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?
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.
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.
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! 😫
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.
⤷summary: he’s in your city. you had a bad date. what could possibly happen with your fwb from college?
⤷fwb!au;
⤷pairing: jimin x f!reader
⤷warnings: this is pure filthy. contains heavy satoori-laced dirty talk, territorial marking, and the kind of overstimulation that makes a mockery of your high standards. jimin in this is absolutely insane if i do say so myself so consider yourself warned.
⤷word count: 5.7 k
ONE SHOT
STARRING JIMIN
Dicked down.
You're thinking about dick, honestly—specifically the lack of it.
The taxi door slams shut, the sound echoing flatly against the humid Busan night. You're walking toward your apartment building, and every step feels like an insult. You can still feel the faint, tacky memory of that guy—Theodore? Matthew?—and his polite, careful hands. He'd touched you like you were a piece of fruit he was afraid of bruising.
It was pathetic. You feel itchy. Not the kind of itch a shower can fix, but the deep, localized throb of a hunger that's been sitting in your gut since the last time a certain someone drove down from Seoul.
You're not a whore. Let's make that clear.
You're a woman with needs. And your needs?
Frankly they haven't been met tonight. The light way to put it is that you need to be pounded through the mattress and maybe forget your name.
But George? Or whatever his name, did not cut it. Not even a close. He was the furthest man to cut it ever in the history of hook ups. Or dates.
You're growing frustrated even thinking about it.
You're back in your apartment, the door clicking shut with a finality that feels like a weight on your chest. The silence is deafening.
Tossing on the sofa, like a bag of potatoes, thumb instinctively flying to Instagram.
You shouldn't. You know you shouldn't. But you're already on his profile.
Ah, there.
There's Jimin. College-era Jimin was a menace in oversized hoodies and cheap beer, but this version—the one who moved to Seoul and got a "real" job—is a different kind of monster. He looks sharp, tailored, and annoyingly successful. You scroll through his feed, your eyes lingering on a photo of him at a bar, the amber light catching the sharp line of his jaw and those rings you can still feel the phantom pressure of against your skin.
It's been a mutually beneficial arrangement since senior year, a toxic muscle memory you can't seem to shake. He's the reason Adam? Maybe? felt like a chore.
Suddenly, the screen flickers. A new story.
It's a grainy, dark shot of the shoreline, the interior of his car glowing red. No text. Just the unmistakable silhouette of his hand on the steering wheel, his silver rings glinting. He's here.
In Busan.
shit.
It had become a routine you hated to love. Every time his work in Seoul let him off the leash, he'd find his way back to Busan, and he'd find his way into your bed.
Your sheets. Scent lingering for days.
There was no "checking in," no "how have you been." Just a gravitational pull that started the second he crossed the city limits. Like clockwork.
He was the itch you couldn't scratch, the reason you kept trying—and failing—to find a replacement.
You stare at the shot of his hand on the steering wheel in his story. The rings. The heavy silver weight of them. You can almost feel them pressing into your hip bones, a phantom sensation that makes your breath catch.
You're hovering over the message box, your thumb trembling. You want to say something bratty. You want to tell him to stay away. But before you can even type a single letter, the screen transitions.
A private message notification drops from the top of the screen.
[01:12 AM]
Jimin: You're still awake.
It's not a question. It's an observation. He knows you're stalking him. He knows you've spent the last ten minutes scrolling through his life while your own night felt like a hollow disappointment.
You're not that easy.
But as the heavy, rhythmic thud of his boots stops right outside your door, your resolve starts to fray at the edges. You don't move. You let him use the key you never had the heart to take back, listening to the mechanical turn of the lock that sounds like a starting gun.
The door swings open, and the hallway light spills in, silhouetting him in the frame. He looks exactly like the photos—expensive, sharp, and entirely too composed for a man who just drove four hours across the country.
You could jump his bones right now. In theory.
Again, you're not that easy.
"Don't tell me you forgot to lock it," he says, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that skips over your skin. He doesn't step in yet, he just stands there, watching you with that hooded, predatory gaze that makes your stomach do a slow, dizzying roll. "Or were you just waiting for me to save you the trouble of inviting me in?"
You scoff, leaning back against the kitchen counter and crossing your arms. It's a defensive move, one meant to project a boredom you absolutely do not feel. "I figured the neighborhood cat would be more entertaining tonight. At least he doesn't text at 1:00 AM demanding attention."
His eyes drop, tracing length of you with a slow, painfully seductive arrogance that makes your skin feel like it's on fire.
He lingers on the heels—the ones you'd strapped on for whoever that was (you stopped trying to remember his name), hoping for a night that would actually leave you breathless, only to be met with a handshake and a "goodnight."
"You're all dressed up," he notes, his voice dropping an octave as he steps fully into your space. He doesn't take his coat off, he just looms over you, smelling how he always smelled.
Sweet, with a tang of masculinity. Like strawberries eroded by musk.
"Heels, too. That's a lot of effort for a Tuesday night in Busan. Who were you trying to impress?"
"Unlike you, some people actually enjoy a night out. I had a date. A real one. With a man who knows how to open a door without acting like he owns the building."
Jimin's hand moves from your chin to the countertop behind you, effectively trapping you between the marble and his chest. He leans in, his smirk sharpening until it's predatory.
"A real man?" he echoes, the satoori in his voice turning rough and mocking. "Is that what we're calling the guy who dropped you off and didn't even have the balls to follow you upstairs? Because you look remarkably untouched for someone who was supposedly 'on a date'."
He reaches out, his thumb dragging slowly across your bottom lip, smearing what's left of your lipstick. "Tell me. Did he even touch you? Did he have his hands on you like this?"
He shifts, his knee sliding between your thighs, forcing them apart just enough to be an ultimatum.
The rough material on his jeans on your inner thighs send actual sparks along your spine.
Chill. Chill.
"Or did you spend the whole night wishing it was me while he bored you to tears? You're a brat when you're hungry, but you're a liar when you're desperate."
"I'm not desperate"
"Liar, liar, pants on fire." He says while fidgeting with the hem of your dress, mocking. Taunting.
You hate how easy he reads your body language.
It's humiliating, really, how the second his knuckles grazed the edge of your skirt, your thighs instinctively pressed together in a desperate attempt to keep him out—or maybe to hold the feeling in.
Damned muscle memory.
"Look at you," he whispers, his breath hitching against the sensitive skin of your neck. "All that talk about 'real men' and 'gentlemen,' and yet your body is doing exactly what I want it to do before I've even tried."
He hooks a finger into one of your heel straps, tugging just enough to make you wobble on your feet. "Did he get this far? Did he even get a hand on these legs? Or did you keep them shut because you knew they weren't for him?"
He doesn't wait for you to snap back. He doesn't give you the room to be a brat. His hand moves from the hem of your dress to your waist, his grip tightening until it's bruising, pulling you flush against the hard line of his body.
"I missed you, doll"
shit, maybe you are easy.
"You're so full of yourself, Park," you snap, your voice trembling despite the venom you're trying to spit. "You think a four-hour drive and a 'doll' makes me forget that you're just a glorified office drone who only calls when he's bored."
He laughs, a low, dangerous sound that vibrates through your own chest. "Is that what you tell yourself while you're staring at my pictures? That I'm just a drone? Because you seem pretty fixated on what this drone does with his hands."
"I was bored," you lie, your chin tilting up defiantly. "Maybe the guy i saw was better conversationalist."
"He was a fucking footnote. You don't even remember his name" Jimin growls, his satoori turning jagged. "And I'm the one who's going to make sure you can't even speak of him by the time I'm done with you."
Before you can fire back another remark, he loses his patience.
He lunges forward, his hand slamming into the back of your hair to tilt your head back at a punishing angle, and then he's on you. The kiss isn't a "hello." It's a collision. It's raw, hungry, and entirely devoid of the polite friction you'd dealt with all night. His tongue is a hot, invasive force, claiming your mouth with a desperation that suggests he's been thinking about this since he hit the expressway.
It's the kind of kiss that makes your brain go quiet and your blood turn into liquid lead. You're clawing at his shoulders, your nails digging into the expensive fabric of his coat, as he devours you, the taste of him—mint, and pure, unadulterated want—filling every sense you have left. It's messy and desperate, the sound of your frantic breathing echoing in the small kitchen until you're both lightheaded.
He pulls back just a fraction, just enough to catch his breath, but his lips stay glued to the corner of your mouth.
"I'm going to take you right here on this counter," he rasps, the words vibrating against your skin. "I'm going to push everything off this marble and keep you here until you're shaking."
His head drops, his mouth finding the sensitive, pulsing vein in your neck, biting and sucking until you know there's going to be a mark that stays there for a week.
One hand stays locked in your hair, keeping you exposed, while the other slides down, his palm heavy and warm as he cups your breast through the thin fabric of your dress. He squeezes, his thumb flicking over the peak until you're arching off the counter, a broken, helpless sound escaping your throat.
"Yeah," he murmurs against your skin, his grip tightening. "That's the sound I drove four hundred kilometers for. Not 'sweet.' Not 'polite.' Just you, making a mess for me."
In one swift, arrogant motion, his hands slide under your thighs and hoist you up. You let out a sharp gasp as he slams you down onto the marble, the sudden, biting chill of the stone against your overheated skin making you wince.
"Cold doll?" he mutters against your lips, his voice a dark promise. "Don't worry. You'll heat up in a second."
The kiss turns feral again—teeth clashing, tongues tangling in a frantic, impatient rhythm. It's the kind of lust that feels like an emergency, a decade of mutually beneficial history boiling over into a single, desperate moment. You're pulling at his hair, your heels clicking rhythmically against the cabinet doors as you try to get him closer, your hands roaming over his back like you're trying to memorize the anatomy of him all over again.
In the scramble of limbs, your knee brushes against the front of his jeans, and the sheer, rigid size of him makes your breath hitch. Even through the heavy denim, there's no mistaking how much he's been thinking about this drive.
You pull back just an inch, your chest heaving, a jagged, bratty smirk playing on your swollen lips despite the haze in your head.
"God, Jimin," you pant, your eyes dropping to the unmistakable bulge pressing against your leg. "Is that the Seoul ego talking, or are you just that happy to see me? Because that feels like a lot of work for a Tuesday."
Jimin's eyes darken, the pupils blown wide until there's barely any iris left. He doesn't look amused, he looks like he's about to snap you in half. He reaches down, grabbing your wrist and forcing your hand down until your palm is flat against the heat of him, his silver rings biting into the back of your hand.
"It's not an ego, doll," he rasps, his satoori coming out in a low, dangerous growl. "It's a four-hour head start. Now, stop talking before I find a better use for that mouth."
He doesn't wait for a rebuttal. He dives back in, his hand fumbling with the zipper at the back of your dress with an impatience that says he's done with the banter. He wants the skin. He wants the mess. And judging by the way you're already arching into his touch, you're more than ready to give it to him.
He wants to feel the friction of the fabric against you, the barrier making the eventual skin-to-skin contact that much more of a payoff.
His hand slides down, mapping the curve of your hip before dipping behind your thighs where the heat is trapped, concentrated and heavy. His fingers hook into the hem of your panties, the delicate material a sharp contrast to his calloused skin and heavy silver rings.
"Lace? Seriously?" he mutters against the pulse point of your neck, his voice dripping with a dark, satisfied sort of arrogance. He tugs the fabric just enough to make you hiss.
"God, you must've really wanted it. You dressed up for a 'gentleman'. You wore these for him, didn't you? And he didn't do nothing. Too bad, now I'm the one taking them off eventually. Same as always"
"Don't flatter yourself, Park," you gasp out, your head falling back against his shoulder as his thumb begins a slow, agonizingly light graze over the lace. "I wear these for myself. You're just... convenient."
"Convenient?" Jimin repeats, a short, dry laugh escaping him. "Is that what we're calling it when you're already soaking the marble for me? You're a brat even when you're desperate."
He stops the talking and starts the work. His hand cups you fully, his palm applying a steady, grounding pressure while his thumb begins to toy with your clit through the thin lace. It's not a gentle touch, it's a rhythmic, insistent friction that's designed to break your composure.
The lace adds a textured, biting edge to every stroke, and you find yourself gripping his forearms, your knuckles turning white. The contrast is maddening—the cold counter at your back, his searing heat in front of you, and that relentless, unyielding pressure between your legs.
"Tell me again how convenient I am," he rasps, his satoori coming out in a low growl as he increases the speed, his eyes locked on yours, watching for the exact moment your pupils blow wide and your smart remarks turn into incoherent whimpers. "Tell me you don't want me to rip these off right now."
You don't give him the satisfaction of a verbal answer, but your body betrays you anyway, arching off the cold marble as he quickens the pace. He grows impatient with the lace, his fingers hooked into the edge of the fabric to shove it unceremoniously to the side, exposing you to the humid air of the kitchen.
Then, he's there. The first slide of a finger—heavy, slick, and purposeful—pushing inside you while his thumb maintains that brutal, rhythmic friction on your clit. The sensation is too much, a jagged lightning bolt that shatters the last of your bratty resolve.
"Oh god, Jimin... please," you sob out, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer even as you try to escape the intensity.
He pauses, but only for a fraction of a second, his finger remaining buried deep and curled while his thumb holds you hostage. He looks up at you, his eyes dark with a terrifying level of control.
"Please what?" he rasps, making the question sound like a threat. "You have to speak up if you want to come, doll. I'm not a mind reader."
"You know what," you gasp, your hips stuttering against his hand. "Just... just fuck me. Please, Jimin, just do it."
He lets out a dark, low chuckle, his nose brushing against yours as he pushes a second finger in, stretching you until you're whimpering. "Not yet. I didn't drive all this way just to let you off easy. I want to feel you break first."
He begins to move his hand in earnest now, a relentless, punishing pace that has your heels drumming against the cabinets. "I need you to cum on my hand first, doll. I want to feel every single twitch. Show me how much better I am than the gentleman."
He bites your bottom lip, almost drawing blood, stifling your scream as he hits the exact spot that sends you over the edge.
Your vision swims, the cold counter and the hot kitchen blurring into one as your muscles seize around his fingers. You're coming hard, your body racking with tremors that you can't hide, and Jimin just watches you through it all with a smirk that says he's exactly where he wants to be.
"That's it," he murmurs against your skin as your heart hammers against your ribs. "Good. Now, let's get you out of this dress so I can actually start."
Before your heart rate can even settle, he's hooking his arms under your knees and hoisting you off the counter. You wrap your legs around his waist instinctively, your damp lace panties pressed against the rough denim of his thighs. He doesn't ask for directions, he's been here enough times over the last few years that his feet find the way to the bedroom in the dark by pure muscle memory.
He tosses you onto the mattress—not gently, but with a firm, territorial thud that makes the springs groan.
Jimin stands at the foot of the bed, his chest heaving as he shucks his jacket and pulls his shirt over his head in one fluid motion. In the dim light, his torso is a map of lean, hard muscle, sweat making his skin glisten. He's left only in his jeans, and he makes absolutely no effort to hide the prominent, heavy tent straining against the zipper. He wants you to see exactly what you've done to him.
"Stay," he commands when you try to sit up.
He crawls onto the bed, his weight making you dip toward him. His hands find the zipper of your dress, and he drags it down with a slow, agonizing rasp. "Look at you," he murmurs, his voice dropping into that gritty register as he peels the fabric away, exposing your skin to the cool air. "All that effort for a man who didn't even get to see the prize. You look pathetic like this—half-undone and shaking for me."
You reach down, your fingers fumbling with the straps of your heels, but his hand shoots out, pinning your wrist to the pillow.
"Leave them on," he growls, his eyes flashing. "I want to hear them clicking against the headboard. I want you to look like a proper little mess."
He grabs your waist and hauls you toward the foot of the bed, repositioning you until you're directly in front of the floor-length mirror leaning against the wall.
"Look," he commands, forcing your chin up so you have to watch your own reflection. You look wrecked—lipstick smeared, hair a bird's nest, legs spread wide in those high heels while a shirtless Park Jimin looming over you. "Look at how much of a nasty little menace you look like right now. You think anyone else would know what to do with this?"
His hands slide down to the lace, hooking into the waistband with a slow, deliberate tug. He doesn't just pull them off, he drags the fabric over your skin, making sure you feel every millimeter of friction. Once they're clear of your heels, he doesn't toss them aside. He folds the damp lace with a sickeningly calm precision and shoves them deep into the pocket of his jeans.
"I'm keeping these," he rasps into the mirror, his eyes locking onto yours as his hand pats the pocket where your scent is now trapped. "Since you wanted to show them off so badly tonight, I'll keep them as a souvenir of how much of a desperate little slut you were being."
Loss of words, actual loss of words.
He crowds back into your space, his bare chest hot against your back as he forces your legs even wider. "You look so fucking pornographic like this. Look at you. You're practically dripping for me and we haven't even started. You want to be a 'lady' for the local boys, but we both know you're just a mouth and a pair of legs for me, don't we?"
He doesn't wait for your pride to find a response. He drops to his knees between your thighs, his hands gripping your hips with a bruising strength that anchors you to the edge of the bed.
When his mouth hits you, it's a total eclipse of the senses. It's filthy—wet, loud, and utterly unrefined.
Jesus.
Maybe you shouldn't bring him into this.
"Oh—f-fuck, Jimin"
His tongue is a heavy, rhythmic muscle that flat-out wrecks you, swirling over your clit with a predatory suction that has you sobbing into the quiet room. You can hear the slick, wet sounds of his tongue working you over, and seeing it in the mirror—his dark hair moving against your skin while those silver rings catch the light—is enough to make your heart fail.
"Your taste is addicting. Dripping with sex, doll you're so nasty and ready"
He's relentless, his fingers diving deep inside you to stretch you open while his mouth maintains a punishing pace. He knows you're sensitive, knows you're hovering on the jagged edge of a second climax, and he uses it against you, slowing down just when you're about to break only to dive back in twice as hard.
"Jimin, stop—no, please," you gasp, your fingers clawing at the bedsheets, your heels drumming a frantic rhythm against his shoulders. The brat is gone, replaced by a raw, hollowed-out need that only he can fill.
"Please what?" he mumbles, pulling back just an inch, his lips glistening and his jaw set in a hard, demanding line. "Tell me exactly what you need. Say it. Own it."
"Fuck me," you sob, your head tossing back as you reach down to try and pull him up. "Please, Jimin. Just fuck me. I don't want anything else. Just you. Now."
He stands up, the hunger in his eyes reaching a boiling point as he looms over you. He doesn't give you a second to breathe before he's lunging back in, capturing your lips in a kiss that tastes like salt, heat, and your own slickness. He's tasting you on his tongue, claiming every bit of the mess he just made as if to remind you exactly who owns your reactions.
The sound of his belt hitting the floor is like a gunshot in the quiet room. He shoves his jeans down, but not before fishing into his pocket—right past your folded lace panties—to pull out a condom. As the denim falls, your eyes drop instinctively. His boxers are ruined, a dark, heavy precum stain dampening the fabric.
A jagged, breathless laugh escapes you. "God, Jimin... you really were desperate, weren't you? All that talk about me being easy, and you're the one walking around like this."
"Shut up," he growls, his satoori thick enough to choke on as he rids himself of the last of his clothes.
When he finally frees himself, he's breathtakingly thick and glistening with more head-start than he'd care to admit. He steps closer to the edge of the bed, the rigid length of him hovering inches from your face. For a heartbeat, he nudges your lips with the tip, a silent, arrogant invitation for you to take him in.
Your mouth parts, your tongue darting out to catch a bead of that salt, but the second you move to close the gap, his hand snaps out. He grabs your hair, tugging your head back just enough to keep you from the prize.
"No," he rasps, his jaw tight as he looks down at you, his chest heaving. "If you put that mouth on me, I'm going to lose it right now. Your taste alone almost made me cum in my fucking pants."
He doesn't waste another second. He tears the foil packet open with his teeth, rolling the latex on with a frantic, trembling speed that betrays just how close to the edge he really is.
"I can't wait anymore," he mutters, his voice a low, predatory vibration as he crawls back onto the bed and settles between your knees. "Those heels are staying on, and your eyes are staying open. I want you to watch exactly what you've been begging for."
He hovers over you in missionary, his weight a crushing, welcome heat that pins you to the mattress. Before he sinks in, he takes the rigid, heavy length of himself and slaps it against your wet folds—once, twice—a deliberate, arrogant display of what's coming. You shudder, your back arching off the bed in pure, agonizing anticipation, your heels digging into the backs of his thighs.
Then, he enters you.
It's not the violent thrust you expected. Instead, he slides in with a slow, agonizingly deep precision that feels painfully close, almost gentle. He fills every inch of you, stretching you until you're breathless, while his top half remains a storm of aggression. He's kissing you hungrily, his tongue demanding and his hands pinning your wrists beside your head, the silver rings cold against your skin. The juxtaposition is making you dizzy—the way his mouth is devouring you like he's starving, while his lower half moves with a slow, taunting tenderness that mocks your desperation.
You can't take the slow pace. Your walls clench around him in a frantic, involuntary rhythm, trying to pull more of him in.
Jimin lets out a sharp, pained wince at the pressure, his jaw locking as he realizes you're finished with the games. He takes it as the only green light he needs.
He starts moving in earnest, his pace shifting from gentle to relentless. He's fucking you with a depth that makes your vision blur, every thrust hitting that spot he's known since college with a terrifying accuracy. His moans are dripping with honey—low, gravelly vibrations that hum against your collarbone—and he leans down to whisper filthy nothings into your ear, his accent turning his words into a blurred lullaby.
"Look at you," he rasps, his breath hot and damp. "Taking all of me like a good girl. Tell me who's ruining you. Tell me whose name you're going to be screaming for the rest of the week."
He's not just fucking you, he's reclaiming you, his body a heavy, rhythmic force that drowns out everything but the sound of your combined breathing and the frantic clicking of your heels against the headboard.
He brushes your bottom lip with his thumb again, his eyes dark and fixated on the movement.
"Open."
You obey, your mouth parting just enough for him to slide his thumb in. You circle the pad of his thumb with the tip of your tongue, watching his pupils blow out as he realizes exactly what you're doing.
It's a power play, and he loves it.
He picks up the pace instantly, the slow, teasing thrusts replaced by a deep, frantic rhythm. The height of his moans lands in a deep frown between his eyebrows, a look of concentrated, raw focus that tells you he's losing that iron-clad control.
You're clenching around him like your life depends on it, your head pressed back into the sheets, your back arching as he hits the deepest part of you. He reaches up, his hands catching your breasts, his fingers toying with your nipples which are jiggling from the sheer momentum of his thrusts.
"God, these fucking tits," he growls, before launching his mouth onto them, his tongue and teeth making you see stars.
The friction is too much, the heat too intense. You're blabbering, your voice a high, broken mess. "Oh god, Jimin... I'm close again. Jimin, please—"
Just as you reach the edge of the cliff, he stops.
He doesn't let you fall. Instead, in one swift, territorial motion, he pulls out and flips you onto your stomach. You let out a cry of protest, but he pins you down, your face pressed toward the mirror at the foot of the bed. You're forced to look at yourself—cheeks flushed, hair matted to your forehead, and Jimin looming over you like a predator.
He caresses your spine, his silver rings cold against your burning skin, peppering kisses along the vertebrae while whispering "Taking me so fucking well"
His hand gripped your hip to tilt your pelvis up.
He enters you again, forcefully this time, a single, deep thrust that bottom-out and leaves you gasping. He grabs your chin, forcing you to look into the mirror at the reflection of his body buried deep inside yours.
"Look at yourself when I make you cum," he commands, his voice a low, dangerous vibration. "See what I do to you. And see what you do to me."
"Oh—Fucking shit—'mmgh"
He begins to hammer into you, the sound of your skin hitting his and the rhythmic click of your heels against the mattress filling the room. It's primal and desperate. You're watching your own expression break in the mirror, your eyes rolling back as the pleasure becomes a physical weight.
He slaps your ass. Hard.
Moans spill out our mouth again, catching yourself in the mirror being so pathetic for him.
You break first, your body seizing in a violent, prolonged climax that has you screaming his name into the pillows.
The feeling of you tightening around him is the final straw.
Jimin lets out a low, guttural roar, his chest slamming against your back as he spends himself deep inside you, his hands bruising your hips as he holds you there until the last of the tremors.
Jimin doesn't pull away immediately, he stays draped over your back, his forehead resting against the crook of your neck as his breathing gradually slows from a roar to a ragged hum.
Eventually, he shifts, rolling off you with a low groan of exertion. You collapse onto the mattress, your legs feeling like jelly, those damn heels finally falling sideways as you lie there, staring at your own flushed reflection in the mirror.
"You're still wearing them," he notes, his voice a gravelly, post-coital rasp. He reaches out, his silver rings catching the dim light as he unbuckles the straps of your heels one by one, tossing the shoes onto the floor where they land with a dull thud.
"I was told to leave them on," you murmur, your voice sounding small and wrecked even to your own ears.
Jimin huffs a laugh, pulling the duvet over both of you. He props himself up on one elbow, looking down at you with an expression that is far too soft for a man who was talking that much dirt ten minutes ago. He reaches into his discarded jeans on the floor, pulls out your lace panties, and tosses them onto your nightstand like a trophy.
"I should go," he says, though he makes absolutely no move to get up. "I have a meeting at nine. I should probably start the drive back to Seoul before the sun catches me."
You roll onto your side, looking at the sharp line of his jaw—the same one you were stalking on your phone earlier. "Then go. I guess a 'real man' has spreadsheets to manage."
Jimin's eyes narrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You're annoying even when you can barely walk. It's exhausting."
He sighs, dropping his head back onto the pillow and pulling you into his side, his arm heavy and warm across your waist. "Fine. I'll stay. But only because I don't feel like falling asleep behind the wheel and ending up in a ditch because you wore me out."
"Is that your way of asking to sleep over?" you tease, poking at the firm muscle of his chest.
"It's my way of telling you that you're making me coffee at 6:00 AM," he grunts, closing his eyes. He pulls you closer, his chin resting on top of your head. "Go to sleep, doll, after you pee of course. You've had a long night of being disappointed by gentlemen. You need the rest."
"In a minute."
You settle against him, the steady beat of his heart a much better soundtrack than the silence of an empty apartment. You still haven't won the power struggle, but as you drift off to sleep wrapped in his heat, you decide that for tonight, a stalemate feels a lot like winning.
