don't regret what you do (s. hanbin)
you just love your best friend's tattoos
pairing: bff!hanbin x fem!reader || wc: 1.9k || cw: smut! mentions of alcohol, both are tipsy (not drunk, everything is consensual), they flirt so much, kissing, making out, grinding, fingering, oral (f rec.), clit play, p in v, protected sex, marking, light biting and hair pulling, use of petnames, dirty talk, praise, a tiny bit of teasing, strong language || warnings: +18 content, mdni!!! || a/n: this man’s tattoos are the hottest thing ever
the room is warm. you’re sprawled across hanbin’s couch like you own it, legs thrown over the armrest, head lolling against a cushion that smells exactly like him — clean laundry, faint cedar cologne, and something warmer that’s just his. the peach soju bottle on the coffee table is nearly empty, a thin ring of liquid glowing amber under the lamp. your cheeks are flushed, your limbs loose, everything soft and hazy around the edges.
hanbin’s on the floor, back pressed to the couch, one knee drawn up. he’s in that black tank top that should be illegal in this heat, sleeves cut just enough to show the full spread of ink on his arms. the overhead light keeps sliding across the lines like it’s showing off for you. you’ve seen those tattoos a thousand times — traced them with lazy fingers during movie nights, fallen asleep with your cheek against the sun-star-moon on his collarbone — but tonight the alcohol has stripped away every polite pretense. you can’t stop staring.
“you’re doing it again,” he says, not even looking up from his phone.
“doing what?”
“staring at my arms like you want to sink your teeth in.”
you snort, nudge his shoulder with your bare foot. “maybe i do.”
he finally tips his head back, upside-down smile lazy and dangerous. “you’re so fucking obvious when you’re tipsy.”
“shut up.” you flick his forehead. “i’m appreciating art.”
he laughs low, sets his phone aside, and turns to face you properly. the movement makes the tank ride up, just enough to flash the sharp v of his hipbone disappearing into low-slung shorts. you swallow. hard.
“which one is your favorite tonight?” he asks, voice dipped in honey and teasing. he flexes his right arm slow, deliberate, letting the thin script curl around the muscle. 'don’t regret what you do'. the ink looks alive when he moves.
you push yourself up on your elbows, knees knocking together. “that one,” you say, pointing. “always that one.”
“yeah?” he lifts the arm higher, turns it so the light licks every letter. “tell me why.”
“because it’s hot,” you say, too honest, the soju burning away your filter. “and because it’s you. you really don’t regret anything. not even the stupid shit. not even—” you wave a hand between you, “this, probably.”
his eyes go half-lidded. something shifts in the air, heavy and electric.
“and the other one?” his voice is quieter now. "do you like it?"
your gaze drifts to the delicate line of sun, star, moon just under his collarbone. you’ve kissed that spot before. once. more than a year ago. cheap vodka. a dare you both pretended was funny afterward. you remember the way he’d gone perfectly still, breath caught, like the world had narrowed to your mouth on his skin.
“yeah, that one’s pretty,” you whisper. “makes me think of you when i can’t sleep. like you’re all three at once. bright and far and quiet.”
the teasing melts off his face. he looks at you like you just handed him something fragile and priceless.
“come here,” he says.
you slide off the couch without hesitation, knees hitting the carpet between his. you’re close enough now to taste the peach on his breath, to see the faint sheen of sweat at his temple. your hands find his shoulders like they’ve always belonged there.
“you’re really drunk,” he murmurs, but his thumbs are already slipping under the hem of your shirt, tracing the skin just above your waistband.
“tipsy,” you correct, leaning in until your forehead almost touches his. “big difference.”
“is there?”
you nod. “tipsy means i still know exactly what i want.”
his hands settle fully on your waist now, warm and sure. “and what do you want, baby?”
you don’t answer with words. you close the last inch and press your lips to the sun on his collarbone — soft, then open-mouthed when he exhales like you punched him. you drag your mouth to the star, then the moon, tasting salt and summer and him. his grip tightens, fingers digging in like he’s scared you’ll vanish.
“fuck,” he breathes. “you’re gonna kill me.”
you smile against his skin, teeth grazing the curve where neck meets shoulder. “good.”
that’s all it takes.
he surges up, hands sliding to your thighs to yank you into his lap. you go willingly, knees bracketing his hips, and the second you settle you both groan — he’s hard, thick against you, only two thin layers of cotton between you. you roll your hips once, slow, just to hear him curse.
“you’ve been thinking about this,” he says, voice wrecked. “please, tell me you have.”
“every time you wear one of those stupid tank tops,” you admit, tugging at the hem. “take it off?”
he yanks it over his head in one motion and then he’s bare-chested and the tattoos are right there. you can’t help it — you lean down and lick a long stripe up his bicep, right over the words you love. the muscle jumps under your tongue.
he shudders hard. “you don't know what you're doing to me.”
“don’t regret what you do,” you whisper against the ink, then bite down gently.
that breaks him completely.
he flips you so fast the room spins — your back hits the couch cushions, cushions that still smell like him, and then he’s on you, mouth crashing into yours. it’s not soft. it’s years of "almosts" and "maybes" and what if poured into teeth and tongue and desperate hands. you arch up, nails raking down his back, and he growls into your mouth.
“bedroom,” he mutters, but neither of you move. too far. instead he shoves your shirt up, mouth closing over your breast through the thin lace of your bra. you whine, high and needy, fingers twisting in his hair.
“hanbin—”
“i know, baby,” he says, voice shredded. “fuck, i know.”
clothes come off in frantic pieces — your shirt caught on your elbow, his shorts kicked somewhere towards the kitchen, your panties snagging on his wrist when he tugs too hard. you end up naked beneath him, legs spread wide, and he just stops. looks. eyes black.
“you’re so fucking pretty,” he says, like it hurts. then he drops between your thighs without another word.
his mouth is hot, wet, perfect. he licks into you like he’s starving, tongue curling just right, two fingers sliding in alongside and crooking immediately. you cry out, hips bucking, but he pins you down with one hand splayed over your stomach.
“stay still, baby,” he murmurs against your clit, and the vibration makes you sob.
you come the first time embarrassingly fast, thighs clamped around his head, his name cracked in half in your throat. he doesn’t stop — keeps licking softly through it until you’re twitching and begging. only then does he crawl back up, kissing you slow and filthy so you taste yourself on his tongue.
“condom,” you manage, reaching blindly toward the coffee table.
he laughs, breathless, nearly knocks over the wine bottle fumbling for his wallet. you watch him roll it on with shaking hands, and the sight of him — head tipped back, throat working, cock flushed and heavy — makes you throb all over again.
“look at you,” you whisper.
he glances down, smirks crooked. “like what you see?”
“shut up and fuck me.”
and that's what he does.
he pushes in slow, eyes locked on yours, watching every inch disappear. you’re tight, wet, still trembling from your orgasm, and he groans like it hurts. when he bottoms out you both stay still for a second, foreheads pressed together, breathing the same air.
“move, please, binnie,” you beg, legs wrapping around his waist.
he moves.
hard. deep. the couch creaks beneath you, springs protesting. his hand braces beside your head so he can watch your face fall apart. you reach up, trembling fingers tracing the bicep tattoo again.
“say it,” he pants.
“don’t regret—” your voice cracks as he hits that spot inside you, “what you do—”
he snarls and fucks you harder, like the words are gasoline. the angle’s perfect, every thrust dragging over your g-spot until your eyes roll back. you come again clenching around him, sobbing his name into his shoulder, nails leaving half-moon marks on his back.
he follows seconds later, hips stuttering, burying himself deep and spilling with your name on his tongue. you feel him pulse inside you, moaning your name.
after, you stay tangled, sweaty and sticky and perfect. he’s half-hard still, and neither of you move to separate. his face is pressed into your neck, lips brushing your skin.
“so,” he says eventually, hoarse, “still just tipsy?”
you laugh, shaky and wrecked, and bite the moon on his collarbone just because you can.
“shut up, hanbin.”
he hums, content, and rolls his hips lazily. the drag makes you both gasp.
“round two in my bed?” he asks against your skin. “bigger surface area. more room to make you scream.”
you clench around him involuntarily and he groans.
“yes,” you breathe. “god, yes.”
he pulls out slow, ties off the condom, and then scoops you up like you weigh nothing. your legs wrap around his waist automatically, arms around his neck. he carries you down the hallway, mouth on yours the whole way, bumping into walls because neither of you can stop kissing.
his bedroom is darker, just the city glow through half-open blinds striping the bed in silver. he drops you onto the sheets and follows immediately, crawling over you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.
this time is slower.
he kisses every inch of you — collarbone, breasts, the soft skin under them, down your stomach, the crease where thigh meets hip. he spends forever between your legs again, licking you open until you’re writhing and begging, until you come on his tongue a third time with his fingers buried inside you and his name a prayer.
when he finally slides back in — after putting another condom this time — he groans like he’s coming home.
“fuck, you feel even better in this angle,” he whispers, hips rolling slow and deep. “i’m never letting you leave this bed.”
you laugh breathlessly, arching up to meet him. “we’ll die of dehydration.”
“worth it.”
he fucks you like that for what feels like hours — slow, then fast, then slow again, drawing it out until you’re both trembling. you lose track of how many times you come. at some point he flips you over, pulls your hips up, and takes you from behind, one hand fisted in your hair, the other rubbing tight circles on your clit until you’re screaming into the pillow.
when he finally comes again, it’s with his chest pressed to your back, your name muffled against your shoulder, arms wrapped around you so tight you can barely breathe.
you collapse together, his weight a perfect blanket. he doesn’t pull out. just stays inside you, softening slowly, lips brushing lazy kisses over every tattoo you praised earlier.
“still no regrets?” you mumble into the pillow, voice shot.
he laughs, low and wrecked, and bites the shell of your ear.
“never,” he says. “told you the ink doesn’t lie.”
outside, the summer night keeps humming, warm and sticky and endless. inside, you fall asleep tangled with him, hearts racing in tandem, skin marked by his mouth and his hands and the quiet promise that tomorrow you’ll do it all again.
you don’t regret a thing.
© jongst4r, 2026
taglist: @redessertired, @pinkdazed, @strwberrylhs, @vanillakirstein, @enhypenlvrsstuff, @gchirpy, @k13endall, @unnatrual, @moonchild-31, @cortised, @wondiary
