say it louder.”

“No—fuck, no—only you.”

“Damn right.”

His hand finds your throat—not choking, just holding, just claiming. His thumb brushes your jaw while his hips keep driving into you, sweat dripping from his hairline. You can hear how wet you are, the obscene sounds of your cunt swallowing his cock over and over as he wrecks you.

You’re close again. Somehow. You didn’t even think it was possible. But the way he’s using you—talking to you like this, fucking you like he’s trying to fuck the memory of Hwi out of your body—it’s too much.

“Sungjun—gonna cum—please—”

“Don’t ask. Just do it.”

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t change pace. Doesn’t soften.

You come again with a strangled cry, thighs shaking violently, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes as you lock around him and shudder hard. It rips through you raw—too soon, too intense—and he fucks you through it without mercy.

“You hear how wet you are?” he groans. “So fuckin’ messy for me. Like you wanted to be punished.”

You can’t speak anymore. Can’t think.

He’s panting now, finally losing rhythm, losing the last bit of composure he’s held onto all night. His hips start to stutter, thrusts deeper but sloppier, his hands braced by your head.

“You wanted to see what happens when you make me jealous?”

You nod, sobbing.

“This is what happens,” he growls.

And then he buries himself deep—so deep it knocks the breath out of your lungs—and stills.

His body shudders hard as he comes, cock pulsing inside you, heat spilling into your cunt in thick, hot waves. He curses low into your neck, jaw clenched, hands gripping the sheets like he’s trying not to lose his mind.

You feel all of it. Every drop. The way he jerks through it, the way he holds himself inside like he’s afraid you’ll slip away the second he pulls out.

He stays there—deep, trembling, breath slowing down one exhale at a time—until the room is quiet again.

He doesn’t move right away.

His body is still pressed to yours, breathing hard into your shoulder, cock softening slowly inside you. His skin is damp with sweat, his hands loose against the mattress now. And for the first time all night, his voice is quiet—not calm, not cold. Just quiet.

“Hey.”

You blink, eyes still glassy, throat raw.

He lifts his head.

“Look at me.”

You do.

And the second your gaze meets his, something inside him shifts. His expression—so stern before, so unflinching—cracks wide open. His brows pull together, and his voice comes out low, hoarse.

“Was that too much?”

You shake your head before the words can even form. “No. I’m okay. I promise.”

His exhale is shaky. Relieved.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “Okay.”

He slips out of you gently and you both flinch, your bodies hypersensitive and sticky, but he doesn’t waste a second. He leans over the side of the bed, grabs his shirt from the floor, and wipes between your legs carefully—like you’re something fragile. You wince at the overstimulation and he kisses your inner thigh in apology.

“I’ll get you water,” he says, already moving. “Stay here.”

You don’t argue.

When he returns, he hands you the bottle first, then slides under the blankets beside you, pulling you straight into his chest. His hand cups the back of your head as you drink, fingers sifting gently through your hair like he’s still trying to come back to himself.

You let the silence settle.

He holds you. You breathe.

Eventually, you speak. “I shouldn’t have pushed you like that.”

He doesn’t respond right away. Then, softly: “You wanted to know if I’d fight for you.”

You nod.

“I always will,” he says. “But you can ask me next time. You don’t have to test me to see it.”

You bite your lip. “It wasn’t fair.”

His hand finds yours beneath the blanket. “No. But I get it.”

You both fall quiet again, and this time it’s not heavy. It’s not tension. Just peace.

Outside, the city hums quietly—traffic, the faint patter of rain against the windows, the distant vibration of life moving on. But in here, you’re still. Your body aches in that good, broken-in way. The kind that only comes after something real.

Sungjun presses a kiss to your forehead. Then your cheek. Then your jaw.

“I’m not mad anymore,” he whispers.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You shift to face him and tuck yourself under his chin. “You forgive me?”

He nods. “But I’m not forgetting it.”

You smile, eyes fluttering shut.

“Good.”

He wraps both arms around you like he’s sealing the moment in place. The last of the jealousy has melted away. There’s nothing left between you but sweat and love and the warmth of bodies pressed close.

You fall asleep like that, tangled and clean, with his heartbeat steady under your cheek.

And just before you drift off, you hear him say it—so quiet it feels like a secret.

“Just yours.”

…..…….……………………….…..:><:………………………………………

Taglist: @17ha @moonstruckbae @galaxy4489 @notinthemoodbeach @voucearse @lze325 @sungjunhh

[pandacherryblossoms]

𐙚 “You Taste Better Than Cake” - Choi Jiung 𐙚

Kinktober Day 7

wc: 3.1k

Genre: Smut MDNI 18+

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, Oral sex (f receiving), Fingering, Unprotected, Food play (strawberries, whipped cream, chocolate syrup, frosting), Mild dirty talk, Praise kink, Mild restraint

The door clicks open like any other night—slow, quiet, the way Jiung always enters when he knows you might be winding down for the evening. But today’s different. Today, you’ve been waiting. Planning.

You hear the shuffle of his shoes being kicked off, the low rustle of his bag being dropped. Then his voice, worn and a little breathless from practice:

“Babe?”

You don’t answer right away.

Let him find you.

He rounds the corner into your shared bedroom, and the second he sees you, everything about him stills.

Jiung’s hair is damp with sweat, his shirt clinging to the toned lines of his chest and arms, breath catching in his throat. His body is tense, a flush still blooming high on his cheeks from exertion—but the look on his face now has nothing to do with training.

You’re waiting for him in the middle of the bed, perched just so—legs folded to the side, skin glowing under the dim fairy lights strung above. You’re wearing nothing but his oversized t-shirt, and from the way the fabric clings, it’s clear there’s nothing underneath.

Your lap is surrounded by a little tray of birthday sweets: plump strawberries, thick swirls of whipped cream, pink frosting in a small bowl, and a bottle of chocolate syrup. And you. All warm skin, bare thighs, and a slow, knowing smile.

Jiung’s jaw tightens. “What… What is this?”

You tilt your head. “Your birthday present.”

He blinks—like his mind is struggling to catch up with the image in front of him. His hand drags up the back of his neck, brushing through his hair, and you can see how fast he’s switching gears. That long day, the sweat still drying on his back, the ache in his legs—it all drops away in the span of one heartbeat.

“Come here,” you say softly, patting the edge of the bed. “You don’t have to do anything. Just let me take care of you.”

But Jiung’s already moving.

He tosses his jacket to the side, fingers tugging at the hem of his shirt like it’s suddenly suffocating him. His eyes never leave your body—not once. He steps close, his voice lower now. “You planned all this for me?”

You hum, reaching for a strawberry and lifting it slowly to your lips. “You work so hard. I thought you deserved a little sweetness.”

You take a bite, and his breath stutters as juice glides down your fingers. Jiung catches your hand in his and licks a drop off your knuckle without thinking. Then pauses, eyes darting up to yours.

“Fuck,” he exhales. “You taste better than the fruit.”

You grin, your thighs pressing together under the fabric. “Then maybe you should keep tasting.”

That’s all it takes.

Jiung climbs onto the bed like a man possessed, crawling over to you on all fours, eyes darkening the closer he gets. His gaze drops to your thighs, then to the sliver of bare skin where your shirt rides up.

“No panties?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

“Didn’t think you’d want any obstacles.”

He groans. Actually groans. His hands come to your waist, smoothing over the fabric with a kind of reverence. “You really trying to kill me on my birthday?”

“Thought you’d like a sweet surprise.” You reach for the whipped cream, twisting the cap open. “And you haven’t even unwrapped it yet.”

Jiung watches you squirt a slow swirl of cream onto your chest—just above the curve of one breast, the edge of his shirt barely hiding it. Then a dollop on your stomach, another near your hipbone.

His hands curl into the sheets, restraint written in every tendon. “You’re gonna fucking ruin me tonight, aren’t you?”

You lick the remaining cream from your finger and lean back on your elbows, letting him take in the full view of you—his shirt hanging loose, your skin glowing with sugar and heat and invitation.

“That’s the plan,” you whisper.

Jiung doesn’t speak at first. He just stares.

His eyes flick over your body like he’s trying to memorize the image — the way his shirt slides off one shoulder, the beads of whipped cream softening against your skin, the glisten of syrup where it caught the light. His throat bobs as he swallows hard, and when he finally moves, it’s slow. Measured.

He leans down like you’re made of glass, but the moment his lips press to your chest — just at the edge of the whipped cream — you feel his breath hitch.

“Holy fuck,” he mutters into your skin.

He kisses lower, tongue sliding through the cream until it melts into your warmth. It’s soft at first — slow drags, gentle sucks, the barest scrape of teeth. But every sound you make eggs him on. Your little gasps. Your writhing hips. The way your thighs shift every time he moans against you.

It doesn’t take long before his hands are clutching your waist harder. Before his teeth sink just a little deeper. Before he growls against your skin, “You really let me come home to this?”

You’re already breathless. “It’s your birthday.”

He groans, like that’s the exact problem. “You’re gonna make me fucking lose it.”

His mouth trails lower.

Jiung kisses a path down your stomach, his tongue catching every line of melted cream, licking with slow, determined sweeps. When he reaches the edge of your hip, he pauses — presses his lips there, then blows softly, and watches your skin pebble.

Then comes the chocolate.

He uncaps the syrup bottle without a word and tips it low, letting it drizzle in a thin line from your navel to the hem of his shirt draped over your thighs. The coolness makes you jolt, a gasp catching in your throat. Jiung watches it drip and smear over your stomach, a grin tugging at his lips.

“Shit,” he says softly. “You’re already shaking.”

You are. And when he dips his head again — licking slow, languid lines up your body — it only gets worse. He eats the chocolate off your skin like he’s starving, groaning between licks, his fingers pressing bruises into your hips to keep you still.

“Can’t believe you did this for me,” he murmurs. “You’re perfect. So fucking perfect.”

You arch toward him, your fingers twisting in the sheets, and he laughs low against your stomach — a sound that buzzes straight through your core.

Then he grabs a strawberry.

He drags it over your lips, slow and sticky, smearing the juice against your mouth before leaning in. “Open.”

You part your lips, and he pushes the berry between them — eyes locked on yours the whole time. He watches you take a bite, watches the juice slide down your chin, and he’s already there, licking it off like he can’t stand to waste a drop.

“Fuck, you’re sweet,” he breathes. “Can’t get enough of you.”

Another strawberry. This time he trails it along your chest, down your stomach, brushing it just above your pussy — just close enough to make you twitch, but never close enough to satisfy.

“Jiung—”

“I know, baby,” he says, low and hot. “But I’m not done tasting.”

His tongue follows where the strawberry touched, licking up the trail of syrup and cream in long, hot strokes. It’s filthy — how wet your skin sounds under his mouth, how shamelessly he moans while dragging his tongue over you.

The longer he goes, the rougher he gets.

He pins your thighs open with one hand, the other gripping your wrist and holding it above your head. His mouth is relentless now — sucking marks into your stomach, biting at your hip, grinding the hard line of his cock against your leg as he licks your skin clean.

“Baby…” His tone is ragged now, like restraint is hanging by a thread. “You did all this for me—laid yourself out like a fucking birthday cake—and you expect me not to go crazy?”

You whimper beneath him, thighs already trembling. “Then do it. Go crazy.”

He groans at that, a real, guttural sound that punches out of his chest. And then you see it—that exact second when his control finally snaps.

Jiung shifts lower and spreads your thighs wide, his palms firm on your inner thighs, fingers digging in like he needs to hold you open or else he might lose his mind completely. He doesn’t bother with any more teasing.

He buries his face between your legs.

Your gasp punches out of you instantly. His tongue drags through your folds in one long, heated stroke, then circles back to flick over your clit—again, again, again—until your hips buck off the bed.

“Shit—Jiung!”

He groans into you, like the sound of his name on your lips only fuels him more. His tongue is relentless, working you over in wet, messy licks that have you squirming in seconds. He moves like he knows you—like he’s mapped out every spot that makes you fall apart and plans to hit all of them without mercy.

He pulls back just long enough to growl, “I don’t care if it’s my birthday. You’re the only gift I fucking want.”

Then he’s back at it—licking, sucking, tongue dipping into you before flattening against your clit. The way he eats you is filthy. Desperate. His moans vibrate straight through your core, and you can feel the mess he’s making of you, his chin soaked, his fingers gripping tighter like he needs to pin you to the mattress.

“Fuck—Jiung—please—”

He lifts his head, mouth shiny, voice hoarse. “You begging already? I haven’t even unwrapped all of you yet.”

And then he slides two fingers into you.

Your body arches off the bed, pleasure crashing over you like a wave. He fucks you with his fingers just as intensely as his tongue—curled deep, precise, his mouth never leaving your clit. It’s overwhelming, how good he makes you feel. How badly he wants you to fall apart for him.

“You’re dripping,” he pants. “So fucking wet—this pussy was made for me.”

You can’t even answer. Your orgasm builds fast—your moans getting higher, your thighs shaking violently under his hold—and when it crashes, it hits hard. You cry out his name as you come, legs locking around his head, fingers tangled in his hair.

But Jiung doesn’t stop.

He licks you through it, sucking your clit gently, like he’s trying to coax every last drop of pleasure out of you. By the time he finally pulls away, you’re panting, dazed, your body twitching from aftershocks.

His lips are swollen. His voice is a wreck.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he murmurs, leaning up to kiss you, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

You reach for him, tugging at the waistband of his sweats. “Then die fucking me.”

Jiung laughs, but it’s breathless. Shaky. He shoves his pants down just enough to free his cock—already hard, flushed, the tip glistening. When he sees your eyes drop to it, his voice roughens.

“Don’t look at me like that unless you’re ready to be ruined.”

You just open your legs wider in response. “Jiung,” you whisper, “please.”

He settles between your thighs, runs the head of his cock through your folds—slick, hot, teasing. His breath catches, hips trembling as he feels how soaked you are.

“The only thing I want to unwrap is you.”

And then he slides in.

The stretch is deep, delicious, and slow—like he wants to feel every second of being inside you. Your breath catches as he bottoms out, and Jiung’s head drops to your shoulder, cursing into your skin.

“God, baby. So tight. So fucking warm.”

He starts moving, long thrusts that glide through your wetness with obscene sound. Your bodies are slick with syrup and sweat, the sheets already ruined beneath you, and you couldn’t care less. Every roll of his hips sends pleasure blooming through you.

“You feel that?” he pants, voice cracked with pleasure. “How deep I am?”

You nod, hands gripping his back, your moans rising as he hits that perfect spot over and over again.

“That’s right,” he grits out. “This pussy’s mine. And you’re gonna come on my cock, aren’t you? Gonna give me another one?”

You can’t speak—you just whimper, nodding, holding on as his thrusts get rougher. He leans down, licking the chocolate off your chest while fucking into you, lips dragging across your nipple with a moan.

“This is the best fucking birthday I’ve ever had.”

You pull him closer, clinging to him like he’s the only thing anchoring you.

“Then come in me,” you whisper. “Come inside. I want to feel it.”

He groans—loud, wrecked, desperate—and his thrusts go erratic, sloppy, driven by the way your walls squeeze around him.

“You’re gonna make me—fuck—you’re perfect, baby, I’m gonna—shit—”

Your orgasm hits at the same time as his. You sob his name as he buries himself deep, cock twitching as he spills inside you with a broken moan.

He stays there for a moment, panting into your neck, skin pressed to yours, hearts racing together.

Jiung doesn’t move at first.

His chest is pressed to yours, cock still buried deep inside you, both of you breathing hard. The only sounds are the soft rise and fall of your panting, the low hum of music still playing from your speaker, and the quiet, sated silence that only comes after you’ve been thoroughly ruined by someone who loves you exactly right.

You feel his lips press to your collarbone, light and lingering. He’s still catching his breath, still trembling a little—whether from the orgasm or from how overwhelmed he is, you can’t tell.

And then he laughs softly.

“Best. Birthday. Ever.”

You smile, nuzzling into his damp hair. “You’re a mess.”

He groans, finally pulling out with a shaky breath. You wince a little at the stickiness—chocolate syrup smudged across your stomach, whipped cream smeared on your thighs, frosting somewhere on your chest you don’t even remember putting there.

Jiung sits up slowly and glances around the bed like he’s just now realizing the damage. “We destroyed everything,” he says, still breathless. “You destroyed me.”

You stretch with a quiet sigh, too warm and wrecked to care about the mess just yet. “Totally worth it.”

He leans in to kiss you again—soft this time, slow, like he has nowhere else to be but here with you.

“Don’t move,” he murmurs against your lips. “I got you.”

He rolls out of bed with a wince, grabbing a towel from the corner of the room. You watch him—shirtless, sweat sticking to his skin, hair a mess, still slightly dazed—and something about him in this moment makes your chest ache.

He’s glowing. Happy. Completely undone.

He returns to the bed, gently spreading your thighs to wipe you down, murmuring soft apologies every time you flinch from how sensitive you are. He’s careful, reverent. He kisses the inside of your knee before lifting one leg onto his lap, drying it off tenderly.

“Thank you,” he says suddenly.

You blink. “For what?”

“For this.” He gestures vaguely at the scene—your ruined bodies, the empty tray, the melted frosting smudged on his chest. “For making me feel so… loved.”

Your heart swells. You lean forward, brushing his damp bangs from his forehead. “You are loved. Every single day. Not just your birthday.”

He smiles, wide and boyish. Then reaches behind him, grabs a fresh strawberry from the tray, and lifts it to your lips.

“Open up.”

You let him feed it to you, sweet juice dripping slightly as he pushes it past your lips. He watches you chew, absolutely smitten, then pops the last bite into his mouth and leans in to kiss you again, tasting it off your tongue.

When you collapse back onto the pillows together, Jiung pulls the blanket up to your chests and wraps his arms tight around your middle, head resting on your shoulder like it belongs there.

“Forget a party,” he mumbles sleepily. “Forget cake. Presents. All of it.”

“You sure?” you tease. “I bought you real candles and everything.”

He grins against your skin. “Babe, the only thing I wanna blow out is your back.”

You slap his chest, laughing. “You’re disgusting.”

He kisses your hand. “And yours.”

The room goes quiet again, both of you sinking into the warmth of each other. His fingers trail idle patterns along your arm, your body still buzzing, but in the softest way now.

“I don’t need anything else,” Jiung says finally. “Just give me you every year.”

You smile into his hair and whisper, “Deal.”

…..…….……………………….…..:><:………………………………………

Taglist: @17ha @moonstruckbae @galaxy4489 @notinthemoodbeach @voucearse

an: Happy Birthday to Jiung and Huijun💖🥳

[pandacherryblossoms]

𐙚 “The Villa Game” - Shin Ryujin 𐙚

Kinktober Day 6

wc: 2.8k

Genre: Smut MDNI 18+

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, F!reader × Ryujin (F/F), Strap-on sex, Dom/sub dynamics, Brat-taming, Orgasm control, Overstimulation, Light spanking, Impact play, Restraint (wrist pinning), Dirty talk, Slight degradation/praise kink, Possessive behavior, Power Exchange, Aftercare

The villa is quiet except for the sound of the waves and the soft whirr of the ceiling fan overhead. Outside, the sun has long since dipped behind the palms, but the air still clings to your skin—humid, heavy, warm. Your thighs are sticky with sweat from the afternoon sun, and your tank top is damp where it sticks to the small of your back.

Ryujin hasn’t touched you in hours.

Not really.

Not in the way you want.

She’s moved around you all day—hands on your lower back when you stepped out of the ocean, fingers brushing your inner thigh under the table at lunch, eyes dragging down your body when you came out in that tiny white cover-up you only packed because she liked it. You’ve caught her watching you more times than you can count.

But she never made a move. Never followed through.

Not until now.

Now, she’s on the couch, legs spread, arms draped over the back like a throne, watching you from across the room like you’re already hers. Her hair is still damp from the outdoor shower, her skin glowing, and she’s wearing one of those thin little bralettes that shows just enough under the linen button-down she hasn’t bothered to close.

You’re pacing the edge of the living room, pretending to look for your charger—but your eyes keep drifting back to her.

Ryujin smiles slowly, like she knows.

“Looking for something?” she asks.

Your heart skips.

“No.”

Her eyes narrow slightly. “You sure?”

You shrug, biting the inside of your cheek.

She shifts on the couch. “Come here.”

You hesitate just long enough to make her eyebrows rise.

“Don’t make me ask again.”

You walk over. Bare feet on tile. Heat climbing up your spine.

She pats the space between her legs. “Sit.”

You sit. Carefully. Back to her chest, your body tucked between her thighs. Her arms curl around you slowly, not tight, just present—possessive, even in their stillness. She smells like ocean salt and sunscreen, faintly floral underneath.

“Been watching you all day,” she murmurs into your ear. “You’re doing it on purpose, huh?”

You tilt your head. “Doing what?”

Ryujin’s hand slides down your stomach, fingers spreading wide over the thin cotton of your shorts. “Walking around like you don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

Your breath stutters. “I didn’t—”

Her palm presses between your legs.

You go still.

“I think you did,” she says. “I think you wanted attention.”

You don’t answer. Can’t.

Her other hand slips under your tank top, fingers spreading over your chest, palm warm and steady against your breast. She doesn’t move, just holds you there—your body caged, your thighs tight, your pussy pulsing under her hand like it knows better than you do.

“Isn’t that right, baby?” she asks. “You wanted my attention.”

You nod, shaky.

“I know.” She leans in and kisses the side of your neck, slow and soft. “You always get greedy on vacation. I think the sun gets to your head.”

You huff a laugh.

She cups your pussy fully, her palm flat. “Or maybe you just like being somewhere nobody can hear how loud you get.”

Your hips twitch.

“There she is,” Ryujin whispers. “I knew you were in there.”

You’re already wet.

And she hasn’t even taken your clothes off.

She kisses your shoulder and pulls her hand away—just like that. No warning.

You whine before you can stop yourself. “Ryujin—”

She hums, pushing you gently forward so she can stand.

“You want more?” she asks, stretching her arms over her head with lazy, smug confidence. “Then be in my bed in five.”

You blink.

She looks over her shoulder. “Clothes off. Legs open.”

Then she disappears down the hall—bare feet silent against tile, hips swaying deliberately.

And just like that, you’re up and moving, heart pounding, already soaked.

Because you know what happens when you make Ryujin wait.

The bedroom is quiet when you step inside—only the sound of the ocean outside, the gentle flap of curtains in the warm breeze, and your own heart pounding in your ears.

Ryujin’s already there.

Sitting on the edge of the bed.

Legs spread. Arms resting on her thighs. Waiting.

She looks up the second you enter, gaze dragging from your flushed face down to your barely-there outfit—thin tank top clinging to your chest, soft shorts riding high on your hips—and her mouth curves like she’s been waiting for you to finally give in.

“Took you long enough,” she says.

You take one step closer.

“Clothes off.”

You don’t even think to disobey. The tank top hits the floor first, followed by your shorts. You pause at your underwear, but she raises a brow and tilts her head.

“Did I say stop?”

You slide them off. Your skin prickles at the sudden exposure, the heat of her eyes on your body.

Ryujin stands slowly. Stalks toward you. One hand slips behind your neck to pull you into a kiss—deep, slow, filthy. Her tongue presses into your mouth like she owns it, and you moan against her lips before you can help it.

“You’ve been a brat all day,” she murmurs when she pulls back. “And now you want to be good?”

You nod, breath shaky. “Yes, ma’am.”

She grabs your jaw, tilting your head back, eyes dark. “Prove it.”

Then she pushes you back onto the bed.

The mattress catches you, soft under your spine, and Ryujin follows—kissing down your chest, lips dragging over your skin, hands spreading your legs open wide like she already knows exactly what she’ll find.

“Fuck,” she murmurs, eyes locked on the wetness between your thighs. “Look at you.”

You squirm.

She doesn’t let you close your legs. Her hands grip your thighs and hold them open as she leans down—tongue licking a slow stripe up your center, stopping just short of your clit.

You choke on a sound.

Ryujin smirks. “So sensitive already.”

Two fingers slip inside you before you can even answer. She’s knuckle-deep by the time your hips jerk off the bed.

“Oh my god—”

“You need to come first,” she murmurs, lips brushing the inside of your thigh. “Get you nice and open before I fuck you the way you want.”

She curls her fingers just right, dragging against that spot inside you while her thumb presses down on your clit. Your back arches, breath catching.

“Ryujin—”

She shushes you gently. “You’re gonna take it so well, baby. I know you are.”

Her fingers fuck into you faster, thumb rubbing tighter circles, and your thighs start to shake. She watches you like it’s the only thing in the world that matters—watching your mouth fall open, your eyes flutter, your hips roll helplessly into her hand.

“Let go,” she whispers. “Come for me.”

You do.

Your body clenches hard around her fingers, a broken moan spilling out of you as your orgasm crashes over you. She fucks you through it, slow and deliberate, then finally pulls her hand away.

You’re panting, sweaty, twitching on the sheets—and she hasn’t even put the strap on yet.

Ryujin stands and licks her fingers clean, eyes fixed on you. “Now,” she says, walking to the dresser and reaching for the harness, “let’s see if you can take the real thing.”

You whimper softly.

She smirks without turning. “Back on the bed, legs open. Don’t make me ask twice.”

Ryujin adjusts the strap with slow, practiced fingers—like it’s routine, like she does this all the time—and every motion is deliberate. Confident. The harness hugs her hips tight, the thick length jutting out heavy and curved, shining slightly from where she just rubbed your slick all over it with her palm.

You’re laid out for her.

Still trembling. Still wet. Still open.

And she takes her sweet time.

“You’re lucky I’m in a good mood,” she says, stepping between your legs. “Because if you’d kept bratting, I wouldn’t be giving you this at all.”

You blink up at her, still dazed. “Please…”

“Please what?”

You swallow. “Please fuck me.”

Ryujin’s eyes darken. “Say it again.”

“Please fuck me,” you whisper. “I want you so bad—”

She grabs your thighs and drags you closer to the edge of the bed, forcing your knees up and open, spreading you wide beneath her.

“You’re gonna take it,” she says. “All of it.”

The tip of the strap brushes your folds—warm now from her body, slick with lube and your arousal. She teases you with it first, dragging it through your slit, letting it bump your clit, press shallowly at your entrance. You moan, hips twitching.

She doesn’t thrust.

Not yet.

“Look at you,” she says. “So fucking wet and needy. You gonna cry when I’m inside you?”

You nod, breath shaky. “If you keep teasing me—yes.”

She laughs softly. “Good.”

And then she pushes in.

It’s slow at first. She feeds you the strap inch by inch, watching your face the entire time—watching your lips part, your eyes flutter, your thighs twitch. The stretch is perfect—just enough to make you gasp, but your body welcomes it, greedy for it.

When her hips finally meet yours, she holds still.

You’re full.

Stuffed.

Completely claimed.

Ryujin leans over you, palms braced on either side of your shoulders, her hair brushing your skin as she hovers close.

“Breathe,” she says. “You can take it.”

You nod, whining. “Feels so good—”

“I’m not even moving yet,” she whispers.

And then she does.

The first thrust is slow, shallow. Then she pulls out and rolls back in—deeper, harder. The strap hits perfectly, angled to press against everything inside you that aches. You cry out, back arching, legs trying to close.

Ryujin grabs your thighs and pins them open.

“No,” she says firmly. “Let me see it.”

She fucks into you again, hips slapping yours, and the sound is filthy—wet, sharp, perfect.

You’re moaning with every thrust now, incoherent, your hands clawing at the sheets.

“Louder,” she growls. “Let me hear how much you love getting fucked.”

“F-fuck—Ryujin—”

“That’s it.”

Her rhythm picks up. Not rushed, but powerful. Focused. Each thrust knocks the breath out of you, and she watches your face the entire time—lives for the way your mouth falls open, the way your eyes glaze over.

“You’re mine,” she says through gritted teeth. “Every fucking inch of you.”

You nod frantically, tears slipping free.

“You’re taking it so well, baby. Look at you—so wet, so fucking full.”

She leans down, cock still buried deep inside you. Her voice drops to a whisper.

“Wanna come around my strap like a good little toy?”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Please, please—”

“Then earn it.”

She changes the angle—hips grinding forward harder now, pressing deep—and your entire body jerks. The pressure’s unbearable, right there, right fucking there. Her hands grip your waist, pulling you down onto her cock over and over like she owns you.

“Let me see it,” she whispers against your mouth. “Break for me.”

And you do.

Your orgasm crashes through you like a wave, your whole body convulsing around the strap, back arching off the bed, a choked cry ripping from your throat. Ryujin doesn’t stop—keeps fucking you through it, holding you down while your cunt clenches helplessly around the thick silicone, soaking her.

“That’s it,” she groans. “So pretty when you come for me.”

Your chest rises and falls in quick, shallow bursts. Your body’s limp but twitching, trembling with aftershocks, thighs quivering around Ryujin’s waist. The strap’s still buried inside you—deep, snug, unrelenting—and she hasn’t moved yet.

But she’s watching you.

Her hands are still on your waist. Her eyes are dark, hungry, taking in every flicker of exhaustion on your face.

“You think I’m done?” she says softly. “You think you’re finished already?”

You don’t answer fast enough.

She slams her hips forward.

You scream.

The sound tears straight out of you, loud and broken and needy. Your hands shoot to her arms instinctively—clinging, grabbing, begging.

“Ryujin—wait—”

“Wait?” She laughs, breathless and amused. “You wanted this.”

Another thrust—deeper.

“You asked me for this cock.”

She pounds into you again. Your whole body jolts.

“You fucking begged.”

Your moans fall apart into sobs. It’s too much. You’re too full. Your clit aches, your cunt pulses with every thrust, but Ryujin is relentless. The strap fucks into you fast now, her rhythm sharp and steady, cock hitting your sweet spot over and over like she’s trying to ruin you.

“Tell me you love it,” she hisses.

“I—fuck—I do—I love it—”

“You love getting fucked until you cry, don’t you?”

You nod frantically, tears sliding down your cheeks. “Yes—yes—please don’t stop—”

“Not planning to.”

She grabs your wrists and pins them above your head with one hand, pressing her body down over yours. Her weight feels perfect—heavy and grounding, her skin slick against yours, her breath hot against your mouth.

She rolls her hips hard. The strap drags just right—thick and deep and so damn good it makes your vision blur.

“Look at you,” she murmurs. “All fucked out and I haven’t even come close to breaking you yet.”

You sob again. You can’t help it. Every nerve is raw. Your body doesn’t know what to do with the pleasure anymore—it just trembles, clenches, spills more slick onto the sheets.

“Please—Ryujin—I can’t—”

“You can.”

She lets go of your wrists and slides a hand between your bodies—finds your clit instantly, starts circling it with slow, firm pressure.

You scream.

“Don’t you dare come without permission,” she growls.

You’re nodding before you can think. “I won’t—I’ll be good—I’ll be good—”

“You’ll take every fucking drop I give you.”

Your hips jerk up into her, desperate, mindless.

“Say it,” she snaps.

“I’ll take it—oh my god—I’ll take it all—”

She keeps fucking you through the tears, through the twitching, through the way your thighs try to close and your hands grab at her shoulders for something to hold onto.

And then she leans down and kisses your cheek—right where a tear rolls down.

“So pretty when you cry,” she whispers.

Her thumb rubs harder.

“Come for me.”

You fall apart.

Your orgasm rips through you, more violent than the first—your body convulsing under hers, mouth open in a silent sob, pussy clenching around the strap so tight it feels like you’re never going to come back down.

Ryujin fucks you through it. Holds you open. Doesn’t slow down until your hips collapse back onto the mattress, spent and shaking, your skin slick with sweat and your face wet with tears.

She pulls out slow.

Your legs twitch. You sob once more, soft and overwhelmed.

Ryujin kisses your shoulder and slides down beside you, finally letting you breathe.

“You did so good,” she murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “Took everything I gave you.”

You whimper something unintelligible, body limp and shaking in the sheets.

She pulls you into her arms, strap still hanging from her hips, your cunt still dripping against her thigh.

“You’re mine,” she whispers. “You know that, right?”

The room is quiet now—except for your breathing, uneven and shallow against her chest.

Ryujin has one arm wrapped around your waist, the other trailing soft, grounding touches over your back. Her strap’s still on, but she hasn’t moved to take it off yet. She’s too focused on you—your flushed skin, your wet lashes, the way you’re still twitching slightly in her arms.

“You okay?” she murmurs.

You nod, too tired to speak.

“Color?”

“Green,” you whisper. “I’m okay.”

She hums and presses a kiss to your temple. “You did so good for me.”

You melt into her.

She finally shifts—reaching down to undo the harness, sliding the strap off and tossing it carelessly onto the floor. You’re still pressed against her thigh, the inside of your legs sticky, your cunt raw and used and aching in the best way.

“I made a mess,” you mumble, cheeks hot.

Ryujin smiles. “You always do.”

She leans over the bed and grabs a towel she’d set aside earlier—because she always thinks ahead, always plans for how wrecked you’ll be. She wipes you down gently, careful around the most sensitive parts, her touch slow and reverent.

Every now and then, she pauses to press a kiss to your inner thigh.

To your belly.

To the corner of your mouth.

“You took me so well,” she murmurs. “You should see yourself.”

You whimper softly, still dazed.

“You’ve never looked prettier than you do right now,” she adds, brushing hair back from your face. “All flushed and fucked out, all mine.”

You manage a faint smile. “Yours.”

“Always.”

…..…….……………………….…..:><:………………………………………

Taglist: @17ha @galaxy4489 @moonstruckbae @notinthemoodbeach @voucearse

[pandacherryblossoms]

It’s my birthday 🥳

But so far it’s been shitty🫩

[pandacherryblossoms]

my kind offering for that CRAZYYYYYY GOOD AF nicholas fic🤤🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻

LMAOO not the sacred cake tribute 😭😭 This is so cute !!! 💖💖💖 Nicholas is pleased, I’m pleased, the fic gods are well-fed 🍰🤭💝

[pandacherryblossoms]

𐙚 “Don’t Stop” - Wang Yixiang 𐙚

Kinktober Day 5

wc: 3.2k

Genre: Smut MDNI 18+

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, Unprotected sex, Oral sex (f receiving), Fingering, Squirting, Overstimulation, Semi-possessive/dom behavior, Dirty talk, Praise kink, Light physical control

It starts slow, like it always does with him.

The room’s quiet, the lights dimmed to a soft amber wash from the hallway, and the sheets are still warm from when the two of you climbed in an hour ago. Nicholas lies behind you, shirtless, one arm tucked under your pillow, the other draped across your waist. There’s no rush in the way he breathes. No urgency. His fingers are just barely grazing the hem of the oversized shirt you threw on before bed — his, of course, worn and thin and soft enough to forget it’s even there.

Your bodies fit like muscle memory.

This isn’t new — this calm, sleepy closeness. You’re both warm, still, half-tangled under the blankets, and for a while, it’s just that. His thumb strokes over your hipbone lazily, not going anywhere. You hum and press back against him a little, not really thinking.

And that’s when you feel it.

A little shift. A subtle press of his hips. The faintest tension in his grip where it holds your stomach.

You open your eyes.

“Nicholas?”

“Mm?”

His voice is still rough from how close he was to sleep, but his hand is moving now — lower, slower, slipping just beneath the edge of the shirt you’re wearing.

You go still. His palm flattens over your lower belly, and his thumb drifts even lower, brushing right where your waistband would’ve been… if you were wearing any.

He pauses.

“You’re not wearing panties.”

You smile into the pillow. “You just now noticed?”

He lets out a low laugh — not surprised, more like… pleased. His voice drops when he speaks again, closer to your ear now. “You always do this shit to me on purpose.”

“I was comfortable.”

“Mhm.”

His hand dips fully between your thighs. You’re already warm there — slick and soft, your body betraying you before he’s even touched you properly. The tip of his finger slides right between your folds, and the second it does, you twitch.

Nicholas stills.

Then he does it again. Slower this time.

You shift your leg slightly to give him more room without realizing it, and he hums behind you, lips brushing your shoulder.

“…You’re wet.”

You breathe out a shaky laugh, cheeks hot. “It’s your fault.”

“I haven’t done anything yet.”

“You don’t have to.”

He kisses your neck. His hand moves again, a little firmer, dragging through the slick that’s already gathered between your thighs.

“You’re soaked.”

“I know.”

He inhales deeply, like he’s trying to stay calm. Then you feel his hard length nudge up behind you under the blanket — slow, deliberate, fully there now — and your body responds instantly, clenching around nothing.

His voice is darker this time. “Turn over.”

You roll onto your back without a word.

Nicholas shifts with you, bracing one hand beside your head and tugging the blanket down to your hips with the other. His eyes trail from your flushed face to the curve of your thighs, then lower, to where the hem of the shirt has ridden up. His palm drags along your bare leg, warm and rough and confident.

He doesn’t say anything for a beat.

Then he leans in, kisses you slow, and murmurs against your lips—

“I need to taste you.”

He doesn’t wait for a response.

Nicholas kisses you again — deeper this time, slower, like he’s trying to savor how easy it is to get you like this. His hand slides down your thigh, then between your legs, knuckles brushing the sensitive spot where you’re already wet and wanting. He shifts lower on the bed, head dipping below your navel, lips tracing over the dip of your stomach like he’s marking the path he’s about to take.

You breathe his name.

It barely leaves your lips before his mouth is on you.

He spreads your legs apart and pushes them open with both hands, then licks a broad, slow stripe from your entrance to your clit — and you gasp, spine arching clean off the bed.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, already drunk on the taste. “You’re so wet.”

Your hand finds the back of his head without thinking, fingers tangling in his hair as he groans into you. His tongue circles your clit lazily, teasing at first — then faster, flatter, more deliberate — until your legs start to shake. He sucks it into his mouth and moans, and your hips jerk up into him.

“Nick—!”

He pulls back just enough to look up at you, mouth and chin glistening.

“You’re gonna come just like this, huh?” His voice is hoarse now, low and urgent. “Haven’t even gotten my fingers back in you yet.”

You nod, barely breathing.

“Good,” he says. “Then give it to me.”

His fingers slide in with almost no resistance — two at once, smooth and thick and deep. He curls them the moment he’s inside, and your entire body jolts.

“Oh my god—”

He groans like he’s the one feeling it. “That’s it.”

The way he moves is precise — like he knows exactly what he’s looking for. His tongue is back on your clit in tandem, fucking you with his fingers while his mouth drives you closer with every stroke.

You can’t think. Can’t speak. Your thighs keep trying to close, but he shoves them wide with his forearm and pins you open.

“Don’t run,” he murmurs, hot against your skin. “Let me have it.”

You’re shaking.

The pressure is building fast — faster than normal. There’s a tight, heated ache rising in your core that doesn’t feel like your usual orgasm. It’s deeper, heavier. You squirm under him, moaning brokenly, and he doesn’t slow down.

You manage to gasp, “Nick, I—I don’t know—wait—”

He looks up at you again, sweat starting to bead at his temple.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t—” Your voice cuts off in a high-pitched sound as his fingers drag over that same spot again, and your hips jerk. “Something feels… different.”

Nicholas slows for half a second, just enough to study your face.

But then he smirks.

“Oh yeah?”

You nod, breath stuttering.

His expression darkens — not with concern, but curiosity. He kisses the inside of your thigh, then goes right back to it — same spot, same rhythm, faster this time.

You yelp. “Nick—!”

“Let it happen,” he growls. “Whatever it is, let it.”

Your stomach tightens. Your legs start to tremble. The feeling keeps rising, sharper now, uncontrollable, and you try to speak — to warn him, to beg him to slow down — but your mouth won’t form the words.

You claw at the sheets instead.

“N-Nick, I think I’m—”

And then it breaks.

Your body seizes, hips bucking violently as a sudden, hot gush of wetness pours out of you — not just dripping, but gushing, pulsing out of you in rhythmic waves that splatter across his hand and your thighs and the ruined sheets beneath you.

You cry out, loud and raw, both hands flying to cover your face.

Nicholas freezes.

For just a beat, the room goes still.

Then, quietly—

“…No fucking way.”

You peek out between your fingers, heart pounding, body still twitching. He’s still between your legs, fingers glistening, mouth parted in awe as he stares at you like you just rewrote physics.

“Baby.”

You’re too embarrassed to respond.

“Was that—” He cuts himself off, eyes flicking to the soaked sheets. “Did you just squirt?”

You nod, barely, eyes wide.

He blinks. Then breathes out a stunned, breathless laugh.

“Holy fuck.”

Nicholas doesn’t move at first.

He just stares — at you, at his soaked hand, at the mess coating your thighs and the dark patch spreading across the sheets beneath you. His lips are parted, his chest rising fast, and for a second, he looks like he doesn’t even know what to say.

And then he licks his fingers.

Slowly. Deliberately. His tongue drags along the length of them, savoring the slick as if it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. His eyes don’t leave yours the entire time.

You whimper, overwhelmed, body still trembling. “Nick—”

His hand is already sliding back up your thigh. “You’ve never done that before.”

You shake your head, panting. “No, I—I didn’t know I could—”

He lets out a sound — not quite a groan, not quite a laugh. Something low and dark and wrecked.

“Jesus,” he murmurs. “You didn’t even know.”

You glance down — the mess between your legs, the ruined sheets, his soaked chest. You try to close your thighs, embarrassed.

Nicholas catches them immediately.

“Don’t,” he says, voice rough. “Don’t hide from me.”

You freeze.

His hands spread your thighs open again, wide and firm, until you’re fully exposed in front of him — still twitching, still dripping, still messy from what just happened. He stares at your pussy like it’s glowing, like he’s never seen anything so fucking perfect in his life.

“Look at this.” His voice drops to a growl. “You made a mess all over me.”

You turn your face away, flushed, too wrecked to speak — but he leans over you, grabs your chin, and forces you to look at him.

“No,” he whispers. “Don’t get shy on me now. You know what that did to me?”

You blink up at him, dazed.

He grabs your wrist and presses your hand to his cock — thick and hard and soaked at the tip.

“This is what you do to me.”

You moan softly, fingers curling around him.

But before you can say a word, he’s already moving — shifting lower, gripping your thighs again and dragging your hips closer to the edge of the mattress.

“I need to see it again.”

Your breath catches. “Wait—Nicholas—”

“I’m serious.” He looks up at you, eyes blazing. “I need it. I need to see it again.”

He sounds ruined. Starved. Like something in him snapped the second you soaked his hand.

“You’re mine,” he mutters, almost to himself. “You gave that to me. That means I get more.”

He licks you once, slow and deliberate, then slides two fingers back inside you with no warning.

You gasp, jerking hard.

He groans. “Still so fucking wet. You feel that, baby? You’re leaking for me.”

“N-Nick—”

He fucks his fingers into you, deeper this time, curling up to find that same spot again — the one that had you unraveling minutes ago.

“Don’t hold back,” he growls. “I want every fucking drop.”

You squirm, thighs already shaking, nerves lit up like fire. He’s focused now — obsessed — moving his fingers fast and steady, his other hand spreading you wider while his mouth trails heat along your inner thigh.

“Gonna make you do it again,” he murmurs. “Right here, right now. Gonna make you gush for me, baby.”

Your head falls back. Your back arches. The sound of wetness fills the room — slick and obscene — and Nicholas moans low in his throat like he can’t take it.

“You hear that?” he pants. “That’s your pussy, baby. That’s what it sounds like when you’re dripping all over me.”

Your fingers grip the sheets so tightly they cramp.

You can’t stop it — the heat building again, somehow faster than before. Your body’s not used to this, doesn’t know what to do with the way he’s fucking you open, not letting up, muttering filthy praise under his breath while he watches your body unravel beneath him.

“I didn’t even know I could do that,” you whimper.

Nicholas groans, teeth grazing your thigh.

“You think I’m gonna stop now that I know you can?”

He thrusts harder.

“You think I’m gonna stop when I haven’t even seen how far I can push you?”

You cry out, hips twitching, whole body clenching around his fingers.

He feels it.

“Fuck—there you go—c’mon, baby, give it to me again—”

And then—

It hits.

You squirt again, harder this time — gushing uncontrollably, your thighs jerking as another wave pours out of you, soaking his hand, the sheets, his arms, everything.

Nicholas groans like he’s coming just from seeing it.

“God damn, baby—look at that—fucking look at it—”

You can’t. Your eyes are glassy, your body limp, twitching through the aftershocks while he leans back to admire the wreckage.

He looks up at you — wild, glassy-eyed. “I can’t stop.”

“Nick—” You sound broken, but you don’t tell him to stop. You can’t.

He pulls his fingers out suddenly, coated and dripping, and you gasp at the empty, aching space he leaves behind. Before you can even blink, his hands are on your hips, hauling you closer to the edge of the mattress. His cock slides against your soaked entrance, thick and hot and so ready, smearing wetness up and down your folds.

“Fuck,” he growls. “Feel how wet you are? That’s all you.”

Your stomach flips.

“Nick, wait—”

But he’s already pushing in.

The stretch knocks the breath out of you. He’s big, always has been, and you’re so sensitive now that the first inch feels like too much. You moan high and raw, nails raking at his forearms as he sinks deeper and deeper until his hips are flush with yours.

Nicholas drops his forehead to yours and groans.

“Christ,” he pants. “You’re gripping me so fucking tight.”

You whimper, squirming under him. “You just— you just made me—”

“I know.” He pulls out a little, then pushes back in, slow but steady. “I want to feel it while I’m inside you.”

He thrusts again — a little harder, a little deeper — and your eyes roll back. Your body’s still twitching from the overstimulation of his fingers, every nerve on fire. He watches your reaction like a predator tracking prey.

“You’re gonna gush for me again,” he mutters, voice hoarse. “Right on my cock.”

Your thighs try to close but he grabs them, spreading you wider, fucking you slow but relentless. His thumb finds your clit and rubs circles around it, sending shocks up your spine with every stroke.

“Oh my god—Nick—” You’re gasping, arching, clenching around him so hard it makes him curse under his breath.

“That’s it,” he growls. “Soaked and dripping all over me. You’re gonna do it again.”

He speeds up. The wet slap of skin fills the room — slick, obscene, your juices running down your ass onto the ruined sheets. He tilts his hips to grind into that spot inside you, the one that made you gush before.

You scream.

He grips your jaw with his free hand, making you look at him.

“Look at me when you do it.”

Your breath catches. “Nick—”

“C’mon, baby,” he pants, eyes locked on yours. “Show me. Give it to me.”

He thrusts faster, deeper, his thumb circling your clit with cruel precision until your whole body starts to spasm. The pressure builds sharp and heavy in your core, the same alien, uncontrollable ache from before, only stronger now with him inside you.

“I can’t—” you sob.

“Yes, you can. Right on me.”

He grits his teeth, hips slamming into yours, thumb relentless on your clit.

“Fuck—give it to me—”

You cry out and break.

A gush of liquid bursts out of you, splattering between your thighs, running down his cock. Nicholas groans loud and ragged, nearly bending in half as he watches it coat him.

“Holy fuck,” he snarls. “You’re squirting on me—”

You’re shaking, overwhelmed, but he doesn’t stop. He pulls out halfway, watches more liquid drip down his length, then slams back in with a sound that makes both of you moan.

“Again,” he growls. “Don’t stop now.”

He fucks you harder, his thumb back on your clit, dragging wetness up over your stomach and smearing it across your skin like he’s marking you.

“Messy little thing,” he murmurs. “Look at this mess you’re making on me.”

You’re incoherent, trembling, legs quivering against his sides, but your body keeps responding to him. The slick sound of your pussy around his cock is almost deafening, each thrust wetter and louder than the last.

“Nick—please—” you gasp.

“One more,” he pants, eyes wild. “One more for me.”

He tilts his hips again, grinding deep against your sweet spot while his thumb circles your clit. You’re crying now, tears sliding down your temples, hands clinging to his biceps as if you’ll fly apart if you don’t hold on.

“Yes, you can,” he breathes against your mouth. “You’re gonna soak me again.”

Your stomach knots.

Your vision goes white.

You scream and convulse as another gush explodes out of you, this time with him fully inside you. It spills down both of you, soaking his thighs, the sheets, everything. Nicholas swears loudly, almost a growl, feeling it gush around his cock.

“Fuck, baby—fuck—” he moans, hips still pumping as you drench him. “You’re unreal—”

You’re gone. Boneless. Twitching. Barely able to breathe.

He pulls out slowly, watching more wetness pour down from you onto the sheets, and strokes himself once, groaning at the sight.

“Never seen anything like you,” he mutters, breathless. “Never felt anything like this.”

He leans over you, kisses your mouth, still rocking his hips between your thighs as if he can’t stop.

“Look at me,” he whispers.

Nicholas stays inside you for a long moment after the last gush, chest pressed to yours, both of you shaking from the intensity. His forehead rests against yours, his breath hot and uneven. You can feel his cock still pulsing against your walls, but his hips are finally still.

“Breathe,” he whispers.

You do — shaky, broken inhales that smell like sweat and sex. Your hands are still fisted in his shoulders, your thighs trembling against his sides. Everything between your legs feels wet and open, every nerve buzzing.

He kisses your temple once, then slowly, carefully pulls out. A thick, wet sound follows him and you whimper from the loss. He looks down at where you’re lying and actually laughs under his breath.

“Look at this bed,” he says, voice hoarse. “Look at what you did.”

You hide your face with your hands, embarrassed. “Don’t—”

He catches your wrists gently and pulls them down.

“Don’t hide from me,” he murmurs, softer now. “You’re perfect like this.”

His hands stroke up your thighs, over your hips, spreading the wetness without shame. Then he reaches for the towel you keep at the edge of the bed and starts wiping you down with slow, careful motions. Every touch is light, soothing, completely different from the way he was moving minutes ago.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

You nod, still dazed. “Yeah…”

He smiles, wiping the inside of your thighs, then tossing the towel aside. “Good girl.”

Nicholas stretches out next to you and pulls you into his chest. His skin is warm and damp, his heartbeat still fast under your ear. He tucks your hair behind your ear and kisses the top of your head.

“I didn’t know you could do that,” he murmurs.

You shake your head against his chest. “Neither did I.”

He chuckles, low and pleased. “Guess I just unlocked a new level.”

You swat at him weakly, but he catches your hand and presses it to his mouth, kissing your knuckles.

“I’m still hard, you know,” he says, voice turning dark again for a second. “And all I can think about is how you felt when you squirted on me.”

You shiver at the tone, but he just hugs you tighter.

“Not now,” he whispers. “Now I’m gonna hold you until you stop shaking.”

His thumb strokes lazy circles on your hip. “But later…” His lips brush your ear. “Later, I’m going to see how many times I can make you do it again.”

You melt into his chest, exhausted, a little stunned, but safe in the circle of his arms.

And for the first time all night, Nicholas is still.

…..…….……………………….…..:><:………………………………………

Taglist: @17ha @moonstruckbae @galaxy4489 @notinthemoodbeach @mrsbyun-baek

[pandacherryblossoms]

𐙚 “Bent & Broken” - Park Jisung 𐙚

Kinktober Day 4

wc: 2.9k

Genre: Smut MDNI 18+

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, Power dynamics, Dom/Sub, Light bondage, Spanking, Orgasm control, Orgasm denial, Praise, Degradation, Manhandling, Control, Verbal play, Soft aftercare

You don’t even remember who started it. It’s the kind of argument you can only have sprawled across an unmade bed at 11:34 p.m.—half about nothing, half about a high score that you allegedly “stole” with a lucky button mash. He takes the controller and hides it behind his back; you dive for it; he twists, laughing, and in the scramble you end up kneeling on the mattress with your palm planted on his chest, grinning like a menace.

“Hand it over,” you warn.

“Say please.” Jisung keeps the controller just out of reach and tilts his head, like he’s testing the weight of your threat. His hair is a mess and his hoodie hangs off one shoulder and he has the audacity to look innocent.

“Please,” you say, sweet as syrup, and immediately lunge.

He catches your wrist mid-flight. It happens too fast to process; one second you’re reaching, the next you’ve been turned, your back to his chest, your arm folded behind you in a hold that’s more suggestion than force. He’s laughing into your hair. You’re laughing, too, until you notice how easily he’s holding you exactly where he wants.

“Mm.” His breath warms the edge of your ear. “Cute try.”

You kick back lightly at his shin—petty, not serious—and that’s when he decides playtime is over. He drops the controller, scoops you around the waist, and tosses you forward onto the bed like you weigh nothing. You bounce and squeak; he follows, a clean, quick crowding of your space, a hand at your hip, one at the back of your knee, folding you onto your side before you can plan a counter.

“Hey—!” you protest, breathless and not at all angry.

“Hey,” he mimics, downright cheerful, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand. He leans over you, arm braced near your ear, his grin going slow and smug as he watches your face catch up to your body. “Look at you. Already losing.”

“I was winning five seconds ago.”

“Were you?” His fingers tighten just enough at your wrists for the message to land: you’re not going anywhere until he’s done. “Try again.”

You twist, because you have to try, and he just repositions you—rolls you flat, slides his thigh between yours, pushes your wrists higher. Not rough. Not negotiable. You curse him in a whisper and he smiles like you kissed him.

“Thought you could beat me?” His voice drops, playful turned keen. “Cute.”

“You’re cheating.”

“Absolutely.” He kisses the corner of your mouth; you chase it, and he laughs, low. “Hands stay where I put them.”

“You didn’t say please,” you say, because your mouth always gets you in trouble.

He tips his head like he’s considering good behavior. “Please,” he says politely, and then ruins it by dragging your wrists higher until your back arches and your chest lifts to him like an offering.

Heat settles along your collarbone and down your spine. You test the hold again on principle. He just keeps you—one hand, easy, fingers caging your wrists—and his other hand skims down your side, over your hip, beneath the hem of your shirt. Your breath catches on instinct and you pretend it doesn’t. He notices, because he notices everything.

“That’s better,” he says, more to himself than to you, and palms you through your shorts. “I say stay. You stay.”

“Bossy.”

“Effective.” His thumb presses, slow and sure, right where you’re already warm. Your pelvis tips up to meet him on reflex and he hums like music you didn’t mean to turn on. “You’re going to behave, or I’m going to get mean.”

“Define mean.”

His smile is pure danger. “You’ll find out.”

You try a different tactic: kissing him hard, a bite of lip, a roll of your hips, a little whine you know does things to him. He returns the kiss and then breaks it with a breath of a laugh, dropping your wrists only to catch your ankles and tug. You jolt down the bed with a useless little ah!; he hauls you back by the thighs until your hips meet his. You’re flat on your back, breath stacked in your chest, wide-eyed at how easily he moves you like furniture.

“Stay,” he repeats, sharper now, and plants your hands over your head on the pillow. “Don’t make me tie them.”

“You don’t even have rope.”

He glances toward his hoodie drawer, then back to you with a look that says hoodies have strings, genius, and you decide to behave—for now. Your arms soften into place. He rewards good decisions with a kiss that steals the last smug argument from your tongue, his palm sliding under the elastic of your shorts, fingers not sweet, not rough: inevitable.

“You ask for trouble so pretty,” he says. He nudges the shorts down. You lift. They go. He uses his knuckles against your inner thigh as if he’s coaxing your knees apart without ever saying the word. “Now be good.”

“Make me.”

He does. He drags two fingers through you, slow enough to make your breath slip. The third pass presses in—one finger, then two, the stretch patient and a little rude, his thumb landing on your clit with a confidence that makes your ankles flex. You choke on a sound that doesn’t decide if it’s a moan or his name.

“That’s it,” he says, tone going plush. “Don’t hold back. I didn’t say you could be quiet.”

“You didn’t say—ah—anything about noise,” you manage, but your knees are already falling wider, your hips rolling up to chase the pressure he gives and takes away like he owns it.

“Consider it a standing order.” His smirk tilts meaner; his fingers curl and your spine answers with a bend he watches like he planned it. “Hands stay. Eyes on me. If you look away, I stop.”

You look. Of course you do. His eyes, dark and bright together, pin you harder than his hand does. He finds a rhythm and rides it, a steady push-curl-draw that sets your breath to its metronome. When you try to grind for more, he slows; when you pant and try to pretend you’re fine, he speeds just enough to ruin the pretense. Your mouth opens because that’s what mouths do when they forget how to be useful.

“You like me bossy,” he says. It isn’t a question.

“No,” you lie, and your thighs tremble so hard you both feel it.

He laughs, delighted. “Tell me the truth or I make you wait.”

You grit your teeth because you want to win something tonight. His pace drops, just a fraction. It’s awful. “I like you bossy,” you gasp, shamefully fast. “Happy?”

“Ecstatic.” He rewards honesty by going exactly as hard as you need, forearm braced to keep you still when your hips try to run. “Good girl.”

The first orgasm hits quicker than you want to admit. You cling to the pillow, eyes locked to his because losing the look means losing everything. You break with a sound you’ll deny later, legs kicking uselessly around his ribs; he grins, keeps the pressure through the shiver, eases just as you go oversensitive, and kisses your open mouth like he’s stealing the taste of it for himself.

“Again,” he says, and you make a small, furious noise that only makes him beam wider. “I said again.”

“I need—”

“What you need,” he says, “is to do what I tell you.”

He flips you like you’re light—one hand at your hip, the other at your shoulder—turns you onto your stomach, and palms you back into the mattress until your spine bows. A sharp smack lands on the curve of your ass, not cruel, a reminder. You yelp. He strokes the sting, presses the heat with his palm like he’s stamping a signature.

“Arms,” he orders, and threads your hands behind your lower back, crossing your wrists there, his fingers locking over them for a moment before he releases. “Keep them.”

“I can’t—”

“You can.” He drags your hips up, shoves a pillow under you, and the angle is suddenly criminal. “And you will.”

He kneels behind, thumbs pushing your knees apart until your inner thighs tighten. You hear the rough sound of his zipper, the condom foil’s quick rip, the low curse he gives when he rolls it on—fuck, look at you—like he didn’t expect to find you this wet and wrecked already and loves that he did.

“You’re going to behave,” he says, voice pitched lower with want. His palm finds your lower back, weight anchoring you. “Or I’ll make you behave.”

“Try it,” you taunt, because your survival instinct is broken.

He does not try. He succeeds.

The first push is deliberate, stealing the rest of your air. He eases in an inch, waits for your body to flex open around him, then takes the next, the next, until you’re full and swearing and biting the sheet. He pauses, both of you trembling in different ways. His hand curls into the nape of your neck, thumb pressed hard at the base of your skull like he’s reminding you who you belong to.

“Breathe,” he says, and the word goes straight down your spine. “That’s it. Take me.”

“Jisung,” you say, a thin sound. “Move.”

“Ask properly,” he says, cheerful menace returning. “Or I’ll just—” He pulls out halfway and sinks back in maddeningly slow. Your vision flashes. “—enjoy this myself.”

“Please,” you blurt, immediately. Dignity is a myth. “Please, move.”

“There we go.” He sets the pace he wants: deep enough you feel it behind your teeth, steady enough your body learns it fast and starts begging for more without consulting your mouth. He keeps one hand at your hip, the other pressed flat between your shoulder blades. When you try to push back, he pins you harder. “Uh-uh. Who’s in charge?”

“You are,” you grit out, the words breaking on his rhythm.

“Say it pretty.”

“You’re in charge.” You hate how fast you say it. You love how it makes him groan.

“Cute,” he says. “But try again.”

“Jisung—”

“Wrong answer.” He slows to a crawl. You swear at him. He grins and swats you, a precise smack that makes heat bloom. “Try. Again.”

“My—” You choke on the word because it feels too naked. He waits, hips grinding shallow, controlled rolls that undo your brain. “My… sir.”

He swears again, rough, and the next thrust is a reward that steals your breath. “There she is.”

He manhandles you through the shapes he wants: folded over the pillow, one knee drawn higher so you feel him at a different angle; flipped onto your back and dragged to the edge of the bed, ankles caught and tossed over his shoulders like you weigh nothing, your hands shoved back above your head when you forget your place; rolled into his lap, straddling, only to be lifted and dropped just enough to prove he can make gravity his accomplice.

“Hands off,” he snaps, playful but sharp, when you reach for his shoulders. “I didn’t say you could touch.”

You curl your fingers into the sheet instead and he rewards obedience by snapping his hips up so hard you swear. His mouth finds your throat, teeth scraping where your pulse bucks. “Keep your eyes on me,” he says. You do. Of course you do. “That’s it. Take it.”

You fall apart again around him with your mouth open and no sound, too far gone for noise. He slows just enough to ride the spasm, laughing low when your legs try to clamp around his hips and he pries them apart with his hands like he’s opening a gift.

“Stay open,” he orders. “If you close, we start over.”

“Don’t you dare—” The threat dissolves into a whine when he drags you to your stomach again, hand hooking your ankle to spread you wide. He pistons into you, relentless now, sweat dampening the hair at his temple, focus knifing you to the bed.

“Thought you could win,” he pants, amusement still there in the edges, infuriating and hot. “Look at you. Look how easy you are for me.”

“Shut up,” you say, voice wrecked.

“Say please.”

“Please,” you gasp, not even sure what you’re asking for anymore. “Please, please—”

“Please what.”

“Let me—” You can’t say it. He decides to be mean.

“No,” he says mildly, and stops. You almost sob. He’s still inside you and not moving and it’s awful. “You can wait. Hands still. Eyes on me.”

“Jisung.”

“Sir,” he corrects, grin gone wicked.

You glare. He raises his eyebrows, patient. You last three heartbeats.

“Sir,” you say, and your cheeks burn. “Please let me come.”

“Better.” He licks his thumb, drags it slow over your lower lip, then taps your chin like good girl. “Ask again. Nicer.”

“Please, sir.” The word frays. “I’ll be good. I’ll be—” You trip over the honesty because it’s heavy. “I’ll be yours.”

He loses the smirk like someone pulled a plug. His expression softens into something that makes your stomach dip. “You already are,” he says, almost to himself, and then his hand is at your hip, the other at your throat, and he moves.

No mercy left in it. Controlled, yes. Edited, no. He rails you through the edge he’s kept you on, pace snapping perfect, his palm at your throat a weight not a choke, the pressure where you feel owned. Your hands scrabble for purchase and find nothing that isn’t him. “Look at me,” he demands. You do. He’s flushed, focused, eyes locked to your face like the only thing that exists is the way you split for him and the way your mouth shapes his name.

“You’re going to come now,” he says, voice razor-clean. “Do it for me. I want you loud.”

You do it like he ordered it into your bones. It tears through you, white-hot, your body going tight enough to cramp then breaking into aftershocks that leave you shaking. He holds you there through the worst of it, working you like a puzzle he loves too much to rush. Your vision shimmers. Your voice scratches raw on his name. He doesn’t let you run; he lets you stay in it until you’ve given him every last twitch.

“Good girl,” he says, rough with it, and only then does he chase his own finish. He flips you swiftly, yanks you to the edge, hauls your thighs up and pounds—shallow, fast, a tightened focus that has you whining even through afterglow because your body is a traitor. He fucks a curse into your throat, kisses you like he can swallow the sound, and comes with a strangled groan that melts straight into a laugh against your mouth like he can’t help being happy he ruined you.

He stays there, breathing hard, forehead to yours, one hand cupping your jaw as if he’s afraid you’ll slip off the bed and the planet if he doesn’t keep you. The laugh fades to something softer. His thumb strokes along your cheekbone; the other palm loosens at your thigh, massaging reassurance back into the muscle he held so tight.

“Hey,” he says, voice sanded down. “Still with me?”

You nod, the motion lazy. “Barely.”

“Perfect.” He kisses your nose because he’s an asshole and somehow it makes your eyes sting. “Told you not to start a fight you couldn’t finish.”

“You cheated,” you mutter, slurring with exhaustion. “With your… body.”

He grins, pleased. “That’s called skill.” He presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, then the other, then the space under your jaw where your pulse finally remembers promise instead of panic. “Don’t move.”

“I can’t feel my legs,” you say honestly.

“Good.” He eases out carefully, disposes of the condom, and returns with a warm cloth, the domesticity so at odds with how he just manhandled you that it knocks a laugh out of your wrecked throat. He cleans you without commentary, efficient but gentle. He pulls your shirt down, tugs the blanket up, then slides in behind you to gather you by the waist like you’re an armful of something expensive he just paid too much for.

“Water,” he remembers, reaching blind for the bottle. He tips it to your lips. You take a few sips and he makes a satisfied sound like this was the last checkbox on his list. “Good.”

You lie there and breathe, each inhale less ridiculous than the last. His hand drifts, not hungry, just… possessive. Thumb strokes your hipbone, knuckles press to your stomach, palm spreads over your ribs like he wants to feel each breath as proof.

“Still think you can beat me?” he asks eventually, smug bleeding back into the softness.

“Yes,” you say, because you are pathologically incapable of learning.

His laugh rumbles against your shoulder. “Next time you start a fight,” he murmurs—kiss to your temple, warm, faintly apologetic for how hard he went even though he’d do it again—“remember how it ends.”

“How does it end,” you ask, drowsy, already knowing.

“With you exactly where I put you,” he says, playful but sharp even now. His hand tightens at your waist. “And me not letting you up until I decide.”

“Bossy.”

“Effective,” he echoes, pleased, the word small and smug against your hair.

You pretend to roll your eyes and fail halfway through because sleep trips you first. He feels the slack in your body and settles in deeper, chest to your back, entire weight the same steady press that pinned you when he told you stay. He doesn’t let go until your breathing evens. He doesn’t stop touching you even then, palm warm at your stomach, thumb lazy, like he’s writing mine in slow circles no one else will ever read.

…..…….……………………….…..:><:………………………………………

Taglist: @17ha @moonstruckbae @galaxy4489 @notinthemoodbeach

[pandacherryblossoms]

𐙚 “Shaken Sweet” - Yu Jimin 𐙚

Kinktober Day 3

wc: 2.9k

Genre: Smut MDNI 18+

Warnings: Explicit sexual, Overstimulation, Multiple orgasms, Use of a vibrator, Light bondage (pinning wrists, holding hips in place), Power play, Dirty talk, Light humiliation/teasing, Praise kink, Crying during sex, Soft aftercare

The rain didn’t sound busy anymore—just a steady hush that made the apartment feel farther from the rest of the city than it really was. A candle worked itself short on the dresser, throwing a low glow that softened the corners of everything. You’d been horizontal for hours with Karina sprawled sideways across most of the bed, remote abandoned on the pillow, hoodie sleeves shoved to her elbows. She had one calf thrown over your thighs like a paperweight while you “watched” a show that stopped being interesting the moment she started tracing patterns on your stomach with the blunt edge of a fingernail.

“You’re not even pretending,” she said without looking at the TV.

“It’s a bad show.”

“It’s a perfect show. It gives us an excuse to do nothing.” Her finger spiraled toward your waistband and dipped under the hem. “Except I think you want to do something.”

You caught her wrist out of habit and she made a considering sound, as if this were the part of a recipe that required resting the dough. Then she turned your chin with two fingers and kissed you. No rush. No warning. Just that kiss like a door unlocking: lips warm, tongue slow, a little tug to your lower lip that made heat pool right where her hand was already drifting. When she pulled back, you followed without meaning to and she smiled like she’d won a bet with herself.

“What do you want from me tonight?” she asked, voice low and sure.

“You,” you said, and it came out too fast. Your cheeks warmed. “Mean.”

A spark lit behind her eyes—not sharp, not cruel; delighted. “Mean how?”

“Don’t stop when I ask.”

“That’s my favorite kind.” She tapped your mouth with her thumb, amused. “Ask me nicely.”

“Make me shake,” you whispered. “Keep going even if I beg.”

“Good girl.” She said it like a decision.

Her hand pushed your shirt up the slow way, knuckles smoothing over your ribs, then your sternum, then the dip of your belly. She watched your face while she moved, measuring each new inch of skin she uncovered like she intended to put it back exactly as it was when she was finished. Then she bent and kissed your chest—once, twice, the wet heat of her mouth branding and cooling in the same second. You arched and she took the invitation, pressing her palm between your thighs through the soft cotton of your shorts.

“Already warm.” She sounded pleased, almost proud. “Lift.”

You lifted. Shorts slid to your knees and off the bed. She didn’t stare; she looked. There was a difference. It felt like being inventory she loved—counted, cataloged, handled. A kiss dotted the inside of your knee. Another landed higher. She tugged your underwear aside with two fingers and stroked you, just once, from slick to clit, slow enough that your hips chased the contact.

“Oh,” you breathed, head tipping back.

“Mm. Exactly.” The curve of her mouth turned a little mean. “So easy.”

When she pressed two fingers inside, your body answered like it had been waiting for her shape. She settled into a rhythm that didn’t show off. The heel of her hand rocked against your clit while those two fingers moved in patient strokes that located the edge and then pushed it a fraction farther with each pass. Your hands went useless—one curled in the sheet, the other in her hoodie—and she kissed you again to collect the sounds that slipped out.

“Let me hear it,” she coaxed against your mouth, and you didn’t even try to be quiet.

The first orgasm came like the mattress had tilted and you were sliding. Your stomach pulled tight, then shook loose; your thighs trembled around her wrist; your voice broke in a sound that barely made it out of your chest. She didn’t rush the crest or step out from under you at the top—she held a steady pressure through it, then eased just enough to extend the aftershocks, drawing the release out like thread.

You were still catching your breath when you felt the moment harden—not the tempo, the intent. Nothing else changed; that was the mean part. Her fingers never left you. The heel of her hand pressed the same circle. Her mouth found your jaw, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth, and her breathing never sped up.

“Wait,” you managed, a reflex more than a decision. “Rina—”

“No.” She caught your wrist when you reached for her, pinning it to the mattress with a firm, unhurried grip that made your stomach drop. “You asked me to be mean. I’m not done because you fell apart once.”

“Please.”

“Already begging?” Her mouth curved, voice sweet as syrup, words sharpened to a teasing edge. “We’ve barely started.”

You tried to twist away from the bright bite of sensitivity and she rode the motion, pressing your hip back to the mattress with her free hand, using the weight of her body instead of force. “Stay where I put you,” she said, soft as a lullaby and twice as effective.

The second release hit quicker and cut harder, edged with that sting that makes your heels dig and your throat go ragged. Your eyes pricked. Karina’s tongue caught the tear that slid toward your ear and chased it away like she wanted to own even that.

“So pretty when you crack,” she said, not bothering to pretend it wasn’t a taunt. “Look at you.”

She slid down in the same motion she used to breathe, palms smoothing your thighs outward with a kind of indulgent stubbornness. You opened because she decided you should. Her mouth kissed the soft crease where thigh met hip, then the other, then finally you—slow at first, deliberate, the flat of her tongue learning your particular map tonight. When she sealed her mouth around your clit and drew steady suction, your spine bowed without your permission.

“Karina,” you gasped, helpless. “It’s—”

“Too much?” The toy-nightstand drawer clicked with the back of her knuckles like muscle memory. She reached, found the small vibe, set it for a low hum, and—cruel—put it in your palm for one beat so you felt its voice in your bones. Then she took it back, kissed your knuckles, and positioned herself between your knees again. “Open. Wider.”

You did. The toy met you with an unbothered vibration that made a noise you didn’t recognize leave your chest. Her tongue slid lower to work in counterpoint, and her hands tucked under your thighs to anchor you because your legs had started to jitter. You tried to close around her face and she pushed your knees wider with patient pressure.

“Don’t hide.” A soft little warning you felt more than heard. “I want to see you.”

The next orgasms blurred. They didn’t line up in neat beats the way you’d like to pretend they do; they slammed into each other and broke apart, some quick and spiteful, some long and rolling, some so sharp your vision blanked at the edges. Karina didn’t gloat like a drill sergeant and she didn’t coo like a saint—she drove you with a mix that made you crazy because it made you feel known.

“Pathetic,” she said around a laugh that wasn’t unkind when your thighs shook hard enough to squeak the mattress. “Crying already.”

“Please,” you said, not sure whether you were begging for mercy or permission. “I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” Her eyes flicked up, calm and bright, as if you were trying to sell her a lie she’d already returned. “Give me another.”

You did. Your hands clawed at the sheet, then at her shoulder, then at nothing because even touching felt like a decision you couldn’t afford to make. The toy stayed planted exactly where you hated it; her mouth never lost its measure. When you tried to pull away from the pressure, she followed. When you tried to chase, she held you still. Every time your voice cracked, she pressed a little harder or held a little longer, steering the breaking into something she liked the shape of.

“Don’t run,” she said, and it should have sounded harsh. It sounded like the only rule that mattered. “You asked for this.”

You gave it to her, because some part of you trusted her more than you trusted the part of you that wanted to escape. The toy became the pulse the whole room kept time to. You thought of nothing for such a long time that when thoughts returned, they came as single words: please, more, stop, yes, God, Karina. She lifted just long enough to lick a salt track from your cheekbone and smiled down at you, mean again because you loved it.

“You’re so sweet when you can’t handle it,” she said. “My favorite version of you.”

“Rina—”

“What.”

“Be nice.”

“Oh, I’m being nice,” she said, and slid two fingers inside you again, a deep push that made your belly spasm. “You just don’t like how nice feels yet.”

Her thumb replaced the toy with steady pressure; the vibe slid lower to buzz where her fingers stretched you, the combination turning your body electric. The sound that left you wasn’t a word. She watched your mouth fall open and then focused back on where she worked you, relentless, efficient, a master who preferred results to speeches.

“Look at me,” she said when you squeezed your eyes shut hard enough to see static. You forced them open and found her looking up from between your thighs, hair sticking to her cheek, mouth slick, expression infuriatingly calm. “Good girl. That’s it. One more.”

“I don’t have one more.”

“You do,” she said, and there was no edge in it; there didn’t need to be. She was simply correct. “Breathe.”

You hooked your breath to the rhythm she gave with her body: in when she eased, out when she pressed, in when her fingers drew back, out when they curled and the base of your spine turned to a wire. She didn’t speed up. She didn’t slow down. She had already found the exact angle that rewrote you and she executed it like craft.

The last orgasm didn’t build like the others. It rose out of the center of you with such certainty you were shaking before you knew why. You said no and meant yes; you said please and meant don’t stop. Karina didn’t change anything except the pressure of her thumb—one degree firmer—and the world came apart.

You went tight and loose at once, body seizing, unlocking, seizing again. Tears streaked your temples. Your voice broke on her name. She kept you there—thumb steady, fingers working, mouth a warm brand at your inner thigh—until you had nothing left to give and still trembled in aftershocks against her hand. Only then did she click the toy off and slide her fingers free, easing you down with small, smoothing passes along your thigh like she was coaxing flight out of startled feathers.

“Up,” she said quietly, already moving up the bed to catch you. She hauled you onto her chest with a care that contradicted every cruel second of the last fifteen minutes. “Come here.”

You went, boneless as wet paper, breath sawing at your own mouth because you couldn’t find the pace again yet. She wrapped you in her hoodie without asking—arms threaded through, hem tugged down until it brushed the tops of your thighs—and pressed a kiss to your hairline that felt like a stamp. The bottle of water touched your lip; you swallowed obediently because decisions were someone else’s job right now. A warm cloth smoothed the mess away between your legs with slow care that made your eyes sting again for a different reason.

“Better?” she asked, thumb brushing under one eye where a tear clung stubbornly.

You nodded, the motion small. “Floaty.”

“Good.” A small, satisfied sound in her chest. “Exactly where I want you.”

“Mean,” you accused, muffled in the hoodie.

“You begged for mean.” She tipped your chin so you’d look at her. “And you’re adorable when you cry.”

“Rude.”

“Accurate.” She kissed the corner of your mouth. “You did so well.”

You lay in the hum of it awhile, your heart gradually remembering how to be reasonable. The rain shifted on the window. The candle guttered and steadied. Every so often your thighs trembled in tiny aftershocks and her palm weight found them by instinct, pressing you down to earth. When your voice returned, it was soft.

“If I ask for it again,” you said, “will you be like this again?”

Karina studied you like she enjoyed choosing the truth each time she said it. “I’ll be meaner,” she said, as if offering a second helping. “You’re easier to ruin when you stop pretending you can’t take it.”

Your stomach did something shameful and satisfied. “I hate you.”

“You love me,” she corrected, and tugged the blanket over your hips. “And tomorrow you’ll pretend to hate me walking down the hall.”

“I will run into the wall on purpose.”

“You will not,” she said, smug. “I’m making pancakes.”

“Fine,” you sighed, already doomed.

“Thought so.”

She kept stroking your hair, long slow passes that told every last nerve we’re finished. Your breathing caught her rhythm and matched it. You were nearly gone when she dipped, pressed a kiss between your eyebrows, and made the night’s final incision with a whisper that cut deeper for being so gentle.

“Now you know what happens when I decide one isn’t enough.”

The line settled in your bones like a brand you asked for. You smiled despite yourself, tucked closer, and let the room dim to syrup while she held you—soft, unyielding, and exactly as mean as you begged her to be.

…..…….……………………….…..:><:………………………………………

Taglist: @17ha @moonstruckbae @galaxy4489

@notinthemoodbeach

[pandacherryblossoms]

𐙚 “Bent & Broken” - Brian Ho 𐙚

Kinktober Day 3

wc: 3.7k

Genre: Smut MDNI 18+

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, BDSM themes, Spanking, Impact play, Breath counting, Orgasm control, Dirty talk, Light humiliation, Use of honorifics (“sir”), Restraint, Edging, Praise kink, Aftercare

You try very hard to be good for exactly three minutes.

Brian’s desk lamp throws a neat cone of light over his keyboard, the rest of the apartment warm with rain-glow and the soft hiss of the oven’s preheat. He’s in a hoodie with the sleeves shoved to his elbows, jaw tight like he’s chewing on a problem. Your job, obviously, is to distract him from being a responsible adult.

You start small. You fold yourself into his office chair backward and spin once, then twice, letting your socked toes skim the floor in slow circles. He glances over—one look, quick and fond—then back to the spreadsheet. You set a glass of water on the coaster by his elbow because you know he’ll forget he’s thirsty; he drinks without looking and slides the empty glass absentmindedly to your side like he’s paying a tax.

You steal his mouse for no reason at all.

He stills. You can feel the pause as if the air has weight. Then, calmly, “Give.”

You hide it behind your back like a five-year-old. “Make me.”

His mouth curves. “Last chance.”

“You always say that.”

He flips the laptop shut with two fingers. For a beat he just sits there, hands idle on the closed lid, watching you in the lamplight while the rain slow-taps the window. Something in his attention changes temperature. Your pulse answers.

“Stand up,” he says, voice even, no raise, no push.

Heat slides into your face and low in your stomach at the same time. You set the mouse in the middle of the desk like a peace offering and get up. The chair rolls back a half inch. Brian does not move yet. He lets the moment settle around your ankles like water.

“How are we doing colors?” he asks.

“Green.” Your voice is already softer than you meant it to be. “I’m green.”

“Good.” He rises. The chair creaks, the floorboard under his weight complains, the lamp makes that faint electric hum you only hear when everything else is quiet. “Bedroom. Hands on the mattress, bend.”

There’s no play in it. No theatrics. He just walks ahead of you, and you follow because he said to and because some part of you started as soon as he closed the laptop.

The bed is a mess of blanket and half-flattened pillows. The window is cracked, the rain louder here, a thin cool thread in the room’s warm air. Brian shuts the door with a click. He points to the foot of the bed. You brace your palms on the edge, bend from the hip, settle your weight through your arms until your body knows where to put itself. He steps behind you and skims one palm down your spine, quick and firm, not petting—marking position.

“You want to play while I work,” he says, tone conversational in a way that is worse than a shout. “So we’ll play my way.”

He hooks his fingers into your waistband. Denim drags over your thighs. The air kisses skin and you flinch because you can feel your own heat. He makes a quiet approving sound and adjusts your stance with his foot—wider—then nudges your left ankle a fraction back. You breathe out because it feels like a frame locking.

“Counting,” he says. “Clear voice. Miss a number, we restart. If you move, we add five. If you reach back, we add ten.”

“How many?”

“Until I decide you’ve learned.” He puts his hand on the small of your back. “Ask me to begin.”

“Please,” you say, cheeks burning, electricity gathering under your skin. “Please begin.”

The first slap lands low and sharp. It is not a warning tap. It is a line. Your breath jumps. Heat blooms immediate and bright, a clean pain that spreads and sits. He waits, hand resting heavy over the sting.

“One,” you say, and already your voice isn’t steady.

The second lands higher, the third a precise mirror on the other side. You count them because he told you to. Four bites into the same spot as one, stacking the heat like coals. Five skips to the other side, not quite symmetrical. Six drops right where your skin is fresh and you swear into the duvet without meaning to.

“Louder,” he says. “You want to brat, you can say your numbers like a big girl.”

“Six,” you say, louder. Your cheeks are hot enough to fry an egg. He rewards you with his palm pressed flat to the ache, not soothing exactly, just proving he sees what he’s making.

Seven, eight, nine—he builds a pattern you only understand in the half-second before it lands. You brace. You still jolt. By twelve your thighs tremble. By fourteen you realize you are soaked and that the wet doesn’t embarrass you; it incriminates you, and that thrills you harder than you want to admit.

“Color,” he says, and his voice is still controlled, still easy.

“Green.”

“Count.”

“Fifteen.” Your voice breaks and you catch it, swallow the crack, start again. “Fifteen.”

“Better.”

Sixteen, seventeen. You lift your head without meaning to and he notices because he notices everything.

“Head down.”

You put your forehead on the duvet. He lands eighteen at the top of the curve where the sting lives longest and you choke on the breath you meant to count with.

“What was that?”

You hate him. You love him. “Eighteen.”

“Try again.” He taps twice, light as drumming, exactly where it burns. “From one.”

“Brian,” you say, a plea and a protest and a prayer.

“From one,” he repeats, and you hear it now—a line of iron under velvet, strict in a way that takes your breath away because he does not move, he does not negotiate, he just holds the frame and expects you to fill it.

“One,” you whisper, and the slap lands. Heat flares. “Two.” He ghosts his palm over the sting and your skin jumps under his hand like it knows him. “Three.”

The count becomes a rope to hold. Four through ten unspool in a rhythm he writes on your body, even when he breaks it on purpose to see if you’re paying attention. You are. You are nowhere but here, in your breath and your skin and the relentless way he refuses to be swayed by your little sounds. Eleven, twelve, thirteen—your voice steadies almost against your will. Fourteen, fifteen—your knees threaten to buckle, and he slides his hand to your hip and pins you down with a grip that says stay.

“Sixteen,” you gasp, and he hums praise that you feel in your spine like a current.

“Seventeen.”

“Louder.”

“Seventeen.” You bite it out. He gives you a sharp one for honesty, and you gasp the last number around the sting. “Eighteen.”

He stops. The quiet hums. You float in it, trembling, breath working in uneven pulls, skin alive from the small of your back to the backs of your knees.

“Hands stay where they are,” he says, and you hear him move—one footstep to the side, the rustle of him rolling his sleeves higher. “If you reach, we start again.”

You curl your fingers into the duvet and hold.

His palm returns to your heat and you flinch at the contact because the skin is singing. He leaves it there until you breathe, then slides two fingers between your thighs and pushes in. The stretch makes your eyes water. You are open for him instantly, slick and greedy and ruined. His laugh is soft and cruel at once.

“Greedy little thing,” he says. “All that noise and you’re dripping on my hand.”

You try not to make a sound. You fail.

“Count to twenty,” he says, and his hand is inside you and his other palm presses the small of your back and there is nowhere to go.

“How—”

“Breaths,” he says, and the word is a command and a kindness both. “You’re going to breathe for me. You’re going to feel every inch of my fingers. You are not going to come until I tell you to. Understand.”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what.”

“Yes, sir.” The honorific rolls out of you like a natural law. Heat blooms under your skin at the same time his thumb settles on your clit and does not move, just presses, steady and cruel.

“One.” You breathe in, out, count it. He presses deeper, curls just once. Your knees buckle a fraction and his hand yanks your hip back into place, not harsh, unarguable.

“Two.” You feel the way your body clutches at him because it wants more, and he does not give it; he gives you exactly what he wants to give and no more. “Three.”

“Don’t rush,” he says. “That’s my job.”

Four, five, six—your breath has a sound now, a wet open thing that makes the air in the room feel heavy. Seven, eight—he rubs the heel of his hand against your clit, just a tiny drag, and the hot spark shoots up your spine and shatters across your shoulders.

“Nine,” you gasp, and your voice shakes so badly you have to bite the duvet to hold it together. “Ten.”

“Color.”

“Green.” It sounds like you had to find the word in the dark.

“Good. Eleven.”

You obey. Twelve. Thirteen. It becomes a climb and a fall at the same time. Your thighs shake. Your fingers ache where you’ve fisted them in the cover. Your face is wet and you don’t know when that started. Fourteen. Fifteen. He shifts angle by a hair and the world changes shape.

“Sixteen,” you say, and then—“Seventeen—oh—seventeen—” and you hear your own voice tear and can’t stop it.

“Slow it down,” he says, steady as a metronome, the press of his thumb relentless. “You’re not done.”

You drag a breath in like it’s heavy. “Eighteen.” He crooks again and it’s like he’s scooping the orgasm up in his hand and refusing to hand it to you.

“Nineteen.”

“Ask.”

“Please.” You don’t know what you’re asking for because he already has his fingers inside you, already has the pressure on your clit, already has your whole body held in his grip. It doesn’t matter. “Please let me.”

He waits half a second, a full second, the exact length of the cruelty you can bear, then: “Twenty. Be good and come.”

You come so hard you forget how to hold your body together. It rips through you from inside, hot and shaking and bright, your voice breaking into the duvet because he told you to be loud and you can’t manage anything but this. He keeps the pressure steady through the first wave, the second, the third, until you are wrung out and stuttering, until the contractions go from claws to flutters and your legs stop trying to leave you.

He eases his fingers out slow. Your whole body feels like a struck match cooling. You stay folded over the bed because you don’t trust your knees.

“Hands,” he says, and his voice has shifted again—still Brian, still the strict line under everything, but the sharpness has softened around the edges. “Up.”

You push up onto your forearms. He catches your waist when you sway.

“Color?”

“Green,” you say, shivery and small. “I’m green.”

“Good girl.” The praise lands like the warmest thing in the room.

He steps away. You hear the bathroom faucet. He is back with a washcloth warm as a bath, with a bottle of water that drips on your wrist, with a small jar you’ve seen him stash in the bathroom cabinet and never questioned. He presses the water into your hand. You drink. He waits until you take three swallows, then sets it on the nightstand and eases you to your side, then your back.

“Stay.”

He pushes your knees up a little and cleans you carefully, efficient but gentle, the warmth a balm on tender skin. When he touches the cloth to the heat across your ass you hiss and he stills, palm flat on your thigh until the sound dies. The aloe is cool and clean-smelling; he rubs it in with careful circles, not lingering to tease, just tending to what he made. He kisses the sore spots as if he can pull the heat into his mouth and keep it.

“Too much?” he asks. Not anxious. Just checking.

You shake your head. “It was… a lot,” you say truthfully, and then find a better word. “It was… right.”

“Good.” He sets the jar aside, wipes his fingers, then slides up onto the bed and pulls you into him. The hoodie smells like rain and laundry and him. The harshness is gone so fast it makes you swim; what’s left is steadiness, the exact shape of safety you crave after you’ve been held down and asked to be better.

“You were impossible,” he says into your hair, amused again like the guy who steals your ice. “And then you were perfect.”

“I messed up the count.”

“You picked it back up.” His thumb sweeps at your cheekbone and finds damp. He kisses the tear track and does not make a joke. “That’s what matters.”

You lie there while the rain writes soft lines on the window. He breathes slow. Your body finds the rhythm and meets it. When your brain starts to come back, the edges of you tingling, you angle your face up.

“Do you…” You clear your throat. “Do you like me bratty.”

His mouth crooks. “I like you honest.” He taps the inside of your knee under the blanket. “Sometimes honest looks like bratty. Sometimes it looks like the way you obeyed so fast you couldn’t breathe. Both of those belong to me.”

Heat flares all over again, not the panicked kind, the molten kind. You nod against his chest. He hums—contented, satisfied, the note he makes when something fits exactly where he planned it.

You lay there long enough for the oven timer to beep in the other room and die. He doesn’t move to get it. You don’t either. The kit—washcloth, aloe, water—sits like a tidy inventory at the edge of the nightstand. The room smells faintly of mint and clean skin, the air cooler now against the heat blooming under the aloe.

Eventually, he shifts. “Roll,” he says gently, and you obey, slow, ginger, tits skimming the sheet, ass lifting a fraction whether you mean to or not. He drapes the blanket over your hips and lays his palm over the curve of one cheek. You tense automatically and he laughs low.

“Relax.” He rubs, slow, warm. “Just a handprint for me.”

You feel the faintest pressure, not pain, something closer to a stamp. He lifts his palm and looks down at his work like an artist stepping back from a canvas. Whatever he sees pleases him. He leans down and kisses the place, mouth briefly open, reverent.

“Back,” he says, and you roll again, face to him. He tucks you in, fixes the blanket around your shoulders with absurd care, thumbs the damp hair away from your temple.

“Tomorrow,” he says, and the strict line glints in his eyes even while everything else about him is soft, “if you try that foot thing again, you’re counting leather.”

Your breath stutters. “Brian.”

“Not a threat.” He smiles, small and sharp. “A syllabus.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re mine to instruct.” He kisses you slow enough to erase the word insufferable from your vocabulary. “Sleep.”

You shut your eyes because he told you to and because your body has spent what it had and is happy to ride the residue. He holds you while you fall, one hand at your nape, one palm shaped to your hip like a promise. Just before the dark gets deep and easy, he speaks again, voice low, not for effect, just for you.

“That was my hand,” he says. “Next time, if you want to gamble, we’ll make sure you don’t sit right for a week.”

You huff a laugh that’s half whine, half want, and he chuckles, pleased that you’re still listening. He kisses your hairline to sign the night off. Somewhere in the apartment the oven gives up and cools, the rain shifts direction, a car passes and is gone. In the bed, the sting settles into warmth, and the warmth settles into a shape your body would like to keep.

Morning has the good manners to arrive late. When you open your eyes, the window is a pale square and Brian is a line of heat behind you, his breath finding the back of your neck in quiet even pulls. Your ass aches when you shift. A pleased sound you didn’t authorize escapes. He wakes at the sound like you summoned him.

“Color?” he mumbles into your skin, still halfway under.

“Green,” you say, and you’re smiling because your mouth does that automatically where he is.

“Good.” He kisses the bruise of his teeth on your shoulder you didn’t realize he’d left. “Kitchen or captivity.”

“Kitchen,” you say, heroic. He laughs into your back and releases you.

You attempt standing. Your body remembers the lesson and sends a hot reminder through you. You make a sound that is not dignified. Brian leans against the doorframe with his arms folded, eyes lazy and satisfied.

“Hurts,” you say, accusatory and fond.

“Educational outcomes achieved,” he says. “Pancakes?”

“Please.”

The please makes him grin like you just did a trick. He pads away, barefoot, hoodie sleeves shoved up again, already humming as if last night was just a well-executed plan and not the best kind of ruin. You follow at a slower pace and watch him move around your kitchen like he lives there—which he does, in all the ways that matter. Every time you shift your weight, the ache lights and you glow inside it.

He flips the first pancake and glances up. “How many breaths do you think you can go before you say please again,” he asks lightly, as if inquiring about coffee.

You meet his eyes over the heat of the stove. You hold his gaze for one heartbeat, two. Your body remembers his hand and gives the answer for you. You lick your lips.

“Not many,” you admit.

He looks smug and unbearably sweet. “Good,” he says. “Then we’re both learning.”

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