urmyrehab

She/her, 19, multifandom

[urmyrehab]

After the Meeting, Pt. 2: No More Secrets

Fandom: SEVENTEEN Pairing: Choi Seungcheol (S.Coups) × Reader (Y/N) Series: After the Meeting, Pt. 2 Rating: Explicit (18+) and fluff too!!! Word Count: ~4,900 words Link to Pt.1 -> https://www.tumblr.com/urmyrehab/823046654694391808/after-the-meeting?source=share --------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Summary

The rumors are getting harder to ignore.

After weeks of stolen glances, whispered gossip, and late nights behind locked office doors, Seungcheol and Y/N find themselves standing on the edge of a secret they can no longer keep. Between a birthday they'll never forget and a question that changes everything, the hardest part isn't falling in love—it's finally letting the rest of the world see it.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, and Y/N stepped into the familiar chaos of the office floor. Her heels clicked against the polished tiles, but the sound felt distant compared to the low hum of conversation that rippled through the cubicles. Heads turned. Eyes followed. The air itself seemed to carry the weight of recent rumors—speculation about the hotel room noises, the way Scoups had lingered too long near her, the faint mark on her neck that makeup couldn’t quite hide.

She kept her chin up, shoulders squared, but her pulse hammered in her throat. Scoups was already at the head of the long conference table, sleeves rolled to his forearms, tie loosened just enough to reveal the strong line of his collarbone. Their eyes met for half a second—nothing more—and heat bloomed low in her belly. He gave the smallest nod, then turned back to the presentation on the screen.

“Morning, team,” he called, voice steady, commanding. “Let’s run through the Q3 targets before the client call.”

Chairs scraped. Laptops opened. But the usual focused silence never settled. Instead, whispers threaded between seats.

“Did you see how she looked at him?”

“Manager-nim’s been different since the trip. Protective. Like he’s… marking territory.”

Y/N’s fingers tightened around her pen. She forced herself to take notes, to nod at the right moments, but every time Scoups leaned over the table to point at a chart, the fabric of his shirt stretched across his shoulders and she remembered how those same shoulders had pinned her down in the hotel room, how his cock had stretched her open until she’d bitten his palm to stay quiet.

The meeting dragged. When it finally ended, the team scattered, but the tension lingered like static. In the break room, two analysts huddled near the coffee machine.

“I’m telling you, they’re fucking. Or dating. Or both.”

“Shh—keep it down. But yeah, the way he watches her? That’s not just professional.”

Y/N slipped out before they noticed her, heart pounding. She texted Scoups under the desk: They’re getting bolder.

His reply came seconds later: Let them talk. We’re almost done hiding.

The days blurred into a haze of stolen glances and careful distance. Scoups scheduled late meetings that kept them both in the office after everyone left. The first night, he bent her over his desk the second the last light flicked off, yanking her skirt up and sinking two fingers into her already wet pussy.

“Missed this,” he growled against her ear, curling his fingers until her knees buckled. “Missed how tight you get when you’re trying not to scream.”

She came hard around his hand, biting her forearm to muffle the sound. He didn’t give her time to recover—replaced his fingers with his cock in one smooth thrust, fucking her deep and fast, the desk creaking under them. When he came, he stayed buried inside her, cum leaking down her thighs as he kissed the back of her neck.

“Two more weeks,” he promised. “Then we stop pretending.”

Her birthday arrived on a Friday. Scoups had sent the car at seven, just like he’d said. Y/N wore the black dress—sleeveless, clinging to every curve, hem brushing mid-thigh. The driver took her to the penthouse suite without a word.

When the elevator opened, the space stole her breath.

Hundreds of white rose petals covered the marble floor, leading to a candlelit table set for two. A string quartet played softly on the balcony, the music weaving between the city lights far below. Scoups stood in the center of the room in a tailored black suit, top buttons undone, sleeves rolled once. His eyes darkened the moment he saw her.

“Happy birthday, love,” he said, voice low and rough.

He crossed the room in three strides and pulled her into a kiss that tasted like champagne and hunger. His hands slid down her back, unzipping the dress slowly, letting it pool at her feet. She stood in baby pink lingerie—exactly how he liked. He dropped to his knees right there, mouthing at the damp crotch of her panties, tongue pressing the fabric against her clit until she whimpered.

Then he hooked the lace aside and licked her properly—long, slow drags from entrance to swollen nub, sucking gently before spearing his tongue inside. Her fingers tangled in his hair, hips rolling against his face as he ate her like a man starved. When her thighs started shaking, he stood, lifting her effortlessly.

He carried her to the bedroom where more petals covered the silk sheets. He laid her down, stripped himself, and crawled over her. His cock, already hard and flushed dark, dragged along her inner thigh, leaving a wet trail.

“I want to fuck you slow tonight,” he whispered, lining up and sinking in inch by inch until their hips met. He stayed still, letting her adjust, forehead pressed to hers. Then he began to move—deep, rolling thrusts that dragged over every sensitive spot inside her. Each withdrawal was torturously slow; each push back in made her gasp.

They changed positions twice: her on top, riding him while he thumbed her clit; then him behind her, one hand fisting her hair as he pounded into her from behind, the slap of skin loud and filthy. He came first this time, groaning her name as he filled her, but he didn’t stop moving until she followed, pussy fluttering around his oversensitive cock.

After, they lay tangled, breathing together. Scoups reached under the pillow and pulled out a small velvet box. He opened it to reveal a delicate platinum ring with a single diamond that caught the candlelight.

“We’ve hidden this for years,” he said quietly. “I don’t want to hide anymore. Marry me.”

Tears pricked her eyes. She nodded, voice breaking. “Yes. God, yes.”

He slid the ring on her finger, then kissed her again—gentle this time, full of promise.

The next morning, they walked into the office hand in hand.

Gasps rippled through the open floor. Someone dropped a coffee cup. Scoups cleared his throat.

“Team meeting in five. Conference room.”

Once everyone gathered, Y/N held up her left hand. The diamond sparkled under fluorescent lights.

“We’ve been together for four years,” Scoups announced, voice steady. “Last night I asked her to marry him. She said yes. We wanted you to hear it from us first.”

Silence stretched for three heartbeats. Then the room erupted—cheers, applause, someone wolf-whistling. Colleagues crowded around, offering hugs and congratulations. One of the junior analysts who’d been speculating the loudest grinned sheepishly. “I knew it! Well… I hoped. You two are disgustingly cute.”

Y/N laughed, leaning into Scoups’ side. His arm wrapped around her waist, thumb stroking the ring on her finger like he still couldn’t believe it was real.

By lunch, the entire building knew. Cards appeared on their desks. Someone ordered a cake. The HR director stopped by personally to say the company had no policy against intra-office relationships when properly disclosed, and wished them well.

That evening, as they left together—no more sneaking, no more separate cars—Y/N looked up at Scoups.

“Think they’ll stop gossiping now?”

He smirked, squeezing her hand. “Doubt it. But at least the rumors are true.”

She laughed, the sound light and free, and let him pull her into a kiss right there on the sidewalk, in full view of anyone who cared to look.

Over the following weeks, the office settled into a new rhythm. The whispers stopped. Instead, people smiled when they passed, offered knowing winks, asked about wedding plans. Scoups no longer scheduled late meetings just to fuck her on his desk—now he simply took her home, where they could be loud, where he could bend her over the kitchen counter and fuck her until she screamed his name.

One night, after a particularly long day, he came home to find her already naked on the bed, legs spread, fingers circling her clit.

“Couldn’t wait?” he asked, voice rough.

“Needed you,” she answered.

He stripped fast, climbed between her thighs, and sank into her in one thrust. They fucked slow and deep, his hand around her throat, her nails digging into his back. When she came, he followed, filling her until cum leaked out around his cock.

Later, as they lay tangled, he traced the ring on her finger.

“Four years of hiding,” he murmured. “Now we get forever.”

She smiled against his chest. “Forever sounds good.”

Outside, the city lights twinkled like the candles from that night. Inside, they held each other—finally free, finally together, the secret no longer a secret at all.

[urmyrehab]

Mine after midnight

Mine After Midnight

Fandom: ATEEZ Pairing: Choi San × Reader (Y/N) Rating: Explicit (18+) Word Count: ~3,800 words

Notes: Idol AU, Fem reader!Dom, San!sub, Established Relationship

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Summary

Promotions have everyone losing their minds over San—his stage presence, his physique, and that infamous chest pump. Y/N watches the world thirst over her boyfriend with remarkable patience.

When he finally comes home, she decides it's her turn to remind him exactly who he belongs to.

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The television screen flickered with the bright studio lights of the late-night talk show. Y/N sat cross-legged on the couch, a glass of wine dangling from her fingers as she watched San lean back in the interview chair, his black button-down stretched tight across his chest. The camera loved every inch of him—especially when he demonstrated the signature chest pump that had fans losing their minds since ATEEZ’s comeback with "Bad." Each deliberate flex made the fabric strain, and the interviewer, a pretty woman in a low-cut dress, leaned in closer than necessary.

"That move must take serious dedication," she purred, reaching out to rest her manicured hand on San’s bicep. "Can I feel how hard it is?"

San laughed politely, but he didn’t pull away. The camera caught the way her fingers lingered, sliding just a fraction higher. Y/N’s grip tightened around her wine glass. She watched the interviewer’s thumb trace the curve of his muscle, watched San’s polite smile, watched the comments flood the live chat—he’s so hot, I’d let him destroy me, marry me San, that chest pump is illegal.

By the time the interview ended, Y/N’s pulse was a steady, possessive drumbeat. She set the glass down, stood, and smoothed her short silk robe. Underneath, she wore nothing but a black lace garter belt and thigh-high stockings. The doorbell camera feed showed San’s car pulling into the driveway. Perfect timing.

When the front door clicked open, San stepped inside, jacket slung over one shoulder, hair still styled from the shoot. "Baby, I’m—"

He stopped dead. The living room lights were dimmed to a warm amber glow. In the center of the space sat a sturdy wooden chair, and beside it, Y/N, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised.

"Strip to your briefs and sit," she ordered, voice low and even.

San swallowed. The exhaustion from weeks of promotions melted into something hotter, sharper. He dropped the jacket, unbuttoned his shirt with quick fingers, and kicked off his shoes. When he was down to black Calvin Kleins that hugged the thick outline of his cock, he crossed the room and lowered himself into the chair.

Y/N circled behind him. She produced a length of black silk rope—soft but strong—and began binding his wrists to the chair’s back posts. Each knot was deliberate, tight enough to hold, loose enough not to cut circulation. San tested the restraints once; the wood creaked but held.

"You looked very comfortable letting that interviewer touch you," Y/N murmured against his ear. Her breath was warm, her tone velvet over steel. "All those fans screaming for your chest, your arms, your cock. Did you enjoy it?"

San’s throat bobbed. "It’s part of the job, but—"

"But nothing." She stepped in front of him, robe slipping off one shoulder to reveal the swell of her breast. "Tonight you’re mine. You don’t move unless I say. You don’t come unless I say. Understood?"

"Yes, ma’am," he answered, already half-hard.

Y/N straddled his lap without touching his cock, knees braced on either side of his thighs. The lace of her stockings rasped against his skin. She rolled her hips once, slow, letting the heat of her bare pussy hover just above the straining fabric of his briefs. San’s breath hitched.

Music started—low, bass-heavy, the kind of beat that demanded movement. Y/N began to dance. Not the frantic grind of a club, but a deliberate, torturous roll of her body. She arched her back, presenting her tits inches from his mouth, then leaned away before he could taste. Her hands slid down her own torso, cupping her breasts, pinching her nipples until they peaked visibly through the thin lace. San’s cock twitched, pressing upward, seeking friction she refused to give.

"Look at you," she whispered, grinding down just enough for the head of his cock to brush her slick folds through cotton. "Already leaking for me. All those people wanted this—your body, your cock—but only I get to use it."

She reached between them, hooked two fingers into the waistband of his briefs, and tugged them down just far enough for his cock to spring free. It slapped against his stomach, thick, veined, the tip already glistening. Y/N didn’t wrap her hand around it. Instead she dragged her soaked pussy along the underside, coating him in her arousal, never letting him slip inside.

San groaned, hips jerking upward on instinct. Y/N’s palm cracked against his chest—right over the pumped muscle the interviewer had coveted.

"Did I say you could move?"

"No, ma’am," he panted.

She rewarded his obedience by sinking lower, letting the fat head of his cock nudge her entrance. For one torturous second the crown breached her, then she rose again, denying him. A string of her slick stretched between them before snapping.

"You’re going to sit there," she continued, voice steady even as her own thighs trembled, "and watch me fuck myself on your cock when I decide you’ve earned it. Until then, you’re just a toy."

She stood, turned, and bent at the waist, presenting her ass. The garter straps framed the curve of her cheeks perfectly. Y/N reached back, spread herself, and let San see how wet she was—puffy lips glistening, clit swollen. She circled the sensitive nub with two fingers, moaning softly, then pushed those same fingers into her cunt and fucked herself in slow, shallow thrusts. San’s cock jerked, a bead of pre-cum sliding down the shaft.

When she was dripping down her own thighs, Y/N returned to his lap. This time she faced away, reverse cowgirl, and sank down until the head of his cock kissed her entrance again. She didn’t take him. Instead she rocked, letting the ridge of his glans catch on her clit with every pass. The wet sounds filled the room—obscene, filthy.

"Tell me who this cock belongs to," she demanded.

"You," San gasped. "Only you, fuck—"

"Good boy." She reached down, gripped the base of his shaft, and finally—finally—sank onto him in one smooth motion. San’s head slammed back against the chair, a broken moan tearing from his throat as her tight heat swallowed him to the hilt. Y/N didn’t move at first. She simply clenched around him, letting him feel every flutter of her inner walls.

Then she began to ride.

It wasn’t gentle. Y/N planted her feet on the floor and used the leverage to bounce on his cock, taking him deep and hard. Each descent slapped her ass against his thighs. Her pussy squelched around him, creamy arousal coating his balls and dripping onto the chair. San’s muscles strained against the ropes, veins standing out in his forearms, but he stayed still, exactly as ordered.

Y/N’s hand found her clit again. She rubbed tight circles while she fucked herself on him, chasing her own pleasure first. When her orgasm hit, she seized around him, walls pulsing, a gush of wetness soaking his lap. San whimpered, cock throbbing inside her, desperate to thrust but held in check by her command and the bindings.

She didn’t stop. Over-sensitive and greedy, Y/N kept riding through the aftershocks, using his cock like a toy built for her satisfaction. Only when her breathing evened did she slow, rising until just the tip remained inside, then slamming down again.

"You want to come?" she asked, voice husky.

"Please," San begged. "Please let me come, ma’am."

Y/N leaned back against his chest, turned her head, and bit his earlobe. "Not yet." She lifted off completely, his cock slapping wetly against his stomach. Then she dropped to her knees between his spread thighs.

Her mouth was hot and filthy. She licked a broad stripe from his balls to the tip, tasting herself on him, then swallowed him down in one go. San’s hips bucked; Y/N’s hands pinned them to the chair. She bobbed her head, taking him to the back of her throat, gagging wetly, saliva and her own slick running down his shaft. Every time he got close—throbbing, balls drawing up—she pulled off with a pop and squeezed the base until the urge ebbed.

Tears of frustration pricked San’s eyes. "Please, I can’t—"

"You can," she said, licking a drop of pre-cum from his slit. "And you will, because I own this cock tonight."

She stood, turned, and sank onto him again—this time facing him, chest to chest. Her tits pressed against the hard planes of his pumped pecs. Y/N rolled her hips in tight figure-eights, grinding her clit against his pubic bone with every movement. San’s breath came in ragged pants against her neck.

"I’m going to come on your cock again," she whispered, "and when I do, you’re going to fill me up like the good boy you are. Not before."

Her second orgasm built slower but hit harder. Y/N’s entire body shook; her cunt clamped down in rhythmic pulses that milked him. The moment she felt the first flutter of his impending release, she reached behind her, grabbed his balls, and squeezed—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to stop him.

San sobbed. "Fuck, fuck, please—"

Y/N rode him through it, then lifted off. His cock, angry red and glistening, twitched in the cool air. She untied one of his hands—just one—and guided it to her dripping pussy.

"Feel how full I am with your cock even when you’re not inside me," she ordered. San’s fingers slid through the mess, two digits pushing into her used hole. Y/N moaned, rocking on his hand.

When she was satisfied, she retied the wrist and straddled him once more. This time she took him to the root and stayed there, clenching rhythmically, no movement except the internal squeeze of her cunt.

"Come," she finally allowed.

San’s orgasm ripped through him like a live wire. His cock pulsed, flooding her with thick ropes of cum. Y/N kept milking him, drawing every drop until it leaked out around his shaft and down his balls. Only when he sagged, spent and shaking, did she rise, letting their combined release spill from her onto his thighs.

She untied his wrists, massaged the red marks, then cupped his face and kissed him—slow, deep, possessive.

"Next time an interviewer touches you," she murmured against his lips, "remember who you belong to."

San’s answer was a hoarse, obedient, "Yes, ma’am."

Y/N smiled, wicked and satisfied, already planning round two.

[urmyrehab]

The Way I See You

Pairing: Ryul X Y/n Fandom: LNGSHOT Rating: 15+ Word Count: ~1,500 words

Notes: College AU, Besties to lovers

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Summary Y/n only meant to reply to a message. She didn't expect to find three years' worth of love waiting in Ryul's camera roll.

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The first thing Y/n noticed about Ryul was that his phone battery was always hovering somewhere between one and five percent. It didn't matter if it was eight in the morning or midnight after a five-hour study session—his phone was perpetually dying. The second thing she noticed was that he never let anyone else use it.

"You know one day that's going to shut off forever," she said, nudging his shoulder with hers as they crossed the campus courtyard, two takeaway coffees balanced carefully in her hands.

"It builds character," Ryul replied, taking one cup from her with an unapologetic grin.

"It builds stress."

"It builds suspense."

She rolled her eyes so dramatically that he laughed, the familiar sound warming the chilly autumn morning. They'd been doing this dance for nearly three years—meeting before class, sharing coffee, arguing over absolutely nothing, and somehow ending up together for every meal without ever making plans.

Everyone assumed they were dating.

Neither of them ever corrected anyone.

Mostly because explaining their friendship took longer than simply smiling and changing the subject.

By the time finals arrived, the library had become their second home. They occupied the same corner table every evening, surrounded by empty coffee cups, highlighted textbooks, and enough sticky notes to wallpaper a bedroom.

Ryul disappeared to the café downstairs to buy snacks while Y/n stayed behind, pretending to revise but mostly staring blankly at the same paragraph she'd read four times.

His phone buzzed across the table.

The group project chat.

Without thinking, she reached over, unlocked it using the passcode she'd known since first year—her birthday—and typed a quick reply.

"We'll send the presentation tonight."

She was about to lock the screen when her thumb slipped.

The Photos app opened.

"Oh..."

Rows of pictures filled the screen.

Not lecture slides.

Not screenshots.

Not memes.

Her.

There was one of her asleep in the library with a textbook covering half her face. Another showed her laughing so hard she'd spilled bubble tea down the front of her jumper. One captured her sitting by the campus lake, completely unaware that anyone was watching, sunlight catching the edges of her hair.

She kept scrolling.

A blurry picture of her chasing pigeons because she'd insisted one looked "lonely."

Another of her wearing one of Ryul's oversized hoodies while eating instant noodles at two in the morning.

One of her concentrating during a lab, biting absent-mindedly on the end of a pen.

Another taken through a rain-speckled café window as she smiled at something outside.

Every photo felt... gentle.

Like whoever stood behind the camera wasn't trying to catch her looking beautiful.

They were trying to remember her exactly as she was.

Her smile slowly faded as she noticed the dates.

Last week.

Three months ago.

Last Christmas.

The beginning of second year.

Orientation week.

The very first photo showed her standing in front of the campus map with an expression that screamed I have absolutely no idea where I'm going.

She remembered that day.

She'd turned around to ask a stranger for directions.

That stranger had been Ryul.

There were thousands of photos.

"What're you looking at?"

His voice came from behind her.

Y/n looked up.

Ryul stood frozen by the table, two packets of crisps dangling forgotten from one hand. His gaze dropped immediately to his phone in hers.

The colour drained from his face.

"Oh."

Neither of them spoke.

"I..." he began quietly.

"You've been taking pictures of me?"

He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly fascinated by the carpet.

"I know how bad that sounds."

"It sounds a little bad."

"I wasn't hiding in bushes or anything."

Despite everything, she laughed.

"I should hope not."

He let out a nervous breath.

"I just..."

He searched for words.

"You do these little things."

"What little things?"

"You scrunch your nose whenever your coffee's too hot."

"You always stop to pet cats, even when you're running late."

"You dance when you think nobody's looking."

"You smile at sunsets."

"You laugh before you've finished telling your own jokes."

His shoulders lifted in a helpless shrug.

"I didn't want to forget those moments."

Y/n looked back down at the gallery.

There was a picture from last winter.

She'd fallen asleep in the library after pulling an all-nighter.

She vaguely remembered waking up with Ryul's scarf wrapped around her shoulders.

She hadn't realised he'd taken a photo before covering her up.

Another picture showed her sitting on the floor of his flat after failing a difficult exam, wrapped in a blanket while holding a mug of hot chocolate.

She'd thought he'd been making tea in the kitchen.

Instead...

He'd quietly captured the moment she'd finally smiled again.

She felt her chest tighten.

"You really took all these?"

He nodded.

"I wasn't planning on you ever seeing them."

"Why?"

"Because..."

His voice became barely audible.

"...you're my best friend."

She looked at him.

"And?"

"If I told you how I felt and you didn't feel the same..." He smiled sadly. "I'd lose my favourite person."

The room fell silent.

Students around them continued typing, turning pages and whispering over revision notes, completely unaware that her world had quietly shifted.

She stood.

Walked around the table.

Stopped in front of him.

"You know what's funny?"

He blinked.

"What?"

She unlocked her own phone.

Opened her gallery.

Handed it to him.

For a long moment he simply stared.

Then his eyebrows slowly climbed.

There were hundreds of photos of him.

Ryul asleep on the train.

Ryul reading by the lake.

Ryul cooking instant noodles in his tiny student kitchen.

Ryul laughing so hard he'd nearly fallen off a picnic blanket.

Ryul holding flowers he'd secretly bought for his mum.

Ryul standing under cherry blossoms during second year.

Ryul looking at her instead of the fireworks everyone else had been watching.

"You..."

He looked up.

"I didn't realise."

"I didn't either."

She smiled softly.

"I guess I started because I wanted to remember all the little things about you too."

For a second they simply stood there, both holding each other's phones.

Then Ryul laughed—a quiet, disbelieving sound that made her heart ache.

"I've loved you since second year."

Y/n smiled.

"I've loved you since first."

His eyes widened.

"...Seriously?"

"You were just a little slow."

"I spent over a year trying to convince myself you only saw me as a friend."

"I did."

His face fell.

"My favourite friend."

He let out a dramatic sigh of relief.

"You nearly gave me a heart attack."

"You'll survive."

"I don't know."

He stepped closer.

"I think this is a medical emergency."

"Oh?"

"I've been wanting to kiss you for approximately..." He glanced at his watch. "...six hundred and thirty-eight days."

She laughed.

"You counted?"

"I had a spreadsheet."

"You are absolutely impossible."

"So I've been told."

"Can I kiss you?" he asked, suddenly serious.

The nervousness in his eyes melted the last of her hesitation.

"You've waited this long," she whispered. "I think you've earned it."

The kiss was gentle.

Neither of them rushed.

It felt less like fireworks and more like coming home after a long journey.

When they finally pulled apart, both of them were smiling so hard their cheeks hurt.

"I can't believe this," Ryul murmured.

"What?"

"You've been carrying around pictures of me too."

She nudged his shoulder.

"You have over three thousand."

He looked mildly offended.

"Three thousand, two hundred and fourteen."

She burst into laughter.

"You counted."

"They're organised by month."

"You're such a nerd."

"And yet," he said, taking her hand for the first time, "apparently I'm your nerd."

She intertwined their fingers.

"I guess you are."

Outside, the autumn leaves drifted across campus exactly as they always had. Students hurried between lectures, coffee in hand, completely unaware that two best friends had quietly fallen into the love everyone else had assumed they'd been living all along. From that day on, Ryul still filled his camera roll with candid photos of Y/n—only now, whenever she caught him smiling behind the lens, she smiled back instead.

[urmyrehab]

One guess

Fandom: SEVENTEEN Pairing: Choi Seungcheol (S.Coups) × Reader (Y/N) Rating: Explicit (18+) Word Count: ~3,200 words

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Summary

A week after disappearing for a "work trip," you return with a secret hidden beneath every waistband you own.

Seungcheol gives himself one guess to find your newest piercing. If he's wrong, he'll never ask again. If he's right… the rest of the night belongs to him.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- He found out the way he finds out everything that matters about you: sideways, late, with that little tilt of his mouth that says he’s already decided how this ends.

Group chat screenshot. Someone’s cousin. A blurry story from three nights ago—you in the chair, latex gloves, the flash of metal on a tray. Caption half-cut off. No location. No follow-up. Just healed clean, don’t touch yet and then radio silence while you went dark for a week of “work.”

Seungcheol cornered you in his kitchen the second you walked in, door still swinging, keys still in your hand.

“One,” he said.

You blinked. “One what?”

“One new piercing. Healed.” His eyes dropped—not to your ears, not to your nose. Lower. To the line of your throat, the collar of your shirt, the place fabric starts lying. “And you didn’t tell me where.”

Heat crawled up your neck. “It’s private.”

“Mm.” He stepped in until your back met the island. “Private’s fine. Guessing’s better.” His thumb hooked the hem of your top, not lifting, just holding. “Rules. I get one chance. I undress you. I name it. If I’m wrong, I stop. Hands off. Whole night.”

Your pulse kicked hard enough he had to feel it through the cotton. “And if you’re right?”

That smile. Slow. Mean in the softest way. “If I’m right, I play with it until you cry. Then I fuck you until you forget you ever tried to hide anything from me.”

You should have negotiated. You said, “Okay.”

He didn’t rush.

Couch first. You in his lap, knees bracketing his thighs, his hands under your shirt only enough to map the heat of your skin—ribs, waist, the underside of your breasts through the bra, never quite committing. Every time your breath snagged he paused, watched your face, filed the tell away.

“Ears are old,” he murmured against your jaw. “Navel you already had. Tongue—no. You talk too much for a fresh one.” A dry little laugh when you nipped his lip for that. “So it’s somewhere you cover. Somewhere that makes you walk different when you think about me finding it.”

You were already wet. He hadn’t even opened a button.

He peeled your shirt off slow, folded it once like he had all night, set it aside. Bra next—front clasp, deliberate, the cups falling, his mouth on one nipple and then the other, tongue flat, teeth a threat he didn’t cash. Checking. Ruling out. When his fingers rolled a peak and you only arched, no flinch of metal, he hummed, satisfied and hungry at once.

“Not here.”

Jeans. Button. Zipper. He made you stand between his knees while he worked them down your hips, thumbs in the waistband of your underwear, dragging both layers in one long slide until denim and lace hit the floor. You stepped out. Bare. The air in his apartment cool on slick skin.

He sat back. Looked.

You felt every second of it—the way his gaze snagged on your stomach, your thighs, the dark between them. His cock was a thick line in his sweats. He didn’t touch himself. Discipline like a wire under the skin.

His palm coasted your hip. Outer lip. Nothing metal. He didn’t part you. Just mapped, slow, and when you shivered he filed that away too without taking the bait.

“Not the obvious,” he said quietly. “You’re smarter than that.”

“Turn.”

You turned.

His palm coasted your ass first—cupping, spreading just enough to look, thumbs brushing the cleft, nothing. A low sound in his throat. Higher: the small of your back, between your shoulder blades. Smooth. Bare. Then lower again, deliberate, both hands framing the base of your spine where your waist dipped into the twin hollows above your ass.

He stopped.

You felt it—the exact second his breath changed. His thumbs settled into the dimples like they’d been carved for him. Left first. Right. And there, nestled in the soft depression of the left one, the tiny healed gleam of a curved barbell, ends flush and clean against pink skin that had long since stopped hurting. The right dimple held its match. A pair. Venus dimples, dressed in silver, hidden under every waistband you’d worn for weeks while he sat next to you and never knew.

His breath left him in a punched-out laugh that was almost a groan.

“There you are.”

You made a sound you didn’t recognize. His hands tightened on your hips, thumbs still pressed into the metal like he was afraid it would vanish if he let go.

“Back dimples,” he said, precise, like he was marking a vote. “Both. Healed. Hidden under everything. One chance.” His mouth brushed the left one, hot open air over cold metal. “Nailed it.”

“You—”

He didn’t let you finish. He dragged the flat of his tongue over the left piercing in one long, filthy stroke—metal and the shallow hollow of skin both—and your knees nearly went. His hands locked on your hips hard enough to bruise. He did it again—slower—circling the barbell, catching the curved end gently between his lips, tugging just enough that lightning ripped straight up your spine and down into your cunt.

“Fuck—Cheol—”

“Months,” he muttered against the dimple, voice vibrating through the metal. “You’ve been walking around with these and I didn’t know. Sitting in meetings. On stage. In my fucking car. Bending over in front of me like a goddamn criminal.” Another lick, pointed now, the tip of his tongue flicking the end of the barbell so it shifted in the healed channel. He switched to the right one, mirrored the same filthy attention, then went back and forth like he couldn’t choose. “Who saw these before me?”

“No one—ah—just the piercer, I swear—”

“Good.” He sucked on the left dimple, soft, then harder, the piercing clicking faintly against his teeth before he gentled. “Mine to find. Mine to play with.” One hand stayed splayed over both hollows, thumb rolling the left barbell in tiny circles while his other hand slid between your thighs from behind and found you soaked. Two fingers pushed into you without warning, thick, curling. “So fucking slick. Did guessing get you like this, or was it knowing I’d get it right?”

You couldn’t answer. Your hands were braced on the back of the couch, arms shaking. He fucked you open on his fingers while his mouth worked the piercings—tongue, lips, the tiniest scrape of teeth that made your thighs jump. Every tug on the metal sent a bright, dirty pulse straight through your core. He found a rhythm: suck left, curl, suck right, curl, until you were shaking apart standing up, begging in broken pieces of his name.

“Come on it,” he ordered, muffled against your lower back, mean. “I want to feel you soak my hand while I’m kissing these pretty little secrets.”

You broke. Hard. Vision whiting, cunt clamping his fingers, a raw cry torn out of you while he licked the left dimple through it, gentling only when you twitched too sharp, then going right back to dirty little circles around the metal like he was polishing a trophy.

When your legs gave, he stood, hauled you up, carried you the short distance to the bedroom and dropped you on the sheets on your stomach first—deliberate, so he could look. Clothes off in two violent motions—sweats shoved down, cock heavy and flushed, the head already wet. He climbed over you, knees bracketing your thighs, and bent to put his mouth on both dimples again, open and wet, while he stroked himself once against the cleft of your ass.

“Stay like this,” he said, rough. “I want to see them while I fuck you.”

He pulled your hips up, chest still down, arranged you how he wanted—ass high, back arched so the dimples sat proud and obvious. Lined up. Pushed in to the hilt in one slow, relentless drive.

You both groaned.

He bottomed out and stayed there, one palm spanning your lower back, thumbs resting in the hollows on either side of the metal. “Feel that? How deep I am while I’m holding these?” His hips rolled. Shallow. Filthy. Each grind made his thumbs press and release the barbells in tiny pulses. “Jesus. Every thrust—look at them move.”

“Yes—yes, don’t stop—”

He didn’t. He fucked you in long, deep strokes that turned short and nasty when you clenched, one hand braced by your shoulder, the other never leaving your lower back. His fingers found the left piercing again, rolled it carefully between thumb and forefinger in time with his hips, and you sobbed into the sheets.

“Too much?”

“No—more—”

“Greedy.” Praise and insult in one word. He pinched the skin gently around the metal, warm from his mouth and your heat, and snapped his hips harder. The wet sound of it filled the room. “Look at you. Took needles right here for me without even knowing I’d guess. Or did you hope I would?”

You nodded, wrecked, face turned on the pillow. “Hoped—wanted you to—”

“Fuck.” He leaned down, kissed between your shoulder blades, then lost the last of his control. Fucked you into the mattress, the headboard knocking, your ass bouncing back onto him. Every slam jostled the piercings under his palm; every grind made him press them like buttons. He talked through it—low, filthy, half Korean half English—how tight you were, how pretty the metal looked when your back flexed, how he was going to make you come with his cock and his thumbs on those barbells at the same time or he wasn’t finishing.

He made good on it.

Both thumbs pressing into the dimples, pressure exact, rolling the curved ends while his cock dragged over the spot inside you that made your voice crack. The orgasm hit like a wave breaking wrong—too big, too fast—your whole body seizing, cunt milking him in hard pulses while you cried out into the pillow. He followed with a broken groan, burying deep, spilling hot inside you in thick throbs, hips stuttering, forehead crushed between your shoulder blades, hands still splayed over the piercings like he was holding you together.

Silence after, except breathing.

He stayed in you. Softened slow. His hands never left the dimples—just rested there, thumbs stroking the healed skin beside the metal like he was still marveling.

“One chance,” he said eventually, wrecked-soft against your spine. “And you put them right where my hands always go.”

You laughed, hoarse. “Arrogant.”

“Correct.” He lifted his head. Eyes dark, satisfied, already thinking ahead. He eased out of you careful, flipped you onto your back, and immediately slid a hand under you again so his fingers could find the left barbell from beneath. Cum leaked warm down your thigh. “Next time you get something new, I still only get one guess.” A beat. His smile turned wicked. “But I’m checking these every day until then. Mouth. Fingers. Cock against them while I take you from behind. Scientific method.”

You clenched around nothing on purpose, still fluttering. He hissed, grinned, and kissed the corner of your mouth.

“Don’t move,” he murmured. “I’m not done saying hello to them.”

He flipped you again—gentle this time—spread you open with both hands on your ass, and put his mouth back on the left dimple like a man who’d won something he intended to keep. Tongue slow. Reverent and filthy in the same breath. Then the right. Then lower, tasting where he’d come out of you, then right back up to the metal as if the piercings were the whole point and the rest was just the prize that came with them.

You let him.

One guess. Perfect aim. And the rest of the night to prove how well he knew exactly where you hid the filthy things.

[urmyrehab]

Keep Your Voice Down

Fandom: SEVENTEEN Pairing: Jeon Wonwoo × Reader (Y/N) Rating: Explicit (18+) Word Count: ~2,600 words

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Summary

The law library closes at eleven.

That leaves exactly forty minutes in the hidden carrel you've both "accidentally" reserved for weeks—just enough time for stolen kisses, whispered promises, and a secret that keeps bringing you back between the stacks.

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The closed stacks smell like dust and old glue and the ghost of someone’s coffee from hours ago. Security lights only—thin blue strips along the ceiling that turn the metal shelves into a grid of shadows. Your carrel is the same one you’ve “accidentally” booked three weeks running. So is his.

Wonwoo is already there when you slide the door. Black frames. Hoodie half-zipped over a plain shirt. Laptop open to a PDF he stopped reading the second the latch clicked. He looks up slow, dark eyes catching the strip light, and something in his mouth softens like he’s been waiting and doesn’t want you to know how long.

“You’re late,” he says. Barely above a whisper. The stacks eat sound.

“You’re early.”

He tips his head toward the inner lock—the trick only people who work late enough learn. You turn it. The deadbolt kisses home. For a second neither of you moves. Then he shuts the laptop without looking at the screen.

You set your bag down. The carrel is barely wide enough for two chairs and a scarred desk bolted to the wall. Law volumes lean in tight rows behind him, spines stamped in gold you can’t quite read in the dark. When you sit, your knee brushes his under the wood. He doesn’t pull away. His thigh stays there, warm through denim, a quiet claim.

“Paper?” you ask, stupidly, because the air is thick and you need something to do with your mouth that isn’t begging.

“Finished an hour ago.” His voice is low, flat with that particular Wonwoo honesty that never bothers dressing itself up. “I stayed for you.”

Heat slides under your ribs. He watches you take that in—no smile, just the steady look through the glasses, like he’s filing the flush on your throat under evidence.

You lean in first. Or he does. The kiss lands soft and then isn’t: his hand finds the back of your neck, thumb under your jaw, angling you so he can taste deeper. He kisses like he studies—thorough, patient, a little mean when you make a sound. When he breaks it, his mouth stays close enough you feel the next words more than hear them.

“Quiet,” he murmurs. “Security does a walk at eleven. We’ve got forty minutes if we’re lucky. Less if we’re loud.”

“Then don’t make me loud.”

His mouth curves. Almost a smile. “No promises.”

He stands and draws you up with him, walking you backward until the cold edge of a shelf meets your spine. A thick volume digs between your shoulder blades—Restatements, something dense and unforgiving. His thigh slots between yours. One hand braces beside your head; the other maps down your side, under your sweater, palm flat on bare skin like he’s checking a pulse.

“Been thinking about this,” he says against your mouth. “All week. You across from me. Crossing your legs. Biting your pen.” His fingers find the button of your jeans, work it open without looking. “I almost dragged you into the elevator Tuesday.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Because I wanted you here.” Zipper. Cool air. His hand slides into your underwear and he goes still when he feels how wet you already are. A quiet exhale through his nose. “Fuck. Look at you.”

He doesn’t look away from your face while two fingers stroke through your folds, slow, deliberate, gathering slick. When he pushes one inside, your head tips back into the shelf and a sound tries to leave you. His other hand comes up fast—palm over your mouth, firm, not cruel. Glasses catch the strip light. His eyes are dark and focused and a little wrecked already.

“I said quiet.” The finger crooks. A second joins it. He fucks them into you in a lazy rhythm that still manages to be precise, heel of his palm grinding your clit on every press. “You’re dripping on my hand. You know that? Soaked through before I even touched you.”

You nod against his palm. He rewards you by scissoring his fingers, stretching, watching your eyes go glassy. When he pulls free, the wet sound is obscene in the hush. He holds his fingers up between you so you both can see the shine, then sucks them clean like he’s tasting a footnote.

“Jeans off,” he says. “Keep the sweater. I want you half-dressed when you come.”

You shove denim and underwear down together. He helps, impatient, until the fabric pools at one ankle and he can hitch your thigh up over his hip. Belt. His own zipper. He frees his cock and you both glance down—thick, flushed, the head already wet—and he hisses when you wrap a hand around him and stroke once, twice.

“In,” you breathe.

“Greedy.” He lines up, rubs the head through your cunt until you’re shaking, then pushes in on a long, controlled slide that steals the air from both of you. The shelf creaks. A book shifts. He bottoms out and stays there, forehead to yours, glasses slightly askew, breathing like he’s counting.

“God—you take me so well.” Whispered filth, calm as lecture notes. “Tight little cunt gripping me like it missed this. Did it? Miss getting fucked stupid between the stacks?”

You try to answer. He covers your mouth again and starts to move.

It’s quiet sex the way a held breath is quiet—every thrust measured, deep, the wet catch of it the loudest thing in the carrel. He fucks up into you with your back arched over the metal, one hand clamped over your lips, the other hooked under your thigh to hold you open so he can look down and watch himself sink in. The spine of the law volume digs harder. Your sweater rides up. His hoodie is still on, half-zipped, the soft fabric brushing your stomach every time he drives home.

“Listen,” he mouths against your cheek, pace steady. “How wet you sound. Dripping on the carpet. Going to leave a spot. Going to fill you and make you walk out with it running down your leg—past the desk, past security, all the way to the bus. You’ll feel me for hours.”

You clench around him. He groans, soft, almost offended by his own noise, and snaps his hips harder. The angle drags over something bright and vicious inside you. Your knee jerks. Metal sings—your leg knocks the book cart parked at the end of the row. Volumes shudder. One starts to tip.

He freezes mid-thrust, hand still over your mouth, eyes wide behind the frames. Footsteps? Nothing. Only the HVAC and your pulse. Slowly, deliberately, he pushes the cart’s edge with his foot until it stops rattling. Then he looks back at you and his expression is pure dark amusement.

“Clumsy,” he whispers. He doesn’t stop. If anything he goes deeper, grinding, the hand on your thigh spreading you wider. “Come on. On my cock. Quietly. Let me feel it.”

You break with a muffled cry into his palm, thighs shaking, cunt pulsing hard enough he has to bite his own lip to stay silent. He fucks you through it in short, mean strokes, watching every flutter like data. When you sag, he eases his hand away and kisses the corner of your mouth, gentle in a way that doesn’t match the filth still rolling off his tongue.

“Good. So fucking good for me. But I’m not done.”

He pulls out. The empty ache makes you whine. He turns you, bends you over the carrel desk—cheek to your open notes, ink and highlighter smearing under your skin. Palm spans the back of your neck and pins you there, not hard, just present. Inevitable. He kicks your feet apart and sinks back in from behind in one smooth thrust that punches a gasp out of you into the paper.

“Shh.” Thumb strokes the side of your throat while his hips set a deeper rhythm. The desk edge bites your hips. His glasses are still on; when he leans over your back you catch the glint of them in the laptop’s dark screen. “Second round. You’re going to take it and stay quiet and then you’re going to walk out ruined. Understand?”

“Yes—”

He covers your mouth again from this angle, forearm braced, body blanketing yours. The pace turns filthy—long withdrawals, hard snaps in, the wet slap of skin swallowed by shelves of dead cases and statutes. He talks into your hair between thrusts, voice frayed now, the academic calm cracking.

“Look at you. Bent over your own research with my cock buried in you. Going to come inside. Breed this pretty cunt in the library like an animal. Want you sitting in seminar tomorrow clenching around what’s left of me.”

You’re already close again, oversensitive, every drag too much. He feels it—of course he does—and reaches under to rub your clit in tight circles timed to his thrusts. The dual pressure wrecks you. You come a second time with your teeth in his palm and your notes crumpling under your cheek, whole body seizing. He follows with a bitten-off sound against your shoulder, hips stuttering, cock kicking as he empties into you in thick pulses. He stays buried, grinding through it, like he can push it deeper by sheer will.

For a minute there is only breathing. His hand slides from your mouth to cup your jaw. He presses a kiss behind your ear, then another to the nape his palm owned.

“Okay?” Soft. Real.

You nod. He eases out. Slick heat spills immediately down your inner thigh; he watches, eyes heavy, and swipes two fingers through the mess to push some of it back inside you with a satisfied hum.

“There. Keep it.”

He helps you stand. Finds tissues in his bag like he’d planned for this. Wipes you gently, then himself, then tugs your underwear and jeans back up with a care that makes your throat tight. His own clothes are set right in seconds. Hoodie zipped a little higher. Glasses straightened. He looks almost like a man who only came here to work—except for the color high on his cheekbones and the way his gaze keeps dropping to your mouth.

You gather your things on unsteady legs. He unlocks the door, checks the aisle, then holds it for you. In the hallway the security lights feel too bright. Your thighs stick slightly when you walk. He notices. Says nothing. Just walks you to the stairwell with a respectful inch of space and the ghost of his hand still on your neck.

At the landing he stops.

“Next week,” he says. Quiet. Certain. “Same carrel.”

You manage a breath that wants to be a laugh. “I’ll bring better notes.”

His mouth tips. He leans in, steals one last slow kiss that tastes like secrecy, and lets you go first down the stairs.

You don’t see him for five days. Seminar. Labs. The ordinary machinery of the term. Friday afternoon you pull your reserved monograph from the hold shelf and a yellow sticky note peels off the title page under your thumb.

Same handwriting that fills the margins of his drafts. Small. Neat. No name.

Same carrel. Wear a skirt.

You stand there in the fluorescent main floor glow with your pulse in your throat and his mess a memory between your legs, and you smile at the page like an idiot.

Next week, then.

[urmyrehab]

Studio Secrets

Fandom: BTS Pairing: Kim Namjoon (RM) × Reader (Y/N) Rating: Explicit (18+) Word Count: ~4,200 words

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Summary

Late nights in the recording studio were supposed to be about perfecting the mix—not blurring professional boundaries. But after months of lingering touches, stolen glances, and impossible restraint, one unfinished track becomes the beginning of something neither Namjoon nor Y/N can walk away from.

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The studio smelled like old coffee and expensive cologne. RM sat behind the mixing board, long fingers moving across sliders with practiced ease. At thirty-five, he carried himself like someone who had already conquered the world twice. Y/n, twenty-three and fresh out of university, tried not to stare at the way his black t-shirt stretched across his shoulders when he leaned forward.

"Come here," he said without looking up. "Listen to this take."

She crossed the room, aware of how quiet it was at two in the morning. The only sound was the low hum of equipment and her own heartbeat. When she reached his chair, he didn't move aside. Instead, he pulled her down onto his thigh so they could both reach the headphones.

"Closer," he murmured. His breath warmed the shell of her ear. "You need to hear the layers."

Y/n settled carefully, but there was nowhere to put her hands except on his knee. The denim was worn soft. She could feel the muscle beneath. RM's arm came around her waist to adjust the fader, and his palm rested against her stomach for three full seconds longer than necessary.

"Hear that low end?" His voice dropped. "Right there. Feels good, doesn't it?"

She nodded, throat dry. The track pulsed through the headphones, but all she could focus on was the heat of his body against her back and the way his thumb traced an absent circle just above her hipbone.

"You have good instincts," he continued. "Most people your age rush the mix. You let it breathe." His free hand found her wrist, guiding her fingers to the knob. "Try it."

She turned the dial. His hand stayed on hers, larger, rougher, guiding each small movement. The contact sent sparks up her arm. She could smell his cologne—something dark and expensive—and underneath it, the clean scent of his skin after hours of work.

"Good girl," he said quietly when she got it right. The praise landed low in her belly. Y/n shifted on his thigh, and the movement pressed her closer. RM didn't pull away. If anything, his grip tightened.

"We should take a break," she managed. Her voice came out thinner than she wanted.

"One more track." He didn't move his hand from her waist. "Then coffee."

They worked through three more songs. Each time he needed to show her something, he pulled her back into his lap. By the fourth take, she stopped pretending it was necessary. She simply sat there, thighs bracketing his, while he reached around her to tweak levels. His chin rested on her shoulder. Every breath he took brushed the side of her neck.

"You're shaking," he observed.

"It's cold in here."

"Liar." His lips curved against her skin. "You're flushed."

Y/n swallowed. She could feel him getting hard beneath her. The realization made her stomach flip. She should stand up. She should go home. Instead, she leaned back, just slightly, and his arm tightened around her waist like he'd been waiting for the invitation.

"RM—"

"Namjoon," he corrected. "When it's just us."

The name felt too intimate. She tried it anyway. "Namjoon."

He made a low sound of approval. His hand slid higher, fingers brushing the underside of her breast through her thin sweater. Not quite touching, but close enough that she could feel the promise of it. Y/n's breath caught.

"Tell me to stop," he said against her ear.

She opened her mouth. Nothing came out.

His thumb stroked once, feather-light, across the curve of her breast. "Y/n."

"Don't," she whispered. It came out broken. She meant don't stop, and they both knew it.

He didn't push further. Instead, he let the moment stretch until the tension was unbearable. Then he stood, lifting her with him like she weighed nothing, and set her on the edge of the mixing board. The surface was cool under her palms. RM stayed between her knees, hands braced on either side of her hips.

"Look at me."

She did. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. The age in his face—the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the set of his jaw—made her feel young and reckless and completely out of her depth.

"I've been thinking about this since the first week you started," he admitted. "Every time you lean over my shoulder to check a take. Every time you bite your lip when you're concentrating."

Y/n's thighs pressed together. The movement brushed against the front of his jeans, and they both felt it. RM's jaw flexed.

"This is wrong," she said. The words tasted like ash. "You're my boss. You're—"

"Old enough to be your father," he finished. No shame in it. Just fact. "Does that bother you?"

It should. She thought about her parents, about the years between them, about how everyone would look at her if they knew. The shame curled hot in her stomach, but it twisted into something else—something darker and hungrier.

"It should," she answered.

"But it doesn't." His hands slid up her outer thighs, slow, giving her time to pull away. She didn't. "Tell me what you want, Y/n."

She wanted his mouth on her neck. She wanted his hands under her sweater. She wanted to forget every reason this was a terrible idea. Instead, she reached for his belt.

Namjoon caught her wrist. "Not yet."

He stepped back. The loss of contact felt like punishment. Y/n stayed on the board, legs spread, breathing hard. He watched her with open hunger, but he didn't close the distance again.

"Finish the mix," he said. "Then we'll talk about what happens next."

They worked in silence for another hour. Every glance burned. Every accidental brush of fingers felt deliberate. When the final track exported, Namjoon saved the file and turned off the monitors.

"Come here."

She went to him. He backed her against the soundproof wall, one hand braced above her head. The other traced her jaw, thumb pressing against her lower lip until she opened for him.

"I want to fuck you on every surface in this room," he said conversationally. "I want to bend you over the board and make you listen to yourself come. I want to see how quiet you can be when people are working next door."

Y/n's knees went weak. "Namjoon—"

"But not tonight." He kissed the corner of her mouth, barely a touch. "Tonight you go home and think about whether you can live with wanting your father's friend this badly."

He stepped away. The air rushed back into her lungs like she'd been underwater.

"Lock up when you leave," he said, already gathering his things. "I'll see you tomorrow. Same time."

Y/n stayed against the wall long after he was gone, heart hammering, body aching, mind spinning with guilt and want and the certain knowledge that she would be back tomorrow night, and the night after that, until one of them finally broke.

The next evening she arrived early. Namjoon was already there, sleeves rolled up, forearms bare. He didn't mention the night before. He simply handed her a coffee and nodded toward the board.

"New vocal takes. Need your ears."

She sat in the chair this time. He stood behind her, leaning over to adjust the mic levels. His chest pressed against her back. His hand covered hers on the mouse, guiding clicks with unnecessary closeness.

"You're distracted," he observed.

"I'm fine."

"Liar again." His free hand settled on her shoulder, thumb finding the knot of tension at the base of her neck. He rubbed slow circles. "Tell me what you're thinking about."

She couldn't. The words were too filthy, too honest. Instead she leaned into his touch and let her head fall back against his stomach. Namjoon made a pleased sound.

"Good girl."

They worked until the city outside went quiet. Every adjustment required his hands on hers. Every note required his voice in her ear. By midnight, Y/n was vibrating with need. She stood to stretch, and Namjoon caught her around the waist from behind.

"Still thinking about last night?" he asked against her hair.

She nodded.

"Tell me."

"I went home," she whispered. "And I—"

"Did you touch yourself?"

Heat flooded her face. She nodded again.

"While thinking about me?"

Another nod.

His hand slid down her stomach, stopping just above the waistband of her jeans. "Show me how."

Y/n turned in his arms. She took his hand and guided it lower, pressing his palm between her legs. Even through denim she knew he could feel the heat. Namjoon groaned.

"Fuck, Y/n."

"I couldn't stop," she admitted. "I kept thinking about your hands. Your mouth. How much older you are. How wrong it is."

"And that made it better, didn't it?" His fingers pressed harder. She rocked against his hand. "Knowing you'd have to look your father in the eye and pretend you don't want his best friend to bend you over and fuck you senseless."

The words should have shamed her. Instead they made her wetter. She grabbed his shirt and pulled him down, kissing him hard. Namjoon met her with equal hunger, tongue sliding against hers, teeth catching her lower lip. His hands gripped her ass, lifting her onto the board again.

This time he didn't stop her when she reached for his belt. She got it open, got her hand inside, and wrapped her fingers around his cock. He was thick and hot and already leaking. Namjoon hissed against her mouth.

"Y/n—"

"I want it," she said. "I don't care anymore."

He pulled back just enough to look at her. His eyes were wild. "Say it again."

"I want you to fuck me. Right here. On the board. Against the wall. Anywhere. I want you to ruin me for anyone my age."

Namjoon didn't need more invitation. He yanked her jeans down, shoved her panties aside, and sank two fingers into her without preamble. Y/n cried out, head falling back. He worked her open with ruthless efficiency, thumb circling her clit, watching her face the whole time.

"So fucking wet," he muttered. "You've been thinking about this all day, haven't you? Sitting in meetings, pretending to be professional while your pussy ached for an old man's cock."

She came on his fingers with a broken sob. Namjoon didn't give her time to recover. He freed his cock, lined up, and pushed inside in one long thrust. Y/n's back arched. The stretch burned in the best way. He was bigger than she'd imagined, and the angle had him hitting deep.

"Look at me," he ordered.

She did. He fucked her slow and deep, each stroke deliberate. His hands pinned her wrists above her head. The mixing board dug into her spine. She didn't care.

"This what you wanted?" he asked. "Your dad's friend balls-deep in your tight little cunt?"

"Yes—fuck—yes—"

He picked up the pace. The wet sound of skin on skin filled the studio. Y/n wrapped her legs around his waist and took everything he gave her. When she came again, he followed, spilling inside her with a groan that sounded like surrender.

They stayed locked together, breathing hard. Namjoon rested his forehead against hers.

"Still think it's wrong?" he asked.

Y/n laughed, shaky. "More than ever."

"Good." He kissed her again, softer this time. "Because we're doing it again tomorrow."

She nodded. The guilt was still there, sharp and bright, but it had company now—satisfaction, exhaustion, and the certain knowledge that she would keep coming back until the shame and the want became indistinguishable.

Namjoon pulled out slowly. Cum dripped down her thigh. He watched it with dark eyes, then reached for a towel from the drawer.

"Clean up," he said. "Then we'll listen to the mix one more time."

Y/n slid off the board on unsteady legs. She wiped herself clean while he restarted the track. The music filled the room, but all she could hear was the echo of his voice telling her she was a good girl, and the quiet certainty that she would never be able to un-want him.

They worked until dawn. Every glance was heavier. Every touch lingered. When the sun came up, Namjoon walked her to the door and kissed her once more, slow and deep, like a promise.

"Same time tonight," he said.

Y/n nodded. She knew she would be there. She knew she would let him do whatever he wanted. And she knew the guilt would only make it sweeter.

The cycle had begun, and neither of them intended to break it.

[urmyrehab]

After the Meeting

Fandom: SEVENTEEN Pairing: Choi Seungcheol (S.Coups) × Reader (Y/N) Rating: Explicit (18+) Word Count: ~4,400 words

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Summary

The biggest client of the year. A hotel room. Two years of almosts.

When a late-night knock brings Seungcheol to your door, the line between CEO and employee finally blurs. Morning comes far too soon and so do coworkers with sharp eyes and even sharper suspicions.

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The conference room still smelled like coffee and victory when the last handshake broke.

Choi Seungcheol, CEO, thirty-one, the man whose signature moved more money than most people saw in a lifetime stood at the head of the long glass table and looked at you like the room had narrowed to a single point. The client, a conglomerate VP who’d stonewalled three other firms, was laughing at something you’d said in the closing pitch. Not polite laughter. The real kind. The kind that meant contracts would be signed before the week was out.

You had done that.

Not the deck. Not the numbers he’d already known cold. You, the structure of the argument, the quiet pivot when the VP pushed on risk, the way you’d answered every question without looking at Seungcheol once for permission. Efficient. Precise. A little ruthless when it counted.

His jaw had flexed once, mid-meeting, when you’d dismantled a competitor’s claim with three slides and a smile. You’d felt his attention then the way you felt heat through glass: indirect, undeniable.

“We’ll send the final terms tonight,” the VP said, standing. “Pleasure doing business with people who actually know what they’re talking about.” His gaze flicked to you, then to Seungcheol. “You’ve got a sharp one, Choi.”

“I know,” Seungcheol said. Low. Certain. No smile for the room only the barest curve at the corner of his mouth when his eyes found yours again.

The team filed out in a rustle of tablets and relieved shoulders. Hana from strategy clapped your arm. Minjae muttered something about drinks that no one committed to. The hotel lobby beyond the glass walls glowed gold against the city dark. Business trip. Three nights. One floor of rooms block-booked under the company name so no one had to share walls with strangers.

You packed your laptop with hands that wanted to shake and refused to. Professionalism was a second skin. You wore it until the elevator doors shut on the last of the junior associates and the mirrored box held only you and the ghost of his stare.

Your room was 1842. Corner suite, king bed, floor-to-ceiling windows the city painted in neon and rain. You’d stripped out of the blazer the second the lock clicked, kicked off the heels, poured water that didn’t touch the dry of your throat. The win sat under your ribs like a second heartbeat. So did the way he’d said I know.

You showered quick — steam, citrus soap, hair twisted up so it wouldn’t soak. Sleep shirt. Soft shorts. Nothing that said I am waiting for anything. Because you weren’t. You were the best employee on this trip, and he was the CEO, and the line between those things had held for two years of late nights and shared flights and the occasional almost that never became.

Almost when he’d driven you home after the Osaka close and sat in the car too long. Almost when you’d stayed past midnight fixing a presentation and he’d loosened his tie and looked at your mouth. Almost every time his hand brushed the small of your back guiding you through a crowded lobby.

You turned off the bathroom light and the room went soft-blue with city glow. 11:47 p.m. You were reaching for the sheets when the knock came.

Not hallway loud. Two soft raps. Then stillness.

Your pulse climbed into your throat. You crossed the carpet barefoot, checked the peephole out of habit more than hope,

Choi Seungcheol stood in the corridor in a black T-shirt and dark sweatpants, hair damp like he’d showered too, no watch, no jacket. No CEO armor. Just the broad line of his shoulders and the set of his mouth that said he’d already decided something irreversible.

You opened the door.

He didn’t speak. Stepped in when you eased back. The latch snicked shut behind him. For a second the only sound was the air conditioning and the distant thrum of the city through glass.

“You were brilliant today,” he said. Rough. Quiet enough the walls might keep it. “I’ve watched a lot of people work. I’ve never watched anyone the way I watched you in that room.”

Heat crawled up your neck. “Seungcheol”

“I know.” His hand lifted, hovered near your cheek, didn’t touch yet. “I know every reason this is a terrible idea. I’ve recited them for months. Tonight I’m done.”

You could have stopped him. Could have cited policy, optics, the team two doors down. Instead you leaned the half-inch into his palm when it finally settled warm against your skin, and the sound he made was almost a laugh, almost a groan.

“Tell me to leave,” he said.

“Stay.”

That was all it took.

His mouth found yours hard and sure, no testing peck, no polite first try the kiss of your secret boyfriend who’d been starving himself on almosts. You tasted mint and something darker, felt the solid press of his chest as he walked you backward until your calves hit the bed. His hands framed your jaw, then slid into your hair, tilting you open so he could deepen it. Your fingers fisted in the soft cotton of his shirt. He was warm through it. Real.

“Been thinking about this,” he muttered against your lips, “every fucking flight. Every late night you sat across from me like you weren’t the only thing I could see.”

You pulled the shirt up. He raised his arms, let you strip it off, and the sight of him bare-chested in the half-dark punched the air from your lungs thick shoulders, the cut of muscle along his stomach, the trail of dark hair disappearing into the waistband of his sweats. A scar pale near his ribs. Human. Not a title.

He looked at you looking and something possessive flashed behind his eyes.

“Your turn.”

You lifted your arms. He peeled the sleep shirt over your head slow, deliberate, like unwrapping something he’d paid for in patience. Cool air kissed your skin; his gaze dragged over your breasts, your stomach, the flush already high on your chest. He swore under his breath and bent, mouth hot on the slope of one breast, tongue circling your nipple until it tightened, until your back arched and a sound escaped you that you didn’t recognize.

“Quiet,” he whispered against your skin not unkind, almost fond. “Unless you want Hana asking questions at breakfast.”

The reminder should have cooled you. It didn’t. It made the secret sharper, sweeter. You bit your lip. He smiled against your breast and sucked harder, hand sliding down your stomach into your shorts.

He found you already wet. Two fingers stroked through your folds, slow, gathering slick, and the noise he made then was pure hunger.

“Fuck. For me?”

“For the meeting,” you tried, breathless, and he laughed low against your throat.

“Liar.” His fingers circled your clit with devastating patience. “This is for me. Say it.”

"For you" It broke on a gasp when he pushed one thick finger inside. Then two. Stretching. Curling. Your hips rolled into his hand without permission. He fucked you on his fingers standing there until your thighs shook and you had to clutch his shoulders to stay upright, forehead pressed to his collarbone, breathing him in soap, skin, the faint spice of whatever cologne had survived the shower.

“Bed,” he said. “Now.”

You went. He stripped your shorts and the scrap of underwear beneath in one motion, tossed them aside, and looked at you spread on the white hotel sheets like a man taking inventory of a prize. Then he shoved his sweats down. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed, already hard enough the head glistened. You reached; he caught your wrist, kissed the inside of it, and climbed over you instead.

“If I let you touch me first I’ll come like a teenager,” he said against your mouth. “Been hard since you dismantled their counsel with a single slide.”

You laughed, helpless, and he swallowed the sound with another kiss as he settled between your thighs. The blunt head of him dragged through your wetness, once, twice, notching at your entrance. He held there, eyes locked on yours.

“Yes?”

“Yes. Seungcheol — please”

He pushed in.

Slow. Relentless. The stretch burned sweet, forced a broken moan out of you that he caught with his palm gently over your mouth. His other arm braced beside your head. Inch by inch until his hips met yours and you were full, impossibly full, clenching around the thick length of him while he shuddered above you and swore into the pillow by your ear.

“Tight God, you feel” He pulled back, thrust deep. The bed whispered. Somewhere a pipe ticked in the wall. You wrapped your legs around his waist and met the next stroke, and the one after, until the careful rhythm broke into something hungrier.

He fucked you into the mattress like he’d been saving it. Deep, steady rolls of his hips that dragged over every sensitive place inside you. Your nails scored his back. His mouth found your throat, your jaw, the hinge of it where a bruise might bloom if he wasn’t careful he was careful with his teeth, reckless with everything else. When you got too loud he kissed you quiet. When you bit his shoulder to stay silent he groaned like it hurt in the best way and drove harder.

“Look at me.”

You did. His eyes were dark, almost black in the low light, focused entirely on your face as he ground against your clit on every downstroke. The coil in your belly wound tighter. Tighter.

“Gonna come for me,” he said. Not a question. “Been waiting to feel it. Come on my cock that’s it fuck, just like that”

You shattered. Pleasure ripped through you in hard, shaking waves, cunt pulsing around him, thighs clamped to his sides. He rode you through it, jaw tight, holding his own edge by sheer will until you went soft and oversensitive beneath him. Then he pulled out, flipped you onto your stomach with a strength that made your stomach flip, hauled your hips up, and sank back in from behind in one smooth thrust.

The new angle punched a cry into the pillow. He covered your mouth with his hand again gentle pressure, grounding and fucked you through the aftershocks into a second climb you didn’t think you had. Skin slapped skin. The headboard knocked once against the wall; he stilled, cursed softly, dragged the whole tangle of you farther down the bed away from it, and started again, quieter, deeper, one hand spanning your hip hard enough to bruise.

“Mine tonight,” he breathed against your spine. “Say it.”

“Yours” Ruined. Honest. “Yours, Seungcheol”

He came with a muffled groan into your shoulder, hips stuttering, cock throbbing as he spilled deep inside you in hot pulses. You felt every one. Felt him shake. Felt the way his hand gentled on your hip after, stroking, apologizing for the grip without words.

For a long minute there was only breathing. Sweat cooling. The mess of you joined and trembling.

He eased out carefully. You hissed; he soothed a palm down your back, pressed a kiss between your shoulder blades, and murmured, “Shower. Come on. I’ve got you.”

The bathroom filled with steam again. He adjusted the water too hot, then cooler when you winced, and pulled you under the spray with him like it was the most natural thing in the world CEO and star employee, naked, cum sliding down your inner thigh to rinse away toward the drain.

He washed you. Slow. Reverent in a way that made your throat tight. Soap over your breasts, your stomach, between your legs where he was gentle and thorough and not quite clinical enough to stop the spark from catching again. You returned the favor, hands mapping the planes of his chest, the flex of his arms, the heavy weight of his cock when it stirred back to life under your soapy grip.

“Again?” you whispered, half-teasing, half-desperate.

His smile was wicked and soft at once. “You think once was going to be enough after two years?”

He backed you into the tiled wall. Lifted one of your thighs over his hip with an ease that spoke of gym hours and stubborn discipline. The head of him nudged your entrance slick still, from you, from him and he pushed home in a single smooth glide that made you both groan into each other’s mouths.

This round was slower. Water sheeted over his shoulders and down the groove of his spine. He fucked you against the wall with deep, grinding thrusts, forehead pressed to yours, eyes open. Every so often he’d kiss you like he was trying to memorize the shape of it. Your hands slipped on wet skin. He held you up. When you came the second time it was quieter, a full-body shudder you buried in his neck; he followed soon after, biting down on a curse against your wet hair, pulsing inside you again while the shower beat down around you both.

After, he cleaned you a second time. Towels. Soft hotel cotton. He dried your hair with more care than efficiency deserved. You caught him watching your face in the mirror like he was afraid the steam would clear and you’d disappear.

“Stay,” you said again, softer.

He nodded once. “Until I have to go.”

You slept tangled. His arm heavy over your waist. Your back to his chest. At some point in the night he woke hard and half-asleep and rocked into you slow from behind without fully waking either of you a dream-blur of heat and fullness and his sleepy mouth on your nape and you came soft and confused and sank under again with him still inside.

Morning arrived cruel and bright.

The first thing you registered was the ache between your legs, pleasant and damning. The second was the empty coolness of the sheets where his body had been. The third was Seungcheol standing near the window in yesterday’s sweats, T-shirt twisted in his hands, hair a disaster, looking at you like he’d committed a beautiful crime and wasn’t sure whether to turn himself in.

“Hi,” you croaked.

A flush crawled up his neck. Actual pink. The CEO of a multinational, reduced to shy. “Hi.” He cleared his throat. “I I should get back to my room before anyone’s in the hall. Breakfast briefing’s at eight-thirty.”

You sat up, sheet clutched to your chest, suddenly aware of every mark his mouth might have left. “Right. Of course.”

Silence stretched. Awkward. Tender. He crossed the room, hesitated, then leaned down and kissed you once soft, closed-mouthed, devastatingly sweet after everything filthy he’d done to you in the dark.

“You were extraordinary yesterday,” he said against your lips. “In the meeting. And after. I don’t… I don’t regret this. I need you to know that before the day starts pretending nothing happened.”

Your heart did something stupid and loud. “Neither do I.”

Another beat. He pulled the shirt on, found his key card on the desk where he’d dropped it, and paused at the door with his hand on the latch.

“Walk down separately,” he said, practical again, almost. “I’ll take the stairs to my floor and come up the elevator like I slept there.”

“Paranoid.”

“Careful.” A ghost of a smile. “You’re worth being careful for.”

Then he was gone — a quiet click of the door, footsteps fading fast down the carpeted hall.

You fell back into the pillows and stared at the ceiling, smiling like an idiot, body humming with evidence.

Breakfast was a private dining room on the mezzanine. Company lanyards. Pastries. Too much coffee. You arrived at 8:27 in a fresh blouse buttoned to the throat, hair down to hide whatever might linger on your neck, professional smile locked in place.

Hana was already there. So was Minjae. So was Jisoo from legal, who took one look at you and raised both eyebrows over her latte.

“Rough night?” Jisoo asked lightly. “Walls are thin on eighteen.”

Your stomach dropped. You poured coffee with steady hands that wanted to tremble. “I slept fine.”

“Uh-huh.” Hana’s mouth twitched. “Because someone was definitely not sleeping fine around one a.m. I thought the pipes were fighting.”

Minjae snorted into his juice. “I heard the headboard. Once. Then it stopped. Very considerate headboard.”

Heat flooded your face. You sat, crossed your legs, ignored the sweet ache, and opened your laptop like the quarterly projections might save you. “You’re all hearing things.”

“Sure,” Hana said. “And I’m hearing that the CEO’s room was empty when housekeeping did early turndown checks — Minjae’s cousin works nights — and that he showed up to the gym at six looking like he hadn’t used his own bed.”

As if summoned, Seungcheol walked in.

Pressed shirt. Fresh suit jacket. Hair tamed with product that didn’t quite erase the fact that someone had had their hands in it. A faint shadow under his eyes that could have been strategy fatigue and was not. He carried his tablet, nodded to the table at large, and took the head seat with the same calm authority he’d worn in the client meeting.

Except when his gaze flicked to you — half a second, nothing anyone should have caught — the tips of his ears went pink.

Jisoo made a tiny sound behind her cup.

Hana kicked your ankle under the table. Hard.

You kicked back and smiled at the agenda on the screen as Seungcheol cleared his throat and said, voice admirably even, “Good morning. Outstanding work yesterday, everyone. Especially the close we wouldn’t have landed the terms we did without the sharpest person in that room.” His eyes didn’t linger on you. They didn’t need to. “Let’s walk the next steps before we fly out.”

Professional. Flawless.

Under the table, out of sight of everyone else, his foot found yours and pressed once, deliberate and warm, before he pulled back and opened the floor to logistics.

Hana leaned in while the others scrambled for notes and whispered, wicked and delighted, “Thin walls, Y/N. Thin. Walls.”

You sipped your coffee and said nothing.

Across the table, Choi Seungcheol, CEO, architect of almosts, man who’d sneaked into your room and ruined you on hotel sheets and against shower tile kept his eyes on the agenda and failed, just barely, to hide the smallest private smile.

The contract would close by Friday.

Whatever this was between you had already started quiet, reckless, and entirely too loud for thin hotel walls.

[urmyrehab]

Grey Skies, Warm Sheets

Fandom: BTS Pairing: Kim Namjoon (RM) × Reader (Y/N) Rating: Explicit (18+) Word Count: ~1,650 words -------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Summary

A relentless rainstorm traps Namjoon and Y/N indoors, turning an ordinary afternoon into one of quiet intimacy. Wrapped in oversized hoodies, tangled sheets, and the comfort of familiar love, they surrender to the slow rhythm of the storm—and each other. Sometimes the softest days become the ones neither of them wants to end.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Rain hammered the windows in a steady, endless sheet. Seoul had gone grey hours ago; the sky outside their bedroom was the color of wet charcoal, and the only light left in the room came from the little salt lamp on the nightstand, casting everything in soft amber. White sheets. A mess of them. Warm bodies tangled underneath.

Y/N had barely moved since Namjoon pulled her back against his chest after lunch. His arm was a heavy, lazy band across her middle, palm splayed over her stomach, thumb stroking the soft skin just under the hem of his oversized hoodie, the only thing she was wearing. His breath ghosted the back of her neck in slow, even puffs. One of his bare legs was shoved between both of hers. The other hung half-off the mattress like he'd given up on dignity somewhere around the second hour of the storm.

"Still raining," he murmured into her hair, voice wrecked and low from disuse. His lips brushed the shell of her ear. "Good. Means we don't have to go anywhere."

She made a small sound, half agreement, half something hungrier, and shifted her hips back into the solid heat of him. He was already half-hard against the curve of her ass, thick and heavy even soft, and the lazy roll of her body made him groan like she'd punched the air out of him.

"Fuck," he breathed. "Do that again."

She did. Slow. Deliberate. The soft cotton of his boxers was the only thing between them, and she could feel every inch of him thickening, pressing into the cleft of her ass as he rocked forward to meet her. His hand slid lower, palm skating over the bare skin of her thigh, fingers dipping into the hollow where her legs met. He found her already slick, had been for a while, just from the heat of him and the way he held her like she was something precious and filthy at the same time.

"Baby," he said, almost laughing, almost broken. "You're soaked. Just from this?"

"Just from you," she managed.

Namjoon made a wounded little noise and shoved two fingers through her folds without warning, thick knuckles parting her, gathering the wetness there and dragging it up over her clit in a slow, filthy circle. She gasped and arched, and his other arm tightened around her ribs, pinning her back to his chest so she couldn't squirm away from the pressure.

"Stay," he said against her neck. "Wanna feel you like this. All soft and open and mine while it rains."

He worked her with lazy, devastating patience, two fingers sliding deep, curling, the heel of his palm grinding against her clit every time he pushed in. His cock was fully hard now, trapped between them, and every time she clenched around his fingers he thrust against her ass like he couldn't help it. The sheets whispered under their hips. Rain filled every silence between her soft, punched-out moans.

"Namjoon-"

"I know. I know, baby. Gonna give it to you." He pulled his fingers free with a wet sound that made her face burn, and she felt him shove his boxers down just far enough. The blunt, hot head of his cock nudged between her thighs from behind, sliding through her slick until he was lined up. He didn't thrust yet. Just held there, breathing hard into her hair, one big hand gripping her hip hard enough to bruise.

"Tell me you want it," he whispered. Filthy and sweet at once. "Tell me you want my cock while the world's all grey and quiet and it's just us."

"I want it," she said, voice cracking. "Please want you inside, want you to fuck me slow"

He pushed in.

One long, thick glide that split her open and kept going until his hips were flush to her ass and she was stuffed full of him, stretched around the fat base of his cock, shaking. Namjoon cursed in a broken string of Korean and English, forehead pressed between her shoulder blades, both arms locked around her like he was afraid she'd disappear.

"God you're so fucking tight like this. Always so tight for me." He rolled his hips in a shallow grind, not pulling out, just grinding deep so the head of his cock dragged over that spot inside her that made her vision spark white. "Feel that? How deep I am? That's all yours, baby. Every inch. Gonna keep it warm in this pretty cunt all afternoon."

She whined and pushed back, and he finally started to move slow, filthy strokes that dragged almost all the way out before sinking back in to the hilt. The wet sound of it filled the room under the rain. White sheets twisted around their legs. His hoodie had ridden up under her breasts; one of his hands shoved underneath to cup her, thumb circling a nipple until it peaked hard against his palm.

"Look at you," he murmured, voice gone dark and fond. "Taking me so well. Dripping down my balls. Gonna ruin these sheets, aren't you? Gonna come all over my cock and make a mess like a good girl."

His pace stayed unhurried deep, rolling thrusts that made the mattress creak and her toes curl. Every time he bottomed out he ground against her, making sure she felt every thick inch, the way he pulsed inside her when she clenched. His free hand found her clit again, two fingers rubbing tight little circles in time with his hips.

"Namjoon fuck, I'm close "

"I know. Feel you fluttering. Come on my cock, baby. Wanna feel you soak me while I fill you up." He bit gently at the hinge of her jaw, then soothed it with his tongue. "Gonna come so deep you'll feel me leaking out of you for hours. Gonna keep you right here, stuffed full, cuddled up while it rains. My perfect filthy girl."

She broke with a broken cry, cunt clamping down hard around him, thighs shaking as pleasure ripped through her in hot, endless waves. Namjoon fucked her through it slow, relentless and then his rhythm stuttered. He buried himself to the root with a guttural groan and came, cock kicking hard inside her, flooding her in thick pulses that she could feel painting her walls. He kept grinding through it, milking every drop into her, whispering yes, yes, take it, that's it baby against her skin like a prayer.

They stayed locked together after, breathing hard. Rain still hammered the glass. The salt lamp glowed soft gold over white sheets gone thoroughly wrecked. Namjoon didn't pull out. He just eased them onto their sides again, still buried deep, and tugged the duvet up over their hips. His hand found hers under the covers and laced their fingers together over her stomach.

"Stay like this," he mumbled into her hair, already half-asleep and still twitching inside her. "Just… stay. Love you all messy and warm."

She squeezed his fingers. Outside, the storm kept going. Inside, nothing moved but the slow, sticky pulse of him softening in her cunt and the lazy stroke of his thumb over her knuckles.

Perfect filthy afternoon. No reason to get up at all.

[urmyrehab]

A little description

⛧ Welcome to my little crypt. ⛧

Hi, I'm Mas.

I've been lost in the multifandom abyss for over a decade, collecting fictional men like cursed artifacts and surviving purely on hyperfixations, late-night brain rot, and caffeine.

If the dark, gothic vibe of this blog didn't already give it away... yes, I'm obsessed with all things eerie, gothic, horror, and just a little unhinged. It's basically my personality at this point.

You'll mostly find: 🕸 reactions 🕸 oneshots 🕸 headcanons 🕸 the occasional 3 a.m. brain rot that refused to stay in my drafts

Current writing victims include: 🖤 SEVENTEEN 🖤 BTS 🖤 2PM 🖤 Stray Kids 🖤 ATEEZ 🖤 NCT 🖤 CORTIS 🖤 LNGSHOT …and whoever else decides to haunt my hyperfixation next.

Requests are always open—especially reaction requests, because those are my absolute favorite to write. Whether it's fluff, angst, crack, comfort, horror, or complete chaos, toss your ideas into the void and I'll see what crawls back.

This is my first time sharing my writing publicly, so be kind, have fun, and if you enjoy what you read, your support means more than you know.

Now come in, make yourself uncomfortable, and enjoy the chaos.

[urmyrehab]

Midnight Cravings

Fandom: Stray Kids Pairing: Bang Chan × Reader (Y/N) Rating: Explicit (18+) Word Count: ~900 words -----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Summary

A sleepless night, a pint of vanilla bean ice cream, and a kitchen lit only by the glow of the refrigerator. What starts as an innocent midnight craving quickly turns into a game of temptation as Y/N decides to indulge Bang Chan's sweet tooth in ways neither of them will forget.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------ The clock on the nightstand glowed 2:17 a.m. when Bang Chan stirred and reached across cool sheets. Y/N wasn’t there. He sat up, bare chest rising and falling, and padded out of the bedroom. The kitchen light spilled across the hallway. He found her perched on the counter, legs swinging, spooning straight from a pint of vanilla bean ice cream. She wore nothing but one of his oversized black shirts, the hem barely covering the curve of her ass.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, voice gravelly.

She looked up, spoon between her lips, and smiled around it. “Craving something sweet.” Her eyes dropped to the obvious tent in his gray boxers. “Looks like you are too.”

Chan stepped closer. Y/N dipped the spoon again, but instead of eating it she dragged the cold metal across his left nipple. He hissed at the shock of ice against warm skin. She leaned in and sealed her mouth over the stiff peak, sucking slow and filthy, tongue flicking away the melting cream. A low groan vibrated in his chest.

She repeated the motion on the right nipple, letting the ice cream drip in thin rivulets down his abs. Chan’s cock twitched visibly. Y/N slid off the counter, sinking to her knees on the cool tile. She trailed the spoon lower, painting a glossy stripe across each ridge of muscle, then followed with her tongue—broad, wet licks that cleaned every trace while her free hand palmed the heavy bulge in his boxers.

“Tease,” he muttered, fingers threading into her hair.

Y/N hooked her thumbs in the waistband and tugged the fabric down. His cock sprang free, flushed and already leaking. She scooped another small dollop of ice cream and let it slide down the length of his shaft, watching it melt and drip over his balls. The cold made him jerk; the heat of her tongue chasing it made him curse.

She didn’t take him in right away. Instead she licked lazy stripes along the underside, collecting every drop, letting the mix of cold cream and warm saliva coat him. Only when his hips started to rock did she finally open wide and sink down, taking half his length in one smooth motion. The contrast of icy residue and scorching mouth made Chan’s knees buckle.

Y/N hollowed her cheeks, sucking hard, then pulled off with a wet pop. She smeared more ice cream over the head, watching it melt and run, then chased it again with her tongue before swallowing him deeper. Spit and melted cream slicked her chin. She gagged softly when the tip nudged the back of her throat, but didn’t pull away—only moaned around him, the vibration traveling straight to his balls.

Chan’s grip tightened. “Fuck, baby, that mouth…”

She answered by bobbing faster, one hand stroking what her lips couldn’t reach, the other cupping and rolling his balls, still sticky with cream. Every time she pulled off she let strings of saliva stretch between her swollen lips and his cock before diving back down. The kitchen filled with obscene wet sounds and Chan’s ragged breathing.

He warned her once, twice, hips stuttering. Y/N didn’t slow. She took him to the root, nose pressed to trimmed hair, throat fluttering around him as he came hard. Thick pulses flooded her mouth; she swallowed greedily, some of it mixing with leftover ice cream and dripping down her chin onto her shirt.

When she finally pulled off, she licked her lips and looked up at him through wet lashes. “Still craving something sweet?” she asked, voice hoarse.

Chan hauled her to her feet, spun her around, and bent her over the counter. “My turn,” he growled, already yanking the shirt up and spreading her thighs.