yumichan @xxvaelinxx - Tumblr Blog

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ “𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐦𝐞.”

𝐤𝐢𝐦 𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐣𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

── 𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: you bring him lunch; he teaches you patience. jealousy, control, filthy praise, and a promise to keep every drop. ── 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: smut ── 𝐓𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: explicit sexual content, unprotected sex, consensual power dynamics (sub reader), jealousy, possessiveness, degradation, filthy language, spitting, mouth play, choking and hand-on-throat control, breeding talk, edging, orgasm denial, pacing control, creampie, hair pulling, overstimulation, biting, hongjoong refers to reader as “my problematic child” once, bratting, brat taming, rough sex, manhandling, restraint by pinning/holding, spanking, face slapping, spit swallowing ── 𝐖𝐂: 9.2k

── 𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: hongjoong did not have to go this hard. neither did I. but here we are. god forgive me.

The hallway outside Hongjoong’s studio is colder than it should be, you’re balancing the takeout in one hand, nudging the lid to check for leaks when Mingi shoulders out of the door, nearly colliding.

“Whoa—” His hands land on your waist to steady you both, one arm curving around to catch the bag before it tips. “Endangered food. Tragic if lost.”

You snort, aware of how his palm is still warm against your hip. “A national crisis.”

He doesn’t step back right away, just peers at the stapled top, thumb brushing the fabric of your shirt. “Is this Joong’s bribe or yours?”

“His. If I don’t feed him, he becomes a gremlin.”

“A productive gremlin,” Mingi says, finally letting go but staying close enough that you can feel the heat coming off him. “One that mixes on three hours of sleep.” He tips his head toward Hongjoong’s studio. “He’s been feral since early morning. I almost threw a shoe at him.”

You’re both still smiling when the restroom door at the far end swings open. Hongjoong appears, sleeves shoved to his elbows, damp hands dragging through his hair. You catch his presence in the corner of your eye—his messy hair, the set of his jaw, the way he stops mid-stride when he sees you.

Perfect.

You don’t acknowledge him. Instead, you laugh louder at something Mingi didn’t even finish saying, letting the sound carry down the hallway. Your hand finds Mingi’s forearm, fingers curling around the sleeve of his hoodie as you lean into his chest, close enough that your hair brushes his chin.

“You? Afraid of him?” you ask, tilting your face up toward Mingi with a grin that’s all performance.

“Terrified,” Mingi says, leaning down so his voice drops low, intimate. His hand finds your waist again—easy, natural—and you don’t pull away. You let it settle there, warm and broad against your hip. “But don’t tell him. I have a reputation.”

You can feel Hongjoong watching. You don’t look. Not yet.

Mingi gestures at the dip in the floor with his free hand, the one not anchored to your waist. “Careful, that spot eats drinks. I lost an Americano there yesterday. Still grieving.”

You step around it with exaggerated care, and his hand slides from your waist to the small of your back, guiding you past the uneven tile. His palm is steady, fingers splayed, and you let yourself lean into the touch just a fraction more than necessary.

“May it rest,” you say solemnly, and then you let your hand trail down Mingi’s arm as you step away, fingertips dragging along his sleeve before falling back to your side.

Mingi presses a hand to his heart, playing along. “Gone but not forgotten.”

You laugh again—brighter this time, more deliberately—and turn your body toward Mingi, angling yourself so Hongjoong has a perfect view of how close you’re standing, how easy the space between you feels. You reach up, brushing invisible lint from Mingi’s shoulder, your fingers lingering a beat too long.

“You’re dramatic,” you tell him, voice warm, teasing in a way that invites him closer.

“And you’re trouble,” Mingi counters, grinning down at you. His hand finds your waist again, thumb brushing the strip of skin where your shirt has ridden up slightly.

That’s when you hear it—a deliberate sound cutting through the easy banter. A throat clearing, unmistakable and pointed.

Mingi’s head snaps toward the source.

Hongjoong stands a few feet away there’s something sharp in the way his eyes move from you to Mingi and back again. Mingi’s hand drops from your waist immediately, and he takes a half-step back, suddenly very interested in adjusting his sleeve.

“Am I interrupting?” Hongjoong voice is pleasant. Too pleasant.

“I was saving your lunch,” he announces, cheerful and guilty at once.

Hongjoong stops in front of you, eyes flicking from Mingi’s hands to your face. “Were you,” he says mildly, which is the opposite of how he sounds.

“Heroic,” Mingi adds, edging back a half‑step. “I’ll… hero somewhere else.” He gives you a quick wink. “Enjoy, gremlin feeder.” Then to Hongjoong, hands up: “Hydrate or I’m hiding your laptop.”

Mingi retreats down the hall and silence folds around you and Hongjoong. He doesn’t move at first. You and Hongjoong stand there with a warm bag of food between you and something sharper underneath.

He doesn’t speak right away. He just looks at you. Then:

“You laugh like that for everyone now?” His voice is even, unhurried.

“It was a joke,” you say, aiming for casual. “He saved our lunch.”

“Mhm.” His gaze skims the corridor where Mingi disappeared. “And needed to touch you to do it?”

You huff. “You’re overreacting.”

He takes one small step closer. It isn’t threatening. It just rearranges the air. “Finish that thought without rolling your eyes.”

You try again, lighter. “It wasn’t a big deal.”

“So small you did it in front of my studio.” His mouth curves without warmth. “You wanted me to see.”

You fold your arms, chin up. “I didn’t plan a performance.”

“You didn’t have to.” He tips his head.

Heat climbs your neck. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“And you’re stalling.” He glances at the studio door, then back. “Why are you here?”

“I brought you lunch.”

“And?” He doesn’t blink.

“I wanted to see you.”

“There it is.” His shoulders loosen a fraction, like a decision lands. “When you want me, you don’t play stupid.”

You open your mouth. He lifts two fingers, gentle under your chin, and you close it again.

“Try again,” he says quietly. “Tell me why you’re here. Full sentence.”

“I’m here for you.”

He nods, pleased in a way that doesn’t show in his smile. “Use my name.”

“I’m here for you, Hongjoong.”

“Better.” He doesn’t let go of your chin, not yet. “Tell me what you wanted when you laughed like that.”

You swallow. “I wanted you to come get me.”

“Good.” The word lands soft and final. “So we agree you weren’t confused.” His thumb strokes once at the hinge of your jaw, thoughtless and proprietary. “Did you like his hand on your back?”

“No.”

“What did you like.”

“You watching.”

He exhales, slow. “Don’t pretend you don’t know what you’re doing.” His tone stays calm, almost conversational.

You attempt a smile that can’t decide what it wants to be. “You’re dramatic.”

“Meticulous.” He leans, barely, until you can smell cedar and coffee. “And I don’t like being lied to, even by implication.”

“I didn’t lie.”

“You minimized.” He releases your chin and steps back half a pace, enough to make the space noticeable. “So here’s what happens next.” He points to the door. “You’re going to walk inside. You’re going to stand by the desk. You’re going to listen while I talk. You’re going to answer in full sentences.”

A beat. “And you’re not going to pretend you don’t remember the hallway.”

You bristle on reflex. “And if I do?”

He laughs, not unkindly. “You won’t.” His gaze moves to your mouth. “One more thing,” he says, quiet. “Say you’re done showing off.”

The admission sits on your tongue like a dare. “I’m done showing off.”

“For the others,” he amends, lazy and precise. “In there, you show off for me.”

You can’t help the answering curve at the corner of your mouth. “Yes, Hongjoong.”

“That’s my smart thing.” He moves first, opening the door and standing aside, a hand light at the small of your back as you pass. Not pushing. Not quite guiding. Just there.

Inside LEDs breathe along the racks. He closes the door with a soft click and doesn’t touch you again.

“Put the bag on the couch,” he says, level. You do. “Water’s on the table. Take a sip.”

You do. Your breath evens. He waits for it.

Then he nods at the desk, voice still unhurried. “Come here.” A pause, giving you the choice he already knows you’ll make. Something in his jaw ticks briefly when you approach him. He exhales then pulls you in by the hip, mouth grazing your cheek in a kiss that’s tender and not at all gentle.

His hands bracket your hips and drag you an inch, lining you up exactly where he wants you.

His mouth finds yours—brief but claiming, a slow press that tastes like possession. When he pulls back, his thumb drags across your bottom lip, and his eyes are dark. “Open.” You part your lips. He spits slow, thumb painting it across your tongue, then presses two fingers under your jaw to close you. “Swallow.” You do, heat coiling low. His eyes darken. “Good. Learn to listen.”

You try for a bratty smile. “What if I don’t?”

His laugh is quiet, indulgent. “Then I correct you.” He plants you against the edge of the mixing desk, his body caging yours. Rings skate your waist, then slip under your shirt, pulling it up and over your head in one smooth motion. He tosses it aside, eyes dragging over newly exposed skin with dark appreciation. “Hands flat. No fidgeting.”

You fidget anyway—just a little tilt of your hips. He tsks, palm flattening over your lower belly to hold you still. “Still.”

“Make me.”

He hums like you’ve given him a gift.

“Look at you, begging for consequences.” His hand slides up, warm and sure, wrapping your throat—not squeezing, just settling there. He forces your mouth open and spits again, thumb dragging down your bottom lip. “That mouth buys you trouble.” He watches you for a beat, then leans in and kisses you—slow, deep, claiming every inch. When he pulls back, his thumb stays pressed to your bottom lip.

“Pretty,” he murmurs. “Filthy little mouth and a body that tells on itself.” He lifts you onto the edge of the desk, and steps between your knees. He tugs your bottoms down, eyes on your face as cool air kisses your skin. He drags his mouth along your jaw slowly, punctuating each inch with a kiss that’s more claim than comfort. Then he squeezes your throat just enough to sharpen the edges.

His thumb strokes the hollow of your throat while his other hand trails down, fingertips skimming your inner thigh with maddening lightness. “I’m going to make you beg, and I want you to remember you asked for this.” He drags his middle finger over damp fabric of your underwear, barely there, and your hips jerk forward on instinct. His grip on your throat tightens just enough to still you.

“Greedy,” he murmurs, almost disappointed. “I haven’t even touched you yet and you’re already soaked through.” He traces the outline of you through your panties, slow and methodical. “Pathetic, really. Getting this worked up over nothing.”

“Hongjoong—”

“Shh.” He presses his thumb against your clit through the fabric, circling once, twice, then stopping entirely. “You don’t get to rush this. Not after your little performance.”

You squirm, chasing friction, and he laughs—low and mean.

“There she is. So fucking desperate.” He hooks a finger under the edge of your panties, pulling them taut, the fabric pressing deliciously against you. “You were so confident out there. Where’d that attitude go?”

“I’m not—”

“Not what?” He tugs the fabric again, sharper this time, and you gasp. “Not desperate? Your body’s calling you a liar, love.” He leans in, breath hot against your ear. “I can feel how wet you are and I haven’t even bothered to touch you properly. Should I? Or should I leave you like this—aching and empty—until you learn some manners?”

“Please—”

“Please what?” His fingers ghost over you again, featherlight, and you could cry from the not-enoughness of it. “Use your words. Full sentences.”

Your breath comes in shaky gasps. “Please touch me.”

“Better.” He rewards you with one firm press of his palm, grinding the heel of his hand against you through soaked fabric, and the sound that escapes you is half-sob, half-moan. “But you’re not there yet. Try again. Tell me what you want.”

“I want—” Your voice breaks as he circles his thumb again, maddeningly slow. “I want you to stop teasing.”

“No.” His smile is wicked. “You wanted my attention? You have it. Now you deal with what comes with it.” He finally slides your panties to the side. The first direct touch of his fingers makes your head fall back. “That’s it. Show me what a mess you are.” He circles your entrance, gathering wetness, before dragging it up deliberately. “All this, and I haven’t even tried. Imagine what you’ll be like when I actually make an effort.”

“Not enough,” you whimper, bratty on purpose.

His smile flashes, sharp and fond. “There’s my problem child.” He spreads your folds and slides one finger inside, slow and deliberate, watching your face as you clench around him. “So tight,” he murmurs, almost conversational. “And still wanting to take more.” He adds a second finger, curling them just right, and your vision blurs at the edges. His thumb finds your clit and works it in slowly, teasingly in circles while his fingers pump slow and deep, setting a rhythm that has you clenching around him. The heat coils tighter, every nerve alight.

You’re trembling now, thighs shaking against his hand, and he notices—of course he does. His eyes flick down to where his fingers are disappearing inside you, then back to your face with something dark and satisfied.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, slowing his fingers to a cruel crawl. “Shaking. Haven’t even made you come yet and you’re already a mess.” His thumb lifts off your clit entirely, and you whine—high and needy—hips chasing his hand.

He laughs, low and mean. “Pathetic. You really can’t help yourself, can you?” He withdraws his fingers completely, holding them up between you. They glisten obscenely in the studio light. “Look how wet you are. Dripping down my hand like you're in heat.”

“Hongjoong, please—”

“Please what?” He brings his fingers to your mouth, tapping your bottom lip. “Suck.”

You obey without thinking, tongue curling around his fingers, tasting yourself. He watches with dark eyes.

“Good.” He pulls his fingers free with a wet pop then slides his hand back between your legs, three fingers this time, stretching you wider. The burn is delicious and you moan—loud and shameless.

“That's the sound I wanted.” he says, almost mocking. “Let me hear how desperate you are”. His fingers pump faster now, harder, and every thrust punches another broken noise from your throat. “So loud for me. What happened to all that composure? Where’s the smart mouth now?”

Your hips buck against his hand and he laughs, low and wicked. “Shh. Stay still,” he orders, voice low and commanding. “You don’t get to rush this.” He watches your face with clinical focus, adjusting pressure and rhythm like he’s mixing a track.

“I—” You’re barely coherent, grinding down on his hand.

His grip tightens on your hip. “Breathe. Take it. Show me you can follow.”

“I can’t— fuu-ck”

“Can’t what? Can’t think?” His thumb returns to your clit, circling with precision. “That’s the point, love. I’m going to fuck every coherent thought out of that pretty head until all you can do is shake and beg.” He curls his fingers, hitting that spot that makes you see stars, and you cry out.

“Look at you, falling apart on my fingers like a desperate slut.” He leans in, teeth grazing your ear. “Maybe I should turn the mic on,” he muses, fingers still working you.“ Record every pathetic little sound you’re making. Play it back for you later so you can hear exactly how needy you get.”

The mention makes you clench involuntarily around his fingers, and his eyes light up with dark satisfaction. “Oh, you like that idea?” He curls his fingers harder, dragging a broken moan from your throat. “Of course you do. Want me to capture every whimper, every desperate plea? I could loop it, make you listen to yourself falling apart while I work.”

“Please,” you gasp, fingers curling into his shirt. “Please, I need—”

“Need what?” He slows his fingers to a torturous crawl, watching you squirm. “Say it.”

“Your dick,” you whimper, past the point of pride. “Please, Hongjoong, I need your dick inside me.”

He hums, considering, fingers still moving just enough to keep you on edge. “Look at you, begging so prettily. But I don’t think you’ve earned it yet.” He curls his fingers again, hitting that spot that makes your vision white out.

“Please,” you moan.

“Denied.” A gentle pat to your cheek. “Not yet,” he murmurs, easing pressure. “Eyes on me.” You drag your gaze up, glassy. He smiles like he owns you. “That’s it,” he says softly, fingers resuming their work with renewed purpose. “Take what I give you. Nothing more.” The coil in your belly winds tighter, your breath hitching as he builds you with maddening precision.

You’re almost there when he pulls his fingers out completely. The sudden emptiness makes you whimper in frustration, hips trying to chase the friction he’s denied you. He grips your jaw, forcing your unfocused gaze back to his.

“Not yet,” he says, voice soft and final. “You don't come until I say so.” His thumb drags across your bottom lip, still slick. “Understand?”

You nod, barely. He rewards you with a slow smile, “Good girl,” he murmurs.

His hands are on your hips, lifting you up from the desk with strength. Your legs buckle but he steadies you. His mouth seals over yours, tongue filthy, and he swallows every desperate sound you make. When he pulls back, his lips are swollen, eyes dark with intent.

“Open your mouth,” he commands, voice rough and absolute.

You obey, lips parting, and he grips your jaw with one hand, holding you in place. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide as he leans over you. “Tongue out.”

You comply, and he spits directly onto your tongue—slow, deliberate, obscene. The weight of it sits heavy in your mouth as he watches you with something feral in his expression.

“Swallow,” he orders.

You shake your head, defiant even now, and his expression darkens. His hand cracks across your cheek—sharp, controlled, enough to make your head snap to the side and stars burst behind your eyes. The sting blooms hot across your skin.

“No?” His voice is dangerously soft, thumb dragging across where he just struck. “You don’t get to tell me no. Not anymore.” He grips your jaw, forcing you to look at him, eyes wild and possessive. “Try that again and I’ll make sure you can’t sit tomorrow.”

Your cheek throbs, the heat of it spreading, and you feel yourself clench around nothing. His eyes catch it—the way your body betrays you—and his smile turns savage.

“Oh, you liked that,” he murmurs, almost surprised. “Getting wetter from being put in your place.” He smirks, caressing your redden cheel. “Should’ve known. My pretty little masochist. Swallow. Now.”

This time you do, throat working, and his smile turns wicked. “Good girl.” He spits again, this time letting it fall onto your chest, the warm wetness sliding down between your breasts. His hand follows the trail, smearing it across your skin possessively. “Such a mess for me.”

“Hongjoong—”

“Say thank you.”

“Thank you,” you gasp, shaking.

He reaches for the front clasp of your bra with practiced fingers, the small hook giving way instantly. The fabric falls loose and he drags it off your shoulders, tossing it somewhere behind him without looking. Cool air hits your skin and you shiver.

“Perfect,” he murmurs, hands cupping your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they peak. His touch is possessive, mapping every inch like he’s committing it to memory. “Been wanting to see you like this. Bare and desperate under me.”

He leans down, mouth hot against your collarbone, teeth grazing as he works his way lower. When he takes one nipple between his lips, sucking hard. His other hand pinches and rolls the other, the dual sensation making you writhe.

“Stay still,” he orders against your skin, releasing you with a wet pop. “Or I’ll stop.”

You force yourself to comply, trembling with the effort, and he rewards you by switching sides, tongue flicking over sensitive flesh before biting down just enough to make you gasp. His hands never stop moving, kneading and squeezing, marking you with his touch.

He pulls out abruptly, the sudden emptiness making you whimper. Before you can protest, his hands are on your hips, spinning you around to face the desk. “Hands flat,” he commands, his voice rough now, fraying at the edges. “Bend over.”

You comply, palms pressed to cool wood, spine arching as he steps close behind you. His hand slides up your back, slow and possessive, then fists in your hair, tugging your head back just enough to make you gasp. “So obedient when you’re desperate,” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “Should’ve fucked the attitude out of you weeks ago.”

His hand slides up your spine, possessive and slow, before his mouth follows—hot and deliberate. He presses open-mouthed kisses down the curve of your back, teeth grazing skin between each one. When he reaches the dip of your lower back, he bites down—hard enough to make you gasp, hard enough to leave a mark.

“Mine,” he murmurs against your skin, soothing the sting with his tongue before moving lower, trailing more kisses and bites along your spine. Each one is a brand, a claim, possessive and absolute. His hands grip your hips as he works his way back up, teeth finding the junction of your neck and shoulder. “Going to cover you in marks,” he rasps against your ear, biting down again. “Want you to feel me every time you move tomorrow. Want you to remember exactly who did this to you”.

Behind you, fabric rustles — his sweats being pushed down. Your pulse hammers in your throat. “Stay just like that,” he murmurs, one hand sliding up your spine, pressing between your shoulder blades until your chest is flush with the desk. “Don’t move unless I tell you to.”

You hear him spit into his palm, the obscene wet sound making you clench around nothing. His other hand grips your hip, rings cold against overheated skin. “That’s my good thing,” he says and then you feel the blunt press of him against your entrance. He doesn’t push in—not yet—just drags the head of his cock through your wetness, coating himself, letting you feel every inch of what you’re about to take.

“Beg me one more time,” he says, voice rough.

“Please—” Your voice breaks. “Please, Hongjoong. Use me. Fill me up. I can take it. I’m yours.”

“Yeah, you are.” He drags the head back and forth through your slick, mean and patient. “Again. Slower.”

“I’m yours,” you whisper. “Please. I’ll be good.”

“You’ll be perfect.” His palm presses between your shoulder blades until your ribs kiss the desk. He nudges just the tip in—heat, stretch—then pulls out with a quiet laugh. “Greedy little thing. Already trying to take me.”

“Please— I can take it.”

“You’ll take what I give you.” His hand slides to your nape, warm and absolute. “Count down from five. You get me on one.”

“F-five,” you breathe as he pushes the tip in and holds. “F-four—” He withdraws, smears himself through your wet, a tease that makes your knees tremble. “Th-three—” Your thighs quake; his grip tightens, steady as a collar. “T-two—”

“Ask me what one is.”

Your mouth goes dry. “What’s one?”

“One is mine.” He sinks into you on the word, slow and devastating until he’s seated deep. Your breath shatters silent against the desk. He stays there, grinding once, lazy, letting your body learn the shape of him.

You shift your hips deliberately, trying to take him deeper, and feel his hand tighten warningly on your hip. “Impatient,” he mutters, but there’s a thread of amusement beneath the command. You do it again, grinding back against him, and his grip turns bruising.

“What did I say about staying still?” His voice is dark, edged with warning.

“Can’t help it,” you whine, deliberately petulant. “You’re going too slow.”

He stills completely, buried deep, and you feel him throb inside you. “Too slow?” he repeats, voice dangerously soft. “You think you can do better?”

“Maybe,” you breathe, bratty despite yourself. “If you’d actually—”

His hand cracks across your ass, sharp and sudden, cutting off your words with a gasp. “Finish that sentence,” he dares, grinding into you slowly. “I want to hear what my desperate little brat thinks she deserves.”

“Harder,” you manage, voice breaking. “Want you to fuck me harder—”

“There it is.” His laugh is dark, satisfied. “All that attitude just because you’re too cock-hungry to be patient.” He pulls out almost completely, then drives back in with bruising force that makes you cry out. “This what you wanted? This hard enough for you?”

“Yes,” you manage, voice breaking on the word. “Wanted you—to fill me up.” The admission tears out of you as he drives deeper and you whine, helpless.

He pulls an inch out; your hips chase immediately, greedy and impatient. His hand wraps around your throat, stilling you with a warning squeeze. “Uh-uh. Don’t chase.”

“Then go faster,” you shoot back, breathless but defiant. “If you’re going to tease me all day, I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” His grip tightens just enough to make you gasp. “Finish that sentence.”

“I’ll find someone who can actually—” You don’t get to finish before his hand cracks across your ass again—harder this time—the sharp sting making you cry out.

“Count,” he orders, voice rough. “Every single one.”

“One,” you gasp, trembling.

Another slap, same spot, the burn blooming across your skin. “Louder.”

“Two,” you sob, hips jerking forward.

“Good girl.” His palm soothes over the heated flesh before delivering another sharp crack. “Keep going.”

“Three—” Your voice breaks, thighs shaking.

He doesn’t wait, landing another immediately. “What do you say?”

“Thank you,” you whimper. “Four—thank you—”

“That’s better.” One more, vicious and perfect, and you’re crying out, the mixture of pain and pleasure making you clench around him. “Five—fuck—thank you—”

“Perfect.” His hand slides over the marks he’s left, possessive and soothing. “Look so pretty covered in my handprints. Going to feel this every time you sit down tomorrow.”

“Now try again,” he growls against your ear. “Be a good girl and beg properly.”

You turn your head as much as his grip allows, meeting his eyes with a challenging glare even as your body trembles. “Make me.”

His laugh is dark, dangerous. “Oh, I will.” He pulls almost completely out, making you whimper at the loss. “You want more? You know what to do.”

You bite your lip, stubborn, but another slow grind has you breaking. “Please,” you finally gasp, honest and wrecked despite yourself. “Please move. I’ll be good.”

“That’s better.” He rewards you by slamming back in at a vicious angle that knocks a cry out of you. “Now tell me—who’s the only one who can fuck you like this?”

“You,” you pant.

“That’s right.” He sets a rhythm—deep, measured, each thrust deliberate. His hand slides from your neck to your jaw, tilting your face to the side so he can see your expression. “Look at you, taking me so well. Knew you would.” His other hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise, holding you in place as he drives into you again, harder this time. He pulls back slowly, then drives in hard, setting a rhythm that’s deliberate and punishing. Each thrust pushes you further into the desk, the edge biting into your hips as he fucks you with the same precision he brings to everything else—calculated, relentless, perfect.

You try to shift, to meet his thrusts but his hand keeps you pinned.

“Did I say you could move?”

“No,” you breathe, going still.

“That’s better.” He presses a kiss to the curve of your shoulder, then bites down lightly, soothing the sting with his tongue. “You’re learning. Knew you would once I fucked the attitude out of you.”

His pace turns relentless, each thrust driving you harder against the desk, and you’re past coherence now—just desperate, broken sounds spilling from your lips. “Please,” you gasp, the word barely recognisable. “Please, please, please—”

“Please what?” he taunts, hand fisting tighter in your hair. “You’re not even making sense anymore.”

“Anything,” you sob, hips trying to push back to meet him despite his grip holding you down. “Whatever you want—just don’t stop—”

“Look at you,” he growls, satisfaction thick in his voice. “So desperate you can’t even tell me what you’re begging for. Just please over and over like that’s going to make me fuck you harder.”

“It will,” you whimper. “Won’t it? Please—I’ll do anything—”

“Anything?” His laugh is dark. “You’d let me use you however I want?”

“Yes,” you cry, shameless. “Yes, yes, please—just don’t stop—”

“Not planning to.” He drives in deeper, the angle devastating. “Going to keep fucking you until you can’t remember your own name. Until the only word you know is please.”

You’re already there, reduced to incoherent begging, each thrust pushing another desperate plea from your throat. Your fingers claw uselessly at the desk, searching for something to anchor you as he takes you apart piece by piece.

“I want to cum,” you sob, shameless. “Want you to fill me. I’ll keep it. I’ll be good.”

“Yeah, you will.” His thrusts turn relentless, precise. “Here’s what happens. I fuck you deep and slow until you’re soaked and stupid, then I make you say thank you with it still inside you.” A hard, perfect snap. “Understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” the praise is filthy in your ear.

He sets a rhythm that’s brutal and perfect, each thrust deliberate, and when your back arches too much he yanks you back down by the hair, fist tangling in the strands at your nape. “Stay the fuck down,” he growls, using the grip to angle your head to the side so he can see your face. The pull on your scalp sends sparks down your spine, pleasure and pain blurring together. You whimper, and he tugs harder, enough to make your eyes water.

“That’s it,” he rasps, his other hand sliding around to your throat, tilting your head back further. “So fucking pretty when you take my cock.” His hips snap forward, the angle deeper now, and you cry out, the sound raw and desperate. He releases your hair only to gather it again, wrapping it around his fist like a leash, using it to pull you up, your chest lifting off the desk.

“Mine,” he grits out, “Say it.”

“Yours,” you gasp, voice breaking. “I’m yours.”

“This greedy little pussy milking my cock? Mine." He punctuates the word with a brutal thrust that makes you see stars. “This perfect body taking everything I give you? Mine.” His hand slides from your throat to your jaw, forcing your head back further, his breath hot against your ear. “Say you love it. Say you love being fucked like this.”

“I love it,” you sob, past shame, past pride. “Love your cock inside me—love how you use me—”

“That’s my good slut,” he growls, releasing your hair only to shove your face down against the desk, palm flat between your shoulder blades. “Stay down and take it.” The new angle drives him impossibly deeper, each thrust hitting that spot that makes your vision white out. “Going to fill this greedy cunt until you’re dripping. Going to pump you so full you’ll feel me for days.”

His other hand snakes around to find your clit, circling with ruthless precision. “And you’re going to thank me for it, aren't you? Going to be grateful for every drop.”

“Yes—fuck—yes, please—”

He slows his pace to something torturous, grinding deep. “Use your words.”

“Please fill me up,” you beg, coherence shattered. “Want to feel you come inside me—want all of it—”

“Greedy slut.” His rhythm turns savage again, the desk creaking under the force. “Going to give you exactly what you’re begging for. Going to fuck you so full you’ll be leaking me all the way home.” His fingers work your clit faster, building you toward something catastrophic. “And when you do, you’re going to remember who owns this perfect pussy. Remember who made you shake and beg and break.”

You clench around him, your body shaking, vision going white behind closed lids. Each thrust punches a broken moan from your throat, sounds you don't recognise as your own.

“That’s it,” he growls, rhythm never faltering. “Let me hear you. Want everyone to know who’s making you fall apart.”

Your fingers scrabble against the desk, searching for purchase as pleasure builds to something unbearable. Another thrust and you’re crying out his name, shameless, your body tightening around him like a vice.

“Keep squeezing my cock just like that.” he pants, hand sliding up your spine. You can’t do anything but take it, each drive of his hips dragging you higher, your moans punctuating the obscene slap of skin on skin. The coil in your belly winds impossibly tighter.

“Say what you are,” he demands, voice rough and commanding.

You try to form words, but nothing coherent comes out—just broken syllables and gasps, your brain too fucked-out to string together a sentence. Your mouth opens but all that escapes is a whimper.

He laughs, dark and delighted, the sound vibrating through his chest against your back. “You’re so cock-drunk you can’t even talk. Can’t even tell me what a desperate little thing you are.” His hips slow to a deliberate grind, making you feel every inch. “Try again. What are you?”

“I—I’m— ” Your voice breaks, words dissolving into another moan as he drives deep.

“That’s what I thought.” His hand slides up to cup your jaw, thumb pressing against your bottom lip. “Fucked you stupid, didn’t I? Can't even remember how to use that pretty mouth for anything but begging.”

You can barely form words, vision blurring at the edges as his hand finds your clit again, circling with devastating precision. “Can I come,” you manage to whimper, voice breaking on the syllables. “I’m—please—close.”

“Yeah?” His voice drops, thick with satisfaction. “Going to come on my cock like a good girl? Going to squeeze me tight while I fill you up?”

“Yes—please—” You’re trembling, balanced on the edge of release.

“Then come,” he commands, fingers working faster, hips driving deep. “Come for me. Now.”

Your orgasm crashes through you, white-hot and devastating. Your body locks up, clenching around him as pleasure tears through every nerve. You’re vaguely aware of crying out, of your hands scrabbling against the desk, of the way he groans your name like a prayer.

He fucks you through your climax with ruthless precision, his own rhythm faltering as you clench around him. “Take it all,” he groans.

You’re still peaking when the last of his control tears away. He yanks you up by the throat and hair, arches you over his chest, and drives up into you with single-minded purpose. Breath jagged, words scraped raw. “Gonna fill you— keep you stuffed—” hips stutter as he spills inside you with a broken curse, filling you exactly like you begged for. He snarls, triumphant, and buries deep, grinding as cum spills, thick and undeniable.

He stays pressed to the hilt, lazy afterthrusts ensuring you feel every pulse. One hand bands over your ribs; the other slides down, palm heavy on your lower belly, possessive.

“Jj-oong… S’too much,” you whimper, oversensitive, trying to shift away from the pressure of him still inside you. Every aftershock feels like lightning, your body twitching with each involuntary clench around his softening cock.

“Shh,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t pull out. Instead his hips rock forward in a shallow thrust that makes you cry out, hands scrambling against the desk. “You said you’d keep it all, remember?”

“I can’t—” Your voice breaks as he grinds deeper, the drag of his cock against oversensitive walls bordering on painful. “Please—”

“You can.” His hand slides from your belly to your clit, circling with the lightest touch. It’s too much and not enough, pleasure sparking into something that makes your thighs shake. “You’re going to give me one more.”

“I can’t,” you sob, even as your hips betray you, rolling back to meet his lazy thrusts. Everything feels raw, exposed, every nerve ending screaming.

His fingers work you with maddening gentleness, each circle of his thumb making you jolt. “You’re going to come again with me still inside you. Going to squeeze every last drop deeper.”

You’re shaking your head but your body is already climbing again, that impossible coil tightening despite the overstimulation. You moan.

“That’s it,” he coaxes, voice dropping to something dark and sweet. “Feel how full you are? Feel me dripping out of you?” His other hand presses your lower belly again, making you whimper at the pressure. “Give me one more and I’ll let you rest. Be good for me.”

The orgasm builds different this time—slower, deeper, something that feels like it might break you apart. Your tights are shaking. Your whole body shivering. You’re crying, you think, tears tracking down your cheeks as his fingers work you higher.

“Please—” You don't even know what you're begging for anymore.

“I know,” he soothes, but his hips are already moving with purpose again, his cock hardening inside you with each shallow thrust. “Just a little more. You can take it.”

You feel him growing harder, filling you impossibly fuller, and a broken whimper escapes your throat. “You’re—you’re getting hard again—”

“I know,” he groans, fingers still working your clit in maddening circles. “Can’t help it. You feel too good—squeezing me so tight.” His voice is strained, almost reverent. “Think you can take another load? Think this greedy pussy can handle being filled twice?” He punctuates the question with a deliberate thrust that makes you keen.

His hand leaves your clit to grip your hip bruisingly tight, holding you in place as he pulls out almost completely before slamming back in with enough force to shove you forward on the desk.

You cry out, the sound torn from your throat as he sets a punishing pace again—no build-up, no mercy. Each thrust is brutal, deep, the angle changed just enough that he hits something devastating inside you that makes your vision white out.

“This what you wanted?” he snarls, fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise. “Wanted me to fuck you like I own you?” The desk is moving now, scraping against the floor with each violent snap of his hips. “Going to use this perfect pussy until you can’t remember anything but my cock.”

“Ah-Mmph-Fuck—” You can barely breathe, each thrust driving the air from your lungs. Your hands scrabble uselessly against the desk, searching for something to hold onto as he rails you.

“Fuck,” he growls, one hand sliding up your spine to fist in your hair again, yanking your head back. “Take it. Take every fucking inch.” The pull on your scalp makes tears spring to your eyes, mixing with the ones already tracking down your cheeks.

His other hand snakes around to your throat, fingers tightening with deliberate pressure, constricting your airway as he keeps you arched back against him. You gasp, the sound choked and desperate as he drives into you relentlessly. “Going to fuck you until you break,” he promises, voice ragged, grip tightening until dark spots dance at the edges of your vision. “Until the only word you remember is my name.”

You’re full on sobbing now, overwhelmed by sensation—the stretch of him inside you, still so sensitive from before, the relentless rhythm that doesn’t let up for a second. The pressure on your throat makes your head swim, vision blurring as oxygen becomes scarce. Your eyes roll back, consciousness flickering at the edges as your body goes pliant in his grip, caught between the devastating pleasure and the dizzying lack of air.

He releases your throat abruptly and you gasp for air. Your vision floods with white-hot clarity as oxygen rushes back. His hands move to your breasts, palms hot and possessive as he cups them roughly, thumbs circling your nipples with maddening pressure.

You gasp another please, voice wrecked and trembling. He doesn’t slow down, if anything he speeds up, each thrust harder than the last.

“I don't—I can't—” Words are impossible, your brain too scrambled to form coherent thoughts. All you can do is feel—the brutal pace, the way he’s using you, the building pressure that suggests impossibly you might come again.

“You can and you will,” he commands, releasing your hair to grip your hip with both hands, using the leverage to slam you back onto his cock with each forward thrust. "Going to make you come on my cock again until you can’t stand. Until you’re so fucked out you can’t even crawl."

The obscene slap of skin on skin fills the room, punctuated by your broken moans and his ragged breathing. You can feel yourself getting wetter, your body responding despite the overstimulation, or maybe because of it.

He groans, feeling you clench around him. “Knew you could take it. Knew this greedy little cunt would beg for more no matter how much I gave you.” His hips snap forward viciously. “Going to fill you again. Going to pump you so full it’ll be dripping down your thighs for days.”

“Don’t stop—”

“Greedy slut. Already so full of my cum and you want more.”

“Yes—” The word comes out broken, desperate.

His hips slow to a torturous grind, making you feel every inch as he pinches your nipples hard enough to make you cry out.

“Fill me again,” you sob, beyond shame, beyond coherence. “Please—want it—want you to use me—”

“Fuck,” he groans, his control splintering at your words. His hands tighten on your breasts, kneading roughly as his pace turns savage again. “Going to give you exactly what you're begging for. Going to breed this perfect pussy until you can't take anymore.”

You’re crying out with each brutal thrust, your body wound so tight you think you might shatter. His fingers roll your nipples, sending sparks of pleasure-pain straight to your core.

“Touch yourself,” he commands, voice ragged. “Shit— Make yourself come on my cock while I fill you up.”

Your hand trembles as it slides between your legs, fingers finding your clit with desperate, clumsy movements. The moment you touch yourself, oversensitive and swollen, your body jerks violently, a broken sob tearing from your throat.

Hongjoong moans, his rhythm faltering as he feels you clench around him. “Good girl—come for me one more time.”

The orgasm crashes through you with devastating force, tearing a scream from your throat as your body convulses around him. You feel him stiffen, a guttural groan ripping from his chest as he buries himself to the hilt, his release flooding you in hot, pulsing waves. His hands grip you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, holding you against him as you both shudder through the aftershocks, completely wrecked.

You collapse forward, boneless, only his arm around your waist keeping you from sliding off the desk entirely. You can feel him softening inside you, feel the slow leak of cum starting to drip down your thigh.

“Stay just like this,” he murmurs breathlessly, pressing a kiss to your shoulder blade. His hand slides down your spine, possessive and slow, before he finally pulls out. The loss makes you whimper, and he hushes you softly, fingers spreading you open to watch his cum leak out. “Look at that,” he murmurs, almost reverent. “Full of me.”

You’re too wrecked to respond, just trembling as he gathers the mess with two fingers and pushes it back inside, making you jolt at the intrusion. “Can't waste a drop,” he says, voice thick with satisfaction. “Keep it in,” he murmurs against your temple, voice still rough. “All of it. Don’t waste a single drop.”

You’re too wrung out to do anything but nod, trembling.

“Say it.”

You know what he wants. “Thank you,” you whisper, voice hoarse.

“For what?” His hand cups your jaw, tilting your face up.

“For fucking me. For filling me up. For making me yours.”

“My good girl.” He kisses you then, slow and thorough, tasting like pride and possession

He eases you upright slowly, keeping one arm locked around your waist when your legs threaten to give out. “Easy,” he murmurs, steadying you against his chest. “I’ve got you.”

You’re still catching your breath, head spinning, when he guides you to the leather couch in the corner. The cool material feels like heaven against your overheated skin as he lowers you down carefully, brushing damp hair from your forehead.

“Wait,” he says suddenly, pulling back. He’s reaching for the black hoodie draped over his chair. He shakes it out, then gently guides your arms through the sleeves. The material is warm, soft, swimming on your frame as he tugs it down over your torso.

“There,” he murmurs, sitting back to admire his work. The hoodie swallows you whole, sleeves hanging past your fingertips, the neckline slipping off one shoulder. His eyes soften at the sight. “Better.”

He kneels between your legs, and you instinctively try to close them, still sensitive, but his hands on your thighs stop you.

“Stay still,” he says it softly this time, hands sliding up your thighs in a soothing motion. Your body twitches at his every touch. His gaze drops between your legs with satisfaction as he watches his cum still leaking out despite his earlier efforts to keep it in. “Let me see.”

You’re too spent to protest, thighs trembling as his thumbs trace slow circles on your inner thighs. “So pretty like this,” he murmurs, almost to himself. He caresses your tights softly, calming you down when suddenly his thumb brushes deliberately over your clit and you jolt, hand flying to his wrist.

“Hongjoong—” you whine.

“Sorry,” he says, not sounding sorry at all. There’s a glint in his eyes, satisfaction all over his face. “Couldn’t help myself. You’re so reactive right now.”

He reaches for something off to the side—a water bottle from his desk—and twists the cap open before pressing it to your lips. “Drink,” he instructs gently, tipping it just enough for you to swallow. The cool water soothes your raw throat, and you manage a few sips before he pulls it away, setting it aside to brush his thumb across your lower lip. “Better?” His voice has lost its commanding edge, replaced with something softer, more concerned.

When you nod weakly, he shifts to sit beside you on the couch, pulling you against his chest with careful hands. You curl into him instinctively, boneless and sated, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your cheek. His fingers card through your hair in slow, soothing strokes, and for a long moment neither of you speaks.

“You’re terrible,” you breathe, but there’s no heat in it.

“Mm, you weren’t saying that five minutes ago.”

You don’t have the energy to argue, just humming against his chest as his fingers continue their lazy path through your hair. After a moment, he shifts, tilting your chin up to meet his eyes.

There’s mischief there, sparking beneath the satisfied warmth. “Though I have to say,” he continues, thumb tracing your jawline, “the way you begged was particularly inspiring. Should I save that for future reference?”

“Don’t you dare,” you mutter, heat creeping up your neck despite your exhaustion.

He grins, unrepentant. “Too late. It's burned into my memory. ‘Please, Hongjoong, fill me up—’”

You clap a hand over his mouth, face flaming. “I hate you.”

His eyes crinkle with amusement as he pulls your hand away, pressing a kiss to your palm. “No you don’t. You love it when I make you fall apart.” He leans in, breath warm against your ear. “Love it when I fuck you so good you forget how to talk.”

Your body betrays you with a shiver, and his knowing chuckle tells you he felt it. “See? Already thinking about next time.”

“Stop being smug,” you mumble, though you’re already relaxing back into him, letting the warmth of his body seep into yours.

“Never.” He shifts you more comfortably against his side, one hand settling possessively on your hip. “Besides, someone has to document your complete lack of self-control.”

You pinch his side in retaliation, earning a low laugh that vibrates through his chest.

“You’re impossible,” you say, but there’s fondness bleeding through the exasperation. His hand slides up your back, tracing idle patterns that make you melt further into him.

“And you’re stuck with me,” he replies, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

The studio settles into comfortable silence around you, broken only by the soft hum of equipment and your gradually steadying breaths.

After a moment, you pull back just enough to look at him, a spark of defiance flickering to life despite your exhaustion. “You know what? Maybe I should’ve just gone home with the takeout.”

His eyebrow arches. “Oh?”

“Yeah. Let you work through the night, skip meals, turn into that gremlin we talked about.” You trace a finger down his chest, feeling him tense. “Maybe I would’ve texted Mingi instead. Asked if he wanted company.”

The change is immediate. His hand tightens on your hip. “Careful.”

“Why?” You smile innocently, even as your heart kicks up at the possession flickering across his face. “He did offer to help me with that thing earlier—”

You don’t get to finish the sentence. He moves fast—hand fisting in your hair, yanking your head back as he captures your mouth in a bruising kiss that swallows whatever smart remark you had lined up. When he pulls away, his grip doesn’t loosen, keeping you right where he wants you.

“You want to play that game?” His voice drops to something dangerous, thumb pressing against your pulse point hard enough to feel your racing heartbeat. “Go ahead. Text him. See how far you get before I bend you over this couch and remind you exactly who you belong to.”

Your breath catches, body already responding to the threat-promise in his words despite how thoroughly he’s just wrecked you. “Maybe I like reminding you to work for it,” you manage, though your voice wavers.

His laugh is dark, fingers tightening in your hair. “Work for it? Baby, you were crying my name five minutes ago, begging me not to stop.” He leans in, lips brushing your ear. “But sure—keep testing me. See what happens.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Thought I’d fucked all the attitude out of you.” His grip in your hair tightens fractionally, a warning. “Guess I didn’t do a thorough enough job.”

Heat coils low in your belly despite yourself, and his satisfied smirk tells you he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

“You’re insatiable,” you breathe, even as your fingers curl into his shirt.

“Only for you,” he murmurs, finally releasing your hair to cup your face, thumb brushing your bottom lip with surprising gentleness. “Now stop talking about Mingi before I actually get jealous.”

You smiled, a soft thing that felt too honest in the aftermath of everything, and leaned in to kiss him. This time it’s different—not hungry or demanding, just warm and slow, like you have all the time in the world.

He responds in kind, hand sliding up to cradle your jaw as he deepens it just slightly, tasting you with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. When you finally pull back, his eyes are softer than you’ve seen them all day, thumb stroking your cheekbone.

“There she is,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

“Who?”

“The girl who walked in here with takeout and terrible timing.” His lips quirk. “The one I’m stupidly gone for.”

Your heart does something complicated in your chest. “You’re such a sap when you’re tired.”

“Only for you,” he repeats, but this time there’s no heat behind it—just truth, quiet and unguarded.

You settle back against him, letting the moment breathe between you. His hand resumes its gentle path through your hair, and you can feel his heartbeat steadying beneath your palm.

“Hey,” you murmur after a while, tilting your head to look up at him.

“Mm?”

“I love you.” The words come out quiet, simple, but they fill the space between you with something warm and certain.

His hand stills for just a second before his fingers curl around yours, bringing them to his lips. “I love you too,” he says against your knuckles, and there’s no teasing in his voice now—just that same quiet truth.

Your head lolls against him, eyelids growing heavy, and Hongjoong notices immediately. His hand pauses in your hair. “Baby” he murmurs, voice tinged with amusement. “You going to sleep here?”

You manage a lazy smile, words slurring slightly with exhaustion. “You fucked me so good I need rest.”

His chest shakes with a quiet laugh, the sound vibrating through you. “Can’t argue with that logic.”

“Didn’t think you would,” you mumble, already drifting.

He shifts carefully, adjusting so you’re more comfortable against him, one arm secure around your waist. “Sleep then,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I’ve got you.”

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

yumichan