#filthy thoughts

[akiyamasfav]

i can't get enough of varka's fat cock fucking you dumb. i mean, look at him. i don't say he's the first genshin character with three claymores for no reason.

i'd like to imagine that he loves watching while he fucks you, how eagerly your drooling cunt is sucking him in with every one of his thrusts. he loves missionary for that very reason. but another one of his favourite positions is laying you on your stomach, a pillow under your hips as he grips your ass, spreading you open and watching his tip nudge against your drooling hole.

he'd ease in slowly, relishing in how you tighten around him, moans muffled by the pillow you're clinging on to. he'd drag out his first thrusts, watching intently as your cunt squeezes him in with every movement, feeling the tightening in his core. archons, he could cum just watching you like this.

"fuuuck, you're so eager, practically devouring me down there sweetheart."

his thrusts would quicken, his heavy balls slapping against your clit and eliciting delicious sounds out of you. varka knew exactly what he was doing. and he was an expert at doing it. he'd keep going at a steady pace, making you see stars while he leans over and presses hot kisses to your shoulders and back. if he felt like it too, he wouldn't hesitate to gather your hair in his hand, pulling you back so he could meet your mouth in a messy kiss.

he'd also love to have you ride him, a steady hand on your hip while the other sits behind his head, watching appreciatively as your tits bounced in rhythm with your movements. varka knew you wouldn't be able to please yourself on his cock the same way he fucks you into the mattress, but he still enjoyed the view nonetheless.

"doing so good for me, love. yeah, yeah, just like that~" he'd coo as you tried desperately to chase your release, squeezing and creaming all over his length but it just wasn't enough. you'd plead and beg for him to fuck you properly, barely able to make out words with how full he had you as you were seated fully on his cock.

"use your words." he'd reach up and caress your face, brushing away tears that were rolling down your cheeks from pleasure. until you told him explicitly what you wanted, he wouldn't give, loving the sight of you too cockdrunk to think straight.

but finally he'd roll you over, spreading you open and shoving his cock deep inside, your pussy dripping so much he could slide right in. he'd grip your waist, his thrusts steady and deep and making you see stars as you came almost instantly, clinging onto his large frame. "cumming already? we're only just getting started, sweetheart." he'd pull back before bringing you in for a searing kiss, tongue slipping into your mouth to muffle your moans. your pussy was throbbing in no time, and varka didn't hesitate to ease into you again.

"gonna get you nice and full..." he mumbles against your skin, face buried in your neck while he thrusts into you, feeling the knot coiling in his core as your moans and cries echoed in the bedroom and you clawed at his back, pulling him closer to you. he cums inside you, hot and deep, hips stuttering and cock throbbing. he looks down at you, enjoying how blissed out you look, and when you whimper out, "more," who is he to deny you of what you crave?

© akiyamasfav please do not translate, copy, plagiarize, or upload my works elsewhere!

[verytyphoonfun]

Teaching sheltered farm boy Clark different sex positions. He really only knows missionary because his parents said that’s the only way to respect his woman. Doggy, but that’s because theanimals on the farm did it. Clark thinks doggy is degrading.

And then you weedle and plead just enough to break Clark. He acquiesces and lets you scramble onto his lap. Clark is blushing bright red from how exposed you are; your breasts are eye level, his hands on your hips, which are sluttily rubbing against his bulge.

You even give him a little show, making Clark watch as you notch him in your entrance and then sloooooowly slide down, your core burning from the stretch. Clark whimpering when you bottom out and he sees how deep he’s in, your lower stomach bulging obscenely in a way he’s never seen clearly before.

And then you begin to bounce, and that’s when you break the Man of Steel. Because Clark can’t comprehend how good it feels, you dropping and lifting yourself off him. He can’t understand how good you look, all bouncing tits and head thrown back and wanton moans and grinding hips. The position has you panting, perfect for feeling his tip knock against your cervix with each bounce and your clit rubbing against his soft tummy just enough.

Clark would lose his mind. He’s even learning on the spot, thrusting up as you bottom out each time. His hands move from your hips to your tits, rubbing and pulling on your nipples with a preciseness only a man absolutely obsessed with you can.

And when your hips spell out his name and you come with your head thrown baxk? Clark comes deep inside you with a whimper and a hazy promise to learn more.

[adelinezzpoetryy]

FALL IN LOVE WITH YOUR LIFE AGAIN.

[thesevereheadachegirl]

pspspsps

[leriexoxo]

Under The Blanket

Bestfriend Brother! Seungmin x Reader

Tags: voyeurism, risk of getting caught, shower sex, possessive!seungmin, dirty talk, best friend’s brother trope, ripped panties as trophies, fingering, shower sex, creampie, unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), absolute filth.

Word count: 5.4k

Summary: Seungmin never gave up that bedroom. Not for the view of the street; for the view of you. Every night your curtains glowed, moans leaking through the crack in his window, and he listened, hard and aching, pretending it was coincidence.Then the sleepover happened. One thick duvet. His sister on one side, you on the other, your bare thigh sliding over his under the blanket like you didn’t know what it would do to him. Your nipples stiff under that oversized hoodie. Your laugh vibrating straight into his cock. Then, with the movie still playing, he let his hand find your soaked cunt right there on the couch under the blanket, fingers buried while you choked on lies for your best friend.

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!

PS: Comments and DMs are now open but the old taglist won’t be back unless you want to be added.

This is FILTHY 😫 I NEED to fuck KSM 🫦

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You lay on your bed, the room bathed in the soft glow of your bedside lamp, the curtains drawn tight against the night. The house next door was quiet, as it usually was this late, your best friend’s family tucked away in their own routines. She was probably asleep in her room on the far side of their house, oblivious to the way her younger brother, Seungmin, had dug his heels in about keeping his bedroom. That stubborn streak of his had always amused you, even back when you were kids running between your adjoining backyards. He’d refused to swap with his sister, claiming the view from his window was “non-negotiable,” whatever that meant for a guy who spent most of his time buried in books or strumming his guitar.

Your windows faced each other across the narrow gap between the houses, the ledges so close you could almost reach out and touch his if you leaned far enough. It was a detail you’d noticed years ago, back when innocence still colored everything. Now, at twenty-something, with your best friend off at college most weekends and you left to your own devices in the quiet suburb, that proximity felt charged and almost forbidden.

Your fingers trailed lazily down your stomach as you settled back against the pillows, the familiar ache building low in your core. Nights like this were your ritual; sex was your obsession, a constant hum in your veins that demanded release. You’d started the OnlyFans on a whim, faceless and anonymous, your body the star as you performed for strangers behind the safety of a screen. The camera propped on your nightstand captured everything below your neck: the curve of your breasts heaving with each breath, the slick glide of your hand between your thighs. Curtains drawn, always. You weren’t taking risks.

But tonight, as you arched into your touch, a faint sound pricked at your awareness; a soft creak from across the way, like a window easing open. You froze for a heartbeat, eyes flicking to the draped fabric separating you from the outside world. Nothing. Just the wind, probably. Seungmin’s light was off; you’d checked earlier, peeking through a sliver in your curtains like you sometimes did. He was home alone tonight, his sister had mentioned it in passing, off on some trip with her boyfriend. The thought of him there, so close, sent a forbidden thrill racing through you.

You resumed your rhythm, slower now, teasing yourself as the chat on your stream pinged with tips and pleas. Your moans were soft, muffled by the pillow you bit into, but your mind wandered. What if he heard? What if those sharp ears of his picked up the faint vibrations through the thin walls or the open air between your windows? He’d been acting strange lately; lingering glances when you bumped into him in the driveway, a flush creeping up his neck when you teased him about his “mysterious” room preferences. He suspected something; you could feel it in the way his eyes darted to your window sometimes, quick and guilty, before he looked away.

The tension coiled tighter as you imagined him on the other side, awake in the dark, listening. Wondering. Your fingers circled faster, chasing the edge, but you held back, savoring the burn. The night stretched on, heavy with unspoken possibilities, the space between your rooms shrinking with every ragged breath you took.

Seungmin stood in the dark, one palm flat against the cool glass of his window, the other braced on the sill. The night air slipped through the narrow gap he’d opened, carrying the faint rustle of leaves and something else: soft, rhythmic, unmistakable. Your window was a rectangle of heavy curtain, backlit by the amber haze of your lamp, and the sounds leaked out like smoke under a door. A breathy hitch. The creak of bedsprings. A low, swallowed moan that made his stomach flip.

He hadn’t been asleep. He never really was when you were home.

Years ago, when his sister had begged for the room facing her best friend and neighbors room,he’d dug in his heels without thinking. The truth was simpler than he ever admitted: it was your window. The way the houses sat, the ledges almost kissing, meant that from his bed he could see the glow of your light bleeding through the fabric, could track the silhouette of your shadow when you moved. He told himself it was about the tree line, the quiet street, anything but the girl next door who’d grown into someone he couldn’t look away from. His sister called him stubborn. He agreed regardless.

Now, that stubbornness had him standing here, pulse hammering in his throat, every nerve tuned to the cadence of your pleasure. He shouldn’t listen. He knew that. But the sounds were right there, inches away, slipping through the crack in your curtains and the one in his resolve. He leaned closer, forehead almost touching the glass, breath fogging it in small, frantic puffs. The curtain twitched—barely—and his heart stuttered. Was that your shadow? The slope of a shoulder, the arch of a spine?

He imagined you on your back, knees drawn up, fingers slick and busy. The thought burned behind his eyes, guilt and hunger braided so tight he couldn’t tell them apart. He’d caught the way you looked at him sometimes, quick and knowing, like you sensed the weight of his stare when you thought he wasn’t watching. Once, you’d leaned out your window to call goodnight to his sister, hair tousled, lips swollen from biting them, and he’d nearly dropped the guitar in his lap.

Another sound, sharper and needier, and his hand tightened on the sill until the wood bit into his skin. He could reach across if he tried. One long stretch and his fingertips would brush your ledge, the paint worn smooth from years of elbows and chins. He pictured it: knuckles grazing the curtain, parting it just enough to see the curve of your thigh, the glint of sweat on your collarbone. The camera—he’d glimpsed the red light once, months ago, when your curtain gapped for a heartbeat. Faceless OnlyFans, you’d said in passing, laughing it off. He hadn’t asked questions. He hadn’t needed to.

His own breath sounded too loud in the quiet. He pressed closer, the tip of his nose brushing the screen, eyes fixed on that sliver of light. The space between your rooms had never felt smaller. One push of the window, one reckless lean, and he’d be close enough to taste the air you exhaled. The thought lodged in his chest, hot and dangerous.

He didn’t move. Not yet. But he listened, every sound a thread pulling him tighter, until the night itself seemed to hold its breath with him.

—

A week later…

The living room was dim, lit only by the flickering blues and golds of the late-night movie neither of you were really watching. Your best friend’s parents were halfway across the country, the house too quiet without their footsteps overhead, and the three of you had migrated to the sectional like a pile of sleepy cats under the single thick duvet. She’d claimed the left corner, you the right, and Seungmin, because someone had to, was wedged in the middle, spine straight, remote balanced on his knee like a shield.

You wore the oversized lavender hoodie you’d stolen from her closet years ago, soft as a cloud and long enough to swallow your thighs. Nothing else. The cotton brushed your skin with every shift, the hem teasing the tops of your legs, and the sudden drop in temperature had turned your nipples into tight, aching points that pressed against the fabric with shameless clarity. You hadn’t thought about it when you’d crawled under the blanket; you rarely did.

Seungmin noticed immediately.

He tried not to. God, he tried. His eyes stayed fixed on the screen, but the movie might as well have been static. Every time you laughed, your head tipping back, breasts bouncing softly under the hoodie, his gaze snapped to the movement before he could stop it. The duvet rose and fell with your breathing, the swell of your chest impossible to ignore. He swallowed hard, fingers curling into the blanket.

Then your legs moved.

It was nothing, really. You were half-sprawled, chasing warmth, and without thinking you hooked one bare thigh over his under the duvet. The weight of it settled heavy and warm across his leg, the hem of your hoodie riding just high enough that the curve of your hip brushed his sweatpants. Your tiny thong—lace, he realized with a jolt—did nothing to hide the heat of your skin. The contact was casual, lazy, but it short-circuited every rational thought in his head.

Your best friend kept talking, some running commentary about the plot twist neither of you cared about, her voice a distant hum. You hummed back, shifting again, and the motion dragged your thigh higher. Seungmin’s breath stalled. The duvet tented slightly where your legs tangled with his, and he prayed the dim light hid the flush crawling up his neck.

His hands were fists now, knuckles white against the blanket. He could feel the exact line where your skin met his pants, the faint tickle of your hoodie’s hem against his wrist. One small shift and his fingers would graze the bare skin of your thigh. Another and he’d know the texture of that lace, the heat between your legs. The thought made his mouth dry.

You laughed again, softer this time, and leaned forward to grab a handful of popcorn from the bowl on the coffee table. The hoodie stretched tight across your chest, nipples stark against the fabric, and Seungmin’s eyes betrayed him, darting down, then away, then back again. Your breasts swayed with the motion, full and free, and he bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste copper.

Under the blanket, your toes curled against his calf, an absent little wiggle that sent a spark straight to his groin. He shifted minutely, trying to ease the pressure building in his sweats, but the movement only pressed your thigh more firmly against him. You didn’t seem to notice. You were still chattering with your friend, voice sleepy and warm, completely unaware that every word vibrated through him like a touch.

Seungmin’s pulse thundered in his ears. His right hand twitched, hovering an inch above the blanket, above the slope of your hip. He could drop it. Just let it rest there, casual, like it didn’t mean anything. Like he hadn’t spent nights in his room imagining this exact heat under his palm. His fingers flexed, then curled again. He stayed perfectly, painfully still.

But the blanket shifted with your next breath, and the back of his knuckles brushed the bare skin of your outer thigh—soft, electric, accidental. The contact lasted half a second, but it burned. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t even pause. Just kept talking, legs still draped over his like it was nothing.

To you, maybe it wasn’t, but to him, it was everything. Seungmin’s knuckles grazed your thigh (barely a touch, gone in a blink), and every nerve snapped awake. You felt the shift in him before you saw it: the rigid line of his shoulders, the way his jaw flexed like he was chewing on something sharp. You’d caught him staring earlier, eyes flicking to the stiff peaks of your nipples every time you moved, but you’d pretended not to notice. Now the air under the blanket crackled.

His hand dropped.

Not a slide, just a deliberate, quiet fall. His palm flat on the soft inside of your thigh, fingers splayed wide, claiming the space like it had always been his. The contact was warm, shockingly steady, and it sent a shiver racing up your spine so hard your breath hitched mid-sentence.

“…and then she just—wait, you okay?” your best friend asked, head tilting.

You coughed, too loud, too fake. “Swallowed wrong,” you managed, voice thin. Under the duvet your nipples tightened further, aching against the hoodie’s soft nap, and you felt the throb between your legs answer in kind.

Seungmin’s eyes stayed locked on the television, face a perfect mask of boredom. But his hand moved. A slow, deliberate drag of his thumb along the crease where thigh met hip, then higher. Your leg was still slung over his, knee bent, and the way you’d crossed it had opened you wide (his fingers were already dangerously close to the damp lace of your thong). Another inch and he’d feel how soaked you were.

You tried to shift, instinctive, to close the gap or create one (you weren’t sure). His grip turned firm, thumb pressing into the tender inner flesh, holding you open. A silent order: stay.

Your pulse hammered in your throat. You swallowed a whimper and forced words out, answering whatever your best friend had just asked about the movie. Something about the villain’s motive. You had no idea. All you knew was the slow, maddening glide of Seungmin’s fingertips tracing higher, feather-light, until the edge of his pinky brushed the lace covering your cunt. The contact was barely there, a tease, but your hips jerked involuntarily.

Your hoodie had ridden higher; the hem now kissed the crease where thigh met hip, cool air teasing the damp lace of your thong before his hand chased it away. The lace itself was soaked, clinging to your folds, and when his finger finally slipped beneath it the fabric peeled away with a faint, wet sound. Skin met slick skin, and the contrast was dizzying: the velvet heat of you against the rougher texture of his fingertips, still carrying the ghost of guitar strings.

He traced you once, twice, parting your folds with the precision of someone who’d memorized the path in the dark. The pad of his middle finger found your clit unerringly, swollen and hypersensitive, and the first direct press sent a bolt of pleasure so sharp your vision flickered at the edges. You felt the throb echo in your nipples, now diamond-hard, rubbing against the hoodie’s nap with every ragged inhale. The fabric was soft, yes, but the friction was maddening (each breath dragged the knit across the tender peaks until they burned).

Seungmin’s hand tightened, thumb digging into the plush give of your inner thigh, holding you splayed. His pinky brushed the seam of your entrance, collecting wetness, spreading it upward in a slow, glistening glide. The sound was unmistakable now: a faint, rhythmic slickness, masked only by the movie’s swelling soundtrack and your best friend’s oblivious chatter. You tasted blood where you’d bitten your lip, copper bright on your tongue.

“…so do you think he’s actually the twist villain or—”

You nodded, throat dry, the word yes scraping out like gravel. Under the blanket, Seungmin’s finger circled your clit again (firmer, faster), then dipped lower to press just inside you. Not deep, just the tip, but the stretch was electric, your walls fluttering greedily around the intrusion. You felt the pulse in your cunt match the frantic beat in your throat, heat pooling low and heavy, threatening to spill.

Your best friend shifted, the duvet tugging, and for one heart-stopping second cool air rushed in (goosebumps racing across your exposed hip). Seungmin didn’t flinch. His hand stayed buried between your legs, finger crooking gently, thumb sweeping up to nudge your clit in the same breath. The dual sensation (stretch and pressure) made your spine arch off the couch cushions before you caught yourself.

“You sure you’re okay?” she asked again, brow creasing. “You’re breathing weird.”

Seungmin’s eyes stayed locked on the screen, reflection of exploding spaceships dancing in his pupils, but his finger slid deeper (one slow, deliberate push until the second knuckle breached you). Your cunt clenched hard, a fresh rush of wetness coating his skin. You felt it trickle, warm and shameless, down the crease of your thigh.

“I’m—” Your voice cracked like thin ice. His thumb pressed your clit in a tight, steady circle, and the pleasure crested so suddenly you had to cough to cover the moan that tore free. The sound came out choked, desperate. “Just—need water.”

Your best friend hummed, already turning back to the movie. Under the duvet, Seungmin’s finger curled, stroking the spot inside you that made your toes curl against his calf. His palm was soaked now, the heat of it searing, and still he didn’t look at you. Not once.

But you felt every second of his attention branded between your legs.

The movie’s score swelled, all thumping bass and synthetic strings, loud enough to swallow the wet sounds under the duvet. Your best friend’s voice floated over it, lazy and amused. “Okay, but if the hero dies here, I’m throwing the remote at the screen.”

You opened your mouth to answer, anything, but Seungmin chose that second to sink his finger deeper, curling it hard against the spot that made your vision white-out. A broken “Mmm—” slipped out instead of words.

She turned. “You say something?”

Seungmin’s thumb swept your clit in a slow, deliberate circle, eyes still fixed on the TV like he was studying the CGI explosions. His voice came low, casual, pitched for only the two of you beneath the blanket’s hush. “She said she’s thirsty.”

The word thirsty rolled off his tongue like a taunt, rough at the edges. Your cunt clenched around his finger at the sound, a fresh gush of slick coating his palm. He felt it; his lips twitched, barely.

Your best friend snorted. “There’s water right there, dummy.” She nudged the bottle on the coffee table with her foot, attention already drifting back.

You reached for it with a trembling hand, hoodie sleeve sliding down your wrist. The motion shifted your hips; Seungmin’s finger slid out to the tip, then pushed back in with a second one, stretching you open in one slick glide. The bottle slipped from your grip, clattering softly. Cold water splashed your thigh, shocking against the heat of his hand.

“Shit—sorry,” you gasped.

Seungmin’s voice again, velvet-rough, under the pretense of helping. “Careful. You’re making a mess.”

His fingers twisted inside you, scissoring gently, spreading your wetness up to your clit and back down. The mess he meant wasn’t the water. Your thighs shook; the duvet trembled with it.

Your best friend glanced over. “You’re really red. And sweating. You sure you’re not—”

“I’m fine,” you blurted, too loud. Seungmin’s thumb pressed your clit hard, a warning. You swallowed a moan and it came out a whimper. “Just—cramp. Leg cramp.”

He leaned in, fake-stretching, the movement driving his fingers deeper. His breath ghosted your ear, words barely a whisper against the shell. “Liar. You’re soaked.”

Your spine bowed. You bit the sleeve of your hoodie to muffle the sound, tasting cotton and your own frantic pulse.

Your best friend frowned, paused the movie. The sudden silence was deafening. “Okay, seriously. What’s going on?”

Seungmin didn’t miss a beat. He withdrew his fingers to the tips, then slid them home again, slow and filthy, the wet sound swallowed by the duvet’s folds. His voice stayed level, almost bored. “She gets nightmares sometimes. Probably just tense.”

Your best friend’s eyes narrowed. “Nightmares? In a superhero movie?”

You nodded frantically, voice cracking. “Y-yeah. The—the explosion scene—”

Seungmin’s fingers curled, kept stroking. His next words were a breath against your hair, for your ears only. “Tell her you need the bathroom. Or I won’t stop until you come right here.”

Your best friend hit play again, muttering, “Weirdo,” but the suspicion lingered.

Seungmin’s thumb circled your clit once, twice, then pressed flat and held. The pressure coiled, unbearable. You felt the orgasm rising, a wave you couldn’t outrun.

“Bathroom,” you choked out, shoving the duvet off in a rush of cool air. “Be right back.”

You stumbled up, thighs slick, hoodie barely covering the wet patch on your thong. Seungmin’s hand slipped free with a soft, obscene sound, fingers glistening in the TV glow before he tucked them under the blanket like nothing happened.

Your best friend didn’t notice. But as you fled down the hall, legs shaking, you heard him murmur to the screen, “Run all you want. I’m coming to get you.”

-

Seungmin’s pulse hadn’t slowed since the moment you’d bolted from the couch, thighs trembling, hoodie barely hiding the wet patch on your thong. The duvet still held the ghost of your heat against his leg, the slick of your arousal cooling on his fingers. He tucked them under the blanket, casual, like he wasn’t burning alive.

His sister’s phone buzzed on the coffee table. She lit up, already scrambling out from under the duvet. “It’s him,” she sing-songed, voice syrupy. “Gonna take this in my room. Tell her I’m with my man when she comes back, ‘kay? Finish the movie.”

She didn’t wait for an answer—just padded down the hall, door clicking shut behind her. The second her footsteps faded, the house went tomb-quiet except for the movie’s low drone and the blood roaring in his ears.

Finish the movie.

Yeah. Right.

He was moving before the thought finished forming. The blanket hit the floor. Remote clattered. He didn’t care. The hallway stretched too long, the bathroom door a beacon at the end. His cock throbbed, aching against his sweats, the memory of your soaked cunt clenching around his fingers replaying on a loop.

He didn’t knock.

The handle turned smooth under his palm. You were already there—back against the wall, hoodie rucked up, one breast spilling free into your desperate grip. Your other hand shoved your thong aside, fingers plunging in and out with wet, frantic sounds. Your eyes snapped to his, wide and startled, lips parted on a gasp.

You jolted, heart slamming against your ribs. Seungmin stood framed in the dim light, eyes black and unreadable. The bulge in his sweatpants was obscene (thick, straining, the head outlined against the gray cotton like it was trying to punch through). He turned the lock. The click echoed.

“Seungmin, what are you—”

He crossed the space in one stride, hands sliding under your thighs, lifting you like you weighed nothing. The cold porcelain of the sink bit into your ass as he set you on the counter, spreading your knees wide with rough palms. The ruined thong stretched, then snapped with a sharp rip—he tore it clean off and tossed the scrap aside.

“Been listening to you for months,” he said, voice gravel-rough, dropping to his knees. “Time you learned what it feels like when I shut you up.”

His mouth closed over your cunt without warning; hot, wet and merciless. Tongue flattening against your clit in one long, filthy lick that tore a broken cry from your throat. You fisted his hair, hips bucking, but he pinned your thighs open wider, nose buried in your slick folds as he devoured you. The sounds were obscene: wet suction, your own ragged moans bouncing off tile, the faint slap of his tongue fucking into you.

“Fuck—Seungmin—” Your head thunked back against the mirror, breast still clutched in one hand, the other yanking his hair hard enough to sting. He growled into you, the vibration shooting straight to your spine. You ground against his face, shameless, chasing the pressure, the heat, the more.

“Please—please, I wanna cum—”

He pulled off with a wet pop, lips shiny, chin dripping. Before you could whine, he surged up, mouth crashing into yours. You tasted yourself on his tongue and moaned into the kiss, legs wrapping his waist. His hands fumbled between you, shoving sweatpants down just enough to free his cock. It slapped heavy against your thigh, burning hot, the tip already slick with precome.

“Feel that?” he rasped against your lips, dragging the thick head through your folds, nudging your clit until your hips jerked.

You whimpered, trying to angle him inside, but he held your hips still, teasing, sliding through your wetness without breaching.

“Say it,” he demanded, voice shaking with restraint. “Tell me who you’re wet for.”

“You—fuck, you—”

He snapped his hips forward, sinking to the hilt in one brutal thrust. Your eyes rolled back, a strangled cry ripping free as he stretched you open, thick and pulsing, bottoming out with a groan that vibrated through your chest. Your walls fluttered around him, already close, the sudden fullness shoving you toward the edge.

“Quiet,” he hissed, one hand clamping over your mouth as he pulled back and slammed in again, the sink rattling under you. “Unless you want her to hear how good I wreck you.”

His hand stayed clamped over your mouth, fingers digging into your cheek as he pulled back and slammed in again, the sink groaning under the force. Your spine arched off the mirror, legs locked around his hips, heels digging into the small of his back. The bathroom was a haze of steam from the shower you’d never turned on, the air thick with the slap of skin and your muffled cries.

“Fuck—look at you,” he growled, yanking the hoodie up and over your head in one rough motion. It caught on your arms before he ripped it free, tossing it to the floor. Your breasts bounced heavy, nipples stiff and glistening from your own saliva earlier. He didn’t waste time, mouth latching onto one, teeth scraping the peak before he sucked hard, tongue flicking in time with the brutal rhythm of his hips.

Each thrust punched the air from your lungs, cock dragging against every sensitive spot inside you. The counter’s edge bit into your ass, cold against the heat of his body, and you clawed at his shoulders, nails raking red lines down his neck.

“Harder,” you gasped against his palm, voice cracking. “Fuck me like you’ve been jerking off to the sound of me coming through the window—”

His eyes flashed, dark and feral. He released your mouth only to grip both tits, shoving them together, sucking one nipple then the other until they throbbed purple. “You have no idea,” he snarled, hips snapping faster, the wet schlick of your cunt swallowing him obscene in the quiet. “Every night—fuck—heard you moaning when you thought I couldn’t. Been craving this pussy for months.”

You keened, head thrashing. “Then take it—ruin me so I can’t stream without thinking of your cock splitting me open—”

He groaned, the sound guttural, and spun you suddenly—hands under your thighs, lifting you off the counter just long enough to flip you around. Your chest hit the mirror, breasts smearing fog across the glass, and he kicked your legs wider. One hand fisted your hair, yanking your head back as he drove in from behind, the new angle deeper, the head of his cock kissing your cervix with every thrust.

“Look at yourself,” he rasped, forcing your gaze to the reflection—your mouth open, tits bouncing, his handprints red on your hips. “Look how fucking wrecked you are for your best friend’s little brother.”

You sobbed, pushing back to meet him. “Love it—love how you use me—gonna come so hard on your dick while she’s ten feet away—”

The danger lit you up like a fuse. You could hear her muffled voice down the hall, laughing into her phone, oblivious. Seungmin’s thrusts turned punishing, the sink rattling, your knees slipping on the counter. He reached around, fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight, frantic circles.

“Come,” he ordered, teeth sinking into your shoulder. “Come now—I need to paint this pretty stomach—”

The command snapped you in half. Your orgasm crashed through you, cunt clamping down so hard he cursed, hips stuttering. You wailed into the mirror, the sound barely muffled by his hand slamming back over your mouth. Your whole body shook, thighs trembling, slick gushing down your legs as wave after wave tore you apart.

He pulled out with a wet pop just as you crested, spinning you again. One stroke, two—his fist flying over his cock—and he came with a choked groan, thick ropes of cum striping your stomach, your breasts, dripping down to your navel. The heat of it branded you, marking you in long, messy pulses.

You sagged against the mirror, chest heaving, his spend cooling on your skin. He leaned in, forehead to yours, both of you panting.

“Next time,” he whispered, voice raw, “I’m coming in your mouth while you’re live. Let them all hear who you belong to.”

The bathroom was still thick with steam and the scent of sex when you finally came down, chest heaving, cum cooling in sticky stripes across your stomach and breasts. You reached blindly for the box of tissues on the counter, legs wobbling, but Seungmin caught your wrist.

“Uh-uh.” His voice was low, amused, still rough from growling your name. “Wipes aren’t gonna cut it. You’ll smell like me for days.”

Before you could protest, he scooped you up again—effortless, like you weighed nothing—and stepped into the shower. The cold tile shocked your back for a second until he twisted the knob. Hot water cascaded over both of you, washing his release down your skin in pale rivulets. He followed you in, sweatpants kicked off somewhere on the floor, cock half-hard and glistening.

You laughed, breathless and giddy, as the water soaked your hair. “You’re insane.”

“Insanely right,” he murmured, pumping body wash into his palm. The scent—something clean and citrusy—filled the stall as he lathered his hands. Then he was on you again, slower this time. Worshipful.

His soapy palms glided over your shoulders, down your arms, thumbs tracing the curve of your waist. He turned you gently, pressing you to the tile, and washed your back in long, reverent strokes, lips brushing the nape of your neck. You sighed, melting under the attention, head tipping back against his shoulder.

“Missed this body,” he whispered, hands sliding around to cup your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples until they peaked again under the suds. “Missed how you fit against me.”

You turned in his arms, water streaming between you, and kissed him—soft at first, then deeper, hungrier. Tongues sliding, teeth nipping, hands roaming. He backed you against the wall, one thigh nudging between yours, and you felt him harden fully against your belly.

“Already?” you teased, nipping his bottom lip.

“Always,” he groaned, lifting you just enough to notch himself at your entrance. The angle was perfect… your legs wrapped his waist, water sluicing down your joined bodies as he sank in slow, inch by inch, eyes locked on yours.

This wasn’t the frantic fuck from before. This was worship; deep, deliberate thrusts, his mouth never leaving yours, swallowing every moan. He rolled his hips in a slow grind, one hand braced beside your head, the other kneading your ass, pulling you onto him with every stroke.

You came first; quiet, shuddering, clenching around him with a broken whimper into his mouth. He followed seconds later, buried to the hilt, pulsing hot inside you with a low, reverent “fuck” against your lips.

After, he washed you again gently, kissing every spot his hands touched like he was memorizing you. When the water started to cool, he turned it off, wrapped you in a towel, and pressed one last kiss to your swollen lips.

“Go,” he murmured, smirking. “Act normal.”

You dressed in the steamy haze, your oversized hoodie, no panties because yours were a lost cause. Your legs still trembled, but you forced a lazy smile, padding down the hall like nothing had happened.

His sister was sprawled on her bed, phone propped up, mid-laugh with her boyfriend on speaker. She waved you in. “Finally! Thought you fell in. Movie’s still on if you want—”

“Think I’m gonna crash,” you said, voice steady by some miracle. “Long day.”

She bought it. Didn’t even glance up.

Back in the bathroom, Seungmin crouched to retrieve the shredded lace of your thong from the floor. He twirled it around one finger, then tucked it into his pocket with a wicked little wink at his reflection.

Trophy secured.

He slipped out, silent, door clicking shut behind him.

And somewhere down the hall, you lay on your best friend’s spare mattress, thighs still tingling, and you smiled into the dark.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Authors note: Hi again! 🤭🤭 I was ovulating and i didn’t wanna let that filthy delulu go to waste 😫 KSM needs to send me an NDA fast so he can get out of my system 🫦🤭

Anyway! Hiii, since the comments are now open, you can ask to join the new tag list! And for the doubters THIS IS NOT AI THIS IS LERIEXOXO! 🥰

Idk i think i might post again before the month is over, I’m just really busy these days with my job and my novel! 😫

[amberaestheticz]

[akiyamasfav]

the first time you asked flins if you could give him a blowjob, he was a bit taken aback.

“if that is what you desire.”

he lay on the bed, half-sitting with his back against the headboard, and watched as you settled in between his legs. he kept himself composed when you undid his pants, tugging them off like it was incredulous he was even wearing them in the first place, and freed his already aching erection from his boxers.

well, he was a lot bigger than you expected.

flins does a good job at keeping his composure, from when your tongue drags from the base of his cock all the way to the tip, and even when he can feel your hot breath fanning over him and you look up at him with eyes screaming with desire.

but when he feels his cock sink into the waiting heat of your mouth, your lips tightening around his length, the way your throat so eagerly devours him, he can’t help the way he shudders, a low moan falling from his lips.

he's unsure what to do with his hands, one of them covering his mouth to try and stop the sounds threatening to spill from his lips, while the other remains tightly balled in a fist at his side. you pull off his cock with a lewd pop, reaching up and grabbing his hand, showing him how to touch you.

it was then that he knew he was hooked on this feeling.

"so beautiful." he'd mumble out, his hand caressing your hair gently as he pushed your head down, silently urging you to take him further. he was committing your expressions to memory, how your throat tightened around him, how you looked up at him through your lashes, archons, it was driving him insane.

"ah- wait, i'm close, i-" he tries to raise you off of him so he can finish in his hand, but you push him deeper instead, his cock twitching in your mouth, filling your throat with his cum. he holds your head, slowly thrusting into your mouth as he rides out his high, watching you swallow every drop. finally, you raise off of him but he grabs your wrist, pulling you down again.

“allow me to get a taste of you now, sweetheart.”

© akiyamasfav please do not translate, copy, plagiarize, or upload my works elsewhere!

[ttabacco]

THE INSIDE VIEW | P.JM

↳summary: you’re in his city now. an extra night booked in seoul just to see what happens when the fragile boundaries of your arrangement collapse. playing a dangerous game of chicken with jimin in a high-end gangnam lounge ends exactly where you secretly wanted it to: pinned against his entryway wall, stripped of your pride, and entirely at his mercy. continuation of: busan nights.

↳fwb!au;

↳pairing: jimin x f!reader

↳warnings: pure shameless smut. expect heavy dirty talk, bruising wall pins, and a ruthless edging game designed to completely break your bratty facade. he’s feral, he’s going in raw, and he’s out to violently prove a point. jimin is unapologetically possessive and deeply smug in this one, so brace yourselves.

↳word count: 8.4k

part one: here

a/n: as promised, i came back with part 2 because y'all nasty monsters begged for one. was this longer than part 1? yes. i totally self-indulged with this. careful what you wish for because i put my whole writing-ussy into making this good for you ;) i honestly didn't think i'd be returning to this universe, but seeing how feral everyone went for the first part left me with no choice. i needed to give you the raw, unfiltered aftermath of what happens when you push him a little too far in a crowded bar. you wanted possessive, unhinged jimin on his home turf? you got him. hope your standards survive this because he definitely didn't hold back. enjoy the filth, angels!

ONE SHOT

STARRING JIMIN

Two months. Two agonizingly dry months, and approximately seven excruciating first dates with other men since Park Jimin practically tore your kitchen apart.

Out of those seven, only one had actually ended up in your bed. It hadn't been bad, objectively speaking. The guy had been polite, attentive, and mechanically proficient—but he wasn't Jimin. He didn't turn your blood to liquid lead, he didn't taste like sweetness and dark arrogance, and he certainly didn't make you want to wreck a room. It was like drinking tap water when you were craving whiskey.

But now, you were finally in Seoul. Your friend Yuna had dragged you up from Busan for her birthday party—nothing overly fancy, just a loud, alcohol-fueled weekend with the girls. But instead of heading back with the rest of the group, you’d booked an extra night at a boutique hotel under the guise of wanting to "explore the city" on your own.

The truth? You were restless. And the Busan air was getting a little too small for the itch you needed to scratch.

So, after bidding the birthday crew goodbye, you dress to kill—the kind of outfit that demands an audience—and head out into the neon-soaked streets of Gangnam. You track down a sleek, dimly lit lounge bar tucked away behind a wall of frosted glass. The bass is a heavy, rhythmic thrumming against your ribs, and the air smells like expensive perfume and expensive mistakes.

You slide onto a leather barstool, ordering a drink that costs entirely too much, and tilt your chin up to survey the room. It’s time to fish for some premium Capital of Korea eye candy. If Jimin thought he was the only wolf in this city, he had another thing coming. You're going to find someone to make you forget the sound of his satoori, even if it takes you all night.

The bartender slides a crystal tumbler across the marble counter, the amber liquid swirling around a single, perfectly carved sphere of ice. You take a slow, deliberate sip, letting the burning sweetness coat your throat while your eyes roam the room.

Holy shit. The sheer concentration of eligible bachelors in this place tonight is downright criminal.

Back in Busan, the scene is predictable, but here? It’s like a completely different ecosystem. Everywhere you look, there are men who look like they walked straight out of a luxury editorial. Sharp, tailored shoulders, crisp white collars unbuttoned just low enough to be dangerous, and Rolexes catching the strobe lights every time they reach for a glass. They all carry themselves with that distinct, untouchable Seoul arrogance—dressed like they matter. And in a neighborhood like this, they probably do. Venture capitalists, tech heirs, high-end lawyers—take your pick.

You lean back against the bar, crossing one leg over the other, letting the slit in your skirt do a little bit of the talking. It doesn’t take long to lock eyes with a tall, sharp-jawed guy sitting at a VIP table across the floor. He has his sleeves rolled up to his forearms, a smirk playing on his lips as he raises his glass in your direction. You hold his gaze, giving him a slow, smoky smile before looking away.

Eye-flirting 101.

It’s effortless, and the immediate rush of validation hits your bloodstream faster than the alcohol.

You take another sip of your drink, a sudden thought crossing your mind that makes you huff a bitter laugh into your glass.

You know exactly why. Because your taste has been thoroughly ruined. You didn't come to Hongdae to split a pitcher of cheap beer with university students; your subconscious had dragged you straight to the most exclusive, high-friction lounge in the city because you were looking for a specific caliber of trouble. You wanted the heavy silver rings, the bespoke coats, the utter ruthlessness. You wanted a distraction that could actually measure up.

As the tall guy from the VIP table stands up, buttoning his blazer as he starts making his way through the crowd toward your barstool, your heart gives a tiny, anticipatory thud.

Perfect, you think, your fingers tracing the rim of your glass. Let's see if the capital can deliver.

"Is this seat taken?" he asks, his voice a smooth, low baritone that practically sounds like it was synthesized for a radio station. He motions to the empty barstool next to yours, already stepping into your personal space.

"Depends," you say, tilting your head up to look at him, keeping your voice cool and teasing. "Are you going to make me regret saying no?"

He lets out a soft, amused chuckle, sliding onto the stool. He rests one elbow on the marble counter, and that’s when you see them. Holy shit.

His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, exposing forearms that look like they were sculpted out of marble—veins tracking perfectly over lean, hard muscle. He looks like he spends his weekdays closing corporate mergers and his weekends rowing crew.

"I don't think I could make you regret anything you didn't want to do," he says, his eyes dipping down to your lips before snapping back to your gaze. "I'm Min-Woo. And you look like you're far too dangerous to be drinking alone in a place like this."

It’s a bit corny. A little too polished, a little too rehearsed. A part of you wants to roll your eyes and tell him his opening line needs a rewrite, but then his forearm flexes as he signals the bartender, and you decide you can let the corniness pass. Capital eye candy has its perks.

"Dangerous?" you echo, a jagged little smirk playing on your lips as you lean in just an inch closer. "I'm just a tourist enjoying the scenery. Though I have to admit, the scenery in Gangnam is a lot more attentive than back home."

"A tourist?" Min-Woo leans in too, the scent of his expensive cologne—something woody and sharp—crowding out the smell of the lounge. "Then I guess it’s my civic duty to ensure you get the absolute best hospitality Seoul has to offer. What are we drinking?"

"Something expensive," you reply smoothly, tapping the rim of your empty glass. "Since you're buying."

"A girl who knows exactly what she wants," he murmurs, his smile turning a bit more predatory as he orders a round of top-shelf whiskey for the both of you. He turns back to you, his hand resting on the bar just inches from your knee, those forearms completely on display. "Tell me, tourist... what else do you want tonight? Because I’m very good at delivering."

You hum.

"You know, for a tourist, you seem remarkably unbothered by how intense this city can get," Min-Woo murmurs, his fingers tracing a slow, deliberate circle on the marble counter, stopping just shy of touching your hand.

"Maybe I like the intensity," you reply, holding his gaze over the rim of your fresh glass. "Or maybe I’m just waiting to see if Seoul can actually keep up with me."

Min-Woo’s smirk widens, his eyes darkening with appreciation. "Trust me. I can keep up. In fact, I usually lead."

It’s an entirely different flavor of arrogance than what you’re used to—cleaner, more calculated. And as you look at him, you start to rationalize the whole thing. Maybe you were just a woman in heat. Two months of starvation will do that to a person. Maybe you didn't just want a distraction tonight; maybe you wanted to be the one who calls the shots this time.

You wanted to be the one who pulls up to a penthouse in the dead of the night. “I’m in your city” would look incredibly good on your tongue, a sharp pivot from being the one caught off guard. You could control the narrative here.

Besides, the eye candy is absolutely eye candying tonight. Min-Woo leans a fraction closer, his sculpted forearm brushing against your bare knee, and a traitorous shiver runs straight up your spine.

What you completely fail to take into account, however, is the trail of digital breadcrumbs you’ve spent the last twenty-four hours dropping.

You’d been careful—or so you thought.

A few chaotic videos from Yuna’s party? Check.

A standard, lethal outfit-check in the hotel mirror before heading out? Double check.

A aesthetic, dimly lit photo of your crystal glass against the distinct marble of the lounge bar you’re currently sat at? Triple check.

To anyone else, it’s just a standard weekend itinerary.

But to a man who knows the layout of Gangnam like the back of his hand, a man who has spent the last eight weeks nursing a silent, volatile grudge, that final photo is a glaring, neon-lit map with a bulls-eye painted right over your seat.

"So," Min-Woo says, his voice dropping into a husky, confidential whisper as he screens you from the rest of the crowded room. "My place is only three blocks away. It has a much better view of the skyline than this place. What do you say we get out of here?"

"Not yet," you say, tilting your head and letting a slow, taunting smile spread across your lips. "We should talk a little more first."

You don’t want to seem too eager, even if the visual of those forearms is doing dangerous things to your resolve. You like the chase, and more importantly, you like being the one holding the leash.

"Are you married?" you ask smoothly, swirling the ice in your glass. You pose it casually, but it’s a necessary screening process. Just crossing out the possibility of being a homewrecker tonight. You're being horny, sure, but you're being horny with class.

Min-Woo throws his head back and laughs, the tailored fabric of his blazer straining against his shoulders. "Married? Please. I'm entirely single, sweetheart. And even if I weren't, a man would have to be an absolute fool to let a wedding ring stand between him and a girl like you tonight."

It’s an incredibly corny line. It’s so rehearsed, so dripping in that slick, try-hard Gangnam charm that it practically leaves a greasy residue in the air. You open your mouth, ready to give him a sharp, witty retort to keep him on his toes—

But before the words can leave your tongue, a deep, raspy chuckle cuts through the bass of the lounge right behind you.

Your entire body freezes. Your blood turns to liquid ice in a millisecond, the hairs on the back of your neck standing completely on end.

Problem is, you know that chuckle. You know it intimately. It’s a low, predatory vibration that usually echoes against the cold marble of your kitchen counters or directly into the shell of your ear. It’s a sound strictly tied to a man who wears heavy silver rings, sharp Chelsea boots, and somehow knows the absolute ins and outs of your body better than you do.

Jimin.

"Is that how you try to bring a woman home in the capital?" a voice rasps, the thick, unbothered slide of a Busan satoori slicing right through the ambient noise of the high-end bar. "Because where I'm from, that line wouldn't even buy you a drink."

You turn slowly on your barstool, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

Standing right there, crowding into your space and completely eclipsing Min-Woo, is Park Jimin.

He’s dressed in a dark, tailored coat, his hair slightly unkempt like he’d driven here with the windows down, and his hands are buried deep in his pockets. His eyes aren't even looking at the man next to you; they are locked directly onto yours, burning with a volatile, heavy intensity that tells you he saw your story—and he’s been hunting you down for the last hour.

Min-Woo starts to say something, his smooth baritone shifting into a defensive, offended tone as he tries to assert his territory. Sadly for him, you aren't paying a single shred of attention. His words just turn into background noise, completely drowned out by the static roaring in your ears.

Like a compass automatically pointing north, your eyes find Jimin’s and stay there, completely locked in.

And god dammit, he looks good. Too good. It’s entirely unfair. He’s dressed like he belongs in the VIP section of a much darker, much more exclusive club, and the low amber lighting of the lounge catches the sharp angle of his jaw and the messy fringe falling into his eyes.

Your damned fuck buddy.

Your absolute Achilles' heel, standing right here in the middle of Gangnam after two months of radio silence.

He steps closer, his heavy presence completely shoving Min-Woo out of the frame without him even having to make physical contact. He tilts his head, a slow, dangerous smirk playing on his lips as his hands remain buried deep in his pockets.

"Hi, doll," he murmurs, his satoori a gritty contrast to the polished room. "Two months. No text, no nothing? You just roll into my city and think you can sit here unbothered?"

Somehow, Min-Woo actually picks up on the sheer, suffocating density of the tension radiating between the two of you. Thank God the man has some survival instincts. He looks at Jimin, looks at the way you’re staring at Jimin like he’s the only person in the room, and realizes he’s entirely out of his depth. Without another word, he mutters something about getting another drink and disappears into the crowded floor, leaving his half-empty whiskey behind.

Jimin watches him go out of the corner of his eye, the smirk on his face growing a little more arrogant. Then, he steps into the space Min-Woo just vacated, his thighs practically brushing against your bare knee where your skirt is split.

"So," Jimin rasps, leaning down so his face is inches from yours, the scent of his familiar, sweet cologne hitting you like a physical wave. "Who was the suit? You really came all the way to Seoul just to let some corny bastard buy you a mid-shelf drink?"

“I was just exploring Seoul," you say, lifting your chin and meeting his gaze head-on. You refuse to let him see how much his sudden appearance has completely wrecked your nervous system. You take a slow, deliberate sip of your whiskey, trying to look entirely unbothered.

Jimin lets out another low, raspy chuckle, his eyes dipping down to the slit in your skirt before snapping back up to lock onto yours. "You weren't exploring Seoul, doll. You were exploring the men in Seoul."

You don’t disagree. In fact, you let a slow, provocative smirk spread across your lips as you set your glass back down on the marble counter. There’s no point in lying to him; he knows you too well, and besides, the sudden spike of possessive anger rolling off him is far too satisfying to extinguish. "A girl’s got to pass the time somehow, Jimin. It’s a big city. Lots of options."

His jaw tightens, a hard muscle leaping in his cheek as he steps even closer, completely crowding you against the bar. His heavy coat brushes against your bare arms, trapping your heat between his body and the cold marble.

"I could've showed you the city if you’d just texted me," he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave, the gritty slide of his satoori turning the offer into something incredibly heavy. "You didn't have to go fishing for second-rate capital eye candy."

You scoff softly, leaning back just an inch to survey the wicked, handsome lines of his face. "Please. If I had texted you, you wouldn't have showed me the city. You would’ve just showed me the inside of your apartment."

Jimin’s eyes blow out, a dark, wicked delight instantly replacing the anger in his gaze. He leans down, his breath hot against the shell of your ear, his voice a low, mocking purr that vibrates straight down your spine.

"Aw, doll," he teases, the sheer arrogance dripping from his tongue. "You say that like it's a bad thing. What, you don’t wanna see it?"

He pulls back just enough to look at you, a slow, predatory smile stretching across his lips. He takes one hand out of his pocket, the heavy silver rings catching the amber light of the lounge as his thumb deliberately catches your bottom lip, dragging it down just a fraction—the exact same gesture from two months ago that preceded your complete undoing.

“I’ve got a great view from the top floor," he whispers, his thumb pressing a little harder against your skin, forcing your mouth to part. "A lot better than the one that suit was offering you.”

“What, no city girl tonight?" you challenge, your voice a sultry murmur despite the way your pulse is hammering against your ribs. You tilt your face up, defying the heavy pressure of his thumb on your lip. "I figured you’d have a rotating roster of Seoul girls keeping you company for the last two months. Why are you wasting your time tracking me down?"

Jimin’s eyes darken, the predatory smirk on his lips softening into something far more dangerous, far more deliberate. He leans in closer, his dark coat screening the two of you off from the entire lounge, creating a private, suffocating bubble of heat.

"You're my city girl," he rasps, his satoori thick and honeyed as he lets his thumb trace the soft curve of your lower lip. "You've been my city girl. Do you really think any of these local girls could make me drive half-mad across Gangnam on a weeknight just from a single picture?"

A breathy, skeptical laugh escapes you. "You're lying."

Jimin smiles, a slow, wicked curve of his lips that shows a hint of teeth. He doesn't look guilty in the slightest. "Not entirely. Maybe a little. But you're definitely my favorite girl."

The sheer, casual arrogance of it makes something twist in your chest. His favorite girl. The implication that there are others—even if he's just saying it to get under your skin, to keep the upper hand in this twisted game you play—makes your mouth drop open into a near pout, irritation flaring up right alongside the heat in your veins. You want to snap at him, want to push his heavy shoulder back and tell him to go find one of his other girls—

But before you can even utter a word of protest, Jimin’s hand drops from your face and slides straight down. His fingers, heavy with those cold silver rings, find the high slit of your skirt and slide right past the fabric, his palm settling flat against the bare, burning skin of your upper thigh.

Your breath hitches, the sudden contact making your thighs twitch instinctively against his grip. He squeezes, his thumb digging into your flesh with a possessive, grounding pressure that tells you exactly who is in control here.

"Don't act coy now, doll," he murmurs, his voice a low, mocking vibration against your ear as his hand rides an inch higher up your thigh, his fingers dangerously close to the edge of your lace panties. "You were just eye-flirting with a suit warrior two minutes ago, ready to let him take you back to his place. Don't play the innocent victim with me when you're the one who came to my city looking to get ruined."

“I didn't come here to get anything," you lie, your voice a little breathier than you intend it to be as his fingers dig into the bare skin of your thigh. You try to hold your ground, looking at him with all the defiance you can muster while your body is practically melting under his touch.

Jimin lets out a soft gasp, his expression shifting into a mask of exaggerated, fake surprise. "Really?" he murmurs, his eyes glittering with absolute amusement. "Because I could've sworn you’re itching for me to invite you over."

Of course you thought about it. You’re thinking about it right now. The rationalization you did earlier about being a woman in heat? A complete cover-up. The actual, irritating reason you booked that extra night in Seoul? Maybe it had to do with him. Maybe a little, tiny, microscopic maybe. You wanted the chaos. You wanted the specific way he looks down at you when he’s taking what he wants.

And looking at him now—the silver rings, the messy hair, the unbothered Busan satoori completely dominating this high-end Gangnam space—you suddenly lose all interest in playing the long game. Two months was long enough.

Fuck it. Seriously, fuck it. You’re a grown woman, you’re in his city, and you're going to get exactly what you want. Why the hell not?

You slide off the barstool, deliberately brushing your body against his chest as you stand up. You smooth down the front of your skirt, swaying your hips in a slow, provocative rhythm right in front of him, letting him watch exactly what he's been missing.

Jimin stays seated on the stool, his hands resting on his own thighs now, his head tilted back as his dark eyes track every single inch of your movement. He looks entirely captivated, a heavy, dark look settling over his face.

You look down at him, crossing your arms. "So?"

He raises an eyebrow, his voice dropping into a lazy, raspy hum. "What?"

"Where did you park?" you ask smoothly.

Jimin lets out a sharp, surprised breath that’s half a laugh, his eyes narrowing as he looks you up and down. "What are you doing, doll?"

You lean in just close enough for him to catch the scent of your perfume one last time before you turn toward the exit. "Inviting myself over."

The ride to his place is a complete, agonizing blur. You sat in the passenger seat of his car, the neon lights of Seoul smearing across the window as he tore through the gridlock, his hand resting heavy and hot on your bare thigh the entire time. You were practically twitching in your own skin with anticipation, the silence in the car so thick with friction that you could barely breathe.

By the time the elevator doors ding open on his floor, the restraint is entirely gone.

You didn't even have time to take in the apartment. You didn't see the skyline view he bragged about, the expensive furniture, or the layout. The moment the front door clicks shut behind you, locking out the rest of the city, Jimin lunges at you.

It is an insane, violent jump from the cold tension of the car to the raw, predatory hunger of his mouth on yours.

He slams you back against the entryway wall, the back of your head hitting the smooth surface with a dull thud that you barely feel because his body is instantly pinning you there. He doesn't give you a second to adjust. His hands grip your jaw, his fingers digging into your cheeks to force your mouth wide open as he devours you, his tongue sliding deep and territorial.

You let out a broken, high-pitched whimper directly into his mouth, your hands instantly flying to his chest, bunching the fabric of his dark coat just to stay upright. Your knees feel like they’re about to buckle under the sheer, sudden weight of his desire. He’s kissing you hungrily, desperately, his hips crowding directly into yours until you can feel the hard, rigid length of him pressing through his trousers straight against your lower belly.

He groans into the kiss, a low, guttural sound of pure satisfaction that vibrates against your teeth. After two months of starvation, the floodgates haven't just opened—they've been completely ripped off their hinges.

"I missed you," Jimin gasps against your lips, the confession sounding more like a curse than a sweet sentiment. He doesn't give you time to process it before his mouth is moving again, desperate and frantic, trailing a path of fire down your jawline to the sensitive skin of your neck. "Fuck, I missed you, doll."

He bites down lightly on the junction where your neck meets your shoulder, making you arch into him with a breathless gasp. His hands fly down your body, mapping out your curves with a frantic, possessive energy until his palms cup your breasts over the material of your top. He squeezes, intending to bruise, but the moment his fingers register the soft, unimpeded shape of you, he freezes for a fraction of a second. A low groan of sheer frustration and desire tears from his throat, his forehead dropping against your shoulder.

"You didn't wear a bra," he winces, his voice raw and strained, his fingers twitching against your chest. "You walked around that fucking lounge with everyone looking at you, and you didn't even—"

"Maybe I wanted to give the Seoul boys a proper welcome," you retort, your voice dripping with bratty defiance despite how hard your chest is heaving. You tilt your head back against the wall, a breathless smirk on your face. "Besides, it's easier access. You should be thanking me."

Jimin lets out a dark, dangerous chuckle that vibrates against your skin. "Thanking you? You really are a menace."

Before the words can fully leave his mouth, his grip shifts. In one fluid, brutal movement, he grabs your hips and spins you around.

Suddenly, your nose is nearly brushing the smooth, cool surface of his entryway wall. Your hands fly out instinctively to steady yourself against it. Jimin steps in right behind you, his heavy chest pressing flat against your back, completely trapping you. He reaches down, his heavy silver rings catching on the hem of your skirt as he hitches the fabric up to your waist, exposing your bare thighs and your panties to the cool air of the apartment.

His large palm settles over the bare flesh of your hip, his fingers digging deep into your skin, leaving red marks that you know will bruise by morning.

"Repeat what you just said," he orders, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly command right next to your ear. His breath is hot, contrasting sharply with the cold wall against your palms. "Say it again, doll. Tell me who you wanted to welcome tonight."

You swallow hard, your fingers flexing against the wall, but you refuse to back down. You tilt your chin up, your sassing instinct overriding your survival instinct. "I said... I wanted to give the Seoul boys a proper—"

Smack.

The sharp, stinging crack of his palm connecting with your bare ass cheek echoes through the quiet entryway.

A loud, unbidden moan tears from your throat, your hips arching back into his front automatically from the sudden shock of pain and pleasure. The sting flares across your skin, immediately turning into a deep, throbbing heat that pools straight between your thighs

“You've been so fucking annoying tonight, doll," Jimin rumbles against your ear, his chest vibrating against your back. He presses his weight fully into you, pinning you flat against the wall while his hand remains heavy and possessive on your hip. "Sitting there, letting that walking suit breathe your air. He had a bad haircut, too. Terrible."

The smirk in his tone is blindingly obvious. He’s completely pleased with himself for chasing the guy off, dripping in that absolute, undisputed confidence.

You huff out a breathless, shaky laugh, your fingers digging into the smooth plaster of the wall to keep your balance. "He was nice, Jimin. Polite. And those forearms were definitely doing something right."

Jimin’s grip on your hip instantly tightens, his fingers bruising your skin. He leans down, his lips brushing the sensitive shell of your ear, his voice dropping into a dangerous, dark whisper. "Do you think he would've touched you like this? Do you think a polite Seoul boy would have the guts to put his hands on you the way I do?"

The sheer heat rolling off him is intoxicating, but you can’t help yourself. You want to push him further. You want to see exactly how much of a monster you can wake up after two months of starvation.

"Probably," you gasp out, tilting your head back to look at him over your shoulder with a hooded, provocative gaze. "He seemed pretty eager to show me his house. I'm sure he would've figured it out."

Smack.

The second slap is even harder than the first, the sharp crack echoing loudly in the narrow hallway.

A loud, broken moan spills out of you, your eyes fluttering shut as your head drops forward against the wall. The sting is immediate and blinding, a gorgeous, pulsing bloom of heat that spreads straight down to your core. The slick, heavy pool between your thighs grows instantly wider, your lace panties soaking through from the sheer, overwhelming rush of arousal. Your knees tremble violently, and you're entirely dependent on his heavy frame pinning you up.

"Keep talking," Jimin growls, his hand immediately settling back over the throbbing, red skin of your ass cheek, his thumb dragging across the heat of it. He presses his hips firmly against yours, letting you feel the thick, rigid length of him twitching against your backside. "Keep telling me about what he would’ve done, doll. See what happens to you tonight."

“He would’ve taken his time," you whimper out, your voice cracking as the throbbing heat on your skin makes your head spin. You’re completely intoxicated by the friction, desperate to see how much further you can stretch his control. "He wouldn’t have... he wouldn't have been so rough."

"Is that right?" Jimin’s voice is practically a growl now, the final thread of his restraint snapping loud and clear in the quiet apartment.

Before you can even breathe in to reply, his hands slide down from your waist to grab the undersides of your thighs. With a sudden, explosive burst of strength, he physically hoists you up off the floor. You let out a sharp cry of surprise, your legs automatically wrapping around his waist as he carries you down the dark hallway, his steps heavy and deliberate. He doesn't even look at the city skyline outside his floor-to-ceiling windows; his eyes are fixed entirely on your face, dark and completely feral.

He marches straight into the bedroom and throws you onto the mattress. The impact sends a shockwave of adrenaline through your system, your hair splaying across the dark sheets as you look up at him, breathless and completely open.

In one fluid, ruthless motion, Jimin lunges over you. His hands catch the waistband of your lace panties and drag them down your legs in a single, rough tug, flinging them aside.

He hovers over you, his chest heaving, his eyes tracking the slick, glistening warmth between your thighs. He reaches down, picking up the discarded lace, and for a second, he just stares at it. Then, with a low, ragged exhale, he brings the fabric right to his nose, inhaling deeply. He sniffs them, his eyes fluttering shut for a fraction of a second as the scent of you—heavy, sweet, and completely ruined for him—hits his system like a physical drug.

He’s completely intoxicated. He looks back down at you, his jaw tight, eyes glittering with a dangerous, competitive edge.

He has something to prove now. He needs to erase every single thought of those seven dates, every single thought of the suit from the bar, and firmly re-establish himself as the only man who matters.

“Rough?" he repeats, a wicked, dark smirk slicing across his face as he unbuttons his trousers, the heavy silver rings on his fingers catching the low light of the bedroom. "Doll, you haven't even seen rough yet. Let's see how much you miss that polite little suit when I'm done with you."

He drops the lace to the floor, his eyes never leaving yours as he slides down the length of your body. His large hands bracket your knees, pushing them wide apart, exposing you completely to the cool air of the room and the heavy, heated weight of his gaze.

But instead of the brutal rush you expect, Jimin shifts. The sudden change in tempo is agonizing.

He starts kissing your thighs. Slow, deliberately soft, agonizingly teasing kisses that press against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. His mouth moves higher and higher, his breath ghosting over your skin, making you shiver and arch off the mattress. He’s deliberately avoiding the center of the heat, making you writhe beneath him as he tortures you with his lips, moving from one thigh to the other until you're practically begging for the contact.

Then, he stops. He hovers right between your knees, looking down at your wet, glistening center for a heavy, silent beat. He takes in the sight of how ruined you already are for him, his jaw tightening.

And then he lunges.

All the teasing restraint evaporates in a fraction of a second. He buries his face in you, lapping at you like a fucking dog, his tongue broad and completely uninhibited as he drinks you in. He finds your clit with terrifying accuracy, capturing the swollen bud between his lips and sucking on it with a heavy, rhythmic pressure that sends a violent jolt of electricity straight to your spine.

"Jimin—oh god," you scream out, your voice breaking in the quiet bedroom.

Your hands immediately fly to his head, your fingers tangling deep into his messy hair. You aren't trying to push him away; your fingers flex, pulling him closer, anchoring him against you as your hips buckle completely off the bed. You try to grind your core directly against his mouth, desperate for more of that friction, more of that pressure. His nose presses hard against your sensitive skin, almost tickling you, his hot breaths fanning over your wet thighs as he ruthlessly devours you.

The coil in your belly, wound tight from two months of starvation and the sheer adrenaline of tonight, starts to bloom. It expands rapidly, a hot, tight pressure that radiates outward, paralyzing your muscles and making your toes curl into the sheets.

You’re almost there. Almost. Your hips twitch frantically, your breath hitching in your throat as you teeter right on the edge of the cliff, ready to shatter completely under the heavy suction of his mouth.

And then, he stops.

The sudden absence of his tongue is a physical shock. You let out a broken, frustrated whine, your hands gripping his hair tighter as you try to pull him back down, your body trembling with the unspent energy of a ruined climax.

But Jimin doesn't budge. He slowly lifts his face up from your core, hovering over your lap.

He looks completely undone, yet entirely in control. Your slick, glossy arousal coats his chin and the fullness of his lower lips, glistening under the dim light of the bedroom. He lets out a ragged exhale, his tongue slipping out to slowly lick a drop of your wetness from his top lip, his eyes fixed on your blown-out, desperate gaze with a look of pure, unadulterated triumph.

“Why..." you choke out, your voice cracking as your hips give a pathetic, involuntary twitch against the mattress. "Jimin, why did you stop?"

Jimin tilts his head, his face softening into a mask of mocking sympathy that makes you want to hit him. "Aw," he murmurs, his satoori thick and dripping with faux sweetness. "Did you want to cum, doll?"

You don't even try to play it cool anymore. You nod frantically, your fingers still knotted in his hair, your chest heaving as you look up at him with desperate, blown-out eyes. "Yes. Please."

"I'm sorry, doll," he says, his thumb reaching down to smear a trail of your own slick across your hip. "I'll try again."

And he does. He dives back down, his tongue broad and heavy as he hits the exact same spot, his lips locking around your clit with the same devastating, rhythmic suction. The heat flares back up instantly, a violent wave that washes over you and builds even faster than before. You arch your back, your heels digging into the mattress as the fireworks start to gather at the base of your spine, ready to explode—

And he pulls away. Again.

You let out a harsh, frustrated gasp, your eyes snapping open. You almost yell at him, your voice tight with aggravation. "What the fuck, Jimin?! Stop doing that!"

"Aw, doll, I'm sorry," he purrs, leaning over you now, his arms bracketing your head as he looks down at you. The smirk on his face is entirely unrepentant, his lips still shiny with your arousal. "I guess I'm just a little out of practice after two months. Let me try one more time."

The third time is pure torture. He goes down on you with a feverish intensity that has you sobbing into the quiet room, your hands gripping his shoulders so hard your knuckles turn white. You are right there. The colors are flashing behind your eyelids, your inner muscles already starting to contract around the incoming orgasm—

And he drops you straight back to earth, lifting his head and leaving you cold, shivering, and completely unfulfilled.

A tear of pure frustration slips down your temple. You want to cry from the sheer, agonizing buildup, your entire body vibrating with tension.

Jimin slides up your body, his heavy frame settling between your thighs as he props himself up on his elbows. He looks down at your wrecked face, his eyes glittering with total triumph as he smirks. "What happened, doll? Do you really want to cum that bad?"

"Yes," you whimper, the word broken and breathless as you look up at him, completely stripped of all your bratty armor. "Yes, please, Jimin."

His smirk disappears, replaced by a dark, heavy look of absolute authority. He leans down until his lips are brushing against yours, his voice dropping into a gravelly, demanding command.

"Then fucking beg me for it," he rasps, his hand sliding down to firmly grip your throat, not cutting off your air but pinning you to the pillows. "Tell me exactly who owns this pussy, and beg me to let you cum."

He doesn't wait for you to hesitate. He drops back down between your thighs, the heat of his mouth pressing against your aching, hypersensitive center once more, but he doesn't stroke you yet. He just hovers there, his breath hot against your slick skin, waiting.

"Please, Jimin," you sob out, your hands instantly flying back to his hair, your knuckles white. "Please, just let me cum. I’m begging you."

He gives a tiny, agonizing flick of his tongue, and you completely break.

"Please, it's yours. It's only yours," you whimper, completely stripped of your pride, your hips lifting off the mattress in a pathetic, earnest plea. "Please, Jimin, I don't want anyone else. Just let me cum. Please."

Hearing those broken, desperate words—knowing he has completely erased every single trace of that lounge and every other man in this city from your mind—Jimin lets out a low, vibrating hum of absolute satisfaction. You can physically feel the shift in his jaw against your skin; he is smiling directly into your pussy, completely intoxicated by how utterly undone you are for him.

"Good doll," he growls against your wet flesh, the praise gritty and thick with his satoori.

And then, he finally gives you what you're begging for.

He attacks your clit with a ruthless, unrelenting pace, his tongue flattening out to lap at you heavily while his fingers slide inside you, stretching you open to match the devastating rhythm of his mouth. You keep begging, the breathless, pathetic whimpers still spilling from your lips as he drives you over the edge.

This time, there is no stopping.

The coil in your belly snaps. A violent, blinding orgasm washes over you, fracturing your vision into pure white light. Your back arches completely off the bed, a loud, shattered scream tearing from your throat as your internal muscles contract in desperate, tight pulses around his fingers. Finally. Pure, unadulterated bliss crashes through your nervous system, melting every single muscle in your body until you drop back into the mattress, shivering, spent, and entirely under his spell.

You’re still shivering, the aftershocks of the orgasm rolling through your thighs in heavy, electric waves, when Jimin suddenly moves. There’s no down-time. No gentle comedown. In one fluid, aggressive motion, he steps out of his trousers and underwear, kicking them onto the floor.

He hovers over your face, his shadow completely eclipsing you. "Open up, doll," he rasps, his voice rough and commanding.

And you do. Oh, you do. How could you not? Your mind is completely melted, your body acting on primal instinct. You look up at him, tracking the heavy, lethal length of him—thick, long, the angry red tip already leaking a heavy bead of precum that shines in the dim bedroom light. It’s entirely for you.

You part your lips, and he slides straight in, the thick heat of him filling your mouth entirely. You take him in, your throat clamping around his width as you wrap your tongue around the head, drawing a sharp, ragged hiss from his lungs. His hands find your hair again, fistfuls of it, guiding the pace as you suck him, the wet, sliding friction echoing in the quiet room.

Just as you're getting into a rhythm, he abruptly pulls out, the slick skin of his shaft snapping against your bottom lip. You look up at him, dazed, a string of saliva bridging the space between you.

"Give it a kiss," he murmurs, his dark eyes fixed on your mouth. "A sweet one, doll. Right on the head."

Fuck. It’s completely unfair how much power he holds over you. You lean up slightly, pressing a soft, lingering, impossibly sweet kiss right against the leaking tip of his length.

Jimin lets out a guttural groan, his hips giving a heavy twitch against your face. Before he can lose his mind completely, you wrap your lips around him again, sucking him deeper this time, using your hands to stroke the base. He’s groaning and moaning now, his composure completely fracturing under the onslaught of your mouth. His satoori bleeds into his swears, filthy and desperate, until he can’t take it for another second.

He grips your shoulders and forcefully pushes you flat onto your back. He climbs over you, his heavy thighs framing your hips as he reaches blindly toward the nightstand, his silver rings clinking loudly against the wood as he fumbles for a condom wrapper.

“Don't," you breathe out, your hands flying to his wrists to stop him. You look up at him, your chest heaving, your core aching for the weight of him. "Don't use it. I want it raw."

Jimin freezes, his hand hovering over the drawer. His dark eyes snap down to yours, blowing out completely as he processes the words. The sheer, volatile possessiveness in his gaze doubles, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle leaps in his cheek.

“Are you sure, doll?" he rasps, his voice dropping into a dangerously low, tight whisper. "Because if I go in like that, you’re taking all of me tonight."

You don't even hesitate. You nod, your legs wrapping tightly around his waist, pulling his hips flush against your soaking, desperate center.

Jimin lets out a harsh, jagged breath, dropping the wrapper back onto the nightstand. He doesn’t wait a single second to let you change your mind. He realigns himself between your thighs, the blunt, burning head of his shaft pressing directly against your soaking, over-sensitized entrance.

With one heavy, unyielding thrust of his hips, he drives himself completely inside you.

"Ah!" a shattered cry tears from your throat, your back arching off the mattress as your body stretches to accommodate his thick, raw width. He is so deep you can feel the heavy thump of his pelvic bone hitting yours, a total and complete invasion that leaves you breathless.

He freezes for a beat, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he lets out a long, guttural groan, his internal muscles clenching hard around him. "Fuck, doll," he rasps, his satoori thick and entirely undone. "You’re so tight. Fucking hell."

Then, he starts to move. And he fucks you good—so good it makes your mind go completely blank.

He establishes a brutal, relentless rhythm, his hips pounding into yours with an unbothered, predatory force. Every thrust is deep, deliberate, and devastating. But he isn’t just mindlessly driving into you; he leans his weight forward, using his thumb to circle and press against your swollen clit with every single down-stroke. The combination of the heavy, raw friction inside you and the sharp, rhythmic pressure on the outside sends a violent shockwave of pleasure straight to your brain.

You’re sobbing into the pillows, your hands gripping his broad shoulders, your nails digging into his skin just to survive the onslaught.

"Look at me," Jimin commands, his voice a dark, gravelly rumble as he keeps pounding into you, never breaking the rhythm. You force your heavy eyelids open, meeting his hooded, feral gaze. "Look at how good you're taking me. Look at how much you needed this."

He doesn't stop narrating, his unfiltered thoughts spilling out into the quiet room as he drives you closer and closer to the edge. "You’re the best pussy ever, you know that? No one else comes close. Fucking gorgeous, doll. So wet for me."

The filthy praise is too much. You let out a broken, high-pitched whine, your hips helplessly rolling against his to meet every thrust.

Groaning, Jimin shoves his thumb straight into your mouth, hooking it over your bottom row of teeth. He uses it to hold your jaw open, drinking in the sight of your wrecked face while he continues to pant and swear above you, whispering filthy nothings against your lips. "Eat it up, doll. Take all of it. Tell me who you belong to."

You can’t hold it back for another second. The devastating combination of his heavy, raw thrusts, his thumb grinding against your clit, and the filthy, possessive praise entirely wrecks you.

The dam snaps, and you cum. Hard.

Your vision fractures into pure white light as a violent, crushing orgasm ripples through your entire body. Your internal walls contract frantically, pulsating around him like a fucking squeezer, gripping his thick shaft in desperate, tight, rhythmic waves that suck him even deeper inside you. A loud, shattered cry tears out of your mouth, around his thumb, your hips locking in place as you ride the blinding peak.

Jimin lets out a loud, guttural moan, his eyes blowing out completely as your walls clamp down on him like a vice. It’s too much; it completely shatters the last of his restraint.

He coaxes you through the climax, his voice a low, frantic rasp in your ear while his hips give a few final, heavy, trembling thrusts. "Fuck, you’re so good, doll. Take it, just like that. Squeeze me."

He is so incredibly close to the edge, his muscles locking up, his chest heaving violently against yours.

With a ragged, desperate growl, he grips your hips and yanks himself out of you.

The sudden friction makes you gasp, and a split second later, you feel it.

He lets out a loud, breathy groan as he releases, dripping heavy, hot cum all over your lower belly. The thick, scorching heat of it hits your skin in heavy bursts, painting your stomach and mixing with the sweat and slick of the night.

Jimin collapses over you, his forehead resting against your shoulder as his breathing slowly rattles in his chest. His hand slides up to cup your jaw, his thumb dragging across your wet lip as he looks down at the mess he made on your skin.

"Fuck, you’re so hot," he pants, his voice completely raw, his dark eyes glittering with a mixture of exhaustion and absolute triumph. "Look at what you do to me."

You lie there for a long moment, your chest heaving as the room slowly stops spinning. The cooling contrast of the air against your stomach where his warmth is pooling finally brings you back to reality.

Jimin rolls off you, letting out a heavy, satisfied sigh as he props himself up on one elbow, looking down at you with a soft, lazy smirk.

"You look completely wrecked, doll," he murmurs, his satoori coming out low and deeply satisfied.

"Whose fault is that?" you breathe out, your voice a tiny, gravelly thread. "You almost killed me."

"You're the one who wanted it raw," he chuckles, a glimmer of wicked pride in his eyes. "Can't blame a guy for delivering exactly what you begged for."

You swat weakly at his shoulder, but he just catches your hand, kissing the knuckles before sliding out of bed. "Hold on. Don't move."

He disappears into the master bathroom for a minute, the sound of running water echoing softly. When he comes back, he's holding a warm, damp washcloth. He climbs back onto the mattress, shifting his heavy frame between your legs again, but this time his movements are entirely different. He is incredibly gentle, carefully wiping the heavy, hot mess from your belly and your inner thighs, taking extra care to just lightly dab around your core so he doesn't overstimulate your hypersensitive skin any further.

You let out a soft sigh, your eyes fluttering shut under the soothing warmth.

"Are you hungry?" Jimin asks, tossing the cloth onto the nightstand and pulling the heavy duvet up over your shivering shoulders. "I can order something. Hanwoo beef, or maybe some soup?"

"No," you mumble, burying your face directly into his pillow, completely exhausted. "I'd rather sleep. I'm dead."

Jimin chuckles softly, the sound vibrating warm against your skin as he slides under the covers next to you. He loops a heavy arm around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest, and presses a tender, lingering kiss to your forehead.

“Go to sleep then, doll," he whispers, his breath tickling your hair. "But you're not getting out of bed early tomorrow. And I'm actually going to show you some places around the city. Real ones."

A sleepy, sarcastic smile tugs at the corner of your lips. "Good. Because I didn't even see your apartment, you psycho."

tags: @kittenan @yopjm