synopsis . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. anton could never let you go to sleep mad at him.
ʚɞ pairing boyfriend!anton x girlfriend!reader - content couple arguement (they make up) // fluff // drabble // imagines // established relationship // anton lowk pmo in the beginning but its ok cs that's dada - wc 1.2k
a/n: anton in lee youngji's video. that's it. (i need us anton biases to hide him..)
~~~~
it was 7:42 PM.
you had just gotten off of your long exhausting shift from the hospital. patients all day had been yelling at you, demanding things you couldn’t even give them, and just being straight up rude— being home was the only thing that was on your mind the whole day.
as the door opened, you peered into the kitchen.
anton was sitting at the kitchen island on his phone— already in his pajamas. he immediately looked up and smiled at you.
“hi, baby girl.”
you gave a small smile. “hi.”
anton made his way over to you, hands soon finding the back of your waist to pull you into a small comforting hug. he had his chin pressed on the top of your head.
“busy day today?”
you nodded, sighing into his chest. “mhm..”
he then let you out of his grasp, watching you walk towards the pan on the stove.
but.. the pan was empty.
great..!
“where’s the food?” you turned your head back to glance at anton.
he stared back at you, “i ate it,” he let out a small chuckle. “what’s wrong?”
“what do you mean, what’s wrong? did you not care to leave me some?”
“i just got home an hour ago, it was something small.” he shrugged. “you can cook yourself, that’s why i left the pan there.”
you paused. did he really just say that?
"what did you say?"
"i said you can cook."
anger fumed in your mind.
seriously, what was wrong with him?
already being home from a hectic day at work, you were at your breaking point.
“i can cook?" you scoffed. "anton, you sound like a jerk right now.” before you could continue and explode even more, you stopped yourself. you took a deep breath, closing your eyes.
anton stood still in the same place, observing whatever was happening right now in this moment. you then walked off and took your bag into the bedroom you and him shared.
“w-where are you going?” he spoke, trying to follow you.
“i’m showering.”
before he could say anything, you shut the door to the room— leaving him now staring at the white door. he sighed, rubbing both of his hands on his eyes.
inside of the bedroom, you could feel the literal steam coming out of your ears and mouth.
after your shower, you had calmed down much more.. but you were still irritated from anton’s response. you opened the bathroom door to see anton laying on his side of the bed like always. he flicked his head up away from his book he was reading to look up at you exiting the bathroom. you glanced at him for what felt like two seconds, before you walked out of the room. he furrowed his brows and put his book down.
you laid onto the couch in the living room, pulling one of the big blankets you and anton had bought for the living room specifically. the big blanket was now pulled over you comfortably, making you now very sleepy.
before you could fully fall asleep, you felt a presence right next to you. you didn't have to look to know who it was.
anton crouched down beside the couch, resting one hand against the cushion as he leaned closer.
“.. are you actually sleeping on the couch?” he asked quietly.
instead of answering, you simply turned onto your other side, facing your back to him. you tugged the blanket up under your chin more.
anton let out the smallest sigh. ".. yeah," he mumbled to himself. "i deserve that."
a moment later, you felt the couch shift again.
his arms carefully wrapped around your waist from behind, hesitant at first, almost like he was testing whether you'd push him away. when you didn't, he slowly melted into you instead, holding you against his chest.
you felt yourself relax a bit, feeling the warmth of anton.
his chin rested lightly against your shoulder before he buried his face into the back of your neck, pressing the gentlest kiss there.
"hey.." his voice was barely above a whisper. "i'm sorry."
another soft kiss. "please don't be upset at me."
you stayed quiet.
he knew you were awake, and he also knew you needed time.
".. i know you had a tough day." he continued after a few seconds. "i should've known to at least make you dinner."
his grip tightened just a little around your waist. "i'm sorry for being inconsiderate.. and telling you that you could just cook your own food." he sighed against your skin. "i wasn't thinking clearly."
he paused, rubbing slow circles against your side with his thumb.
"you work so hard.."
his voice softened even more.
".. you deserve to be pampered when you come home."
he nuzzled further into the crook of your neck.
"i'm sorry.." he whispered. "i miss you a lot too. sleeping in an empty bed tonight wouldn't make anything better."
there was another stretch of silence.
".. do you forgive me?"
you stayed still for another few seconds, letting every word settle.
still tucked comfortably in his arms, you gave the tiniest nod— it was barely noticeable.. and to be exact, you were still just being a little stubborn.
anton couldn't help but smile.
his hand gently cupped your cheek, carefully turning your face toward him just enough for your eyes to meet.
there was nothing but guilt and affection.
he leaned forward, pressing a slow, lingering kiss against your lips before pulling back just enough for his forehead to brush yours.
"c'mon," he smiled hovering over your lips.
"use your words, baby."
".. yes."
his smile immediately grew. before you could say anything else, one arm slipped beneath your knees while the other reached behind your back.
"anton—"
you let out the tiniest laugh as he effortlessly lifted you into a princess carry. your arms naturally looped around his neck, your face finding its usual spot against him.
".. my poor baby," he murmured as he carried you down the hallway.
you smiled to yourself before leaving a trail of tiny kisses along his jaw, then another against his cheek.
".. there she is." he chuckled quietly.
by the time he carried you into the bedroom, the only light left was the little lamp on the nightstand. its warm, golden glow filled the room, making everything feel softer.
anton carefully lowered you onto the bed— pulling the comforter over you, making sure you were completely tucked in before climbing into bed beside you.
with one hand, he reached over and switched off the lamp.
darkness settled around the room, and almost immediately, his arms found you again. he pulled you against his chest until there wasn't even the smallest gap between you.
you let out the quietest sigh, your forehead resting beneath his chin as his hand slowly rubbed up and down your back.
maybe that was all you needed.
just your boyfriend holding you close after a long day, reminding you that no matter how stressful life became— you never had to carry it alone.
AN EYELINER DOWN THE LINES OF YOUR BODY | Lee Chanyoung
synopsis — riize’s Anton x reader (non-idol au)
genre — romance, suggestive, “friendship” (you can tell they aren’t just friends…) wc. 4k
warnings — yes, this is pretty suggestive. NO, it isn’t smut! Includes kissing (lowk making out actually), anton’s shirtless, and yea we are wasting eyeliner for this… honestly if ur like…idk under 13 i wouldn’t recommend u read it…
notes — lost my mind a bit when looking at anton edits in tiktok and birthed this baby…tell me how u like it! haven’t written for this man in SO long.
MORE WORKS: navigation | riize!masterlist
YOU’RE ALREADY LAUGHING when the door opens, breath fogged just enough from the walk to make the first step inside feel warmer than it should.
His apartment smells like laundry and cardamom tea—soft domestic notes that always make your stomach do the stupid, loyal flip it’s been doing since the first time you came over.
Anton leans his shoulder to the frame and watches you kick off your shoes, a tiny curl at his mouth like the end of a music phrase he hasn’t decided to resolve.
“You brought it?” he asks.
You lift the tiny black tube like a trophy. “One—perfectly legal—eyeliner. Waterproof. Hypoallergenic. Not responsible for life decisions.”
Anton snorts. “We’re doing a fake tattoo, not a binding contract.”
“Yeah, but still. Waterproof. Foolproof. Regret-proof.”
“Is it artist-proof?”
“No such thing,” you say.
He laughs—quiet, but real—and gestures for you to come inside the living room. You do, trying not to notice the lazy confidence in his movements, or the fact that your heartbeat’s already pretending to be percussion.
“Where do you want me?” he asks.
You glance up from the coffee table, where you’re unboxing the eyeliner. “For the tattoo or… in general?”
He raises a brow. “For the tattoo.”
“Shame,” you say before you can stop yourself. He blinks—once, slow—and you’re the first to look away.
“You say that now.”
He steps back so you can pass, and you feel it again—the hush that likes to sit in the space right by your ribs when he’s close.
You’re just friends.
You have been for so long that the word has grown complicated edges. But it still fits the mouth, most days.
Friends who trade playlists and send each other pictures of ugly cafés that serve perfect coffee. Friends who know exactly when to push and when to shut up. Friends who, apparently, draw temporary tattoos on each other’s stomachs because some friend made an offhand comment about Anton “maybe trying an ink moment one day,” and your brain took a running jump at the idea.
The living room is half studio. Coiled cables asleep under the desk. A cello leaning in the corner like a tall, patient friend. He has that small lamp on—the one that throws a pool of amber light over the rug, as if you’re supposed to confess something in it. You make yourself busy instead, setting your bag on the couch, rolling up your sleeves, twisting the eyeliner open to check the fineness of the felt tip.
“You’re really trusting me with this?” you tease. “A needle would be more permanent, but probably less wiggly.”
“I trust you,” he says, simple as a chord played clean. No rust, no drama. It lands somewhere low and steady.
You try not to show what the word does to your pulse. “Okay then. Design brief time.”
He wanders to the speaker, puts on something you both love—piano that threads through a lo-fi drum like a heartbeat that won’t call itself that. “Nothing too much,” he says. “Just…lines. Under the ribs. Maybe something that follows the muscle. If we hate it, we wipe and start over.”
“If we hate it, you pretend it’s art,” you correct, and he laughs, soft.
It’s absurd how many years you’ve known the choreography of his laugh. The way it starts quiet and widens, like the moment sound engineers push the fader up and up until the track sits perfectly in the mix.
You watched that happen slowly with him: the shy boy who learned to speak more where the music didn’t, the young man who asks you what you think and actually waits.
He pulls his hoodie over his head and tosses it onto the arm of the couch, unhurried, absolutely sure you will not combust. You won’t. You won’t. You will set the eyeliner down gently on the coffee table instead of clutching it like salvation.
Beneath the white tee there is a line where cloth ends and skin begins, and then his hands hook the hem, and the shirt lifts. When he lifts off his shirt, you think maybe this was a terrible idea. His shirt rides up just enough to show the edges of toned skin, and you swear the air gets heavier.
“I thought you said we’d draw, not stare,” he says lightly.
“I’m visualizing the composition,” you mutter, rolling up your sleeves. “Don’t distract the artist.”
“I wouldn't dream of it.”
He’s teasing, but there’s warmth under the words, a familiarity that makes your stomach do something traitorous. You kneel on the rug, holding the eyeliner like it’s a scalpel. He leans back a little—enough for the lamplight to fall over his stomach, the faint rise and fall of breath.
“Hey,” he says, as if you’re already halfway to the door. “You okay?”
“Yup,” you say, with the voice of someone who absolutely does not notice the soft map of his abdomen, the lines like brackets around breath. “Just trying to remember where I put—”
“The eyeliner is in your hand,” he says, and you look down to find it there, snug against your fingers like something that knows more than you do.
“Right.” You clear your throat and turn toward him. “Okay. Lay down. I need a flat canvas.”
He settles on the edge of the couch, spine a careful line, knees a little open. He’s taller without the hoodie, somehow. He has always been all long lines and quiet strength, like his instrument. You kneel on the rug, and now the space between your bodies is just air—warm, shared, thin.
The lamp hums. The music drips time.
You try not to let your brain wire elsewhere.
The first stroke is tentative, a thin line tracing the edge of his ribs. The felt tip glides easily, the skin warm under your touch. His abs tense slightly—involuntary—and you can’t tell if it’s from nerves or something else.
“Ticklish?” you ask, half-smile, half-dare.
“A little,” he admits. “You’re… close.”
You try to make it sound like you don’t notice. “That’s kind of the point.”
He huffs a laugh, eyes flicking toward you—then staying there. It’s too quiet after that. Just the sound of your breath and the soft drag of eyeliner. You move to draw another line, your knuckles brushing him by accident. His breath catches.
You don’t apologize.
“Do you know,” he says after a moment, voice lower, “you do this thing every time?”
“Do what?”
“Pretend you’re fine.”
You blink, keep your gaze fixed on the line you’re drawing. “I am fine.”
He hums, unconvinced. “Right. That’s why your hand’s shaking.”
You scoff, though your pulse jumps. “Maybe you’re just a bad canvas.”
“Maybe you’re just nervous,” he murmurs, leaning slightly closer.
You look up, ready with something sharp, but he’s already watching you—eyes dark, expression unreadable. The room feels too small.
You grin, because that’s what you do when you’re cornered. “If I was nervous,” you say, “it’s only because I don’t want to ruin your abs. They deserve better art direction.”
He laughs, quiet and breathy, but doesn’t look away. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” you say, “you keep inviting me over.”
The smile lingers on his face, but something shifts in the air—the playful tone stretches thin, and underneath it hums something older.
You change the topic.
“So,” you say, because words are a kind of lid and you need one. “We’re tracing the obliques. Maybe a curve like this…” Your hand hovers at his hip, not touching yet. “…and then a thin line running up here. Think calligraphy. Minimal. Pretend I’m ink and you’re paper.”
“Poetic,” he murmurs, and when you dare to glance up, he’s wearing that look—the one that means he’s watching you think. He does it like you’re a good song. You feel seen and flattered and terrified.
“I’ll start light,” you tell him. “If it tickles, don’t laugh. You’ll ruin my masterpiece.”
“Would never,” he says.
You use the back of your knuckles first, easing your hand against the warmth of him, letting your skin tell your brain this is real. He inhales, slow—heavy, and the muscles shift under your touch like fish under clear water.
You have painted hundreds of lines in your life.
None of them were on him.
Careful.
You put felt to skin and draw the first small stroke, a testing dash along the slope of his hip. The eyeliner leaves a narrow ribbon, dark and obedient. You’re close enough to see goosebumps pebble and fade. His hand, relaxed on his knee, tightens just a fraction. Not a flinch. More like a hello.
“Cold?” you ask.
“Fine,” he says. His voice comes out lower than it was a second ago.
Years, you think. Years of this. Years of cups warming your hands on his couch while he mixes a bass line, years of walking side by side and never bumping shoulders because it would break the spell, years of hungry jokes that you both pretend are just jokes.
Well, who’s to blame, honestly?
You add a second stroke, curving the line to hug the edge of his abdomen. The felt tip glides. You are absurdly, disastrously careful. You want the tattoo to look effortless; you want your hands not to shake; you want not to want this so hard you can taste it. You breathe and the scented lamp breathes with you. It smells like someone’s kitchen at night.
The second stroke finishes.
“Do another one here,” he says, voice lower, bringing your hand in his and guiding it just above his waist.
You ignore how warm his hand engulfs yours.
You move the eyeliner there, trying not to tremble. “Bossy.”
“You like that,” he says, almost absentmindedly.
Your hand hesitates for half a second—enough for him to notice. His eyes lift to yours, and the faint curve of his lips is gone now.
“Anton,” you start, but he only tilts his head.
“What?”
“This is—”
“Nothing?” he finishes for you, soft but edged.
You don’t answer. You draw instead—the thin black line curving just above his waist, the shape of something you can’t name. Your hand lingers too long, your thumb brushing over the line to “smooth” it. His breath hitches again, and that’s when you realize how close you’ve gotten—the space between you measured in heartbeats now.
His voice drops. “You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Playing.”
You set the eyeliner down carefully, because suddenly your hands don’t feel steady at all. “You’re imagining things.”
“I’m not.”
You force a smile, leaning back. “You’re the one who asked me to draw on you. Don’t make it weird.”
“It’s already weird,” he says, and there’s no teasing left in it—just quiet honesty.
You swallow. “Then maybe we stop before it gets worse.”
A pause. Silence.
You clear your throat. “Look down?”
He looks, and for a second your eyes meet across the distance of his torso, as if your gaze could touch him too. You don’t want to think about what the gaze intended—what it thought of behind that head.
You blink first. You always blink first. It has kept you safe and starved in equal measure.
“Okay,” you say, swallowing. “Now the thin accent line—here.” You hover the tip just under the nearest rib, trace a path you can already see. It’s a dangerous place to write. If you misjudge the curve, the whole design will feel off. The thought makes your hands quieter, steadier.
“Breathe,” he says, breathlessly. You’re not sure who he’s telling. You exhale anyway. The line appears where you want it, a simple arc, intimate in its simplicity. You could stop now and it would already look like something meant.
“You’re really good at this,” he adds, and you almost ruin the next stroke.
“I draw things all the time. You know this.” You hear your own voice, bright with a kind of practiced carelessness you could probably sell for money.
“Not like this,” he says, softer. “Not…on me.”
The song changes. The piano keeps talking.
“You’re going to smudge it if you keep flattering me,” you warn, because banter is a fence and fences keep the deer out. You nudge his knee with the back of your hand, a friendly press.
He takes it as you meant it; you wish he wouldn’t, and also that he would.
He goes quiet then—comfortably quiet, the way he gets when he’s focusing. You draw three more lines: one that echoes the curve you made, one that cuts across at a deliberate angle, one that disappears into the hollow near his side like a secret. The design starts to grow bones. It looks like motion. It looks like restraint. It looks—goodness help you—like longing you can see.
Anton shifts just enough to bring him closer, leaning back on his hands to get a better view. The shift pulls his body long, the clean stretch of stomach a map your fingers want to memorize. The move also brings his face down toward yours, closing the altitude until you could count each of his lashes if you were rude enough to stare.
You are not rude; you are a coward. You look at the tattoo instead, and because you’re a professional at pretending, your voice comes out light. “We’re halfway. You doing okay? Need a break?”
“I’m good.” He’s watching you again. “You’re the one concentrating like you’re defusing a bomb.”
“I am.” You add a tiny dot at the end of one line, a punctuation. “There are very few absolutes in this world, but ruining your abs on a Tuesday would be one of them.”
He laughs, and the sound tips your line a hair; you catch it, correct it, make the tilt look purposeful. It’s a small miracle. He watches you pull off the save like he expected it, like he knows how your brain thinks around mistakes. He has known you so long that of course he does.
“Do you want this to mean something?” you ask, and it’s a question about the tattoo, and also not. “Or just pretty lines?”
His gaze flickers to your mouth and back—not in a way that presumes, just a low, honest circuit that makes your breath stumble. “Everything means something,” he says, and then, gentler: “Even if we don’t say it.”
You’re the one to look away again. You are always the one to step back onto the safe part of the path. “Okay,” you murmur, businesslike. “Then it means ‘good angles and symmetry.’”
You work in silence for a while—not empty silence, but the charged kind that asks for attention without making demands. Every time the felt touches him, his stomach tightens slightly, then eases. Every time your hand braces at his side, heat collects under your palm like a secret that doesn’t want to be secret anymore. You place another line and see him swallow. You pretend not to.
A memory moves through you—the third winter of your friendship, when he let you put your freezing hands under his sleeves while you both waited for the night bus. He didn’t joke. He just held still. That’s what he does: he holds still for you in a world that doesn’t.
If you were braver, you would say something now. If you were reckless, you would press your mouth to the clean skin by the sharp new line you’ve drawn and make your mark in two inks at once. Instead you wear the same old disguise: You paint and you talk about nothing.
“Do you think,” you ask, “you’d ever get a real one? For real?”
“Maybe,” he says. “If I found the thing I wanted to keep.”
Your hand stutters and recovers. “Hm.”
“What?”
“Nothing.” You’re almost done. That makes something in you panic. The scene will end; the spell will break. You will put the cap back on the eyeliner and say something chirpy, and he will pull his shirt down and you will go back to being people who only sometimes stand so close the room feels the size of a breath.
You draw the last small curve, a grace note that pulls the whole design together. It is undeniably beautiful. It is also unbearable.
“Okay,” you say, too fast. “That’s it. Don’t move for, like, thirty seconds. I’ll—uh—grab tissues? In case I need to clean an edge.”
You rock back on your heels, already retreating, reaching for the coffee table, for your bag, for anything that looks like distance. Your heart’s doing that runaway thing—it doesn’t trust you either.
“Hey,” he says, and it’s soft, warning and wonder together. You keep going anyway. You toss the eyeliner in your bag, rummage like the right napkin will make this a different story.
“Looks good,” you say—brisk, bright, safe. “I’ll take a picture, send it to you, you can decide if you want me to redo any—”
“Quit.” The single word is gentle, but it hits like a hand catching the back of your sweater just before you step off a curb you didn’t see. “Stop playing.”
You blink. “What?”
“Quit pretending this doesn’t mean anything,” he says, voice low, steady. “You’re a terrible liar.”
“Anton—”
He leans forward, the motion slow, deliberate, until you can feel his breath near your cheek. “You keep pulling away like I’m going to let you,” he murmurs. “Like I don’t notice.”
Your throat feels tight. “If I don’t?”
His smile is small, almost sad. “Then maybe I do.”
You freeze. Your fingers close uselessly around nothing. You tell yourself you don’t know what he means.
You do.
He leans forward, and the couch sighs with him. Your name in his mouth is quieter than the lamp hum, but you hear it fine. One of his hands comes down to the rug, steadying. The other finds yours where it’s busy being frantic inside your bag. He doesn’t pull. He just covers your hand with his own—warm over warm—and you realize how long you’ve been cold.
“Anton,” you start, and the word is a little frayed. You pull back out of habit; his fingers follow, not trapping, just present. You are good at this—the art of slipping sideways, the quick joke, the neat turn into less. It has saved you a hundred times. It has cost you, too.
“Look at me,” he says.
You do. You always do, in the end.
He isn’t smug or triumphant or anything you could fight against. He’s steady. His eyes are the same quiet as the cello in the corner. He looks down at the design you drew on him, then up again. You know what it says. You wrote it.
“I like our lines,” he says. “All of them. The ones on me and the ones between us. But this—” His thumb lifts, barely there, skimming the back of your hand like the promise of a stroke you could still draw. “This thing you do. The way you make it a game.”
“It’s not a game,” you say, too quickly. Your face is hot. The room shrinks to the radius of your joined hands.
“I know,” he says. “That’s the point.”
You could joke. You could tell him to practice his cryptic producer lines somewhere else. You could find a sentence that sends you back up onto the river path where the air is thin and safe. You feel all the old exits like doors in a hallway you could sprint. None of them feel like air.
He tilts his head, a tiny, helpless smile breaking through like the sun under thick clouds. “You’re a major tease,” he says, but it’s not accusation, not cruel; it sounds almost fond, like he’s naming a mischievous cat that keeps knocking pens off the desk. “And I don’t mind—most days. I like when you’re here, in whatever way. But I—” He exhales. “I don’t want to keep pretending I don’t know what this is.”
For a moment, neither of you move. The world narrows to lamplight, the faint scent of tea, the warmth of his hand as it finds your wrist. His thumb grazes your pulse—a barely-there touch, but it unravels you anyway.
You breathe his name—not quite a word, not quite a warning—and the sound seems to undo something in both of you.
He exhales slowly, eyes dropping to your lips, then back up, like he’s asking without asking.
You could close the distance. You could make it easy.
But you just whisper, “Anton…” and let the silence hang there—heavy, suspended, the kind that hums right before something gives.
And when his forehead touches yours—barely, just enough to feel it—you don’t move. You let the moment breathe. You let the question stay unanswered.
The eyeliner is still open on the table, black and waiting, but neither of you look at it again.
You breathe heavily now, feeling his breath on yours as you wait on nothing.
“Tell me you don’t want this.” He whispers, his eyes desperately searching yours for a dare to deny once again.
You swallow your breath, your answer.
“Tell me. Use your words.” He pleads, brows furrowed in frustration though his roaming hand already reaches for your hip.
It presses gently on your hip, and only when he used his thumb to circle patterns on them did you break.
“I want this, Anton,” You confess, like a forbidden secret just unfolded—and his adam’s apple bobs from swallowing earnestly, “I want you.”
For a second, the world paused. Like an almost. Almost, the thread snaps. Almost, your emotions burst out of the jar you forced it into.
And then.
And then you bring your gaze up to his, and the clock ticks once more.
He pushes his lips on yours—hungry and starved and wanting more.
You grip his forearm to stabilize yourself, not expecting the impact and letting out a noise of surprise.
Somehow, that encouraged him more.
His other hand held the other side of your hip, and in an instant—as if you weigh nothing, he lifts you up and reverses your positions, holding your hips steady as he pushes you down on the couch.
He deepens the kiss, and you let him, hands latching onto his hair as years and years of pent up frustration releases.
Years of ignoring the obvious tension. Years of toying around thin ice.
You part after a while, short of breath and dazed.
“Do you like it?” you ask, and you’re not asking about lines.
He gives you that look. Midsummer, all warmth, all patience—except that earnest longing he hid underneath is obvious now. “Yeah,” he says, still catching his breath back. “I like it.”
You laugh—a little wrecked around the edges, but it feels good. You reach for the eyeliner again, not to flee this time but to ground yourself in the thing that brought you here. “One last dot,” you announce, “so the composition feels intentional.”
“Everything’s intentional,” he says, and you shake your head because he stole your line and made it better. He watches you place the dot, a tiny star where two arcs nearly meet. He watches like it’s also his story.
“Don’t move,” you murmur, and he doesn’t. You blow gently across the fresh ink and he shudders. The air returns to your lungs like it’s been waiting.
“Photo?” you ask.
“For me,” he says, possessive—“Not for anyone else.”—but it’s not a rule; it’s a wish.
You nod, and you’re gentle with the angle, with the light, with the possessiveness in both your chests that doesn’t demand an explanation tonight. The photo captures shadow and line and the hint of your fingers near the edge of the frame.
You send it to him. His phone hums on the table; he doesn’t check it. He looks at you.
Only you. Only ever you.
And perhaps, under the moonlight, the both of you were always supposed to happen, no matter how far you try to run.
✸ ︎⠀⠀ .bf!riize x f!reader ! ⏜💬 𝓅ervy things your bf does . . . smut ( MDNI 18+ ) 𓂃 established relationships , perverted acts , masturbation , voyerism , somno , perv!riize , mentions of porn , strong language , explicit descriptions . wc 1.4k
୭౿ REBLOG FOR A HUG !
shotaro.
secretly takes pics of you
it started with something innocent, truly. you were laughing at something on your phone, early morning sunlight catching on your cheekbones, hair a little messy from sleep. and he thought, ‘god, she looks so pretty like this.’ so he took a picture. but then he couldn’t stop, and now he does it without thinking. (without you looking.) the way your skirt rides up when you lean over something. the curve of your back when you stretch. your thighs pressed together while you sit comfortably. his favorite, though? the one he snapped from the hallway last night. you in the shower, steam clinging to your body, head tilted back as you rinsed your hair. he hadn’t meant to stare. but his cock was already hardening in his sweats, the shape of your body seared into his brain. and later, when you were asleep, he laid there on the couch stroking himself to the sight of you behind the glass, lips parted, body curved and arched so beautifully. “shit, baby…” he whispered in the dark, voice breathless. “so pretty…always so perfect…” he finishes with your photo still open, cum spilling onto his stomach as he imagines taking the next one—this time, one that you would know about. one with his cock between your thighs and your eyes looking right up into the lens.
eunseok.
films your pussy as you cum
you were still shaking, chest heaving, body limp and spread out on the sheets. alternately, eunseok had his phone already in his hand, and was busy angling it low between your thighs. his voice is deep when he speaks, eyes glued to the phone screen. “just for me, baby…” because he knows you’re too fucked-out to move or oppose. he knows you’ll let him. “just so i can watch it again later, yeah?” he whispers. he watches the slow throb of your pussy as his own cum mixes with yours and slips out of you. your aching cunt catching the light perfectly and glistening on camera. he closely watches the way you clench around nothing, so messy and fluttering and just ruined from how good he fucked you. he zooms in. he wants to replay it when he’s alone. wanting to see your slick mixed with his up close. the twitch of your cunt. the way your body immediately misses him after he’s pulled out. it was something only for him to see. and under his breath, almost reverent, he praises, “so fucking pretty like this…”
sungchan.
searches for porn videos that have girls who resemble you
sungchan doesn’t even pretend anymore. doesn’t pretend everything he does isn’t revolving around you. doesn’t click random videos or scroll for variety. he searches you. your hair, your beautiful skin, the exact shade of your lips when they’re swollen from kissing. he types in everything he can that the website would take. everything he remembers from earlier—the color of your lingerie, the gloss you were wearing, everything. and when he finds her — someone close enough to help just once, he exhales like he’s been holding his breath all day. “yeah…” he murmurs, cock already in hand. “fuck, you look just like her…” he starts stroking slowly, hips twitching as the girl on screen moans. it’s not your voice, but it’s close. close enough for him to imagine your face twisted up in pleasure, body arching for him. “wish it was you,” he groans through gritted teeth, jerking harder. “wish you’d let me do that to you…” he cums with your name on his lips, face in his mind — not hers. spilling all over his stomach as the video plays on, completely ignored. because it was never about the porn, or the girl in the video. it was always about you.
wonbin.
sniffs your dirty panties
he yanked them off of you barely twenty minutes ago. red lace, damp with arousal, your little moans still echoing in his head. you’re in the shower now, not knowing he’s pacing the bedroom with your panties clutched in his fist. he sits on the edge of the bed, bringing them to his face, and moans the second your scent hits him. sweet, sharp, soaked. he buries his nose in the center, tongue darting out to taste the mess you left behind. “fuck, baby…” he groans, cock already leaking in his palm. strokes himself slow while his mouth stays on the lace, cock twitching at the memory of how wet you were for him. “still so fuckin’ sweet…” he whispers, licking once more before pulling them down, slipping the panties over the head of his cock. the fabric, still damp, stretched tight around his tip. it’s warm, wet, so close to the real thing. he whines through gritted teeth, fucking into the lace like it’s your pussy. like you’re still wrapped around him, moaning his name. he cums with a sharp gasp, spilling into the red lace, soaking it all the way through. lets it stay there, sticky and wrapped around him while he breathes heavy. he tucks the panties back into the dirty laundry, under a shirt, like nothing happened.
seunghan.
calls you just to hear your voice while he cums
“fuck…pick up, pick up—please…” you answer with a sleepy little “hello?” his head falls back against the pillow, breath catching deep in his throat. “baby…” he groans, voice thick with desperation, “i’m so close—just keep talking, yeah? just let me hear you…your voice makes me so hard.” you ask him what he’s doing, but he’s already falling apart. “’m jerking off to you,” he pants, “have been all night. needed to hear you. just your voice, that’s all i need—fuck, fuck—baby, need to cum…” you hum softly, innocent but now knowing. “mm, you sound so pretty like this, baby…” seunghan breaks on the last word, breath hitching as he spills over his stomach he cums hard, hot and messy across his fist, hips twitching while he moans into the phone. he can barely breathe, chest heaving, your name falling from his lips like a chant. then silence. just him panting ragged and the wet sound of his fist finally slowing down. “…fuck,” he murmurs, breathlessly and utterly wrecked. “you make me so fuckin’ needy, baby.”
sohee.
jerks off while you sleep beside him
you’re on your side, facing him. lips parted, tits spilling from your tank top with every breath, the curve of your ass peaking out from underneath the covers. so close he can smell your shampoo, see the way your thighs press together under the blanket. sohee tries to look away. he really does.but his cock’s already hard under the blanket, aching as he watches your chest rise and fall. he moves slowly, careful not to wake you. stroking his dick under the covers, eyes fixed on your chest, imagining sliding between them, fucking them while you moan his name. his brain blank with the mental image of watching you moan and squeeze them tighter around him. you shift slightly, a little whimper, and he nearly loses it. “shit…so perfect…” he whispers. he finishes fast. silently. hand over his mouth and cum spilling over his hand. he lays there ruined and sweaty beside you. you shift in your sleep, murmuring and completely unaware. he just swallows hard and stares at the ceiling, whispering, “i’m so fucked up…”
anton.
buries his face in your bra when he finds it in the laundry
he finds it in the laundry pile hours after you leave. soft pink, lacey, tiny bow in the middle, a little worn from being your favorite, or rather, his favorite. anton stares at it for a second too long, swallowing hard. then he’s sinking to his knees, holding it with both hands like it might vanish if he touches it wrong. taking it back to his bed, he presses the cup to his nose first. breathes the smell of you in like he’s starving. then his tongue glides over the lace like he’s tasting your skin through it, mouth working slow and filthy, hips already grinding into the mattress below him. he moans into it, imagining your tits in his face, how you’d whimper if he sucked marks into them. “fuck…you don’t even know,” he mumbles into the bra, thrusting slow, precum leaking into his boxers. “don’t even know what you do to me…” he humps the bed harder, whimpering now. face flushed and desperate, still shoved into the cup. “wish you were still here…” he finishes with the bra still clutched in one hand, cum staining his stomach, breathless and red-cheeked. he completely wrecked by something you haven’t even realized you left behind. afterwards, he lays there, panting, sticky and dazed, holding the lace to his lips with a secret he’ll never confess.
genre: angsty smut (minor dni!), nerd!anton x afab reader, college au!, lab partners to one-night stand to ????, everyone gets in their feels no lie
warnings: cunnilingus (bro is a MUNCH-basically service top anton muahah), sorta dom reader + sub anton?, slight overstimulation, y/n loves gripping the shit out of anton's hair, not proofread!
author's note: happy new year y'all! anton brain rot got me good so good that he's reviving me from my slumber. also like that top left photo is my inspiration for anton's puppy dog eyes. it's been a minute guys and i lowk like blacked out and just kept typing away but i really wanted to post something. i highkey don't remember to tag anything but if there's anything i missed please let me know! enjoy!
you had to go to class. you had already skipped two weeks in a row and your grade can't take anymore suffering. it was stupid. missing freaking class over a stupid one nightstand sounded incredibly silly to most college students who participated in hookup culture every other weekend.
you thought you could handle it but turns out you were so wrong.
there was some self-hating mixed in with some embarrassment after hooking up with lee anton. sure, he wasn't some super popular kid hell, he was the total opposite. another freaking dorky nerd who happened to be hiding a super muscular body and beautiful ass face under his usual baggy sweater and thick black-framed glasses.
what made you feel the most out of all the whole situation was that anton probably didn't even feel anything afterwards and that pissed you off and made you cry at the same time. something about weeping over a guy who never really wanted you in the first place made you feel so pathetic and stupid it was annoying to think about.
sure, you should've messaged him or talked to him after the next class or something after that night but after you woke up to an empty bed after a post-sex nap, it just left you feeling betrayed. it was hard for you to be so vulnerable with someone when it came to your body but it was something you've been trying to work on.
you shake your head and blast whatever song was on shuffle to clear your mind well-more like drown out your thoughts as you trudged through the rain to get to lab.
with a tired sigh, you peel off your soaked hoodie and backpack as you sit down in your usual seat. there's no way anton will seat near you again, he only came that one day because his entire lab bench was missing.
you kept yourself busy by pulling out your lab materials and organizing your work bench for today's class that was until a soft voice pulled you out of your daze.
"you're back."
you close your eyes and grab your notebook tighter. "yeah." you say curtly not even looking up at the voice to know who it is.
"you okay? were you sick? you missed hella class." the soft voice presses on.
"yeah, i was. i'm fine now though, i talked to professor sooman about it already."
you finally look up to see anton still standing up looking down at you anxiously. "are you gonna sit?" you say a little harshly, using your head to motion to the empty seat next to you.
"uh-yeah. sorry." anton mumbles as he sits next to you in a hurry.
throughout lab, you only speak to anton when necessary and even when does he ask you an off-topic question, you answer with one or two words. you finish the lab assignment early and start cleaning up your workspace as soon as anton turns in the worksheets for the day.
you rush out of that dingy old room before anton can catch up to you. you speed walk down the hall trying to make it to an elevator before waiting an entirety just to get down the building.
luckily, an elevator had opened not too long after you arrived and as soon as you were in you were spamming that close button like it was the end of the world.
"wait!" you hear anton's voice call out from somewhere down the hall.
you roll your eyes and push the button even faster which does nothing to the old elevators.
just as the doors were about to close, an arm sticks it's way through the metal teeth of the elevator. you pray to whatever the fuck is out there that it’s anyone but anton.
reluctantly, the elevator opens up again and the one person you didn't wanna talk to or see barges through and out of breath. godamn you slow ass elevators!
anton has his hands on his knees as he's struggling to catch his breath and when he finally does he looks up at you, his glasses askew on his face. "can we talk, please."
you cross your arms and lean against the wall. "what is there to talk about?"
"what happened two week ago." anton answers still out of breath.
your nose crinkles at what anton says. you try your best to not show any emotion or give away what you were feeling.
"please." the desperation was clear in anton's voice yet, you didn't look at him fully knowing that if you did you would cave in. "at least hear me out."
the elevator was moving way too damn slow.
"what is it." you spit, arms still crossed in annoyance.
you bite the inside of your cheek as you stare down at anton who looked as meek as ever. it pissed you off knowing that such a loser was affecting you this much.
"i-i'm sorry for leaving so suddenly that night." anton begins fumbling with his words "and i'm sorry for not messaging you or contacting you sooner. it was fucked up what i did but-"
"but.what." you say through your teeth, fighting so hard to keep yourself from crying.
"i want to make it up to you. you don't owe me anything after what happened but i-i promise i'll make it up to you. i'll be a good boy." anton pouts as he says the last sentence.
your eye twitches. god fucking damn it lee anton.
a familiar ding rings through the box, the universe was finally on your side.
you rush out of the elevator before storming outside. it was still pouring raining even after a three hour lab. still it didn't stop you from using your already soaked sweatshirt as a makeshift umbrella.
you made it about three feet outside of the building before you suddenly felt the pelting rain stop.
"y/n, please." that damn soft voice begs, "please, look at me."
the urge to resist and fight dwindled with every second you were with him. you stare up at anton who was gripping onto his umbrella like his life depended on it. he was biting his lip, trying so hard to keep himself together.
"i know you have a lot on your mind, whatever it is tell me. please. i need to hear it. let me in please."
you take a deep breath, closing your eyes to collect yourself. you couldn't run away forever.
"i don't do hookups or one night stands. i don't like being vulnerable to random strangers but you weren't a random stranger. i thought-" god, you hated this. you thought as a tear slips from the corner of your eye. "-that you wouldn't do that to me. that you were different. that we had something. i trusted you, anton."
"i'm sorry, y/n. i-"
"you made me feel so stupid. i still feel so stupid. i'm so worked up over a guy who doesn't even give a fuck about me!"
at this point you didn't care. tears were flowing and there was nothing that you could do to stop it. "godamnt, anton."
you hear him fidgeting around with the umbrella and his backpack.
"here." anton held out a beat up pack of tissues. "sorry they've been uh crumpled in my bag for awhile."
"thank you." you mumble as you wipe your tears away.
anton gives you a moment to collect yourself.
"was any of it real?" you ask throwing your hands up for effect.
"yes, i really like you y/n. i still do." anton answers honestly, "please, i'll make it up to you i promise."
you grab the collar of anton's sweatshirt and bring him down to your face. "one chance, lee."
running off pure adrenaline, the two of you had somehow made it back to anton's dorm through that awful downpour. he was fumbling with his keycard before punching in his room code.
as soon as he closed that damn dorm, you hooked your arms around him and pulled him in for a deep kiss. without a second thought, anton grabbed your waist pulling you even closer. he moaned into the kiss when your hand snaked up to the back of his head and grabbed a fistful of hair.
stumbling backwards, anton guided you to his bed and when the back of your legs hit the metal frame he lifted you onto the bed with ease not once breaking the kiss. he slots himself in between your legs, caging you in with his arms on either sides of your head.
anton doesn't stop kissing you until he pulls away and smiles when he sees you chase after his lips. you open your eyes with a pout on your lips until you see anton slip off his black hoodie and white t-shirt in one go revealing his muscular body.
blushing, you turn your head to the side until anton grabs you by the chin forcing you to the look back at him. "don't get all shy on me now."
you narrow your eyes at him, "don't waste your last chance."
anton quickly shuts up and smashes his lips back onto you causing you to moan. with your mouth agape, he takes the opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth. you let him explore your mouth, soaking in the feeling of him.
eventually, you push him off for you a second as you take off your wet clothes leaving you in just your bra and underwear. you look back to see anton with his mouth slightly opened, just completely zoned out with his eyes fixated on your chest.
"eyes up here lee." you tease using your free hand to lift his head up away from your boobs.
anton hums in agreement and looks into your eyes for a split second before his eyes falling down to your chest one more time. "let me make you feel good."
you make eye contact with anton who is currently making the most insanely devastating puppy dog eyes at you. he really didn't even have to ask but for the purpose of getting your lick back you let him beg.
"please y/n."
your eyes drape over anton's toned body and the way his muscular arms cage the sides of your head, you keep looking down to see the bulge peaking out from his gray sweatpants. eventually, you look back at anton whose ears were getting red from the embarrassment of how impatient he was.
still though, you nod your head and let anton have his way with you. he a mumbled a 'thank you' before reaching your bra clasp. to keep you occupied or - rather himself as he dove right into the crook of your neck and left open-mouthed kisses all over.
soft moans escaped your mouth as anton went to work on your neck and even as he slipped your pants off. eventually, he made his way back to your chest. you watched for a second as anton fixated on your boobs before taking a nipple into his mouth. his tongue took turns flicking and sucking at the soft flesh, making you shut your eyes in pleasure.
even with something in his mouth, anton still yearned for more as he slipped his free hand under the waistline of your underwear. as soon as he came into contact with your core you let out a soft gasp. his thumb settles further down and began circling your clit.
"anton, fuck." you moan out.
you can't see it but you feel anton smirk against your boob before moving on to the next one. what a prick. if you weren't so lost in pleasure, you would've made a cheeky comment but the way he was circling your clit had you seeing stars.
the combined pleasures from both his mouth and fingers were bringing you so close. you could feel the knot in the bottom of your stomach start to tighten. everything that anton was doing to you was driving your body insane. the overwhelming feeling was just beginning to overtake your body until he completely pulled away from everything.
absolutely frustrated, you open your eyes to see anton scooting down the bed. "anton what-"
he cuts you off by nearly ripping off your panties and shoving his head in between your legs. "god, you're soaked."
with an irritated expression on your face you warn him, "anton."
you didn't have to say anything more as he quickly went to work. he started off with small and soft kitten licks to your already sopping cunt. everything was already aching and begging to release and anton knew that yet, he still took his time with you.
even when you tried to lift your hips and grind against his face, he changed his grip so that his arms hooked around your thighs and kept you from squirming.
"fuck!" you moan, absolutely overwhelmed with pleasure. everything was so sensitive. even with the soft kitten licks, it could've been enough to drive you over the edge.
still anton doubled down. as soon as he sensed that you were close, he hooked your legs even tighter making even harder for you to move. he kept moaning into your sopping cunt as he lapped even faster.
it was like a game for him, some sick and twisted game where he had make you cum and hard and fast with his tongue without letting anything drip onto the bed.
"anton, please," you gasp out, your fingers making its way to his thick head of hair. "shit."
hearing your moan and become utterly breathless had anton seeing stars. he felt lightheaded at the realization that he was making you feeling like this again. anton was such an idiot for leaving you that night in your dorm. if he didn't just run away in the middle of the night like a coward, he could've been making you feel like this for the past two weeks.
anton meant to apologize the next day in-person since he felt like a measly text wouldn't be able to get the job done so he waited for you to show up to lab again. he didn't think about the fact that you wouldn't show up to class ever again but since lab attendance was a crucial part to your grades he knew you would turn up eventually. anton vowed to not skip a lab until you came back and now that you're back-back in his arms (sort of) he's never letting you go.
his tongue never let up on you even when you were legs were beginning to shake, it just made anton go ever harder. your grip on his hair was insanely tight from how hard you were yanking it but somewhere between the pain he found pleasure.
at some point, you were pulling anton's hair so tightly that he started moaning straight into your cunt. the added vibrations on top of how sensitive your clit was and how fast anton was going was enough to finally send you over the edge.
a string of curse words left your mouth as anton finally slowed down. even when you finished and were out of breath, you tiredly waited for anton to come back to your lips but when he didn't even move an inch from your body you opened your eyes again. anton was still lapping at your cum. this time he moved his tongue softly over your sensitive core licking up every last drop.
when he finished, his lips and mouth were shiny with your cum all over it. you watched as anton licked the corner of his lip with a sick smile on his face before falling on top of you again to capture your lips again.
he kissed hard.
in some way, it felt like he was trying to show off his hard work by making you taste yourself but at the same time it felt like he was scared that you would disappear if he pulled away.
completely out of breath, you had to pull away. if you had the oxygen to, you would've never stopped kissing him. you feel anton pull off you immediately which made you get up in a panic.
"hey, hey, easy." anton coos as he comes back with his hydroflask. he gets back up on the bed after handing you his water bottle.
grateful, you take a long gulp, the water doing it's best to restore your energy. "i thought you were going to leave me again."
a sad smile falls on anton's face. "i'm sorry for leaving you stranded that night. i got scared of what i was feeling and just ran away."
you stayed quiet as you drank more water, your eyes never leaving his.
anton took it as a sign to keep going, "i felt absolutely horrible the rest of the night and i wanted to apologize to you in person and waited until you showed up for lab the next day but then you never did. i knew you would come back eventually so i made sure to not miss lab and i made sure to take nicer notes so you can catch up if you want them." he motioned to the thick binder on his desk that had his lab manual and loose notebook paper with his chicken scratch notes.
"i completely understand if you hate me or if you don't ever wanna talk to me again. it's ju-i just- i really like you y/n. but whatever you want, i'll gladly do just tell me. if you need me to fuck off or-"
so many words. too many words. you thought as you roll your eyes. the only way you could get that boy to shut up was by kissing him.
now it was your turn to leave anton breathless and flustered.
when you pulled away, anton's face had completely gone red and he had to look away before he melted in front of you. instinctively, you flicked his forehead causing him to yelp in pain.
"the hell?" anton pouted as he rubbed the "wound".
a small laugh escaped your lips, as you softly smiled back at him. "i forgive you and i appreciate you waiting for me. but what you did was a dick ass move and i probably won't let you forget it lee anton."
anton sheepishly rubbed his neck.
"but the reason why i was so upset at you is because i-i really like you anton and i don't just hook up with anyone. so it just freaking sucked when you ditched me."
you look up to see anton try his best to conceal the fact that he perked up your confession. "i think, i'm ready to try again. i wanna take things slow."
"oh we absolutely can!" anton said a little too fast but the regret hit faster as he tried to play it off, "i mean yeah, we uh that's cool."
you just roll your eyes at him before continuing, you didn't say anything at first and instead made your way onto his lap. you lazily clasped your arms around him, pulling him closer to you. slowly, you let your nose get so close to anton’s neck that you could see him gulp in anticipation, making you smirk as you stopped at the shell of his ear,
"make me cum like that again and i'm all yours baby."
synopsis: in which your sweet soft spoken bf wrecks you and you love it <3
warnings: pwp(porn no plot), established relationship, shower sex, dom!anton x sub!fem!reader, p in v, unprotected sex (wrap it), oral (m receiving), pet names(use of princess), slight degradation and praise kink, fingering, proof read.
a/n: this may be a one off thing…unless you guys like it i might write more anton fics 👀
18+ MDNI suggestive content under the cut
you have been warned.
what a night.
you’d think, your loving boyfriend just got off of work. sweet boy so busy going through cases at his law firm. stuck between cubicles and papers all day. poor boy just wanted to relieve stress. good thing he had you. 
but the way he wrecked you. it surprised you every time.
but he’d always clean you up. like now, it was after you finished in the bedroom. you were tired naturally—a side effect of a night with your boyfriend. you two were in the shower, he was scrubbing you with some soap making sure to get your back for you. but you could feel him behind you. not just him. but something poking your butt.
“babe are you hard?”
he only let out a soft laugh. everything he did was soft. his voice, his touch, his kisses, everything.
“how can i not be.. i mean look at you”
“we just-“ you turned around to look at him. and you could see it in his eyes, he wasn’t gonna drop it.
“please” his voice so soft, a complete contrast to how he was a few minutes ago when he was pounding you into the bed sheets.
how could you say no to him?
you nodded, a quiet signal that you’d let him do whatever he pleased with you. a devilish smirk accompanied his lips.
“good girl.” he’d praise you, like you only had one choice. to obey. he grabbed a fistful of your hair and pushed you down gently till you were on your knees in the shower. “now be good, and take me like you know how” he’d gesture. thumb brushing over your bottom lip.
his hands were large, veiny, and slippery from the hot steamy shower water that sprayed you both. he’d watch as you nodded, and your mouth opened wide. god he loved it when you looked up at him like that. so obedient and needy. just how he liked it.
his cock was met with the warmth of your mouth that took him in so well. he let out a groan that echoed in the bathroom, his free palm rested on the wet wall. fingertips gripping it just a bit.
you worked your mouth on him, knowing exactly what he liked. hollowing your cheeks around his thick girth. bobbing your head with practiced ease. his tip hitting the back of your throat. causing you to gag on him, but that didn’t stop you from sucking him in.
his hand still rested on the back of your head. holding your hair as he fucked into your mouth desperately. “that’s my girl, fuck-“ he’d throw his head back. eyes closing shut tight. his adam’s apple on display. uncontrollably groaning with each pass of your wet mouth. you made sure to never break eye contact with him even as you gagged when his cock thrusted into your mouth so deeply.
“gonna gag on my cock, hm? take’n it so well?” his dirty nothings falling out of his lips. his soft voice, barely louder than the water droplets hitting the floor. you always wondered how he’d manage to say such filthy words while maintaining that sweet whisper.
tears started to well up in your eyes the more you took him in your mouth, and you could feel him twitch inside you each time he’d thrust. “‘m gonna cum- princess, be good, swallow it” he bit down on his bottom lip. knees buckling as he released his milky liquid into your throat. to which you swallowed without hesitation.
his balance faltered a bit as he helped you off your knees. he tucked a wet strand of your hair behind your ear, pecking your lips. “you did so good for me,” a pause, “but i’m not done with you yet” he’d whisper into your ear.
you were distracted by his voice soothing your ears to notice his hands trailing down your abdomen and stopping right at your clit. your legs immediately clamped around his hand, trapping him there. sensitive to his warm fingers.
to that he smirked, feeding off your reaction. he started to rub circles into your pussy. an overwhelming wave of bliss flooded you as he fingered your sensitive bundle of nerves. your heat pooling with slick and arousal. you could barely keep your balance from the intensity. knees bucking and thighs trapping his wrist so tight. he held your waist upright and flush to his skin, your arms gripped his shoulders to steady yourself.
then your breath started to pick up, soon turning into moans. loud uneasy noises gracing his ears as he kept your bodies touching. wet steamy skin from the shower. the cold chain of his necklace flush to your chest.
you started to rut your hips into his hand, craving more friction. “look at you” he’d breathe, “all needy. fucking yourself into my hand” anton chuckled lowly into your ear.
“need- more.. anton..” you babbled incoherent sentences. whining into his ear. he knew you’d be teased from his fingering, but he loved to watch you squirm beneath him, begging for more.
“yeah? you ‘gonna beg for it princess?” that sentence assured you he was teasing. that he wanted to watch you beg for him. beg for his dick. you knew because he was always like this. a tease, his way to watch you crumble every time.
“please, please fuck me” you’d whine in his ear. your doe eyes locking on him. pupils blown, voice whiny and pleading. his fingers still stroking your aching core. yearning to be filled by him.
and who was he to deny his adorable princess? “that’s it.” he cooed tenderly. “can’t say no to that face” his expression forming a half-smile, half-smirk. he then hoisted your legs up, his strong arms lifting you and wrapping your legs around his waist. flushing your back pressed against the shower tile. his veins popping through his muscles. you couldn’t believe just how attractive your -gentle- boyfriend could be. everything he did turned you on, and he could say the same about you.
your arms wrapped around his neck, and his taller body hovered over you. his tip finally finding its way to align with your soaked heat. he could feel it, the radiating heat that only wanted to make him push in more.
both of you were craving this, eager to have you pleading just for him. he didn’t waste time. shoving his girth straight into your tight pussy. he buried in deep, thrusting up into you. a loud moan escaped you both. unable to hide the pleasure of being fully stretched by him.
“my princess- shit, she takes me so well” he’d say, his voice hoarse. that light airiness of his tone faltering with rasp with each groan he let out. deepening between your gummy walls.
you were a mess, but you loved every second of the merciless way he’d fuck you. thrusts so deep it’d kiss your cervix. back arched so far from the pleasure he’d give you. looking at you with lustful eyes.
his necklace dangled over you. that ‘a’ initial dangling right between your mouth. with each drag of his shaft, you watched it swing back and forth above you.
you always found anton’s necklace incredibly alluring. the perfect thing to remind you just how hard he was thrusting in you, with each swing of the chain. your mouth wrapped around the smooth metal. pulling it into your mouth with your tongue, and sucking it as you looked up at him.
“fuck” he’d moan, completely driven by you, what you had just done was so hot and it took him aback. making his cock twitch inside of you.
“gonna make me cum like that,”
his voice ragged in your ear. you’d moan against his necklace before nodding your head. “close too..” you whimpered. your fingernails dragging against his back. leaving scratch marks behind. the act pulled him closer to you, if that was even possible.
he felt your walls squeeze him tight, sinking him further. his pace became sloppy the closer he got to his second orgasm. when your climax hit, a loud cry followed. anton would grunt when he felt your juices drench his cock. filling you up with loads of his seed.
when he pulled out, you were dripping a mixture of his and your cum. barely able to stand up straight when he put you down. knees wobbly, and legs weak. holding him tightly to try and steady yourself. a dazed expression on your face as you were brought to reality after hitting such an intense orgasm.
anton’s arm stayed around your back holding you close and stable. his other hand cupping your cheek into his palm. “my girl did so good” he’d praise, then kiss your forehead, your cheek, your nose, your lips. each kiss delicate to savor your taste on his lips. his voice still that soft warm tone.
you were ruined but cradled in his arms.
anton slipped back into being your sweet, soft-spoken boyfriend, caring for you just like he always did. knowing exactly how to break you down only to piece you back together again. and that was exactly how you loved it.
“can we actually shower now?”
you’d ask him. light teasing to your tone. the sound of your guys’ laughter filled the bathroom. the eventful night coming to an end with the both of you washing each other clean in the shower.
warnings: suggestive content, mostly just silliness, mentions of nudes, and dicks, mention of trump due to tiktok reference (link here), gypsy rose reference too (sorry yall 😭😭)
authors note: first time ever doing one of these so i hope i did okay 😭 tried to make it super silly so i hope you guys enjoy!!
⟢ it's a match! in which you thought you matched with the love of your life. ˗ˏˋ ☆ ― read 001 002
pairing l. chanyoung x fem. reader
word count 5.1k
content warning stalking, reader wants to die
smut advisory heavy noncon, use of the word rape, reader's emotions (while being raped emphasised here), he thinks reader wants it just as much
anton had always been good with people.
his mother said he was charming. his friends told him that he was pleasing to look at and be around with. he’s heard girls saying he’s easy on the eye.
he made girls glance thrice and made them giggle behind their hands as they whispered to one another.
anton had an effortless kind of charm—it’s in the way he smiled, in the way his eyes held warmth that made someone feel like they were special. like, he was seeing only them. he was great with his words too—he knew the right adjectives to use, the right tone to take, the exact moment to pause so his words could sink in just right. the right expression to have on his face, every crinkle and wrinkle, frowning, and nodding. it wasn’t something he forced—anton simply knew people.
he knew how to make them want to be around him, how to have and hold their attention without needing to put too much effort.
but that didn't mean they stayed.
because charm alone wasn’t sufficient.
for all the attention he received, anton was shy. painfully so.
a disease that ruined him.
it stole his words, made him hesitate, lost the chance, let opportunity after opportunity slip right through his fingers like silk. pretty pretty girls liked him, fawned over, swept under—but never stayed long enough to really know him as a person. they just liked him as an idea, a concept, an abstraction. they never saw past the quiet exterior nor understood that his silence wasn’t disinterest—that it was a hurdle, one that needed time, patience, and a little bit of faith.
they lost interest before he could show them what could’ve been. what he could’ve been. before he could even try.
it wasn’t fair—it wasn’t his fault.
so anton was determined to do something —to fix, to learn.
he learned how to tilt things in his favour, how to bend and mend moments to make them his. all needed was a little push, a little persistence, a little manipulation sprinkled here and there—there was no harm in that. as long as they never knew. anton could make fate bend.
if the universe wasn’t going to give him what he wanted, he would make it happen.
and for a while, it worked. too well, in fact.
anton got good, got better at it—he got better in wovening people to where he wanted them to be. it was so easy for him that the thrill of it dulled over time. there was no challenge, no fixation, no reward. once they were his, he realised that he didn’t want them anymore.
it was frustrating at first—he got what he wanted in his palm, but now he’s scraping them away like they meant nothing. he had worked so hard and learned so much to unfold things exactly where he intended. so he moved on—over and over—new person, new thread to tug, new tactics learned for his book—until he lost the appeal.
then he stopped altogether. went back to his old ways—not entirely—just focusing on what truly made him happy; his friends, his mother. but that didn’t last long.
until you.
until he saw you.
anton hadn’t even meant to see you that day. he was simply dropping off his friend, sohee, at his university since he had promised him the day before. and anton was barely paying attention to his vicinity until he did—because suddenly you walked past by his car.
and everything that anton thought he knew about himself, the things he thought he had grown tired of came roaring back to his life. it was like a realisation, a wake up call—so violent it nearly knocked the breath out of him.
the difference with you was you didn’t spare another, not even a glance in anton’s way. you walked past without a single idea that something about you had flipped a switch within anton that he never knew he’d never be able to turn it off.
you’re so perfect in anton’s eyes.
so perfect that he didn’t see you as a game—a challenge—but an end to his new persona. he had already learned how to make things happen; he just needed to do it again, and do it right this time.
this time, there would be no losing interest.
because this time, he wasn’t going to let you go again.
——
it started small. anton always started small.
a few days after something in him lurched, he'd gotten your name. it wasn’t hard at all—he just went through sohee’s following, and from there, searched for you in other people’s following. and after what felt like hundreds of profiles clicking, he found your social.
your schedule was another. thankfully, the university you attended didn’t offer as many courses as other universities did. you took nursing—anton thought it suited you. a pretty girl with a kind heart, and anton could only guess a purer soul.
a little bit of information that wasn’t his to have but found its way into his hands anyway was what anton called fate. sohee had access to the university’s system—just his academic email and password, and anton had the namelist of students, their course, and their class schedule. oh, where she would be and when.
then, it wasn’t about coincidences anymore. anton knew that much—he couldn’t just come up to you, throw some compliments and sweet talks, and expect things to fall into place. anton might be shy, but he wasn’t stupid.
with you, he needed precision, needed a reassurance that your paths would cross again. anton had played a game of luck and chances, and each time he did, he lost the enjoyment right after. so he tweaked things a little, modified, adjusted his ways to ensure you would not slip through his fingers the way so many others had.
he started watching.
initially, it was just curiosity. he told himself he just wanted to confirm that the university’s course schedule was accurate. just a few lingering glances and parking a bit too long after dropping sohee off. anton just wanted to know what kind of outfits you wore on monday, tuesday, wednesday, and friday.
then it became a habit.
he’s looking for excuses to be near the university—with only one being through sohee. he started sending, and picking sohee up after his classes. accompanied him, ate lunch with him, and even going as far as purposely having sohee toured him around the campus. he started memorising the times students flooded out of buildings, until he spotted you again.
but even that, merely observing wasn’t enough.
you still didn’t know he existed—didn’t notice his car or his presence lingering around too long for society’s acceptance around the nursing building.
so with the patience he had, he waited until the semester was over and it was dreadful for him. anton knew what he was doing was bad—practically stalking and coming up with nonsense excuses to be within your perimeter. with no idea of where you lived, or where you worked, he only knew so little about you through your social—the one where you barely posted anything.
if it was the old him, he would’ve given up—but that version of him died long ago. anton simply stopped for a while, took a breather, rested a little… gave you some freedom and peace before the new semester began.
it was the weekend of the first week of semester break when anton was over sohee’s shared apartment. sohee had invited some friends over—their high school friends—for a boys’ night where they just usually drank alcohol, played games, and talked. anton wasn’t much of a drinker, but he enjoyed his friends’ company—an easy camaraderie that naturally came with a decade of familiarity.
he was sitting on the couch, half-listening and nodding to a conversation about a professor sungchan loathed for being an asshole when a movement beside him caught his attention.
sohee was scrolling through tinder.
anton didn’t think much of it except the fact that sohee’s attention was on something else while his friend was ranting, and he wasn’t interested either—at first.
but then, sohee swiped left to the previous girl, and he saw you.
anton had almost missed it by a second—but there you were.
your profile was a picture you never posted on your instagram. your bio was short, just for fun, anton read in his mind. he didn’t know how long had you had your tinder account up—and he felt stupid for not going on that app when he’s around your campus.
he didn’t say anything, didn’t react—just kept watching from the corner of his eyes as sohee hovered over your profile, debating whether to swipe left or right.
by the look of it, it didn’t seem like sohee knew or recognised you from his university as he swiped right. anton’s grip on his drink tightened—it didn’t matter. anton had already seen what he needed to see. it was an opening to him. it was fate—and anton didn’t even believe in fate. he believed in making things happen.
…and he did. he excused himself to the bathroom to create an account—chose the best selfie, the one that his mother complimented a lot, the one he didn’t use for his instagram’s display picture. put up a nice bio upon first impression, set his location radius around your university to ensure his face, or yours, would land on either one’s screen.
then it was just a matter of time.
anton knew good things took time—patience always yielded results but… it had been days since he made his tinder account and you still hadn’t shown up on his feed. he knew for one that tinder’s algorithm centred on location-based and it prioritised people nearby which meant…
he wasn’t close enough to you. physically.
that night, an idea came to his head. he decided to look for you.
taking a long drive, anton’s fingers idly tapped against the steering wheel as he made his way towards where he first met you, the university. but a campus was too broad, so he needed to narrow it down. he drove around the neighbourhood with his tinder app on, refreshing every few minutes until your profile finally showed up.
anton inhaled sharply, throwing his head back against the headrest then took a screenshot of your profile, and swiped right. praying to all gods that it would be reciprocated. that you’d swipe right on him too. he was parked in front of an apartment complex. he had the base, knowing your room number wouldn’t be difficult then.
a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.
it wouldn’t be long now.
——
“no please, anton—i’ll—i’ll unblock you please, please,” your lips begin to tremble, pleads and words spilling out in broken gasps. your breath feels short and thin, as if the air fails to reach your lungs. anton’s grip on your wrist tightens, his slender fingers pressing into your skin with insistence.
despite that, anton only smiles as he tugs you towards him. soft, patient, and mocking. “why do you always act like i’m a bad guy?” his grip squeezes around the curve of your wrist like a warning. “you act like i’m going to hurt you,” he chuckles—like it’s funny.
your stomach churns, feet stumbling as he tugs you away from the restaurant—away from your friends’ laughter and voices inside. panic bursts through your veins like ice as you think of every horrible outcome out of this. “no—please,” your breath hitches, you place your other hand on his hand, nails pressed into his skin in desperation to pry him off. “i swear, fuck, anton please, please—”
his fingers only tighten when he feels your effort—digging your heels into the ground and struggling against his grip, but it’s useless. the night air is too cold, but somehow your skin is burning and your chest is heaving in panic attacks as he drags you past the sidewalk.
no one’s paying attention, no one’s looking—just as anton likes it.
tears spill down your cheek before you even realise that you’re crying. there’s a heavy pressure in your chest that swells, crushes, and suffocates you. you shake your head wildly while hitting anton’s hand and wrist—anywhere that you can hit, reach, hurt him with all your might. your hair sticks to the dampness on your cheeks.
you can’t breathe.
the fear only becomes unbearable when your mind reminds you that anton was a swimmer—broad shoulders, muscular, long arms—stronger, stronger, stronger than you. the thought crawls up your spine and chokes the breath right out of you. you can’t go against him, you realise.
the tears only come faster and it’s starting to blur your vision as you beg and plead anton to let you go. he doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t even look back at you. he’s already made up his mind on what he’s going to do to you. your pleas are falling on deaf ears.
the restaurant lights are getting smaller, your mother’s voice telling you to stay safe only gets louder in your head as you pray to all gods to save you. but the street is empty—and the sky is dark.
the only answer you get is the sight of anton’s car, and the sound of him unlocking it.
anton exhales through his nose, his grip shifting and tightening.
it happens so fast you don’t even have time to process it.
he tugs you forward towards him and moves his arm to press against the small of your back—you feel the ground slip from under your feet. a panicked cry rips from your throat as your frail body jerks forward. it doesn’t matter how hard you fight, or how much you beg—your limbs feel useless, like you’re not even in control of them anymore.
your hands push against his chest, gripping and tugging onto the fabric of his sweater but to no avail. your fingers ball into weak fists as you pound against him with all your might, sobs wracking your body.
anton doesn’t budge, nor does he flinch.
anton exhales—exasperated—he’s tired of your struggling. and suddenly, before you can react—let out a piercing scream and cry for help; his hands clamp down—curling around your wrist, the other gripping the back of your neck. hard.
“anton—fuck! i’m sorry—!” your voice cracks as your hip slams against the door, the handle digs into your side. you’re being so fucking hard to handle. anton yanks the backseat door open. “get in,” his voice is low, a quiet command laced with something you don’t want to push.
you shake your head frantically, rubbing your hands together in a gesture of supplication, tears streaming down like waterfall. “i’ll talk to you, anton, just—please don’t do this—” anton doesn’t respond. your tears and pleads don’t move him.
they only tighten his pants.
he rolls his eyes and groans as he grips your hair with his fist, lowering your head to propel you in. your breath punches out of you as your palms skid helplessly against the leather seat. immediately, anton slides into the backseat with you.
oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.
you crawl and press yourself against the other door, fingers clawing at the handle as you yank it open—it’s locked and it’s not even budging. “anton, please,” your voice barely comes out, your chest heaving with short sobs. you pressed your back hard, as if trying to merge yourself with his car, to distance yourself from him, but it’s a vehicle, there’s nowhere to go.
you feel suffocated, claustrophobic, the space closing in around you.
anton leans against the other side of the backseat. exhaling, slow and steady. one arm draped over the headrest as his long legs stretched out, manspreading like he didn’t just force a girl inside the backseat of his car. you’re choking on your own panic while he’s taking all the time in the world.
his eyes flicker over you, you’re not looking at him. you can’t bring yourself to look at him—you don’t want to look at the expression he has on his face. because it won’t match yours. it’s not regret, or fear, fear of getting… raped.
“i don’t know why you’re scared,” he finally says, tilting his head slightly as he looks at you. his voice is soft and… as usual, like it’s his effort to soothe you. it only makes the horror settle in your bones.
this guy is fucking nuts, you thought. you shake your head, tears slipping down on his leather seat. maybe if you speak nicer—softer, he’d think twice. hesitate. “please, anton—just let me go… i’m so, so sorry,” you sob, your voice barely above a whisper. your heartbeat slams against your ribs, your body rigid and uncontrollable.
anton simply watches you, then wraps his hand around your ankle. your instinct—in this case, fight or fight—kicks in before logic. you try to twist away, but his grip is unyielding. “no—no—!” you whimper and try to scramble back.
anton shifts his weight—his body crowding yours as he forces you down against his seat. you squirm, your voice high and desperate. his hand finds your wrists, pinning them down above your head. he has you trapped underneath him completely. “shhh, shhh,” he murmurs, his other hand snatches your cheek gently, lovingly, squishing your cheeks, your trembling lips pursed together. “you’re okay, you’re okay…”
anton hums as your pearly tears pile down his hand. “you always make things difficult,” he continues, tilting his head slightly as he leans down closer. his breath warm against your damp cheek “you’ll hurt yourself if you keep struggling.” he soothes.
he tilts his head slightly to graze the shell of your ear. his teeth catch on the skin. you feel his breath, the sensation and warmth shooting down your spine. “it’s just me,” his voice gentle—much like a lover than an assaulter—as he rolls his thumb against the beat of your pulse. he licks and sucks on the shell of your ear. “it’s just me,” he repeats.
you let out another quiet sob when you feel his bulge pressed against your clothed pussy. anton lets out a soft groan in your ear, “do you feel that pretty? i’m so hard for you,” he moans softly as he continues to rub his tent against your pussy. you shake your head violently, letting out whimpers and soft sobs. anton lets out a sharp exhale before clicking his tongue, looking at you struggling beneath.
your sobs are slowly grating against his patience…
“yn,” he says, his eyes sharp and irritated. his usual softness is gone.”i’ve been nothing but good, and patience with you,” he mutters, his grip on your cheeks tightening—almost bruising. “if you do anything weird, i’ll fucking kill you,” he continues, voice low and threatening.
terror grips you like a vice. your breath lodges in your throat as your body immediately stiffens. you stomach churns, you think you might be sick. puke on him, puke on him—his threat echoes, louder than the pounding of your heartbeat in your head. i’ll fucking kill you.
his threat sounds more like a promise—and you try to say something, apologise, or anything, but nothing comes out. you force a nod but your body won’t move. you’re trapless and helpless as you try to pacify him.
anton cracks a smile as he moves his hand from your cheeks, to pat your head, caressing your hair. “don’t make a sound,” he mutters as he begins tugging at your clothes—one by one—shushing and soothing your cries as he leaves you with nothing on but your pants and bra, his motions unhurried.
he sat back, humming softly. “‘m going to let go of your hands—and unless you want to touch me too, don’t even think about anything else.” anton says, slowly releasing his iron grip around your wrists. there’s an ache still pulsing, your arms remain above your head, fingers twitching to remember how to do something—but you don’t. you can’t.
anton leans down to place his lips on yours, his eyes flutter shut as he sighs against your lips. you don’t kiss back, but he doesn’t care. he deepens the kiss like it’s something you want too, smiling between the kisses. you only whimper.
anton continues to ravish you with his lips, his free hand travels down to unbutton your jeans, tugging it down just enough to display your plain panties, and to position himself between your thighs. “i really want to take my time with you, but it’s so cold,” he lets out a dry chuckle, but nothing’s funny. “anton, can—can we talk, please? please,” your voice comes in short. the air inside his car is thick as he slips his hand inside your panties.
it might be cold outside, but your pussy feels too warm for someone who claims to not want it.
you cry and squirm as you feel his palm makes contact with your bare cunt—anton now kisses the corner of your lips, slowly travelling down along your jaw and the curve of your shoulder. “you’re so tense. relax, pretty.” your stomach churns as his fingertips make minute circles on the nub of your clit. anton continues the simulation—drawing your juices out of you.
he smacks gently on your pussy and it makes a slick, wet sound in the car. you flinch, disgusted and humiliated with yourself. you can feel how wet you’re getting—you chant that it’s your body’s natural response to being touched in a sexual manner. this is not what you want—this is rape, rape, rape.
anton simply smiles at your reaction before finding your entrance, and slips his index finger in. he feels your gummy walls as he finger-fucks you. anton’s single finger reaches the angle and parts your hand couldn’t. he is in the position to push deeper, and he does. after a few seconds of thrusting his index finger back and forth, anton slides another finger inside, stretching your entrance. “you’re so tight, it’s only my fingers…” he murmurs innocently, lips pressed forward slightly in a pouting manner.
anton picks up his pace in fucking your pussy with his fingers, curling and pushing against your g-spot, your juices ooze on his hand, coating his fingers in a layer of your sweet fluid. anton watches you in amusement, lips parting slightly as he pulls out his fingers, glancing between his fingers, your teary face, and the way your pussy is twitching from merely his digits.
wow, he’d break you with his cock…
you cry and shut your eyes as tight as you can, refusing to believe that you are being put in this position. anton has you completely merciless underneath him—and there’s nothing you could do except pray that a meteor crashes the car and kills you, and him.
wasting no time, anton unzips and pulls down his jeans; you don’t see it but you can feel—tell that his cock is hung, throbbing, needy. he picks up your hips easily, bringing you up against his pelvis. “i hope i’m your first,” you hear anton mumble. you don’t know if he’s talking to himself, or you.
you feel him positioning the head of his cock at your clenching pussy, slowly pushing himself inside. your breath hitches and you almost let out a muffled moan before biting down hard on your bottom lip. you’re not going to give anton the satisfaction of getting a moan out of you. it burns, and it hurts, a lot. you feel his cock expanding and stretching and overwhelmingly filling the empty tunnel in the worst way possible. you cry.
on the other hand, anton grunts, sinking his erection deeper that he can’t see the base of his cock, totally ignoring the way you’re sobbing on his leather seat. “my goodness baby, you’re so,” anton exhales, feeling your muscles clamp around his cock. he pushes his hips forward, thrusting and beginning to move. the friction of his cock sliding back and forth out of you sends sparks to your core.
you can’t contain it—the air knocks from your lungs as anton only increases his pace. your tightness and your warmness sends anton to ecstasy. you clamp your hands on your mouth to suppress moanings, and anton doesn’t seem to mind it—not when he has you where he wants to.
he reaches really deep inside of you—mercilessly driving and ramming his cock in-and-out of your pussy. “anton…” you mewled, muffled. anton nods, biting hard his lower lip as he leans down to place a soft kiss on your hands. “say it baby, say my name, c’mon,” he moans, his voice strains.
you shake your head, turning your head to the side as your body betrays you. the shame of growing wetter sears through you. it disgusts you more than the man violating on top of you. your body betrays you—you can never forgive yourself, you’d kill yourself before ever admitting that it’s pleasurable.
anton’s hands move to your hips, digging his nails into your plush flesh as he pulls you towards him to sink his cock deeper—past your cervix, knocking on your womb. he rams into you while planting kisses all over your face and body. nipping and biting and marking on your skin like canvas.
this was an experience you’ve never thought you’d face. every inch of anton—as he drags his cock halfway out before forcing it back inside of you makes your body withers beneath him. you let out another round of muffled sobs. anton notices and his heart swells and aches—almost. he hums as he dips his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling your natural body’s scent.
“you’re so soft, yn,” he murmurs against your skin. his movement slows, now pounding short and hard in what anton calls it intimate. “i love you so, so much, goodness,” he whispers, confessing on the curve of your shoulder, descending to your jaw, and up to your ear. anton kisses you everywhere his lips can reach, his hands combing and holding onto your head as he fucks you like a fleshlight.
“‘m gonna cum, pretty,” he moans in your ear as he rocks his hips back and forth, uneven breaths hitting your skin. his thrusts become more erratic as he chases his high—nearing his peak. you choke on your sobs as you finally move your hands off your mouth to place it on his chest—distancing yourself as much as possible. “anton, please, no,” you whimper, weakly protesting as it goes in one ear, and exits on the other. he doesn’t care—can’t bring himself to care about what you want at the moment. not when your warm, squelching wet pussy is inviting and begging him to fill your womb full with his love semen. “gonna fill your pretty body up with my cum, fuck—,”
not when he has you completely under his mercy.
anton’s thrusts become sloppy, his languid strokes losing its rhythm as his hips jerk spastically as he pumps his cock to its peak. he overstimulates and rams the spongy spot inside you. with a final slam, anton buries his aching cock to the deepest part of your cunt—his cock pulsing and throbbing and pumping as he empties himself inside of you. he feels his scrotum contracts as he spurts out thick ropes of cum inside your womb. you whimper—and you think you can feel the way your tummy bulge over and over as anton continues to fuck his cum into you. “mmh, fuck, fuck, fuck,” a low guttural groan builds in his throat as he moans, burying his face deep into your neck.
you don’t move. your body convulsing and you feel nothing besides—tainted, tarnished, corrupted. your body feels foreign—it doesn’t belong to you anymore, it’s his, his, his. your chest rises and falls in uneven breaths. the air you desperately need only sticks to the roof of your mouth because it refuses to get past the lump that died in your throat.
your fingers twitch at his chest as anton still hasn’t stopped… besides his cum, disgust coils in your stomach. your ears ring, muffling his groans and moans and confessions. you wish you could die.
“i love you so much, pretty.” anton slowly pulls out, making sure his semen doesn’t ooze out of your pussy too much. he exhales at the sight of a white ring and the way his cum, and your juices coat nicely around his cock. a sight he wants to see everyday. his adam’s apple bobs as he tugs on his bottom lip, holding his cock by its base to scoop his cum trailing out of your pussy back in—just slightly slipping the head in.
he pulls back up your panties and pants—seeing his thick cum pass through the cotton fabric of your cute panties as he stuffs himself back in his boxer and jeans. he lets out a soft sigh as he leans down, wrapping his big arms around your shattered body. his chin rests against the crown of your head and his hand smooth over your back in mocking comfort. anton’s fingers trace patterns down the curve of your spine—letting out another sigh of content.
he’s way too warm.
when anton speaks, he’s back to his usual self. his voice gentle, soft, like the first time he had talked to you. “see?” he murmurs against your hair, inhaling the scent of your shampoo, that now is mixed with the smell of sex floating in the air. “i’ve got you,” he soothes, smiling. you shouldn’t have blocked him.
your stomach churns in agony as you stare at his sleepy face in your blurry vision.
——
“no, it’s okay, i got you,” you said, offering him a soft smile before tapping your card on the terminal. you placed your own snacks on the counter. anton, still holding his wallet in his hands, didn’t move as he stared at you—head empty a second too long. he was short a few dollars for some beers and cup noodles…
“oh—uhm,” he stammered, feeling guilty. “thanks…” he murmured shyly, throat suddenly dry.
you just replied with a nod, preoccupied with paying for your own things to notice that anton was still looking at you as he picked up his plastic bag from the counter. he swallowed his saliva, mind scrambling trying to figure out something else to say—to keep you just a second longer—trying to talk to you despite his shyness.
but before he could do anything, the cashier handed you your plastic bag, and you thanked her before walking away.
you didn’t even look at anton for the second time.
the door chimed and you were gone.
leaving anton dumbfounded, embarrassed as he stared at the door swung shut behind you.
anton swore that if he saw you again, he wouldn’t let you slip away so easily.
💌 i hope u guys like this!!!🥹🥹🩷🩷 tysm for overflowing heartlink with love n anticipation :(( 🪽
got this terrible brain worm about washing sungchans hair recently had to get it out pls bear with me
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The water rolls off Sungchan’s bangs landing onto the tip of your nose which causes you to shake your head trying to get it off. “Sorry, sorry, you look like a wet dog when you shake like that.” His voice is full of laughter and admiration as he pulls his bangs back with the water. “Wow I’m so flattered...” You say flatly while reaching for the shampoo bottle behind him.
The shower is definitely not meant for two people, you’re both nearly pressed against each other as the warm spray runs over your skin. Sungchan insisted you shower with him since he had been at practice all day and had to leave early tomorrow. “I just wanna spend time with you please...” He had pouted and used his stupidly convincing doe eyes.
“You’re gonna wash my hair?” He asks when you pour the shampoo into your hand. “Yeah...?” He fights back a smile and tilts his head “Can you reach-”
“Ouch!” You land a light slap to his bare chest in an attempt to shut him up. Sungchan reaches up and holds a hand over the pink skin near his pec that you had slapped looking like you just stabbed him. “So mean.” He tsks and shakes his head purposely letting the water from his hair land on you again.
“Just lean down a bit for me.” The shampoo is leaking through your fingers, and it will have all gone down the drain by the time your stubborn boyfriend lets you work it through his soft brown hair.
He leans down enough for you to reach his hair, his hands find your waist, and you suddenly feel warm for a reason other than the hot water running over your skin. Sungchan lets out a soft sigh of contentment when you start to massage the bubbly berry scented shampoo into his hair.
When you had first moved in together, he insisted on different shower shelves with his soaps on one and your soaps on the other. It only took a few weeks for his bottles to be abandoned, and your cinnamon and cedar smelling boyfriend to start smelling like berries and lavender. “That feels good.” He murmurs softly with his eyes closed.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He nodded quietly. The ten-hour practice had started to catch up with him, and the soothing shampoo and warm water is only making him sleepier. “Open your eyes for me, hm? We gotta rinse the shampoo out.”
He sighs and tilts his head back, standing back up to full height to let the water run through his hair. You miss the view of his cute sleepy features so close to your face, but the view of his muscular torso dripping soap suds isn’t too bad either.
Once you’re both washed up, he turns off the shower and looks down at you with a smile. “What...” He doesn’t answer. “Stop staring.” You reach up to cover his eyes, but he catches your hand and pulls you into a hug. “Sungchan we’re all wet...” He laughs softly at your complaint and nuzzles his nose into your hair to smell the fresh conditioner. “You’re cold...” He says against your hair. “How did you even know that-” Your eyes widen in realization, and you pull back to smack his chest again “pervert!”
Sungchan just laughs and kisses your forehead before opening the curtain. The bathroom is steamy and the mirror is fogged but the cold hits you both the second the curtain opens. “Now you’re cold too.” You say while stepping out of the shower to grab your towels. He accepts the towel and lazily dries his hair with it before wrapping it around his waist. “Dry my hair?” He uses those big round doe eyes for the second time tonight.
