mrs Jason Todd 🪼 🪼🪼

side blog for reblogging fics (mostly nsfw) i enjoy ⭐️ 20 , she , pan , nsfw , mdni 😠 !!

[kloversung]

the anatomy of a roommate

who knew sharing a flat with a literal greek god would involve so much 'extra-curricular practice' ?

pairing: bang chan x reader, roommates to lovers genre: smut; fluff warnings: explicit sexual content (minors do not interact) word count: 4k kysa's note: this one is — ahem — pretty self indulgent, and let's just say, i have indulged. a lot. it's a tad bit longer than my first fic and it's about my second husband - bang chan (and this is actually about banging chan — okayokay i'll stop) have fun reading and leave your thoughts in the comments, xoxo

is this legal ?

is looking this delectable actually allowed by law ?

these were the only thoughts that fired through your brain, as you stared at the man standing in the doorway of your shared flat. before you could attempt to gather yourself, the literal personification of a greek god introduced himself with a smile. (wait — were those dimples ?)

"hey ! i'm chan," his voice a low melodic hum, "i guess we'll be sharing this flat."

you shuffled your feet awkwardly and offered a smile, "oh- hi ! i'm y/n, it's nice to meet you, uh — chan."

and that was how you ended up sharing a university flat with the most devastatingly handsome man you had ever laid eyes upon.

chan was a great flatmate — exceptional, honestly. he possessed a kindness that felt both effortless and deeply intentional, manifesting in the smallest, sweetest gestures. he would offer to buy your groceries, even arranging them in the pantry. once he learnt about your favourite snacks — always in the grocery list you gave him before thanking him profusely — he'd make sure to keep them stocked. it became a routine; the comforting crinkle of a fresh bag of chips waiting for you, or the silent, sweet reminder of a fresh water bottle left by your bedroom door to ensure you stayed hydrated.

naturally, you did your best to reciprocate. you kept the common areas spotless and grabbed his favorite coffee on your way home. you’d pick up little things here and there — a candle he liked the scent of, or a new dish soap — hoping your actions spoke louder than your words. but mostly, you tried to be a 'good' flatmate by hiding the massive crush you had developed on him.

was it really your fault though ?

was any human being actually designed to withstand this much temptation ?

he was just the perfect blend of genuine kindness and pure devastation. it was impossible for you to function with him in your line of sight. when he lounged around in a tank top, it was like a master class in human anatomy — every muscle sculpted and defined. and god bless whoever invented the compression shirts he wore for his gym sessions, because wow — the way the fabric clung to his frame should have been a public health hazard. then there was the way he’d just settle onto the sofa, knees wide, manspreading. it was enough to make your brain short-circuit every single time. you had never felt this distracted, this enamoured by someone, but he — he was all you could think about. in a flat meant for two, chan had somehow managed to take up every inch of your headspace.

but you couldn't bring yourself to act on it.

of course the guy was a fucking michelin star meal and you'd love to eat him up — but you were convinced he was just being the world’s nicest guy. you weren't about to ruin a perfectly good living situation because you were delusional. your heart was screaming for him, but your logic was playing it safe.

today was supposed be no different. the lectures had been long and you were exhausted, to say the least. since chan was usually stuck in his own classes at this time, you figured the apartment was your private sanctuary. you had traded your denims and jacket for a soft oversized shirt with nothing underneath, heading to the bathroom to wash your face.

but as you turned towards the sink, your brain short-circuited. your eyes hit a pair of solid, damp legs first. before you could even process why there was a person in your 'empty' home, your gaze traveled upwards, and —

oh.

chan stood in front of you, fresh out of the shower with nothing but a towel hanging dangerously low around his waist. his blonde wet hair was slicked back as tiny droplets of water were racing down his torso, tracing the deep, insane curves of his muscles before disappearing into the folds of the towel.

you were pretty sure you were salivating.

in fact, you were reasonably certain your soul had actually left your body and was currently vibrating somewhere on the bathroom ceiling.

mortified by the fact that you were blatantly staring, you snapped out of the stupor. a string of frantic, nonsensical apologies tumbled from your lips as you bolted for your room, slamming the door shut with a deafening thud.

the next day, you changed your entire routine to avoid him at all costs. you left for university before he woke up and returned when he had left for his late-evening gym sessions. you couldn't bare to meet his eyes and you needed distraction from the mental loop of his damp, glistening skin.

so you drowned yourself in academics, joined debate club, and loaded yourself with every co-curricular possible. slowly and gradually, you became a ghost in your own house, even timing your bathroom and kitchen runs so as to not run into him.

but your body was a complete traitor to the cause. the ache between your legs was constant — a heavy, pulsing reminder — that your self-control was hanging by a thread. it got so bad you had to start wearing a bra at home because your nipples would literally perk up the second you heard his voice.

chan would try to catch you, his brow furrowing as you’d give him a quick, breathless smile before rushing to your room. little did he know, you were terrified that if he said your name in that low, honeyed tone — if he even stepped an inch too close — you’d actually moan right there over the toaster. even your own fingers were unable to ease this ever-present tension.

you had to do something. anything.

and you did.

you ordered a dildo.

a dildo — based on your entirely unintentional mental measurements from the shower incident.

it became your nightly ritual — your reward for a day of acting like his presence didn't wreck you. you would wait for the tell-tale sound of the front door clicking shut as he headed to the gym, and then you’d finally let yourself go. it was the only way to flush the tension out of your system, a desperate attempt to reset your brain so you could wake up the next morning and pretend you weren't dying to have the real thing.

then he posted on instagram.

a video of him working out.

bare chested.

the way that this man managed to find you despite all your attempts to evade him was fucking hilarious. by the time your last lecture ended, you were a wreck. sitting through a double-period of microeconomic theory while your skin felt three sizes too small, was a brand of hell you wouldn't wish on anyone. you practically ran home, bolted into your room, and reached for the silicone substitute. it wasn't him — it could never be him — but it was the only relief you had.

you kicked off your sweatpants, falling back onto the bed and shoving your underwear aside. wetting your fingers, you worked to spread your own slick, the friction of your touch only making the ache worse.

"mmmmh — fuck fuck fuck — chaaaaan," you whimpered into the mattress, your voice cracking as you shoved the silicone deep, trying to mimic the heavy, rhythmic stretch you craved. in delusion of taking him in one go, impressing him, what slipped your mind was the amount of time that had passed.

you didn't hear the front door.

you didn't hear the heavy thud of his gym bag.

as chan unlocked the door of the apartment, he couldn't help but think about the last time he had seen you, let aside talk. as he walked past your bedroom door, he froze. a series of sounds filtered through the wood—stifled, breathless moans, to be precise.

he knew he should walk away.

he knew he shouldn't linger by your door.

he knew he definitely shouldn't look for the slight, accidental gap in the doorframe.

but it didn't stop him.

and how fucking glad he was for that lapse in judgement.

because the view that met him was nothing short of ethereal.

you were sprawled on the bed, hands between your plush thighs. he watched in awe, as your juices dripped onto the sheets from your glistening folds.

you were burying a dildo deep inside your pussy.

well, 'burying' was an understatement — you were ramming the silicone into your cunt, your hips arching off the mattress as you babbled something incoherent into the pillows. your expression was a blurred mask of ecstasy and ache, hanging somewhere between heaven and hell.

chan stood rooted to the spot, his lungs burning as he tried to catch the broken syllables falling from your lips. he strained to listen, his heart hammering against his ribs until — finally — the sound crystallized.

"— aaan, ch-chan — oh fuuuck — nghhhh," your muffled moans tore through the quiet of the room.

the realisation hit him like a physical blow.

chan had spent weeks wondering why you were so painfully shy around him. he had seen you with your friends — laughing, vibrant, and quick-witted. he had even sat in the back of the lecture hall during your last debate, watching in awe as you stood perfectly confident, articulate, and eloquent.

so why did you turn into a mumbling, avoiding mess the second he entered a room ? why did your words always fail you when it came to him ?

looking at you now, hearing the way you sobbed his name into the mattress, the answer finally clicked.

you weren't afraid of him.

you were starving for him.

the same girl who sat in the library for hours, head tucked over a textbook, was now squirming at the thought of him over her.

the same girl who spoke with such fierce intelligence at the debate podium was currently ruining herself to the thought of him railing her into oblivion.

the same girl who had become a ghost in their shared home was moaning his name into a lonely mattress.

the same girl chan had fallen for was shoving a dildo inside herself, wishing it was him.

yes — chan had fallen. hard.

at first, it had been simple, friendly affection. but then he saw the quiet, caring way you moved through his life. he noticed the way you’d bring him coffee without being asked, the way you genuinely listened when he talked about his day, and how you kept the apartment feeling like a home. you would cook his favorite meals when he was stressed and tell him to rest in that soft, sweet voice of yours whenever he overdid it at the gym.

then, weeks ago, he had heard a faint moan through the walls. it had been the most intoxicating sound he’d ever heard. ever since that night, he had been haunted by it, silently praying that one day, you would finally let his name slip past your lips in that same tone.

that day had finally come.

and chan was beyond elated.

he slowly moved into the room and settled on the chair opposite to the bed. his hand subconsciously moved to his bulge, as he drank in the sights of you. oblivious to this audience, you continued to chase your peak, eyes squeezed shut and head thrown back.

all of a sudden, the dildo — absolutely covered in your slick — slipped out of your hand.

your eyes flew open as you reached out for it, but the breath left your lungs the moment you saw him. you were met with chan's sultry gaze locked onto you — or rather — onto your cunt.

"c-chan," you scrambled to sit upright gasping as you squeezed your thighs shut and snatched the discarded blanket to cover yourself. you fumbled the toy behind your back, your heart hammering against your ribs. "w-what are you d-doing here ?"

"i heard a sound — my name," he rasped, his voice vibrating with hunger, "my name — dropping from your lips."

"i-it's n-not what it l-looks like —,' you stuttered, as you tried to claw back some shred of dignity.

"what is it then, sweetheart ?" he purred, as he rose from the chair with a fluid, lethal grace, closing the distance between the seat and the edge of your mattress.

you tried to scramble for an excuse — any lie that could explain why you were moaning his name in the dark — but every thought evaded you. under the weight of his stare, your mind was totally blank. when the silence stretched on, his eyebrow quirked up, a knowing smirk playing on his lips.

"i'll tell you sweetheart — ," chan breathed raggedly, coming to hover over you that made you instinctively shrink back into the pillows. his hand reached out behind your back to retrieve the pink silicone, slippery from being buried in your pussy for so long. he brought it up, holding it inches from your face, "you were stuffing your sweet little pussy with this, imagining it was me who was thrusting into you, weren't you ?"

a hot, involuntary blush crept up your neck as your breath hitched. it was maddening — how were you more on edge from his words alone than you had been with the toy ? your brain was short-circuiting, unable to fathom a single lie.

you whispered, "m-maybe — ", holding your breath in hopes of easing the tension in the room.

"aww — i'll give you the real thing, sweetheart," he cooed, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, "but i need a promise."

at this point, you would have given him your soul, if he had asked for it.

"i need you to throw this thing away, hm ? — ," he said, tossing the pink silicone aside with a dull thud against the carpet, "— if you need anything in that pretty pussy, you come straight to me. i'll give you anything you need — my fingers, my tongue, my cock — okay sweetheart ?"

every word in your vocabulary evaporated instantly. the only thing left in your brain was a frantic, rhythmic yes-yes-yes-yes-yes. you nodded quickly, your body practically vibrating with the need for him to follow through.

to chan, you were fucking adorable. even in the most compromising situation of your life, you were all pink and bashful, staring at your hands like they were the most interesting thing on the planet.

"you'll be the death of me — you know that ?" he groaned, a softness lacing his words, his head thrown back, the veins in his neck strained as he fought for a shred of his own self-control.

you were hit with another bout of shyness, unable to meet his gaze. you felt raw, exposed, and entirely at his mercy. he leaned forward, the mattress dipping under his weight. one hand reached out to tenderly cup your face, his palm warm against your flushed skin, while his other hand found the curve of your waist, anchoring you to him.

"can i kiss you, sweetheart ?" he murmured, caressing your cheek with his thumb.

you whispered, "y-yes, please".

chan tasted like coffee and raspberries — a sharp, sweet addiction. his lips met yours in a searing kiss that swallowed your gasp whole. as your mouths moved in tandem, your skin prickled with a sudden, electric heat. when his tongue swept into your mouth, you couldn't help but arch into him, seeking more of that friction. his grip on your waist tightened, pulling you flush against his solid frame as your tongues swirled together in a feverish dance. he caught your lower lip between his teeth, sucking on it until you were dizzy.

the kiss broke, but only so his lips could trail a path down your throat. you bared your neck for him, your head falling back as you exhaled a shaky, broken breath.

then, the hand cupping your jaw began its slow, torturous descent. it traveled down your abdomen, the heat of his palm seeping through the thin fabric of your shirt until he hiked it up, baring you to the cool air. the second his bare skin finally made contact with your dripping heat, you went dizzy with pleasure.

"oh fuuuuuuuuck", chan growled sinfully, gazing at you as your juices coated his fingers, "is this all for me — sweetheart?"

"y-yes channie —", you mewled desperately, the nickname slipping out in a desperate, broken breath as your hips bucked into him instinctively, " — all f'you, always."

"such a needy fucking baby" chan chuckled, softly tapping your cunt before abruptly pulling his hand away, making you whine audibly.

before you could beg protest, you heard the sound of a zipper sliced through the air. you watched mesmerized as chan discarded his denim and shirt in a few fluid motions, standing before you in nothing but his boxers.

you were certain you were drooling.

while you were busy worshiping his immaculate frame with your eyes, chan moved. he gripped your thighs with a strength that left no room for argument, dragging you toward him until you were perched at the very edge of the mattress. then, he reached into his boxers and freed himself.

the dildo had been a joke. a pale, static imitation.

he was jacked.

his cock was heavy and stone-hard, already weeping a bead of stray precum that you desperately wanted to catch with your tongue. the sight of the broad mushroom tip and the thick, pulsing vein mapping the underside was enough to make your brain malfunction.

chan bent forward, his fingers firm as he grasped your chin and tilted your head back. your lips met in a ferocious, hungry kiss—one that tasted of long-overdue desperation. while he kept you anchored to his mouth, his other hand worked the buttons of your shirt with a frantic precision. when the fabric finally gave way, freeing your breasts, he pulled back just enough to swallow hard at the sight.

"you're out of this world," he whispered, reverantly, as he pressed sweet kisses to your breasts, sucking and biting at the nipples, " just ethereal, sweetheart."

as he leaned over you, his cock grazed against your wet pussy. the contact was electric, a sliding friction that made you bite your lip so hard you tasted copper as you struggled to hold back a shattered moan.

"ch-chan, p-please—p-pleaseeee," you nearly sobbed, your body trembling because he was right there, so close, yet still not where you needed him to be.

"you look so pretty begging — fuck — i'll give it to you, yea ? baby has been so good — fuck, such a good, patient baby."  he gripped his length, deliberately rubbing the broad head against your sensitive folds, making you squirm and whimper against the sheets.

"can you take it, sweetheart ?," his silky voice wrapped around you, "can your little pussy really take all of me ?"

oh he would be the cause of your fucking demise — you were certain.

you choked back a sob, a desperate whine vibrating in your throat, "mmmh yesss — p-practised for you c-channie — p-practised to take y-you in one go."

chan’s breath hitched, and for a second, he looked like he was about to cum just from your words.

you had practiced.

for him.

he swore in that moment, he was hopelessly in love.

"yeah ? thank you, sweetheart," he cooed, his eyes darkening with a mix of affection and raw lust. he caressed your lower lip, slipping his thumb inside your mouth, and you instinctively parted your lips to take him in. "shall we put that practice to use now ?"

"fuckfuckfuckfuck — jesus fucking christ — you're so wet, baby, so good" chan groaned as he thrust into you, his cock diving into your wet cunt and good god, your soul might just have ascended. the stretch was agonizingly perfect and his veins provided a friction against your walls that no silicone could ever replicate.

"s'big s'big  — nnnnnnnghh — so fuckin' big c-channie," you sobbed, suckling desperately on his thumb as your nails dug crescents in his shoulders.

"yea ? feels good sweetheart, hm ?" he grunted, panting as he continued to slam his cock into you. he used both hands to wrench your thighs even wider, making sure he could bottom out with every punishing, beautiful thrust.

"so good c-channie — ca-can feel you in my stomach — ohhhh goddd," you moaned loudly, breathless with the feeling of him against your fucking cervix.

with every thrust, you could slowly feel the coil of pleasure tighten in your abdomen. clinging harder to him, you frantically mewled, "c-close chan — fuuuuuck — i'm g-gonna c-cummmm."

the confession was all the motivation he needed. he sped up, hitting you with an unparalleled force that made the headboard rattle against the wall. he could feel his own orgasm looming as your walls began to pulse, sucking him in with a desperate, rhythmic grip.

"cum for me sweetheart, give it to me," chan panted, as he felt you tightening around him, "just like that baby, cream my cock — fucking christ —  yes baby, yes."

the coil finally snapped. a blinding wave of pleasure enveloped you as your orgasm hit, your internal muscles clenching around him in a frantic, liquid sequence. you felt chan’s pace falter, his breath hitching as he reached his own limit.

"sweetheart, my baby — fuuuuuck i'm close." he huffed, his grip on your thighs tightening until his knuckles were white.

"give it to me channie — need your cum in me, baby — please pleaseeee," you whimpered, craddling his face in your hands.

you egged him on, your voice a broken whisper as you helped him chase the peak.

chan looked down into your eyes, his gaze softening with a sudden, overwhelming heat as he saw you smiling through tear-stained eyes and swollen lips. the sight was his undoing. fire pooled in his abdomen and he let out a low, guttural growl as his cum spurted inside you, coating your walls. you couldn't help but feel your eyes roll into the back of your skull as you felt him fill you to the brim.

the silence was heavy, broken only by both of you trying to catch your breath. chan lingered for a minute, his forehead resting against yours, before he slowly pulled out.

the loss of him was immediate, and you couldn't help the small, needy whine that came out as he moved. you just lay there, dazed, watching as a mess of him and you started to coat your thighs.

"i've got you, sweetheart," he whispered, his voice still low and raspy.

he grabbed a warm, damp washcloth from the bathroom. he took his time cleaning you up, his hands gentle as he wiped your skin. he was looking at you like you were the only thing that mattered — and for him, you were.

when you were finally tucked under the covers together, chan pulled you into his chest. his thumb was just tracing patterns on your skin as your hands carded through his hair.

"you know i've wanted you for a long time, right?" he said, his voice low. "the coffee, the snacks — i-i was trying to get your attention." you hid your face in his neck. "it worked. clearly." he chuckled, the sound vibrating in his chest. "good. because i've been losing my mind living with you and not being able to touch you."

chan pulled back just enough to look at you. "so... we’re not just roommates anymore, right ? i want you to be my girlfriend. for real."

you looked up at him and finally smiled. "yeah. i'd like that."

"good," he whispered, leaning down to kiss you again, those dimples finally showing. "no more hiding in your room then."

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@kloversung 2026

[starlostjisung]

stay still, baby

pairing: bang chan x reader

genre: smut; established relationship

wc: 2.3k

warnings: unprotected sex; oral sex (f!receiving); dom!chan; edging; begging; praising; dirty talk; orgasm denial; somnophilia

summary: there’s nothing better than waking up to the sun against your skin and your boyfriend between your thighs

a/n: i have no excuse for this one, just that i woke up today and was in the mood to write this so there you go (and can we have more blonde chan with his natural curls pls thank you! also wrote it quickly so it might not be really good oops)

you are sleeping, your body completely relaxed on your bed and the sun against your skin, when a faint tickle stirs you, something warm brushing along your inner thighs. it starts light, like feathers or fingertips tracing lazy circles, inching higher and higher with each pass. your skin prickles, awareness slowly creeping in as heat blooms between your legs.

you move a bit, still half lost in drowsiness, but the sensation never stops and now the gentle strokes part your thighs wider, exposing you. a slick warmth gathers at your core, your cunt already drenched and your folds swollen and aching without you fully understanding why. you feel your wetness seeping out, coating your inner lips, making everything slippery and sensitive.

your breath hitches and your hips twitch instinctively towards the teasing touch. whatever it is, it presses firmer now, the thumbs or palms spreading your thighs apart, holding them open as that caressing pressure dances closer to your centre. 

“shh, stay still, baby”, you hear a low, husky voice murmuring, vibrating through the air and into your hazy mind.

your eyes flutter but they don’t open yet, your body still not strong enough for that, because every nerve is focused on the soft touches that are now turning into soft kisses and lips that graze the tender skin at the crease where your thigh meets your cunt.

finally, you wake up properly, your vision clearing slowly and you raise your head - the first thing you see is chan, settled between your legs like he owns the place, which in a way he does, especially in moments like this. his broad shoulders fill the gap between your legs, his blonde hair tousled from sleep and his eyes locked on your exposed pussy as his hands grip your thighs, keeping them splayed wide. 

“chris? what-”, you start, your voice still thick and groggy.

he looks at you and then a wicked grin spreads across his face, his eyes gleaming with hunger. 

“oh, you’re not asleep anymore? let me wake you properly then”

before you can form another word, his head dips low and his tongue flattens against your folds in one long, deliberate lick, from the bottom where your entrance weeps arousal all the way up to your clit.

the shock of it rips a gasp from your throat as your head falls against your pillows, pleasure exploding through you like fire. his tongue feels hot against you, pressing firm as it drags over every inch, tasting your slickness and lapping it up greedily. you can’t speak, you can’t even think, the only thing you can do is moan for him. your cunt clenches as more juices flood out and chan just hums in approval, the vibration sending jolts straight to your core. 

he dives in fully then, his mouth sealing over your pussy, his lips sucking on your outer lips before his tongue spears between them. he traces your inner lips before he dips into your entrance then pulls back to swirl around the edges. 

you try to raise your head with all the power you have, which is not much right now, and the sight makes you even more wet - his entire face buried between your thighs, his nose bumping your clit with each pass, his blonde curls tickling your skin as he keeps moving his head.

you let your head fall against the pillows again and start bucking your hips, squirming against the mattress, desperate to grind your cunt harder onto his mouth.

“chris- oh god- more, please”, you whimper, your hands fisting the sheets, your thighs trembling under his hold.

your need builds fast, your orgasm coiling in your stomach, every lick pushing you higher but he has none of it. his hands clamp down on your hips, his fingers pinning you flat to the bed.

“no, stop moving”, he growls against your cunt, his breath hot against you, before his lips move to latch onto your clit.

he sucks your clit, his tongue flicking it before he moves lower and it’s his nose what nudges it now, pressing just right to make the fire inside you burn even more. you cry out, your back arching as much as his grip allows, which is not much. his mouth works relentlessly against you, his lips on your folds as his tongue moves in and out of you. he slurps noisily, drinking your arousal like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted, his chin completely soaked in you. 

everything feels overwhelming at this point - the pull of his lips on your clit, sucking harder now, his teeth grazing ever so lightly, his tongue rubbing broad strokes over your entrance, his nose grinding circles on your clit, and the pressure just keeps building more and more, impossible to contain anymore.

your thighs quiver against his shoulders, every muscle tensing as the orgasm rushes faster towards you.

“chris- fuck, i’m… i’m gonna-”, your voice breaks into a whine, your hips straining against his hold, your cunt fluttering around nothing as he moves his lips to your clit again, vibrating with a deep groan that pushes you right to the brink and then-

nothing.

he stops and pulls back completely, his mouth leaving your cunt and leaving you throbbing, completely empty and frustratingly denied. your arousal trickles down your skin and as you pant, you raise your head to stare at him in shock, your body screaming for release. 

“chris, why?”, you gasp, your voice breaking into a desperate whine, "please, i-i need it. i need to come, p-please- don’t stop, fuck, i’m so close-”

he chuckles low, the sound rumbling from his chest as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing your arousal across his face.

“it’s still too early for that, baby”, he says, his voice low and teasing, “i just started and you’re already so greedy for my tongue and ready to come? no, i decide when you can come”

his eyes rake over your trembling body, drinking in the way your thighs quiver and your nipples are hard against your thin t-shirt. he moves to his knees, his broad chest flexing, and you finally notice that he’s completely naked, his cock standing rigid and heavy between his legs, his tip already leaking precum. 

when did he even take his boxers off? 

the thought flickers in your mind but pleasure haze chases it away. before you can protest, his hands slide under your t-shirt, his palms warm against your sides as he pushes the fabric up. he leans in as his lips brush feather-light kisses across your stomach, his tongue darting out to trace the dip of your navel.

“mmm, look at you”, he praises you, nipping the skin just above your hipbone, “all mine to worship before i finally break you”

you arch into him, moaning loud as his mouth moves higher, bunching the t-shirt up over your ribs. he takes it off and tosses it aside, leaving you completely naked beneath him - your skin flushed, your pussy exposed and soaking, and your breasts heaving with each pant. 

chan settles his body between your spread thighs again, his hard cock dragging a hot line along your inner leg as he dips his head to your chest. his tongue flicks out, flat and wet against one nipple, circling it before he sucks it deep into his mouth. 

“fuck- chris! yes, like that!”, you scream, your fingers twisting in the sheets as your hips jerk uselessly.

he releases your nipple only to latch on the other, his teeth grazing the sensitive peak before he bites down, sharp enough to sting, sending a jolt of pain laced pleasure through you which makes you cry out, your back bowing off the bed.

“oh god, please, again. i-i need you, please”

he focuses on your breasts, sucking one nipple while pinching the other, rolling it between his fingers until it’s swollen and throbbing. your moans fill the room, raw and pleading, your body writhing under his torment. finally, he crawls higher, his naked body pressing flush against yours, his cock heavy against you.

his face hovers over yours, your lips so close you can smell yourself on him. you surge up, your lips parting as you try to capture his in a kiss, but his hand snaps to your chin, his fingers firm as he forces your head back down to the pillow.

“no no, shh”, he shushes you again, his thumb stroking your bottom lip, “no kissing yet, pretty girl. you gotta behave like a good girl for me if you want to come. can you do that? stay still and take what i give you?”

words fail you as your mind swims in lust and your throat is tight with need. you nod frantically, your eyes wide and glassy. chan’s smirk widens and then his gaze moves to your cunt, still glistening and puffy from his earlier actions.

“fuck, look at you”, he says, his voice husky and full of need, “so wet and ready for me, begging for my cock without you even saying it. such a perfect pussy for me”

he reaches down, one of his fingers sliding through your folds and gathering your slick from entrance to clit. he brings it to his mouth, his eyes never leaving yours as he sucks it clean.

“mmm, you taste so fucking good, baby. it’s your turn now, open up”

another finger dips into your soaked folds, coating itself in your arousal before he presses it to your lips. you part them eagerly, your tongue lapping at the salty and sweet tang of yourself, sucking his finger deep as he groans.

“that’s it, good girl. suck it clean. taste how much you want my cock?”, he growls.

you hum around his finger, swirling your tongue just like he told you, your hips moving in desperation. satisfied, he takes his finger out of your mouth and crashes his lips to yours. the kiss is filthy as your tongues move together and you taste yourself on him, mixed with his own spit, the combination driving you wilder.

he moves, his body covering yours completely now as he lines up his cock, his head nudging your entrance as it parts your folds and slicks itself in your juices but not pushing in yet.

“you feel that?”, he whispers against your lips, “my cock right there, ready to split you open. beg for it, baby”

“please, chris- fuck me! i need you inside me, p-please”, you plead, your hips bucking to take him deeper but he places one of his hands on your hip, pinning you down.

“uh-uh, no moving. you take it when i say”

your hand flies to his waist, your nails digging in to yank him closer, but he catches your wrist fast, then your other wrist and pins them both above your head. one of his hands keeps them there, his grip unyielding against the headboard.

“bad girl”, he teases you, his cock circling your clit now, "you're not my good girl if you can’t follow rules. trying to move and grab me… maybe i should edge you all morning, huh? leave your pussy aching for my cock”

“no! please, no! i’m your good girl- please, chris. i’ll be so good now! just- just fuck me, please”, you whimper, straining against his hold as tears prick your eyes from his edging and teasing.

his free hand roams your body, pinching your nipples and moving to slap your thigh lightly as his mouth attacks your neck, his teeth sinking into the curve of your throat, sucking bruises as his tongue then soothes the marks before he bites again.

“louder, baby. beg like you mean it. tell me how bad you need my cock”

“chis, please! your cock, i- i need it. i need you inside me, please. i’ll take it all, come when you say”, you sob, your body on fire, and your clit throbbing under his teasing nudges.

he moves his tip against your entrance, “that’s my good girl”, he says finally, his voice rough with lust, “so wet and perfect for me. okay, i think you deserve it. gonna fuck you now”

with one brutal thrust, he buries himself inside you, his cock splitting you open, the burn exquisite as your walls clamp around his cock. you scream, pleasure crashing through you when he finally enters you after all his edging.

he doesn’t let your hands go, moving faster and harder inside you as his hips snap and his cock drags over every ridge inside you.

“tell me how good it feels, baby”, he demands, his lips at your ear now, “tell me how good it feels when i fuck you like this”

“so good - fuck, chris, so good. don’t stop, please”, you moan loudly.

your legs wrap his waist as your heels dig into his ass. he groans and his pace grows even faster, his grip tight on your wrists. 

“yes, my good girl. you take me so good. gonna make me fill you up, yes? come for me, baby girl, come now”

the praise shatters you and your orgasm rips through you, your pussy convulsing wildly around him as you finally come.

“oh, chris, i’m- fuck, yes”

he groans against your lips, his cock swelling before he finally breaks and spills hot ropes of cum deep inside you, his hips grinding deep as you milk every drop.

when you both come down from your highs, he releases your hands and crashes his mouth to yours in a deep and claiming kiss. you cling to him, your arms wrapping around his neck, your tongues sloppy against each other through your aftershocks. he pulls back slightly, smirking down at your blissed out face.

“good girl, but that’s just round one, baby. got all day to make you scream”

the library

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[puckmegirl]

ALL MINE (ft. John Logan)

blurb: pt. 2 to jealou$y. lingering feelings of jealousy bubble up into desire inside logan. it certainly doesn’t help that you look so good in your costume.

warnings: fem!reader, smut, established relationship, alcohol (not under the influence), CONSENT KING JOHN LOGAN, oral (f!receiving), john logan tits guy CONFIRMED, fingering, riding, lots of praise because it’s john logan i don’t make the rules

You stopped having drinks after that incident. If you were getting lucky tonight, you needed to be sober and ready to pounce on Logan in the right state of mind.

Logan seemed to have the same idea, for you noticed he switched out his bottles of beer for cans of Sprite for the remainder of the night. Neither of you addressed it.

“Bro, don’t be so fucking boring!” Dean clapped him on the back and tried to hand him a suspicious-looking green concoction.

“Not boring, just responsible,” Logan replied, but his eyes were on you when he said it.

He also kept a heavy hand on the small of your back any moment his hand was free. You put on a good act, pretending it didn’t get to you every time his fingers drew small shapes over your top, or whenever his digits slipped beneath the fabric when the boys were too busy laughing, leaving you with a hitched breath and a warm feeling between your legs.

When the other half to your dynamic duo, Kendall, stepped between the two of you and grabbed your hand, spluttering something about dancing to her favorite song, Logan’s grip tightened on you for a moment before he loosened up and plastered a pursed smile on his face.

“As long as you bring her back to me,” he said. Kendall laughed at his joke as she dragged you away. But one look between you and Logan and you knew he wasn’t trying to be funny.

“He’s so down bad for you, it’s hilarious,” Kendall giggled to you with a roll of her eyes. “He needs to lighten up.”

The pair of you danced to an ABBA song, laughing and belting out the lyrics. You closed your eyes and let loose, submitting to the tingle of whatever alcohol remained in your system.

John watched like a hawk. The irony wasn’t lost on him considering his bird costume. You looked so good. He wanted to hold you from behind and make you feel how heavy his—

“Any more staring and she’ll burst into flames.”

Logan snapped out of it and turned to Garrett, who wore a knowing smirk and offered him another can of Sprite.

“Thanks, man,” Logan said gratefully, taking the refill.

Garrett looked at your dancing figure. “Freshmen on the team were asking about her.”

“Yeah? What’d they say?” Logan replied almost absentmindedly, sipping his drink and staring at you.

Garrett sighed. “Rather not say. I’m supposed to be Hannah’s ‘boyfriend’ and all.”

Logan peered at him from the corner of his eyes, feeling his protective instincts start to wake. Garrett noticed and gently bumped their shoulders together.

“Not like that. Wasn’t bad. Just…” Garrett hummed into his red solo cup. “Horny.” He settled on that word.

That was enough.

Logan chugged down whatever was left in the can of soda before making his way over to you. He crossed the room in quick strides, ignoring Kendall’s amused voice when she cooed, “Uh oh, return to sender already?”

Logan took your hand and pulled you away; away from the dance floor, away from the party, and most importantly—away from the lingering gazes so many guys sent your way.

“Logan?” You queried as he brought you up the stairs.

He didn’t respond, just kept tugging you along.

“Logan.”

Nothing.

“Baby—”

He finally stopped and turned to look at you. His stature towered over you and you suddenly felt small with the way he was staring down at your face.

He exhaled a heavy breath. “Fuck, baby, I’m trying really hard to be respectful.”

You cupped his cheek. His skin was hot to the touch. He subconsciously burrowed closer into the palm of your hand.

“You don’t have to be,” you murmured.

He closed his eyes for a moment. “How many drinks have you had?”

“A can and a half of beer,” you answered.

He opened his eyes to make sure you were being honest. You stood unwavering.

“You’re sober?” He asked.

“Mhm.”

“You’re sure?”

“100%. Are you?”

He sighed, turning away. “Yeah. Yeah, I made sure not to…” his words trailed off.

You smiled. “You made sure not to drink too much so we could fuck?”

He looked at you again. “Don’t say it like that.”

You giggled, pushing away a strand of fallen hair from his forehead. “I’m saying it as it is.”

“I made sure not to drink too much to be responsible,” he corrected.

You nodded along, “Oh, yeah. Responsible. My responsible and respectful boyfriend.” You teased. He did not appreciate that.

“Okay,” he let out an amused sound as if he were faced with a challenge. He leaned in and whispered, “Let’s see who’s laughing when I stop respecting you and start doing all the things I plan to do to you.”

You gulped.

+

He led you to the nearest vacant bedroom in the Maxwell family home before pushing you inside and locking the door behind him. You thought he’d pin you against the door and makeout with you.

Instead, he said, “Sit on the bed,” in that husky voice you rarely hear so you knew you had to listen.

You sat down. The covers were soft and cool. You watched and waited for his next words, but Logan was too busy pacing in front of the door and running his hands through his hair. He looked so yummy.

“Take your clothes off. Let me see you.”

You blinked. You weren’t used to Logan being like this. He usually did all the work. But this new side of him was hot, so very hot.

You slowly unzipped your boots and kicked them off along with your socks. Next, your headpiece with the sprinkles. Then, your tube top, revealing your bare breasts, and lastly, your skirt, leaving you in nothing but underwear.

You felt exposed, just sitting there on the bed as Logan stared at you without a word. His eyes were nearly black from how blown out his pupils were, his bottom lip chewed and slightly pink from how much he dragged it beneath his teeth.

“Pretty,” he finally commented. “That’s new.”

You glanced down to where he gestured, looking at the lace thong you wore. He was right; it was new. You and Kendall bought matching ones for the costumes, but you didn’t need to tell him that bit right now.

“Yeah,” you confirmed.

“Was it expensive?” He asked.

“Not…really…”

“Good,” he nodded to himself. He pushed off the wings he wore for his costume and pulled his shirt over his head, tossing it aside.

He knelt down in front of you and spread your legs apart. “So I can ruin it, right?”

That shot up your spine. Your thighs wanted to rub against one another at his remark, but he held your knees firmly. “Answer.”

You nodded without thinking. “Yes.”

He smiled at your obedience and nodded. “Yeah, we’ll get to that. But for now…” his words died down as his lips attached to yours.

It was all tongue and messy. Logan pinned your wrists to the mattress as he kissed you. He grunted against your lips every time you bit his lip teasingly. Eventually, his kisses trailed downwards. To your neck, your shoulder, your collarbone. He made sure to give all your sensitive spots an abundance of attention.

Then? His favorite bit. Your tits. John Logan was a tits guy, through and through. Doesn’t matter what size or shape, he was enamored with them.

“Missed my girls,” he murmured before he took one of your breasts into his mouth, swirling his tongue over your pebbled nipple and sucking softly, then switching to the other boob and giving it the same treatment.

Your head tilted back and let out soft sighs. The comfort of him mouthing at your breasts left you aching and squirming on the bed. “Oh, baby…”

He pulled away at your voice and left a sloppy kiss between your tits. He peppered a few more kisses on your abdomen—nipping an especially ticklish spot below your rib—before diving in and licking you over the fabric of your lace thong. You gasped, your hand flying to his hair like second instinct.

He groaned against you, the sound muffled but the vibrations sending sparks to your core. “Already so wet for me. I hardly did anything.”

“Logan, please…”

He kept licking up your slit through your panties. He could feel your juices seep through the delicate material. The friction was doing wonders for your pleasure, but you grew impatient. “Logan…”

He finally pulled your thong to the side and resumed his ministrations with extra fervor. The direct contact had you jumping in your seat, but Logan’s strong arms held your hips down.

He groaned again, pulling away just to mutter, “Fuck, gorgeous, maybe he was right to call you cupcake. You taste so fucking sweet.”

Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion before his words fully registered in your head. “James?” You asked, breathlessly.

He pulled away and looked at you with a deadpan expression. He crawled up your body until he was face-to-face with you and said, “Please don’t ever say another man’s name when my tongue is inside you.”

That had your hole clenching around nothing.

“Got that?” He asked.

You nodded right away, “Mhm.”

“Words,” he demanded.

“Yes. Got it.” You responded quietly.

“Good,” he murmured before smoothing your hair down and admiring you for a moment. Then, his head was back between your thighs.

“Ah, Logan!” You breathed out, digging your nails into his scalp.

He raised up two fingers to your lips without stopping. You blinked back bleary eyed at that. “Open,” he said.

Immediately, you parted your lips. He shoved his ring and middle fingers inside your mouth and you sucked on them diligently, running your tongue over his calluses earned from hockey and various handyman jobs. Once they were appropriately wet, he pulled his fingers out and into your pussy.

You keeled over with a loud cry, “John!”

He raised his head up, letting his fingers do all the work now. “You like that? Yeah?”

You bobbed your head up and down, unable to find any words left in you from how nicely Logan scissored his fingers inside you, all whilst keeping his thumb on your clit in steady motions.

“Look at you. So pretty and whiny for me,” he murmured, voice smooth as honey. “Letting me wreck you like this and I haven’t even used my cock yet.”

You whimpered, hand gripping onto his bicep. You were sure you’d see nail marks on his skin even tomorrow morning.

“Oh, you like that?” He asked, tilting his head. “You want me to fuck you stupid with my cock?” The pace of his fingers increased.

Your eyes screwed shut. “Yes! Please, I want that.” You tugged him closer so you could bury your face in his neck, feeling so overwhelmed by pleasure.

He let out an airy chuckle. “Such a good girl. Just for that? I’ll reward you.”

He made you cum on his fingers. The heel of his hand applied pressure on your sensitive bundle of nerves until you seized and melted against him with a moan.

“Shhh, that’s it. Come down from it, you’re okay,” he kissed the top of your head.

You mumbled incoherent sentences into his neck and he merely smiled and rubbed your back.

After a minute of breathing, he pulled back slightly to look at your face. “You okay?” He asked, pushing a lock of hair away from your face.

You nodded, still buzzing from what had happened. “Yeah,” you exhaled.

He nodded, watching you carefully in the vulnerable afterglow. Your hands trailed down to his jeans, tugging at his belt, silently asking for it to come off.

Logan chuckled softly before helping you remove his belt and jeans. He reached into the pocket then chucked them on the floor and you instantly started palming his eager boner through his boxers.

He hissed, tossing his head back. “Fuck, baby.”

“Please tell me you have a condom,” you said.

He held the small foil up in his fingers.

At that, you rid him of his boxers and watched in tense awe as he teared the packet open with his teeth and rolled the condom on. You settled back against the bed pillows as you waited in hot anticipation.

“Uh uh,” he wagged his finger before curling it in a come hither gesture.

You sat up, letting out a surprised squeal when he lifted you by your thighs and settled on the bed before placing you above him. Your hands scrambled until they settled on his abs.

He looked up at you with hooded eyes, “Look good for me, gorgeous. I want a show.”

You leaned down and peppered kisses over his face. He let out a relaxed sigh and rubbed up and down your sides lazily. You nibbled on a spot right below his ear, earning you a delicious whimper from him.

“Tease,” he muttered and you grinned.

“Thought you wanted a show,” you remarked.

He hummed, “Mm, yeah. But just for me. No one else.”

You looked down at him, realizing he’s still a bit hung up from the incident earlier that night. Your finger slid sensually from his adam’s apple to his naval. “No one else. Only you.”

“Yeah?” His voice got deeper. “Show me.”

Sir, yes, sir. You held his dick from the base and slowly sank down on him. Logan groaned, his grip on your hips tightening. The stretch of him filling you up was deliriously good. You bit your lip as you took him in, inch by inch.

Finally, you both let out a sigh in unison. You planted your palms flat on his abdomen and started rocking back and forth.

The room succumbed to the sounds of soft moans and the subtle creak from the bed. The party downstairs was long forgotten. Here, it was just you and Logan.

“Just like that, baby, hah,” he breathed out, moving you back and forth. Even if he put you on top, Logan would always end up doing the work for you. You were his pampered princess.

You threw your head back, feeling the pleasure build up in your tummy once again. You took one of Logan’s hands and guided him through rubbing circles on your clit.

“Do you like that, sweetheart?” He asked.

You nodded fervently. “Yes. Fuck, yes, Logan. Keep doing that, baby, I’m so close.”

He held you firmly and started bucking up into you. You cried out, slumping against his chest as he thrusted in and out of you, reaching so deep inside, hitting that spongy part that left you seeing stars.

“Cum for me, baby. I know you can do it,” he said.

The coil snapped and you released, letting out a long moan. Your body shook, the pleasure and adrenaline rushing through you like a live wire meeting water. You collapsed against him, your bones feeling like putty.

He took your chin in his hand and tilted your head up to meet his face. He was still rocking into you. “Need to see you, baby. Need to see your pretty face when I cum.”

You were so out of it, barely processing his words. You simply nodded and chewed on your bottom lip. He looked so hot all sweaty and breathing heavily.

His eyes squeezed shut when he came, letting out a guttural groan. You felt his hips falter as he bucked up into you, rhythm sloppy and erratic. He let out a shuddering breath and dropped his head back onto the pillow.

The room was quiet now. The hum of electrical circuits and the distant noise of the party below filling up the space. You traced shapes onto his ribs, your touch barely skimming his skin. His hands caressed your back slowly, giving a small squeeze every now and then.

“Not jealous anymore?” You murmured, looking at him with an amused smirk.

He scoffed. “I wasn’t jealous.”

You hummed, “Ohhh, okay. Not jealous. Just possessive.”

He rolled his eyes fondly, a smile threatening to tear his lips wide. “Just…want you to be mine. All the time.”

You smiled, “I am.”

“I know you are.”

mr. i get wet at the thought of you being a responsible guy fr

[godmadeaterribleerror]

look out for me

✦Read on aO3! - Masterlist - Soldier Boy Masterlist✦

✦summary: after being woken up, soldier boy found a woman, promised he'd never leave her, then did. two years later, he's back and looking for one thing only. you.✦

✦warnings/tags: Soldier Boy x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, age gap (he's a hundred, it's to be expected), angst, softer!ben, canon divergance, pining, some plot to get to the smut (posessiveness, some spanking, dirty talk, teasing, praise and degredation kink, dom!Ben, fingering, begging, manhandling, nipple play, pussy slapping, fingering, oral f!reciving, edging, creampie, big dick ben, overstimulation, body worship, rough sex, just complete debauchery, dumbification, dacryphilia, finger sucking, squirting), love confessions, fluff✦

✦wc: 11.1k✦

✦author's note: made myself start drooling with this one. enjoy!✦

You had a secret. And you kept it buried in the deepest, most sacred corner of your heart. Not out of shame.

Out of survival.

It’s best to keep your head down, in a world like this one. Supes patrol the streets, and people who are a  little too loud and unhappy get sent to their death. Vought says it’s just to be corrected, but you know. Everyone knows.

They’ve just all learned how to whisper about it.

And you’re braver than you wanted to be. You do more than you should be doing, when the most anyone should be worrying about is waking up in their bed the next morning. But there’s the teenage girl who lives down the hall from you, who got loud about hating Homelander in school, and almost got taken because of it. You helped her get out, and lied to the face of the people who showed up to find her.

You lied with a smile, too. 

He would’ve found that amusing. He would’ve teased you about acing so cool and collected, right up until you were staring down the barrel of a gun. There hadn’t been a trip of your heartbeat, or stumble in your breath. Lives depended on you being able to do this.

And they depended on you being able to keep your head down.

You’d gotten good at it. Before him, it had been your job to keep calm and collected. Doctors couldn’t be panicking and crying over everything, or nothing would ever get done.

“What about when something’s real fucking gross and sticky?” He used to ask you. “You allowed to cry then?”

You’d smiled at the dishes in your hands. “Would you cry over something gross and sticky?”

“No, because I’m not a-“

“Fucking pussy.”

You’d dropped your voice to mock his, your smile becoming stupid and ditzy as the chair had scraped on the floor behind you. Riling him up was too easy. And if he didn’t want you to keep poking all his old, shiny buttons, he shouldn’t make it so damn fun.

“You got a mouth on you, doll.” Ben had muttered in your ear, arms wrapping around your stomach.

“Hm.” You hadn’t stopped washing the dishes. He’d rip them away from you soon, you might as well focus on what you can.

“Hm? All you got to say is hm?”

“I think you like my mouth.” You’d swayed on your feet, shrugging lazily.

Ben’s arms had tightened around you. “I like somethin’ about your mouth.”

“You like all of it. You like me so much, you chose weed over me, you think I’m better than weed-“

Your dishes had clattered into the sink. Ben spun you around, grabbed your wrists, and pinned them to the counter as he slammed his mouth of yours. You’d made a happy sound, craning your neck to try and chase more, and he’d chuckled. Soft, light kisses had been trailed down your jaw and over your throat, landing on a spot that seemed to be permanently dark since you’d met him.

He’d bitten at the skin, then sucked, letting his tongue flick slightly. Before him, you hadn’t even known you were into that. Now you can’t even graze the spot without your body getting fuzzy and confused. Like it knows he’s supposed to be there.

But he’s not.

“You’re lucky I like you.” Ben had muttered. “And you’re not a genius to figure that out, I think I’ve made it real fucking clear.”

You’d beamed at the air, wrapping an arm around his neck when he released one wrist. His massive hand had grabbed your waist, slipping fingers under the hem of the shirt. You’d shivered, and leaned into his mouth.

He’d been solid. Safe. And you’d been so foolishly sure that he was going to be there forever.

“You have.” You’d breathed.

And you’d really believed it.

But then he’d just… Left.

You’d woken up the next morning, and he’d been off with William Butcher to deal with Homelander. He’d failed, on both the being with William Butcher front and the deal with Homelander front. They’d said he had died. You’d sunken into something like a ghost, wandering through the world without touching anything, passing through days like they were all just a veil to something else.

There were regrets. Not demanding that he stay. Not kicking him out the first time he ended up on your doorstep. Talking to him that first night at the corner store at all, because at least then your heart would’ve still been beating instead of this hollow, gray husk.

But you also wouldn’t have traded him for the world. The time had been fleeting. Only a few splatters of paint on what had previously been a clean, respectable life.

You’d found out you liked being dirty. You liked all the color it came with, and you’d liked how Ben had held your hand through the whole thing. You don’t know why he had. You don’t even know why he’d liked you, why he’d bothered coming back over and over, why he’d decided that you—of all the many, more interesting, more carefree people in the world—were the one he wanted to share himself with.

“You shouldn’t eat those.” You’d told the strange, handsome man at one in the morning.

He’d looked at you like you were crazy. You’d blinked innocently back—a faint bell in your head, ringing that he looked familiar, and you should’ve listened to it—and he’d raised his brows.

“You talking to me?”

“Um,” you’d looked around the aisle. “Yeah? Who else would I be talking to.”

The man had grunted. His eyes hadn’t left yours for a second, and he’d been staring like he was trying to peel you apart. You’d started to feel all dizzy under the attention—he was very pretty, and pretty people shouldn’t stare like that—and shifted on your feet.

“There are studies.” You’d said lamely. “About those drinks. They give you cancer.”

“Cancer?” The man had snorted. “Doll, I’m not worried about fucking cancer-“

“You should be. It’s linked to pancreatic cancer, which is very- Fast spreading.” All your usual, well performed confidence had been wavering. Why had he been staring at you like that. “Because of the pancreases function in, um, your body, it’s basically- It’s fast spreading-“

“You said that already.”

You’d swallowed. His voice was very deep. “Oh.”

His eyes had shined with something that, in the moment, you hadn’t understood.

Now you know it to his form of affection. When he’d look at you and decided that you were real fucking cute, like a twitchy bunny—his words—and wanted to have more.

In the store, you’d hadn’t  been sure if he was going to murder you or make an indecent proposal.

He hated that movie. You’d made him watch it, a few weeks later, and he’d been furious she chose the penniless sad sack. You’d told him you’d chose him, if he was the penniless sad sack. He’d grumbled that he hoped you’d have better survival instincts than that, but you’d been able to read him by now. He’d liked that a lot, and you had the hickies after to prove it.

And he’d laughed.

That night, he’d just laughed.

“You some kind of a fucking doctor?”

“Yeah.” You’d said, nervous and small. “I- I am.”

The man had blinked. Looked over you like he was seeing you for the first time, and leaned back as if the sight punched him in the face. You’d still been wearing your scrubs. Later you’d tease him about not paying attention.

He’d say he’d just been that enraptured by your beauty. You’d flush, and tell him he was using that word wrong. He’d say he didn’t fucking care, and kiss you until you were stupid and giggling.

“What’s good?” He’d jerked his head at the drinks, and you pointed to a different can a shelf over.

He’d eyed you suspiciously, but grabbed it and stomped away. You’d thought he’d be gone when you paid for your own food and walked to the parking lot. Instead he’d been waiting at the counter, watching you with that same, wearily curious expression.

“Are you going to stalk me to my car?” You’d asked causally, careful not to look him in the eyes.

He’d grunted. “I’m escorting you. Stalking makes me sound like I’m some fucking creep-“

“You’re a stranger who’s going to follow me to my car. I should be calling 911.”

“911 couldn’t stop me, sweetheart.”

You’d paused, frowning at him. He’d rolled his eyes, looking around the store like he expected a camera crew to pop out and tell him the whole thing was a prank.

“Don’t call 911.” He’d muttered.

“Why shouldn’t I.”

“Cause I’m not going to fucking hurt you, that’s why-“

“And why should I trust that?”

He’d blinked. That thought hadn’t occurred to him at all.

“I swear I won’t.”

“Promises mean nothing.”

“My promises mean something-“

“Not to me, they don’t.”

He’d stared at you. You’d tipped up your chin, and held his gaze. You were not going to be murdered in a parking lot tonight. You’d ordered new pants last night, and you wanted to be alive to see them.

The man had caved before you. He hadn’t been happy about it, but you’d come to learn that he was never openly happy about anything. There was his genuine annoyance, and his fluffy annoyance. Where he didn’t mean a single groan or eye roll or muttered curse.

He saved that second one for you. And he hated that you called it fluffy annoyance, because he wasn’t ‘fucking fluffy’. But you’d tell him that you liked him fluffy, as long as it was just yours. And he’d said he was just yours, and he’d promised, and you’d learned how to believe him.

“My name is Ben.” He’d told you, reaching into his jacket. “And if I try to hurt you, use this.”

And he’d handed you a fucking gun. The poor cashier that had been listening to all of this shrieked and ducked behind the counter. You’d gaped at Ben, then smacked his arm.

“What the fuck-“

“You can’t just pull out a gun, are you crazy!”

“Don’t call me crazy, I’m trying to make you feel- Fucking better or whatever-“

“How is a gun going to make me feel better, I’m a doctor-“

“So you can stitch me up after you shoot me, all the fucking better-“

“I am not going to shoot you-“

“But you could, that’s what the damn gun is for-“

“I don’t want your gun, I just-“ You’d cut yourself, glancing at the shaking cashier. It had just been some high school kid. He didn’t deserve to deal with this.

And even then, some part of you had known. Ben was a lot of things. Most of them weren’t half as pretty as his face.

But he wasn’t a liar. He’d realty thought the gun would make you feel better.

Later, you’d learn that it had really only been meant to make you feel better. Literally. That if he had been intending to hurt you—which he hadn’t, as he reminded you all the time—the gun wouldn’t have done fucking shit to stop that. But he’d thought it would help you be less nervous. And as much as you’d punch his dumb, big chest after he told you, you had to admit that the plan had—in a very roundabout way—worked.

“Come on.” You’d turned on your heels and walked out of the store.

Ben had followed.

And for a strange, priceless month, you’d known that if you looked over your shoulder, he’d be there. It had become a comfort. It had become the best thing in your life.

Then it had been gone.

Ben had left you, and the world had only gotten darker from there.

So you have all these regrets, that you pile on top of your secret. And they tell you to be more careful. You haven’t been on a date since Ben, although you never even technically dated. You’d never even fucked. It had been a lot of kisses and sharing a bed and wandering hands. Ben had asked. He’d asked all the time, and always sighed dramatically when you said after. After he was done with Butcher. After he dealt with Homelander, he could have whatever he wanted from you.

It was already his for the taking, he just needed to reach it.

And now all of you sat on a high, dusted shelf, waiting for hands that would never reach it.

Now, you’re careful.

After that girl down the hall, there had been the couple on the side of the highway. They’d been trying to hide from Black Noir, but one of them had an infected cut and was getting a fever. You’d treated it, then been on your way.

Then there had been the little boy who’s parents had been taken, and the shrapnel in his foot. The older woman who’s son had been shot, and the people who’d been hit in collateral and didn’t have insurance. And you kept helping and helping and helping, but always with your head down. If you were smarter, you wouldn’t help at all. It draws attention. Attention begs for investigation. Investigation undercovers secrets, and Ben had always been very clear.

No one could know who you are. What you were to him.

Why you have that gun in your closet, unloaded and kept clean like an heirloom. It wouldn’t be hard to trace it to Ben. It wouldn’t take a long time—especially for Sage, who you’ve only seen once from afar but sent a chilling fear through your bones all the same—to realize why you had one of Soldier Boy’s guns. To look at cameras and place timelines and know. What you’d meant to him.

Part of you wants her to. Maybe she’d be able to tell you, after.

Because he hadn’t stayed for you. And you hadn’t been foolish enough to ask him to.

But still.

You’d hoped he would.

“We should go somewhere.” He’d muttered one night, lying flat on his back.

And you’d looked at him in the dark, and found him staring back. He’d always been staring back.

“When this is done.” Ben had reached over, grabbing your wrist. He did that when he needed your attention. You don’t think he ever knew that he had all of you, whether he wanted to grab it or not.

“Done?” You’d breathed. Ben had nodded.

“The whole thing. All of it. I’m not going back into acting and shit, everything is bad now anyway-“

“You liked Paddington 2-“

“Shhh.” Ben had covered your mouth, eyes shining. “Can’t fucking prove that, can you, doll.”

You’d shrugged smiling against his hand. Ben had leaned down until your brows were pressed together, and let out a slow, heavy breath.

“We’ll go.” He’d said it like a secret. Like even in the empty room, you were still the only person he wanted anything to do with in the world. “Anywhere in the world that you want. No more of this fucking bullshit. Just you and me.”

And you’d giggled. You’d pulled his hand away with a laugh, and kissed his adorable little frown.

“You like me so much.” You’d whispered.

Ben had only stared. His heavy sigh had fanned over your cheeks, and he’d kissed the space between your eyes.

“You got no idea.”

And you wish you had.

You wish you’d asked him to stay, but you keep that buried with the rest of it. You don’t want to think about how if you had, he might’ve.

If you had, he might still be next to you today.

You broke a cup.   

The TV in the breakroom is always on, but you usually just spare it passing glances. Since Homelander’s takeover, it mostly just plays Firecracker’s stupid propaganda show, or reruns of old Vought movies with Starlight’s scenes cut out. It makes for a clonky, confusing storyline. Sometimes you watch it when you’re bored, if only to feel a ghost of a smile.

Other days, they play Ben’s old movies. And you can’t stand to listen to those. Just his voice makes you shiver and look around the room, as if he might materialize and grin at you the same way he always did. Like in his eyes, everything just narrowed down to you. The walls existed to hold you and everything around the room was a noise or blockade that needed to be moved, so he could be at your side.

I’d swim in the ocean for you, doll. He’d told you one. You’d laughed. He’d meant it to be romantic, but he’d just sounded annoyed about it, and it had been so stupidly sweet you’d fallen a little more in love with him. But love with Ben had always come like that. In slow drips that built up and up and up, until there was a bucket to be doused over your head and you had to understand.

That he had been everything.

You’d known too late. The downpour had come with the news of his death, when every light had become too bright, and all the color in the world had been washed out to nothing. You hadn’t been able to tell your co-workers why you’d stumbled and started to whine like a lost dog. Why you’d needed the week off, because your legs had turned to lead and it was too hard to get out of bed.

And you’re not going to be able to explain this, either.

Why you hear his voice, look up at the TV on an instinct you’re never going to be able to squash, and drop your cup.

It shatters all over the floor. The two nurses at the table shoot up to help, one saying something about walking carefully over the broken glass, but you don’t hear it.

There’s only the ringing in your ears, and—rising above it all—Ben’s voice.

This isn’t old footage. You’d know. You’ve watched every video and listened to every archived radio interview, just trying to hold onto what you could.

No.

This is new.

Which means Ben- He’s alive.

He’s on the TV. Standing next to Homelander with a bored, unimpressed expression, hands on his belt, looking the exact same as he day he left you.

He left you.

It wasn’t death that took him. He’s right there, instead of at your side. His gaze is just as intense as before, and he holds himself with the same confident, lazy posture, and his mouth stays in the pretty, downturned line that you always loved grabbing up and pulling into a smile.

He’d grab your wrists, but not move you away. He’d ask what you thought you were doing, but he already knew. You’d beam and kiss his nose. He’d pretend to bite yours, and you’d dissolve into giggles and wrap around him like a koala. He’d tell you he didn’t know what he was going to do with you. You’d call him a liar. Say he knew perfectly well what he wanted to do with you. And he’d grumble, because you teased him so much without ever actually throwing him a bone.

You always reminded him there were plenty of other women out there who would happily want his bone. You’d wink, and he’d give you that adoring, exasperated look.

He’d say he didn’t care about any other bones but yours. You’d say that you were both losing the metaphor.

Ben would say he didn’t fucking care, and flip you under him. You’d lose track of time. Of the movie you were supposed to be watching. Of the world.

And then he left.

Just left.

Wasn’t taken. Ben just… Left. After telling you so many sweet thing, after making so many promises, he just left. And now he’s back.

But not back with you.

Your hand is bleeding. You tried to pick up some of the glass, and it sliced along your palm. You barely even feel it. A part of you was already bleeding all over the floor anyways.

He didn’t come back.

Ben couldn’t fucking find you.

He wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t about to go up to any of these weird little pussies and ask them where you were. He didn’t need them to know you existed. No one needed to know you existed but Ben himself.

Before he chased after Butcher, he’d gone to your apartment. And he’d been a fucking idiot with this picture in his head, where he’d knock on the door and you’d been thrilled to see him. He’d sweep you off your feet, and you’d be crying with joy, then he’d fuck you and carry you far, far away from here. 

But he’d knocked. And knocked. And shouted your name, but no one had answered the fucking door.

He’d broken in. You’d be mad about that, if you were with him. That was the kind of thing that got him a stern finger and snapped Benjamin like he was a damn dog being scolded for pissing on the couch.

Don’t kill that guy who’s harassing me, Benjamin. Don’t pick up that car in my parking spot and throw it across the street. Don’t punch the dickheaded dumbass who cat called me, it’s fine, it happens all the time.  

It was real fucking cute when you got all mouthy and angry with him, as if there was a damn thing you could do about it.

Although he had always listened.

But it was real hard to tell you no. Or upset you. Or do anything that made your voice all thick and eyes all watery and sad. Ben had a lot of fantasies about your wobbling lips and sad little kicked kitten eyes—the ones you gave him when he was gone for longer than he said he’d be, or had very fucking reasonably verbally threated the men who’d been giving you a hard time—but none of them involved you being sad. They were all about how pretty you looked like that, and how nice it would be to see that gorgeous sight without feeling so fucking bad about it.

His heart squeezed uncomfortably, when he made you upset or nervous. It was incredibly fucking annoying. When it had first happened, he’d decided he needed to keep you close. To figure out what the fuck you were—what supe or Russian spy had been sent after him—so he could neutralize you.

Then you’d just been a person. And Ben had to deal with the fact that his dumbass fucking heart just did that for you. It didn’t do that for anyone else, and he’d been alive a damn long time.

He’d been angry about it, for about ten seconds.

And then you’d smiled at him.

He’d decided that as long as you were smiling, there wasn’t much to be angry about in the whole fucking world.

There were things to be angry about now, though.

You weren’t smiling. You weren’t there. Ben had kicked down your apartment door and found it empty. Bare.

Hollow.

Something inside of him had split and become so fucking hollow. He’d ripped up the floorboards and checked in the vents. He’d punched a hole in the wall and roared your name, but you’d been gone.

Someone had to have taken you. You’d always been to smart and kind, you might’ve said something truthful and gotten dragged off to one of Homelander’s stupid camps for it.

If you were dead, Ben was going to break some shit. A lot of shit. Namely, Homelander’s fucking skull between his hands.

And if you were alive, he’d still probably do that anyways. For hiding you and hurting you. He’d just be faster about it. You didn’t need to see that shit, and the moment Ben had you again he wasn’t going to let go for a damn second.

He just had to find you first.

Ben had been good at investigating, in his day. But shit had also been simpler. There hadn’t been Sage hanging over his shoulder and watching him like a very annoying hawk. That Firecracker girl hadn’t been trying to hit on him—a shame, because his dick was sore, but his hands hurt even trying to touch someone else so he shut it down fast—and Homelander hadn’t been whining like a little fucking bitch baby all the damn time.

All these damn computers with their fucking passcodes and weird words didn’t help either. Ben spent an hour trying to break into one, then physically broke it, and all the others in the lab.

The Fish-Fucker walked in on him. Ben narrowed his eyes, and the pussy paled and raised shaking hands.

“Hey, dude, I didn’t see anything-“

“You know how to open a computer?” Ben barked, and Fish-Fucker blinked.

“Uhh… You mean log into one?” Fish-Fucker laughed, high and weak. “Yeah, bro, I know how to log in to a computer, who doesn’t know how to-“

He cut himself off as Ben’s jaw ticked, going even paler. He even looked like a fish.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean- You shouldn’t kill me! I can log in, I can find whatever you want-“

“Shut up.” Ben raised a hand, and the Fish-Fucker fell silent. “You know how to keep your mouth shut?”

“Yes. Yes- Sir-“

“Open it.” Ben pointed at the computer, and Fish Fucker scrambled forward.

He grabbed the back of the pussies neck before he could sit down, dropping his voice to a hiss.

“You tell anyone about this, I stuff you up like a fuck doll and turn you into fucking chow, you got that?”

Fish-Fucker nodded, throat bobbing and body twitching all pathetically. Ben let him go, and stood back up.

“Good. I got a name for you to look up.”

Fish-Fucker laughed nervously, nodding as he hit his fingers all over the keyboard. “More revenge, sir?”

“No.” Ben muttered, clasping his hand in front of him.

Revenge isn’t going to help, Ben. You’d told him that over and over again, but you’d also run your fingers through his hair and told him you wouldn’t stop him. He’d asked you if you’d still be there when he came back with blood on his hands. He’d meant it to be teasing, a thing he used to say to old lovers to test how much they could handle. They’d always giggled and rolled their eyes like they thought it was a damn joke. You’d tipped your head at him, eyes sharp and bright, and sighed.

You’d told him he’d need to take a shower, first.

And Ben had known. 

“What is it, then?” Fish-Fucker asked, and Ben didn’t bother to answer.

That wasn’t for anyone to know but him. You weren’t for anyone to know. Not these horrible, weak people who would hurt you and use you against him.

Your face popped up on the screen. The smiling photo that you’d used on social media—you’d taught him what that was, and he didn’t fucking care for it but he sure as hell liked seeing pictures of you—and a link to your profile at that hospital you’d worked at.

You still worked there. You weren’t gone.

Ben’s heart did a little flutter. He ignored it. That kind of gooey shit could be saved for after he found you.

“Who is she?” Fish-Fucker peered at your photo. Ben should pop his eyeballs out of his damn skull. “A Starlighter?”

Ben grunted. “Don’t ask stupid fucking questions.”

Fish-Fucker said something else. Ben didn’t listen to it.

He had to go find you.

You get home, and you feel like nothing.

It’s been two weeks, since you found out Ben was alive. Two long weeks where time dragged you through the mud and you had to learn how to keep your heart beating.

You pulled out the gun every night. You’d never shoot it—you didn’t even have ammunition—but you’d needed to hold it. To cling to proof that it hadn’t all been a dream. He’d been here. He’d given you part of him to keep.

Then he’d decided you weren’t worth the rest.

You’d thought, like a naïve, lovesick school girl, that you were going to be worth the rest.

You kick off your shoes, and go straight for the gun again. You lie on the floor, because it’s cold and that forces you to stay awake. You haven’t been sleeping properly, and when you pass out from exhaustion you don’t wake up well rested. It all hurts. It always hurts, and you don’t think it’s ever going to not hurt again.

You close your eyes, hugging the gun tight to your chest. Tears are burning behind your eyes again. You’d been hoping you’d run out, but you feel the hot shame of one sliding down your cheek. A broken sob rattles through your chest, and you’ve given up on fighting it.

This is just always going to hurt.

“I didn’t give you that so you could shoot yourself, doll.”

You scream. Your hands fly before you can think, scrambling to grab the gun. Some scratch in the back of your head knows that a bad idea, and drum in your chest demands that it’s bad idea, but you’re tired and afraid. You thought you were alone, and you’re not, so you aim the gun straight at the man standing in your door.

Ben grabs it like he’s taking a toy from a toddler. He takes out the empty clip and examines it with a frown, his hair flopping over his face. You’re breathing so shallow you think you might have passed out. You’ve had a lot of dreams about him since he left. You’ve just finally gone off the deep-end, and now they’re hallucinations.

“Hm. Not loaded.” Ben tosses the clip off to the side, shooting you a smirk. “Good girl.”

You don’t know if you scream again, or crawl to him on your knees. He sounds real. He looks real. He’s smiling at you like he never left, like you hadn’t pour every piece of yourself out to make room for the swelling grief of his absence. If you reach out, you think you’d find solid muscle and warmth. A heart that beats under your fingers, in a rhythm you always hear when you close your eyes. Ben would cover your hand with his own, holding onto your wrist the same way he did before. Like he wanted to tie you together. Like he could never bear to let go.

Or you’d just pass right through thin air.

And everything you have left would dissolve with the illusion.

You wrap your arms tight around your stomach, drawing your knees to your chest. You know this is fear. You know Ben thinks fear is weak, but he’s never looked at you and said you were anything but his.

Then he left.

And you’re not anyone’s anymore.

Ben says your name, and you swallow. He sounds so real.

“Ben?” You whisper.

A familiar smile ghosts over his lips. It terrifies you.

“Me.” He murmurs, tossing the gun onto the couch without breaking your gaze. “Hey, doll.”

He takes a step forward.

You push back, pressing yourself into a small ball on the floor.

Ben freezes. His brow furrows, and his lips press in a tight, thin line. He reaches out. And you don’t want to touch him and know he’s not real.

You shrink away.

“How did you get in.” You whisper, fixing your gaze on his knees.

“You didn’t lock the door.” Ben grunts. “Which we gotta talk about later, that’s not fucking safe, but first-“

He says your name, reaching once more, and you squeeze your eyes shut. 

Strong, warm fingers grab your chin. You make a tiny noise from the back of your throat, and for a split second, the whole world goes still.

You can feel him. He’s tipping your chin up, handling you like a baby bird even as he angles it how he wants, and you can feel him.

“Look at me.” Ben mutters, and you drag your eyes open.

He’d kneeling in front of you, brow furrowed tight. There’s that look again. The one that makes you naked and exposed, your clothing sticking to your skin and every inch of you seen.

Ben sees you. You can see him.

And either you’d fully lost your mind, or he’s… He’s really…

“You’re here.” You breathe. “You’re real.”

Ben’s eyes snap to yours. His frown deepens.

“’Course I’m real, why the hell wouldn’t I be real.”

“You left.”

And something flashes over his features. It’s furious and loud, but not directed at you. His fingers on your chin don’t even flex.

“I didn’t leave.” He grunts, the words pushed through his teeth. “I told you I’d never fucking leave you.”

Your tongue flicks over your lips. You shake your head.

“I saw you on TV.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, those weird fuckin’ attention sluts love a camera-“

“You were there, Ben.” You cut him off with only a whisper. “Not here. I- I thought you were dead.”

The stupid tears are back. And they always blur the whole world, but Ben remains sharp. Of course he does. Bastard.

“I waited.” Your voice breaks. Ben watches you, his jaw clenched tight. “I thought you were dead and I still waited, and you- You were just on TV-“

“Don’t say it like that, it’s- That’s not what this shit is-“

“You left.” 

“No, I didn’t-“

“You left me.” You scream, and Ben blinks.

It’s like every bit of pain, every scrape and open wound you’ve been treating with paper band-aides, Ben’s ripped everything wide open. Your tears are falling freely, your voice high and soft as you struggle to breathe, all the grief and anger at him crashing from your mouth in unforgiving waves.

“You left me, you said you’d come back, you said we’d go anywhere and you’d be here and you- You fucking left me here and I- I-“

Your word crack into a body-shaking sob, and you try to slump away from him. To just sink into the floor where he can’t see your weakness, your crying, every fissure in the mask you’re usually so good at keeping together. You don’t want him to see the rawness underneath. The way that you’ve always been ill-matched, because there’s nothing in Ben that even knows how to break, but you’re like an gastropod. Every bit of armor is borrowed and crafted. Under it, you’re nothing for him.

Weak.

“You left me.” You’re still breathing it out. You can’t stop. “You left.”

Ben sighs. And when he gets up and walks away, you’re going to be okay. You’re going to find a way to be okay, even if that means just having this gaping feeling forever.

But Ben doesn’t leave.

He wraps around you, and you wiggle a little, but he doesn’t let go. He pulls you fully into his lap, and you go limp. Your face presses into his chest, tears flowing freely with every shaking, silent sob. Ben rubs your back, holding you steady. And despite yourself, you hold on. You sink in your nails where you never should’ve let go, and you hold on.

His heartbeat hasn’t changed. And everything in your still recognizes it.

Still calls it yours.

“Didn’t run.” He mutters once your breathing has evened, tangling his fingers in your hair. “Butcher turned on me, helped Homelander and that Maeve bitch knock me off the tower. Got put back under. Homelander woke me up. And the first fucking thing I did was start looking for you, but you weren’t where I left you.”

You swallow. You’d moved because you couldn’t stand that apartment without him. You turned every corner and expected him to be there. It was pure torture.

“But I found you.” Ben continues. “I fucking found you. And I’m not going again, doll. We’re leaving, together, and that’s it.”

Ben tugs on your head, and you let him pull you back. He’s not crying—you’d be shocked if he knew how—but there’s a heavy light in his eyes, like a lamp that’s begging to be bright enough to be seen. You reach up to trace his jaw. His eyes close for a second, and he leans into the touch.

Your throat bobs. Your voice is still small.

“Why should I believe you?”

Ben’s eyes shoot open, glinting and sharp. Not dangerous. Never to you.

Just focused.

“Because I’m telling the fucking truth-“

“Swear it?”

Ben nods, and you tilt your head.

“You swore you’d come back.”

“And I am back.” He grabs your wrist, keeping your hand to his face. “No promises got broken, doll. And I’m not fucking leaving without you.”

You laugh, something in you breaking and fusing together all at once. Like glass, burning before it gets to be something beautiful. Something that can let the light in.

“Don’t say that.” You breathe, holding his gaze. “I’ll believe you.”

Ben’s eyes narrow. He leans over you, that attention as unwavering as always, and suddenly there’s nowhere to hide. Not that you ever could. Not from him.

“You think I’m not serious?” He murmurs, low and dangerous.

You don’t flinch. You never have.

“Prove that you are.”

A deep sound rumbles from Ben’s chest. He lets go of his hand, his own flying up to frame your face. Your breath hitches, right as his lips slam against yours.

You’ve kissed Ben many times. He always does it like it’s going to be the last time he ever touches you. He’s demanding in how much you take, but never how much you give. Your mouth falls open in a moan, and he grunts, hauling you up his chest to deepen the kiss. It’s sloppy and wet, your fingers scrambling against his shirt to keep steady, but he doesn’t falter for a single second.

“Be- Ben-“

He grabs a handful of your ass, squeezing as his teeth drag over your swollen lips.

“Ben-“

“That’s right.” He grunts. “Say my name, I know you didn’t forget who fuckin’ owns you.”

God, you should shove him for that. But he knows what it does to you. He smirks, when your thighs clench and a soft whine escapes your lips.

Ben lands a sharp slap on your ass. It makes you keen, collapsing over his chest. You’re pulling at him, kisses uncoordinated and desperate—how did you ever survive without this, you’re not sure—as you try to further a kiss that’s already fusing you together by the mouth.

He doesn’t even come up for air.

“Oh- Fuck, Ben-“

He speaks against your lips, voice rolling in his chest. 

“I know, doll. You believe me now, don’t you.”

“Ye- Yes-“

Another slap. This time he lets his hand drag lower, teasing over the crease between your thighs, then the hem of your shorts. Your hips buck into the featherlight touch. Ben grunts, short and tight.

“Dirty girl.” He mutters, starting to wander his kisses over your cheeks. “Say it louder. You fucking believe me.”

“I- Ooooh-“

You press your face into his neck, biting down a moan. The tips of his fingers are tracing your pussy through your shorts. You sink your nails into his shoulders, your breathing ragged as he starts to trace them back and forth.

“You what?” He teases, nipping at your ear. “Heard you start to say something doll, you already that stupid? I’m barely fucking touching you.”

“You- You’re touching enough.” You breathe out, squeezing your eyes shut. “More- Please-“

“More?” Ben snorts. “You’re always getting me on that fucking feelings shit, you don’t get more until you talk.”

You shake your head. “Ben, I- I can’t-“

“Can’t what? Can’t speak? Can’t say Ben, I believe you. ‘Cause trust me doll, when you do I’m going to touch you for real, and you’ll feel real fucking stupid for how you’re acting right now.”

Ben rips clean through your shorts, and thick, warm fingers start to rub the lips of your pussy. He scissors two fingers, pressing them just upside your core, then dragging back and forth. It’s all pressure and not enough friction. It’s going to drive you out of your mind.

“Come on, baby, where’d all that fucking spunk go-“

“You- Benjamin-“

“Uh oh.” He laughs. “I’m in trouble.”

The tips of his fingers graze your clit. You whine, grinding back into the touch, and Ben grabs your pussy with a single hand. He’s covering it completely, pinning you to his chest, and you moan so loud you think it echoes.

“Think you’re going to forgive me?” He mutters in your ear. “Think I’m not dead fuckin’ serious, when I tell you that I’m back. That I want you, all of you, and I’d kill people to have it.”

“I- I don’t want you to kill anyone.” You breathe, dazed and drunken on him.

Ben chuckles, kissing right under your jaw.

“I know you don’t, pretty girl. And I’ll go on the damn leash if you’re yanking me, but I’m not letting you drop me. We go, we go together, you fucking remember that. We get out. You gonna get out with me?”

“Ben-“

“I’ll take care of you.” He mutters. His hand starts to move again, torturously slow. “I’ll be real fucking good to you, swear it. Swear it on you.”

Two fingers slide over your pussy, spreading your arousal on his fingertips. A slow, breathless sigh of escapes your lips, and Ben lets you have this. He teases those fingers over your cunt a few times, then slowly pushes one of them in. You gasp, wrapping your arms around his neck. Just his finger is the biggest stretch of your life.

“I know.” He kisses under your ear, pressing it further in until he’s at the knuckle. “It’s a lot, isn’t it. But you’re doin’ so fucking well. Sweet fucking pussy, all wet and tight for me.”

“Mmmh.”

“Say it’s for me.” He demands, crooking them so they hit a soft little button you’re never able to find yourself.

“Ben-“

“Say it.”

“S’ for you-“ You take in a sharp breath, when he starts to slowly pump them in and out. “All for you, Ben, I- I’m all-“

Your words break into a moan. He’s pressing back against that same spot, rubbing it until you’re squeezing around him before drawing shallowly out and slamming back in. Obscene sounds fill the room, and you didn’t even know you could get this wet.

It’s a grace. Ben’s finger is massive. You can feel every drag of him inside you, and you’re not sure how you’re managing to take it when you keep squeezing around him.

“How- How big is your dick?”

He barks a laugh, pulling your face back with his hand on the back of your neck. He kisses you slowly, matching the pace of his fingers moving inside you.

“You’ll see, baby.” He says. “Just need to be good.”

You pout slightly. “I am being good.”

Ben’s lips twitch. He kisses your forehead, then suddenly speeds his fingers up. Your back arches, hips grinding as you try to chase the feeling, but he holds you firm.

“Ben-“

“Say it.” He grunts, squeezing the back of your neck. “You wanna be so fucking good, say it-“

“I love you!” Your words come sudden and desperate. “I- I love- I love you, please-“

You almost scream, when his fingers stop moving. You grab his wrist, blinking in hopeless confusion. Ben’s jaw is clenched tight, his eyes wide and nostrils flaring.

Then you realize.

Shit.

“Ben, I- I didn’t-“

“You didn’t mean it?” He grunts, and you shake your head frantically.

“I didn’t mean to- I just- I missed you, and you said- And you were-“ You gesture frantically at his hand. His fingers, still buried deep inside you. “And I- You don’t have to-“

Ben moves, and your words turn into a squeal. You’re airborne, being tossed over his shoulder as he stands.

“Fuck- Benjamin, what are you-“

He slaps your ass, then drags two fingers back through your pussy. You close your eyes, biting your lower lip to stifles the moan at the perfect combo of pleasure and pain.

Ben spanks you again, his voice stern as he moves to his feet.

“Don’t fucking do that quiet shit. Let me hear you.”

His finger pushes back into your cunt, finding that spongey spot in a second. This time you let yourself moan fully, and you’re rewarded with a scraping kiss on your ass.

“There you go, baby. That’s what I want.”

You keen at the praise, and you don’t know why you bothered hiding it from him. Ben feels and see the flutter of your pussy and chuckles. Your knees are dragged together, forcing more pressure, making you tighter around his finger when he shoves it back in.

“Be- Ben-“ Your getting light-headed, from the combination of his touch and being upside down. “What- What’re we doing-“

“You’re telling me where the bedroom is.” He grunts, turning in a circle like a magic sign is going to appear. “Then I’m fucking you ‘till you can’t walk.”

“Oh- Okay.”

You grab a fistful of his shirt as he slaps your ass again, moaning when that fucking finger starts to pump once more. There’s a pressure building in your core, and the way he’s holding you is only making it worse. Like you’re just a toy, but still the most important thing in his life. He keeps kissing your thigh and ass while he fingerfucks you. Your exposed to the cold air, the window is open, but the warmth of his hand and body—the warmth of what he’s doing to you—is almost too much to handle.

“Bed, doll.” His reminder is gruff, but soft.

You nod, your tongue all loose and hopeless. “I- I um- It was- That way-“

You press on his shoulder, steering him towards the door and Ben slaps your pussy.

“Good girl.”

The praise and touch shoot through you like a drug. You think you might be about to cum just like this. Over Ben’s shoulder with barely any friction at all.

He kicks the door open, and marches into your room. You’ve never seen him so focused before. He lays you down on the bed with shocking care, before ripping at your clothing like a child on Christmas.

Ben whistles, when you’re fully exposed to him.

“Look at you, baby, can’t believe I was sleeping next to you for months and you wouldn’t let me touch.”

You roll your eyes, crossing your arms over your breasts. “You didn’t earn touching. Only good, domesticated boys get that.”

Ben scowls, pulling off his shirt. “I’m a domesticated fucking man, doll.”

And you giggle. Because he’s so fucking stupid, but he’s here. You’d cry if there wasn’t a helium filled light, blooming through your body.

You still might cry.

Ben’s looking at you like you’ve lost your mind—and like he doesn’t care the slightest, he’s just mostly concerned—and you laugh more because you’re definitely going to cry. You’re going to cry during sex with Soldier Boy, and he’s still going to fuck you anyway. 

“You know it’s not nice to start fucking laughing before a man takes his pants off-“

“I love you.”

You say it plainly, because it is. You love Ben. You have for so long, and it had been buried like treasure, but now he’s here. Now it gets to shine, and it’s far too bright to be ignored.

Ben looks shell-shocked. He’s panting like you punched him, but you’re not worried. He’s a big boy. He’ll be okay.

You both will.

“I love you,” you repeat, beaming up at him. “I love you so much, Ben, I-“

You giggle again, as he almost stumbles forward to kiss you. His massive chest envelops you, his kisses pushing you back into the mattress, and you meet him with everything you have.

Ben pulls back. Staring at you the same way he always has.

Like he’s found the last, greatest wonder of the world.

“Say it again.” He mutters.

“I love you.”

You offer it easily. It’s his to have.

And Ben seems to swallow it. His mouth closes, his tongue flicking over his lips, and you know that face.

It means he’s on a fucking mission.

“Here’s how this is going.” He grunts, fixing you with a glare. “You listen. I work. I’m tasting you,” he slaps your pussy again, lips twitching at the full body shutter it gives him. “Then you’re going to cum on my cock until you’re sobbing, and I’m going to keep fucking you until you can’t walk. You got that.”

You swallow and nod. Ben’s eyes narrow.

“You talk to me, sweetheart, I can’t read your fucking mind.”

“Got it.” You breathe, your legs spreading wide.

It’s a shameless offering. Ben slaps your pussy again, and you buck a little of the bed with a whine of delight.

“Hold onto something.” He winks, sliding slowly down your body. “I ain’t going fucking easy.”

You expect no less of him. And you’d be able to make that joke, if he didn’t lick a thick stripe up your pussy and make you shriek.

“Holy fuck-“ Your eyes roll back in your head, your hands clawing at the sheets.

Ben chuckles, the sound vibrating against you, and repeats the motion. Your thighs press together, but he shoves them back open with a single hand, settling fully down.

“No hiding from me.” He mutters, breath warm over your core. “Look at you, doll. Even prettier from down here, didn’t know that was fucking possible.”

You laugh breathlessly. “Kiss ass.”

“Gets me places.” Ben kisses the inside of your thigh, sucking softly.

His beard scrapes and tickles against you, his chin pressing where you need him and his nose bumping your neglected clit.

“Ohhhh.” You close your eyes, slowly running your fingers through his hair. “Oh God, Ben-“

He hums in approval, switching to match the mark on the other side. He’s let go of your thighs to grab everywhere else, rubbing your ass, your hips, your sides. He slides a massive palm over your abdomen, pinning you to be bed. You should know that’s a warning sign, but you’re too lost in the heat of his mouth.

“Ben...” You moan freely, covering his hand with one of yours.

He flips it over, and you thread your fingers together.

Another warning.

“That’s- Fuck-“

He blows on your clit, and shivers run up your spine. You don’t think you can take being teased any longer. Not right now.

“More, Ben, more-“

A dark, promising chuckle rumbles in his chest. You crane your neck to look at him, and realize your mistake too late.

He’d been waiting for you to ask. And now that you have, he’s not holding back.

Ben shoves his face fully between your thighs, lapping and sucking at your clit and soaked pussy like a man starved, and your mouth falls in a long, silent scream.

You’ve been eaten out before, but never like this. Ben’s going at you the same way he kisses you. The same way he does everything. With everything he has, and the mindset that less is a sin. If something is worth doing, he’s not going to slack.

And your pussy is under that full focus. It’s almost too much to handle.

Ben makes out with every sensitive spot, inside and outside. He licks and tongue-fucks, letting you squeeze around him and pushing your ass up to hit a better angle. He noses at your clit while he works on your gaping, leaking hole, then switches.

Soft, slightly chapped lips wrap around your clit, sucking on you with all the power of a fucking sex toy. His tongue flicks back and forth over and over again, building you into a whining, cloudy eyed frenzy. You scratch at his scalp and pull on his hair, but it just makes him moan, and now everything is vibrating.

Everything seems to make him moan. Ben grunt every time you jerk your hips, slamming them back down and squeezing your hand. He moans when you squeeze down on his tongue, when he brings you right up to the edge then stops at the last second, so you slam his shoulders in frustration.

Sometimes he laughs. And that’s even worse. It makes his massive arms—wrapped around your hips—flex, and it goads him into working you impossibly deeper. You turn your face, pressing it into the pillows. Ben squeezes your hand, dragging your clit between his teeth before pulling away for a single second.

“Eyes.” He grunts, and your attention snaps over.

“Be- Ben-“

“Watch me, doll.” He open-mouth kisses you clit, and you whimper. “That’s right, don’t you look away for a fucking second.”

Now that you’re watching, you couldn’t if you tried.

Ben goes back to his self-assigned job, and the sight is more lewd and sinful than any porno in the world. His massive shoulders roll and flex as he moves you how he wants. You can’t see his mouth, but you can see him moving his head with his tongue on your clit. He shakes it, playing the nerve bundle like a bop-it, and you’re right back up the edge again.

And again, Ben stops.

You almost scream, and Ben chuckles. He kisses your poor, throbbing clit all sweet, then goes back to slowly working his tongue against your entrance. You’re wound too tight. You think you might snap from just the wrong breath.

“Be- Ben-“ You pull his hair, trying to get him back up to your clit. “Ben, let me cum- I- I need to cum-“

He just moans again. You’re going to kill him.

“Please, I- I can’t take it-“ You moan, trying to squirm your body further onto his face. “God, Ben, I can’t- I need it so bad, please-“

Sharp, lust-blown eyes snap to yours. You whimper, giving him your best hopeless pout. It’s the one that usually gets him to cave. He laughs and shakes his head and gives you whatever you want, grumbling affectionately about how damn impossible you are.

But this time, he just smirks against your pussy. And you might have him wrapped around your finger, but he’s got you cornered.

Take it. He’d said.

You don’t think you have a choice.

“Look at you,” Ben drawls, kissing your clit. His beard drags. You whimper, eyes locked onto his.

The sounds earns you another kiss, and it makes you squirm. With how his eyes gleam, you’re worried he’ll just keep you like this all night.

“You’re close.” He mocks, rubbing his palm against your pussy. “So close, baby doll. I can fuckin’ see it, you’re about to cry.”

You glare at him, and he just grins.

“You think I’ll give a shit? Think I don’t want to see you break for me?”

He presses his hand down harder. You go to reach for it, but Ben grabs your wrist and pins it firmly next to him on the mattress.

“No touching.” He grunts. “Mine.”

Oh, that makes you clench around nothing. After, you’re going to force him to make dinner and maybe do taxes or drive a car to earn feminism points back, but right now everything is just Ben, lying between your legs, calling you his.

And he’s staring at your pussy, almost transfixed. You moan as his thumb rubs your clit, his hand rising up so he can watch you react. You can feel yourself, gushing and fluttering. Desperate for anything he can give you. You’ll beg more, you’ll take it however he wants, you just need more.

“Christ on a fucking cross.” Ben mutters, pressing his cheek into your thigh. “You know, I’ve seen a lot of pussies, doll.”

You shoot him a look. “Romantic.”

He rolls his eyes, pinching your clit between his fingers.

“Was going to say yours is the best, you fucking brat.”

You smile, cupping his cheek with trembling fingers. You’re seconds from exploding with desire, but you just want to hold him. Feel him, for only a little longer.

Something in Ben’s expression shifts. For the briefest moment, it softens. His shoulders relax, and the slow breath he lets out sounds like a release. He kisses the inside of your palm. His thumb pushing on your clit, dragging it back and forth in a steady, relieving rhythm.

But you’re too sensitive. You’re being worked back up too fast, and tears start to prick.

“Ben.” You breathe, fingers curling against his cheek. “Please.”

He smirks. There’s one last kiss on your clit, then another on your well-bruised thighs. He rises to his knees, slapping your pussy while one hand undoes his belt.

Ben chuckles, at the way you fully tremble from the hit.

“You fucking like that shit, don’t you.”

You shrug, watching his belt slide away. “Maybe.”

“You do. Can see it, you-“ He pushes two fingers back into your cunt, and you moan.

“Ben- Oooooh-“

He tosses aside his belt, spanks your clit, and grins triumphantly.

“Fucking felt that. You started pouring on me like a waterfall, you love it-“

You kick at his thigh, flushing and rolling your eyes. “Shut up.”

“Don’t think I will.” He drawls, going back to his pants. “Think I get to talk as much as I want, baby doll. You’re the one that’s going to be fucked all damn stupid.”

You had a smart, sharp retort.

It dies when Ben pulls down his pants, and you see his cock.

Of course he’s such an arrogant, smug ass. Endowed is too weak a word. He’s blessed. He’s got the most beautiful cock you’ve ever seen—thick and long in all the best ways, like it was handcrafted to give your pussy a heart attack—and with the look on his face, he fucking knows it.

“See something you like,” he grins down at you, stroking himself slowly.

“I… Um…” You lick your lips, crawling slowly up the mattress. “You’re very…”

You trail off again. You’re humping the sheets like an animal, forcing yourself not to just fucking touch yourself, but it’s impossible. He’s too… everything.

Ben laughs, prowling up over you.

“You’re fucking drooling.”

“You’re pretty.”

“I am not fucking pretty.”

“You are.” You roll your eyes, letting Ben drag you onto your back. “You’re so pretty, Ben, it’s bonkers.”

He grunts, settling himself above you. “Pretty is what you call a fucking show pony.”

“You are a show pony.”

That earns you a glower. You beam back in return, giggling at your own jokes.

“When we’re done, you should let me braid your- Oh my God-“

You grab at his shoulder, eyes going wide as Ben slides his cock into you with one, smooth movement. He drives right into your g-spot, dropping his hips so he’s pinning you into it. He grinds down, abs rubbing on your clit, and there it is.

That coil that had been building in you all night. Ben gets inside of you for ten seconds, and you snap.

You writhe and scramble under him, grabbing at his chest and trying to hide from the overwhelming orgasm ripping through your body. Ben grabs your jaw and forces your gaze back to his, still grinding down onto you as it drags on. You whimper, making garbled sounds of his name.

Ben kisses you, as you twitch through the last bits of it. You turn to limp putty, moaning into his mouth and shivering as he settles at being bottomed out.

“That’s what I wanted to see.” He mutters, nipping at your upper lip. “That’s what I fucking dreamed about.”

You whimper, and Ben laughs. He gives you a shallow thrust, and your eyes go wide.

“Don’t think I’m done with you yet, baby.” He teases, ghost his lips over yours. “We got a lot of fucking time to make up for, and you,” he gives another, sharper slam of his hips. “Are too fucking gorgeous to just give one orgasm.”

A strangled sound escapes your lips, and Ben grins.

“I know. But feel that,” he pulls all the way out, then slams back in. “Real good, isn’t it. Fuck, this pussy was made for me. Going to fuck you until my name is written on it, until it can’t even take anyone else.”

His logic is flawed, but you still moan. Hard not to, when you’ve got all the mass and power of him over you, driving in and out of you at a torturously slow pace.

“That’s my girl.” He coos, bumping your nose before going for a hot, sloppy kiss. “That’s a good fuckin’ cock slut for me, aren’t you.”

Your eyes fly open, your pussy clenching down, and Ben laughs. He starts to drill into you, knocking every bit of air from your lungs.

“Yeah, I know how you like it. My dirty baby, get off of me telling you that I own you,” he slams down, and tears burn at your eyes. “That I’m going to fucking wreck you, turn you into my fuck doll, my sweet little fucking whore.”

You moan, the shame only making the heat in your tummy build faster. Ben rises over you, hair pressed to his brow from sweat.

“That’s right. Take it, take this cock and thank me for it.”

He slides his thumb over your lips, pressing down ever so slightly as his cock fucks ruthlessly in and out of your pussy. You mewl, opening your mouth for him to take. Ben laughs, thick and breathless, and pushes his thumb in.

“Fucking- Christ-“ He groans as you start to suck. “You’re so fucking beautiful, and- Tight-“

He groans, fucking impossibly harder. The bed squeaks and shifts. You moan around his thumb, tears flowing down your cheeks.

“Crying for me, baby doll, so fucking desperate you’re going to cry for it- Shit-“

Your second orgasm hits suddenly. You clench down on Ben, making him groan loudly. His chest is tight with restraint, and you scratch at the muscle, whining around his thumb.

It’s so much. Too much. You’re stuffed so full, and you can barely breathe, and it’s perfect but you don’t know what to do with yourself but sob and moan.

“There you go, so tight and warm.” Ben’s babbling. You think he’s lost himself as much as you have. “Fuck, you’re going to be death of me if you keep lookin’ like that, gotta-“

You squeak as Ben pulls his thumb and cock out with wet sounds. There’s no time to protest the loss, though, before you’re being flipped onto your stomach and fucked within and inch of your life.

Ben drags your ass in the air, barely giving you a second to recover before he’s back to railing you into the mattress. You cum even faster this time, between the filthy words and deeper position.

“Greedy pussy can’t get enough, can she.” Ben grunts in your ear, his chest draped over your back. “You love it, fucking love being marked up and fucked like an animal. You fucking slut, bet that pretty mouth needs something to suck on again. Be you’ll look so pretty choking on my dick, to bad you look even fuckin’ better like this.”

You cum again with Ben’s thumb in your mouth, tears on your cheeks, and his body wrapped around yours. Then a third time, when he rises up and plays with your ass, shoving your head into the mattress to watch you cry and try to wiggle back on his cock.

After a while, you lose track of what position your in. You’re over him, then under, then pressed against the headboard and folded in half. You don’t know how he’s held himself off this long. You’re a boneless, oversensitive puddle made of countless orgasms, by the time Ben starts to rut and groan.

Ben finishes inside you, holding you firmly above him as his hips jerk up. You watch him come apart under dazed, tear-stained lashes. It’s the most beautiful sight in the world. He’s pumping into you, hot and jerking, dripping out of your pussy as just more and more comes. A wet sound fills the air, and you can see his own release stained over his abdomen as he just keeps going.

You think you pass out, after. You must, because when you come too, you’re lying on clean sheets and wearing Ben’s shirt. You stare at the ceiling for a while, still partially lost to the world.

You come back to earth, when Ben says your name. He’s coming out of the shower, bare-chested and glorious.

He gives you that small smile, and you return it without a thought.

“Feeling alright?” He mutters, climbing into bed at your side.

No pants. Unhelpful.

“Um-“ You stare at his cock, swinging between his thighs. Your mouth is watering. “You…”

“Jesus, woman.” He snorts. “I’m not trying to fucking break you, stop slobbering.”

“I am not slobbering-“

“Yeah, you fucking are.”

You stick your tongue out and try to roll away, but Ben’s right. He worked you. One movement comes with a whine, and suddenly you’re being pinned below Ben’s bare body.

“Rest.” He scolds, and you roll your eyes.

“You’re not my boss-“

“Yeah, but I love you, and I’m going to be real damn pissed if you hurt yourself.” He taps your jaw. “Rest.”

You blink at him.

And again, Ben just finds a way to make you feel more full.

“You love me?” You whisper.

He blinks. You don’t think he knows he said it.

“Of course I do-“

“Say it.”

He scowls. “You heard it, means I said it-“

“Say it again.” You give him that look. The pouty one.

This time, it’s going to work.

“Please?” You add.

Ben sighs, shaking his head, and glares at you like you’re the bane of his existence.

You might be. But he likes it, and he’s the one who’s going to be keeping you at the center of his universe.

“I love you.” He grunts.

You beam, and Ben kisses you with a labored sigh. It’s slow. Romantic.

Meant to remind you that you have time.

“Good boy.” You whisper, and he groans.

“You’re real lucky-“

“Yeah.” You cut him off, and he lets you.

He always lets you. Because he loves you.

“I am.”

✦End note: i dont care what he does in the show this is my emotional support old horny man✦

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[wonubug]

MUTT ⭑

PAIRING: Boyfriend!Shota x Yoon!Reader

SUMMARY: When your boyfriend won’t give you any attention and you’re literally on your knees for him — but he’s still too enamored in his video games!

WC: 1.3k words

DISCLAIMERS: smut [minors / ageless blogs dni.] unprotected sex! (pls protect that kitty.) oral both m & f receiving (he’s an EATER.) cockwarming… Lmk.

You've been laid on the couch all evening, your body humming with an ache that wouldn’t go away. It's one of those days where every brush of fabric against your skin sends sparks straight to your core — and all you could think about was your boyfriend and his cock.

But unfortunately for you, Shota was buried away, lost in whatever online game he'd been playing at his desk all day like a loser.

And you needed him.. like yesterday. Your own fingers couldn’t leave you satisfied and neither did the toy he bought you for a small milestone anniversary.

Pushing open the door to your shared bedroom, the glow of his multiple monitors bathed the space in a soft purple light. He was hunched over his desk, headset on, and his fingers flying across the keyboard. The faint click of his mouse and the low hum of his voice chatting with whichever friends it was filled the air.

You slip inside quietly, closing the door behind you, but he doesn't even glance your way.

"Shota," You whine softly, wrapping your arms around his shoulders from behind. Your breasts press against his back as you nuzzle into his neck, planting soft and needy kisses along his skin.

He smells like his usual cologne mixed with a faint sweat, but its authentically him and it was intoxicating. He doesn't pull away, but he doesn't acknowledge you either. You nip at his neck, your hands sliding down his chest, but he just leans forward slightly, eyes glued to the screen.

Your tongue clicked in sexual frustration, core throbbing with desperate need as he continued to blatantly ignore you. He was completely oblivious to how fuckably hot you looked — your skin flushed and body quivering on edge, but finally, he mutes his mic with a quick tap. "Wait after this round? It's almost over." His tone is distracted, but there's a hint of amusement in it… he knows exactly what he's doing to you.

You huff, releasing him and turning to flop onto the bed behind you with a dramatic sigh. Fine. You'll wait. But as minutes drag into what was actually an eternity, you watch him click around, laugh at something someone had said in his hesdset, and dive right into another match.

Liar.

The frustration builds again, heat pooling between your thighs until you can't take it anymore.

Enough is enough.

Sliding off the bed, you drop to your knees and crawl toward him, the carpet soft under your palms. You slip under the desk, the confined space warm from his body heat, and wedge yourself between his spread legs.

He notices immediately — his thighs tense around you — but he doesn't stop playing his game. A low snicker escapes him as you nuzzle against the growing bulge in his sweatpants. You tug his waistband and his boxers down just enough to free his cock, already half-hard that quickly thickened in the cool air.

Your mouth waters at the sight, god you loved his cock. You wrapped your fingers around the base before leaning in and swirling your tongue around the head, tasting his salty bead of pre-cum.

Shota hisses softly, playing it off with a cough since he was on a call… you clearly did not care though. One of his hands dropped to the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair and ensuring you didn't pull away. He thrusted shallowly into your mouth as you take him deeper, your lips stretching around his girth. You hollow your cheeks, sucking hard, your tongue pressing flat against the underside while you bob your head.

His hips buck once, then twice, guiding you with that firm grip on your head. You take him deeper, the head of his cock hitting the back of your throat, making your eyes water. You gag a little but push through, whining around him, the vibrations drawing a muffled groan from his lips. He snickers again, but it's breathier now, his focus fracturing as you work him over.

His game drags on, but eventually, you can faintly hear the game chime with victory sounds. Shota mutes his mic again and yanks you up by your arms, pulling you onto his lap in one swift motion.

His cock, slick from your mouth, presses right against your clothed pussy through your thin panties, the heat of it making you moan outright.

"You're such a needy little slut.” He mumbles, crashing his lips against yours. The kiss is messy, hard as his tongue invaded your mouth without a care that you just had him between your lips and it only makes you grind down harder, desperate for any friction.

His hands roam your body, one sliding under your shirt to pinch your nipple while the other grips your hip before sliding it further down. With a rough tug, he rips your panties to the side, the fabric tearing easily under his fingers.

You gasp into his mouth as the cool air hits your soaked folds, but then he's there — positioning his cock at your entrance and slamming you down onto him.

You cry out, the stretch burning so good while he fills you completely. He starts slow, rolling his hips up into you while you ride him, your arms looped around his neck. Each thrust is deliberate, his thick length dragging against your walls, hitting that spot that makes your vision blur.

But then—

"Yo, Shota, you ready for another round?" Keeho's faint voice crackles through his headset, pulling Shota back to reality.

Your eyes widen, a hand flying to your mouth.

Shit.

Your boyfriend freezes for a split second, then scrambles to adjust his headset, still buried deep inside you. He unmutes and forces his voice steady. "Yeah, give me a sec." He proceeds to mute again momentarily.

"Behave. You wouldn't want your brother hearing how desperate his little sister is, would you?" He whispers harshly.

You nod frantically, but the fullness of his cock inside you is torture. He shifts back to the desk, pulling you with him so you're still straddling his lap, impaled and immobile.

The game starts up again, his fingers clicking away, but you? You're dying. Your pussy clenches around him involuntarily, and you can't help the muffled whimpers escaping past his palm.

"Shh," He hisses after muting his mic for a beat, his free hand digging into your thigh to hold you still when you try to rock your hips. "Sit. Still."

But you can't.. The ache is too much. You squirm just a little, chasing any movement, and your moans turn frantic, high-pitched and stifled against his shoulder. "Mmmph!..." You whine into his t-shirt, tears pricking your eyes from the denial.

He ignores you — or tries to — chatting casually with Keeho about strategies and kills.

This was actually fucking ridiculous, you thought.

His cock twitches inside you with every muffled sound you make, betraying how much it's affecting him. The round feels endless, your body trembling with need, those whiny pleas vibrating against his palm.

Finally, you hear it.. "Alright, I'm out for the night, Hyung. Got stuff to handle." The words send a thrill through you.

As soon as the match concludes and he says bye, Shota rips off his headset, lifts you off his cock with a wet pop, and scoops you up like you weigh nothing.

Shota carried you to the bed in two strides, throwing you down onto the mattress. You bounce once, panties still pushed to the side, your sweet pussy glistening and empty.

Before you can catch your breath, he's on you — diving between your thighs, spreading them wide with rough hands.

Shota's an eater, and he never fails to prove it every single time. His mouth latches onto your clit, sucking hard while his tongue flicks relentlessly. You arch off the bed, a scream tearing from your throat as he devours you.

He doesn't hold back — lapping at your folds, thrusting his tongue inside you, then circling back to that sensitive nub. His fingers dig into your hips, holding you down as you buck against his face.

"Sh-Sho! Oh god—" Your hands fist in his hair, pulling him closer. He growls into your pussy, the vibration sending shockwaves through you. His head game was outof this world. Every swirl, every suck, and every graze of teeth makes you see stars that burst with white exploding behind your eyelids.

You release hard, thighs clamping around his head, but he doesn't stop, licking you clean until you're a shaking, sobbing mess.

Only then does he pull back, lips shiny with your juices and eyes dark with hunger. He strips off the rest of your clothes roughly — which was just a T-shirt — tossing it aside before shedding his own pants fully.

Climbing over you, he lines up and thrusts in, no preamble. The pace is brutal from the start as his hips snapped against yours, cock pounding into you with wet, obscene slaps. You wrap your legs around his waist, nails clawing down his back as he fucks you into the mattress. "Desperate little thing, taking my cock so well." He grunts, one hand pinning your wrist above your head, the other teasing your clit. "All that whining earlier? This what you wanted?”

You can only moan in response, the words lost in the haze of pleasure. He angles his thrusts to hit deeper, harder, your pussy clenching around him as another orgasm builds. "Gonna come inside you," He warns, voice rough. "Fill this needy pussy up."

"P—please!" You beg, and that's all it takes.

He slams in one last time, burying himself to the hilt as he released, his hot spurts flooding your walls. The sensation tips you over, your release draining him.

He collapses on you for a moment, both panting, before rolling off. But he's not done caring for you. Shota grabs a warm cloth from the bathroom and gently wipes between your thighs, cleaning the mix of your release and his from your sensitive folds. His touch is soft now, contrasting the roughness before, as he soothes the soreness with careful strokes.

"Better?" He murmurs, pressing a kiss to your forehead once you're all cleaned up, pulling the covers over you both.

You nod, curling into his side, finally sated. "Much."

💌 mika’s message! i feel freaky pt3. thank u sm chatgpt for writing this one!!!!!!!! shoutout!!!!!! ok i gtg Bye. I GOTTA GO. WE GOTTA GO. Guys let’s go. ok sorry anyways obviously jokes bc of my recent anon hate messages saying i use ai to write but wtv !!!!!! i’ve clearly discovered something new abt myself. so im on a roll rn and nobody can stop me or this grind ok.

sexy people get tagged hiii: @seobmoji @chccnne @endoll @aesprn @wdcsvt @ericlvr @hardbeingcasual @applewormz @kyoluvrs @nataliasdiary @theosflower @smiles4hyuck @sugaryemma @kamxstar @kyoteas @jiumeow @soulssnucky @xionvlog

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[jiuchip]

MOONBEAM

⋆༺𓆩♔𓆪༻⋆ ♔ THE CROWN THAT BLEEDS

℘ — royal guard!shota (소울) x choi princess!reader    ▸   ⌜ 22k ⌟

synopsis ▸ the nuisance boy from your childhood, your younger brother jongseob’s best friend, returns after years away from the castle as your newly appointed guard. but he’s not just the same mischievous kid who tortured you for fun anymore—he’s a man now. preparations for the royal wedding leave you busier than you’ve ever been and with your new guard, much to your dismay, following you like a shadow, you’re forced to overcome your differences and make peace with the fact that he may not be as awful to have around as you initially believed. unforeseen and violent circumstances leave you to face your evolving feelings even despite the myriad of reasons you have to not fall for him. but when has politics and status ever stopped true love from blossoming?

δ — nsfw (mdni), forbidden romance, forced proximity, one-sided enemies, yearner!soul, miscommunications, secret romance, sneaking around, besties soulseob, blood/gore, death, hurt/comfort, angst, jealousy, smut, dom!shota, loss of virginity, unprotected sex, oral (f. rec)

♪ willow - taylor swift

ᯓ an — another one for the hoes (piwon) shota is such a yearner in this and he's also hot as fuck i want him real bad but the romance is romancing anyways pls grab a snack, sit back and enjoy! it's a rollercoaster :) let's ignore the fact that i finished writing this two days ago despite having months to finish it...

“I do not need a babysitter, brother.”

Jiung narrows his sharp eyes at you and you can tell he’s nearing his wits end. But regardless, he pulls on a smile that you suppose is to assure you. It only grates your nerves further.

“It’s not a babysitter,” he states calmly. “He’s just like any guard.”

“But you’re assigning him to keep an eye on me all day long. That’s simply too much!”

“Sister,” he starts, pausing for a breath. He leans forward in his chair, smoothing the space between his brows with a knuckle. “We are having a lot of visitors for the wedding. It is in everyone’s best interest that we have someone watching you at all times. You’re young, you never know what—”

“Here we go again,” you snap, throwing your arms up in frustration as you start to circle the room to expel some of your irate energy. “What about Jongseob then? He’s younger than I, is he also getting a babysitter?”

Jiung’s eye twitches. “It’s not a babysitter,” he repeats. “And that’s different.”

“Why?” You stop, placing your hands on your hips and glaring at him. “Because I’m a woman?”

Jiung hesitates for a moment before his expression sets back into a stern one. He stands from his seat. “Yes,” he says and before you can argue, he barrels on. “Which means you are more at risk of danger.”

You falter at that, feeling your metaphoric claws retract at the undeniable truth.

Jiung rounds his desk and makes his way over to you but you stand your ground, petulantly turning your head away from him.

“This is for your safety,” he tells you firmly, though it's gentler from his earlier tone. “It will put my worries at ease, and Taeyang’s, to know you’re being taken care of while we become busy with everything for the next few months.”

You cast your eyes down. Jiung never intends to demean you, you know that. But the thought of being watched and hovered around for the next two months puts a sour, uncomfortable taste in your mouth.

But you suppose you could put up with it for Jiung and Taeyang’s ease of mind—well, Jiung’s at the least. You’re not very close to Taeyang to care much what goes on with him.

“Alright,” you finally concede and the visible relief that washes over Jiung’s whole being is enough to make your defeat worth it. “I suppose it won’t be horrible.”

“That’s right,” your brother beams. “Hey, you might even make a new friend. He’s not much older than you. You remember Shota, right?” You tense at the mention of his name, dread threading through every nerve of your body as Jiung carries on like he hadn’t just thrown your mental stability off-kilter. “Akiro’s son, Jongseob’s friend.”

Shota? The demonic little gremlin that your younger brother kept around for some reason? The one who terrorized you throughout childhood?

Your eyes snap up to Jiung with an ice so cold that he visibly flinches back. 

“What?” He asks. “Why do you look like that?”

“Shota?” You ask slowly, voice drenched in a seething rage. You take a step forward. Jiung scrambles back. “Don’t tell me that demon is going to be my guard.”

Jiung visibly swallows, taking another step back when you step closer. “Okay,” he says. “I won’t tell you.”

You bring your fist down on his arm sharply and he yelps, cradling his bicep. 

He stares at you with wide eyes that quickly turn angry. “What is wrong with you?!”

You point a finger at his face. “I am not putting up with that cretin again. Reassign me. Now.”

He grits his teeth, placing his palm atop your head that he uses to push you easily out of his space. “That’s not in my power. Unless you want to speak with Taeyang.”

Your face falls. You’d rather chew nails than suffer an emotionally stunted conversation with Taeyang. 

Jiung scoffs. “That’s what I thought.” When his eyes fall over your shoulder and his expression shifts quickly to his sunny smile, your stomach pools with trepidation. “Shota! We were just talking about you.”

You refuse to turn around. Maybe then he’ll go away and none of this will be real.

His voice sounds deeper than you last remember when he speaks.

“It’s an honour to be of help to your family, Your Highness.” 

You’d been avoiding him all that you could after suffering through one too many of his “jokes”. Even though he hasn’t been around much for the past few years, only a handful of times that your brother would invite him to the castle, you made sure to stay far away.

And now all of that effort has turned pointless in mere unfortunate moments.

Jiung’s eyes shift back to you, his brow raised expectantly.

You simply glare at him, never mind that you come off as a pettish child. You are.

“You will have to forgive my sister,” Jiung says, still looking at you with a forced smile. “She seems to be in a mood.”

You raise your fist to punch him again but Jiung grabs your wrist and forces you around. 

You nearly stumble right off your feet.

Shota stands there at the doors with his arms folded behind his back, a pleasant smile on his lips. You know your memory of him is a little foggy but you don’t recall him like this. Tall and broad in the shoulders, more of a man than the gangly kid that you had to deal with.

But his smile—that disarming, sweetly deceptive smile of his—is exactly the same, and you feel your defenses rise from just one look at it.

“It is a pleasure to be in your presence once more, Your Highness,” he says easily, lowering in a bow with a hand over his heart.

When he rises again, you turn to Jiung with pleading eyes.

Jiung only returns it with a scolding one. “He’s perfectly pleasant. Don’t be a brat, and play nice.” He shoulders you forward and you stumble a few steps towards your new guard, huffing under your breath.

You suppose you don’t have much of a choice. So you look at Shota and give him a polite but stiff nod. 

When it becomes clear you won’t say anything to him, Jiung sighs behind you.

“One more thing before you go,” Jiung says while you eye Shota with sharp, revolted eyes. Shota seems unphased by it. “You are to help with preparations for the wedding. I’ve told the Head Housekeeper to call upon you should they need any help or any input since you have mother’s eye for art.”

You turn to him again, narrowing your eyes. “You didn’t bother to consult me first?”

He raises both his brows. “What, do you have more pressing matters to tend to?”

You scowl at him because you can't dispute it. It’s not that you don’t care to have responsibility, you prefer to sway to your own breeze. But you suppose this wouldn’t be awful. The idea of arranging the first wedding in your family is an enticing one.

“Alright,” you concede. “I suppose that won’t be horrible. I approve.”

Jiung stares at you for a moment. “Thank you for your permission,” he says instead of ‘like you had a choice’ like his eyes do. “You’re dismissed,” he adds hastily, eager to get you away out of his space and dismiss his headache with you. 

You turn around with a satisfied smile which melts away when you’re reminded of Shota, who stands there patiently.

“Ugh,” you mutter under your breath, marching right past him. Against your wishful hoping, his footsteps trail after you a few steps behind.

You ignore him as you make your way to your bedchambers. That is your sure fire way to escape him.

“It has been a while since we’ve spoken, hasn’t it?” He chimes in after an awkward moment. 

You remain silent as you turn into the hallway leading to your room. You celebrate at the quiet that follows after, hoping he would get the hint. But he starts up again just as you reach your doors.

“I apologize if I’ve done anything to wrong you, Your Hi—”

“Wrong me?” You stop, whipping around to face him, and he skids to a halt, round eyes wide in shock at your sudden outburst. “You and my brother practically tortured me!”

He opens his mouth to speak but you shove your finger in his face to shut him right up.

“I know you wouldn’t risk your job now by reverting to your childish ways,” you start as you step into his space, your expression twisted with ire. “But that doesn’t mean we are acquaintances in any means. Do not take your friendship with my brother to mean that we can also be friends. We’re not. Understood?”

He visibly swallows, eyes shifting from your finger to your face. And you think your intimidation worked for a split second, but then his eyes twinkle like they always did just before he did something to piss you off when you were kids.

He straightens his body, his hand shooting up to an emphatic salute as he grins at you. 

“Understood, Your Highness,” he chirps, looking all too happy to be scolded by you.

Your face sours further and his only grows brighter.

You scoff, turning to your room. “Whatever,” you grumble as you shove your way through your doors, letting them shut on Shota’s still saluting figure.

You hope by some miracle that he will station himself far enough away so that you can slip out without him noticing.

But then you hear his boots clack before stilling right outside your door, and you sigh to yourself, dropping onto your bed. You pray the months will pass quickly.

𓆩⟡𓆪

You know it's a ridiculous attempt, but you’re already climbing across the walls from your window to Jongseob’s and you can’t worry about anything except not falling to your death.

You cling on to the protruding overhangs as you walk along the limestone ridges of the outer walls, inching closer and closer to Jongseob’s room which thankfully isn’t too far from your own. You just pray that he’s in his room to allow you in.

You peer below, immediately regretting it when your stomach lurches at the long drop. There are bushes below you which you pray to the gods will cushion the fall. If you fall. 

Which you won’t, you keep telling yourself. You just hope none of the gardeners will look up.

When you reach the window, finally, you jump onto the outer windowsill and start pounding on the glass. The curtains are drawn, so you can’t see in to see if Jongseob is in there.

You batter at the glass for what seems to be minutes before the curtains finally rip open and Jongseob stands there on the other side, wide-eyed and completely disheveled.

“Sister?” You hear his shocked yell through the thick glass.

You glare at him and pound on the window again. “Hurry up and open it!”

He bristles, scrambling to swing the windows open and you quickly stumble in, breathing in relief while your heart still pounds away in your chest.

“What in the heavens are you doing?!” Jongseob asks as you rise to your feet, dusting your dress off.

“Escaping,” you answer simply. You take one look at him, at his messy hair, messy clothes, and flushed skin, and ask, “What in the heavens were you doing?”

He blinks dumbly before the red on his cheeks fire up in realization and he starts to hastily smooth himself down. “I was napping.”

You raise your brow, unconvinced, but this isn’t your concern at the moment.

“What exactly are you escaping from?” Jongseob asks to divert, avoiding your eye. Then realization dawns on him and his eyes snap back to yours in exasperation. “Don’t tell me this is because of Shota.”

You cross your arms, looking away with a ‘hmph’.

For the entirety of your past week, Shota has been stuck to your side like a pestering bug. It doesn’t matter if you try to shake him or slip away, he always finds his way back to you like a bloodhound.

And it is absolutely maddening. He doesn’t speak, not since you’d scolded him on the first day, but his presence is enough to still get under your skin. 

And with it being around you all the time, you desperately need a break. Could you be blamed for wanting an escape?

“You are so immature,” Jongseob sighs, rubbing his head.

You scowl at him. “I’m immature? You remember all those jokes you pulled on me with him?”

“That was years ago,” he deadpans. “We were kids.”

You huff indignantly. “You know I hold a grudge.”

“That you do,” he mutters, rolling his eyes. “Now can you please leave?”

Your nose scrunches in distaste. “I was going to but now that you’re being so annoying, maybe I’ll hang around here for a while,” you state before you start to march your way over to his bed.

“NO!” 

You jump when Jongseob practically throws himself in front of you, intercepting your path and pushing you back. 

There’s a quiet thump that you hear somewhere behind him.

You stare at him, wide-eyed, and he stares back at you just as shocked and more than a little panicked.

Your eyes narrow in suspicion as you cross your arms. “What was that sound? You’re being weird.”

“And you’re invading my personal space,” he fires right back before he starts pushing you towards the door. “Go find somewhere else to hide. Find Keeho!”

You groan, batting his hands away as you finally surrender. “Fine! But if Shota comes asking, you didn’t see me. Got it?”

He stares at you like he’s gathering an argument but you cut in before he can muster it.

“And I’ll forget why you’re acting so suspicious.”

Frustrated, Jongseob throws his head back. “Okay, fine. Now leave!”

To get the upper hand, you thwack him on the forehead before turning to the door and leaving him clutching his head in pain.

You should’ve known better than to think you were in the clear. Because when you push open Jongseob’s doors, there stands Shota on the other side with his arms behind his back and expectant like he was waiting for you.

“Seriously?!” You cry and he just blinks at you. “What are you?!”

He tilts his head. “Your guard.”

You hear a stifled laugh behind you but you’re too caught up reeling in your defeat to reprimand your gremlin brother.

Huffing, you shove past Shota. “Unbelievable,” you grumble, marching down the halls. 

Maybe it’s time that you give up and accept your fate. If even climbing the walls to escape won’t work, you’re not sure anything will.

You were hoping you could complete your duties, which commence today with the help of the West Princess betrothed to your brother, without Shota getting in the way but it seems that was just wishful hoping too.

“If I may—”

“You may not,” you cut him off, and he obediently complies.

At least there’s that. He hasn’t gone out of his way to provoke you like before. But the anxieties still remain that he might drop bugs in your hair or put dye in your soap.

It keeps you on edge as you prepare with the staff for the Princess’s arrival the next day.

𓆩⟡𓆪

The ball has turned out just the way you had wanted, if Shota had to guess by the bright grin on your face. He watches as you flurry around the vast area, greeting guests and being the social butterfly he never could be, from where he stands at the sidelines with the other guards.

He couldn’t do much to enjoy the festivities besides stand there and watch over, but at least he got to watch over you.

You might despise him. But it’s something that Shota has had years to get used to. And he doesn’t much care as long as he gets to be in your vicinity. He’ll enjoy your company from the sidelines and repent for his childish displays of affections by doing that from a distance.

A voice on Shota’s left breaks his focus from you.

“You too, huh?”

He peels his gaze from you, a difficult task, to see Sir Intak stationed with him.

Confusion etches his mind, until he catches the way Intak is watching the sister of the betrothed Princess—the one assigned to him for her stay—with a gaze so honeyed that it would be nearly impossible to miss.

Shota giggles at the realization, turning back to the crowd to seek you out again. It’s easy to find you; it’s like he’s tuned just for you. 

“It seems that way,” he admits sheepishly. There’s an understanding that passes between the pause before he continues. “At least mine has been in the works for years.”

Sir Intak scoffs, though it’s lighthearted. “Mine was love at first sight.”

“As was mine.”

Shota’s heart nearly gives out when your eyes catch his for a moment, as if you’d heard the confession from all the way over there, as you scoured the crowds.

In that moment, he thinks he understands what it means for it to feel like time has slowed.

Even from this distance, he could map out the delicate features of your face—the very one he’s been dreaming of since he was a kid.

But it doesn’t last for long. You’re quickly whisked away by another princess from a distant land but Shota’s mind stays locked still on the lingering weight of your gaze on his.

It keeps him company as the engagement ball nears its end. Even as his restless body protests the idea of it, he wishes it wouldn’t end so soon—if only so he could keep watching you for a moment more.

𓆩⟡𓆪

Assisting the Princess is quite the task, you find out, because she would rather spend it trying to poke at your brother rather than be productive. 

Which leaves you to hold the ground while she marches up to his office to pester him. You consider following her up just to watch for the sake of entertainment but you end up finding the tasks enjoyable. The Princess clearly doesn’t, not that you blame her considering the situation she’s in (you don’t imagine anyone would be delighted to be marrying your brother). 

So to make things a little less overbearing for her, you take it upon yourself to be in charge of general aesthetics and condensing the amount of choices to the palette you have in mind, keeping the garnet of your kingdom and the emerald of hers, so she doesn’t have too much to parse through. 

Shota, thankfully, stays out of your way. So much so that you nearly forget about him. He becomes nothing more than your shadow.

Except when things start to get tedious, and you start hitting walls and getting overwhelmed—that's when he starts to step in.

Too many things in your hand? He’ll swipe them right out from you and carry them instead.

You couldn’t see past the tower of curtain fabrics in your arms, the ones you’d offered to help transfer from the parlour to the ballroom.

You’d waved off Shota’s offer for help earlier, biting that you could handle it on your own. But you didn’t realize velvet could be so heavy. Or that the walk would be so long.

You also didn’t realize you had started swaying, or that you started straying from your path, because a hand, gentle and warm, pressed against your waist to gently move you back on track.

You flinched at the touch, stopping in your tracks and whipping around to face Shota. 

Shota stopped as well, bowing before you. “My apologies, Your Highness. You were about to hit a wall.”

Your cheeks flushed at that and you quickly turned to hurry back on your path. “It’s fine,” you muttered quickly, trying to ignore the tingling heat that remained at your side. 

But before you could get far, he caught up to you and swiftly took the fabrics into his arms. 

“Hey!” You exclaimed, but your arms breathed in relief when the weight was lifted off of you. 

He only gave you one of his sweet smiles before nodding at you to move along. “I am at your disposal, Princess.”

You start misplacing things and thinking you’ve lost your head? No worries, he has a sharp eye and is apparently watching your every move.

You could swear you’d left out the napkin you wanted to present to the Princess right there in the centre of the table but it seemed that in your rush, you buried it under the others. 

You kept flitting through the piles, searching desperately for the one that caught your eye.

“Oh, you idiot, why didn’t you put it to the side?” You scolded yourself in pure exasperation as you sifted through what must be hundreds of samples.

Shota’s voice chiming from behind you didn’t even vex you past the annoyance you held with yourself at the moment. 

“Are you looking for this one?”

You almost ignored him, but when the words finally processed, you turned in a hurry.

There, in his large hand, was the delicate red linen with gold and green embossing around the perimeter that you’d been eyeing since the start.

“Yes!” You cried in relief, taking the napkin from him with both of yours like you were accepting treasure.

“You left it under your teacup,” he told you, and your face immediately fell with embarrassment. 

You really are as scatter-brained as Keeho likes to call you. 

Shota giggled, a soft, pleasant sound that took you by surprise, as he looked at the napkin then back up at you. “It’s pretty.”

It became very apparent over the past few weeks that Shota had in fact matured and isn’t the same boy looking for any opportunity to approach you with a snake or to hurl rocks at your balcony.

He not only charmed everyone he came across with his musical laugh and soft voice and sweet smile, but he was starting to become something of an asset. Someone you were relieved to have beside you throughout your tasks.

The feeling grows more apparent during the flower arranging session. Something must have shifted between your brother and the Princess, because he’d entered the room and declared he would be joining the session to the surprise of, well, everyone.

“Did he have a stroke?” You mutter under your breath quietly enough so Taeyang wouldn’t hear from where he’s only a few feet away. Shota giggles at your side.

The Princess actually voices her shock aloud, “Did you have a stroke in the few days that I haven’t seen you?” It nearly sends you into a fit of laughter at your parallel thoughts.

It dies away when Taeyang shoves the bush daisies that were in Princess’s arms into yours instead, nearly catching you in the face, and you wind up to yell at him but Shota quickly relieves you of the bouquet and hands it to a nearby maid.

You huff instead and fall to the sidelines, watching as the ever stoic Prince Taeyang starts to fuss over flowers.

It’s ridiculous enough to have you pursing your lips to hold back your comments and laughs. Glancing to your right, Shota is doing the same, eyes twinkling with amusement as he watches the scene unfold. 

“I don’t think that’s my brother,” you find yourself saying, wincing when Taeyang places a peony crown atop his head that the Princess immediately snatches away, chiding him for being ridiculous.

Shota snickers. “Whoever it is, I think the Princess likes him better.”

You scrunch your nose. “I wouldn’t know why. There’s petals stuck to his hair.”

“That’s part of the charm,” Shota adds and you scoff, bringing your hand up to hide your smile.

The cleanup is a headache, especially considering Keeho and Intak had joined in creating the mess. There’s petals lodged in every corner of the room.

You’re collecting the flowers and petals that had gotten mangled and left on the floor, tossing them in the basket in your hand, when Shota chimes in.

“Why are you cleaning?” He asks, despite the fact that he’d also picked up a basket to gather the mess.

You pause, looking over with raised brows. “Why are you?”

“Because you are.”

A simple answer. Honest enough to leave you feeling a little endeared.

You turn back to your basket, sifting through some of the trampled roses you collected and picking out a pretty pink one that looks like it somewhat survived the massacre.

You consider whether to answer him for a few moments before shrugging. “I don’t mind busy work. It helps ease my mind. Plus… it’s not entirely for non-selfish reasons,” you admit. “I need the petals for a painting.”

Confusion etches his face as he stands straight, turning to you. “Painting?”

A little off put by the casual conversation, you nod stiffly. “Yes. I paint in my free time.”

“Oh,” he says, eyes lighting up. “I didn’t know you did art.”

You raise your brow at him, perching the basket at your hip. “Because you were too busy pulling on my hair and teasing me.”

His cheeks turn a rosy pink, a pretty colour against his pale skin. You glance down at the pink rose in your hand, noticing the similarity in shade.

“I apologize for the way I behaved, Your Highness,” he tells you sheepishly, bowing his head. “I simply didn’t know what to do with myself around you.”

While the apology doesn’t fully absolve him, you suppose it’s a good start. But the admission confuses you. 

You place the rose back in the basket, tilting your head. “What do you mean?”

The blush only seems to deepen. You glance down at your basket to see if there’s one in that shade, mourning subconsciously when there isn’t. 

“Can I see?” He asks, and you’re too caught up in your petal search to realize the diversion.

“See what?”

“Your art.”

You can’t really find a reason to say no. And the way he looks at you so earnestly, you can’t say that you want to deny him. 

So you turn, basket against your hip, as you start towards the upper floor. He follows along with a kick to his step.

But when you step into your bedchambers, you hear his footsteps skid to a stop.

You look over your shoulder to see him standing at your doorway with his basket still in hand, staring down at the divide between the hall and your room.

“What is it?” You ask, stopping in your tracks.

He lifts his head and blinks at you. “It would be improper of me to go inside.”

You roll your eyes, just a little fondly, as you continue to the corner of your room where you have your supplies stationed.

“You’re assigned to oversee me around the clock,” you state as you place your basket on your table cluttered with sheets and pastels. “What difference does it make? Just come inside.”

When he still hesitates, you turn to him with your arms crossed.

“That’s an order,” you state, and he immediately complies, hopping through the barrier with an impish smile on his face.

You purse your lips to smother the smile that threatens to rise at his unusual antics. He may have matured, but he’s still just the same at his core.

You glance down at the basket he holds. “You brought it with you?”

He walks over, offering the basket to you, though his eyes are fixed over your shoulder and on the walls behind you.

“I figured you’d need more material…” He trails off.

“Oh,” you say, a little taken aback but you accept the basket. And you’re all the more grateful for it when in it, you see a pale red tulip that would go perfectly for the vision you started cultivating in your head.

You’re brought out of your head when Shota breathes a quiet, “These are beautiful.”

You lift your gaze to see him utterly starstruck, his glimmering eyes taking in the myriad of reds and pinks on the canvases perched on your shelves.

You flush, unused to the attention to your craft. It was always just a quick nice work or that’s adorable or how sweet that you try so hard.

You swallow away the emotion that threatens to rise in your chest, chiding yourself for being too emotional as you place his basket beside yours.

“Thank you,” you say stiffly, unused to having to respond to such an earnest display.

His attention turns to the canvas you have perched on the easel facing into your craft corner, a landscape you started weeks ago but haven’t been able to continue for some reason.

But even that unfinished greenery seems to enchant him.

“It’s not finished,” you say quickly, feeling the need to defend yourself. “I had an idea for it but, I don’t know, I suppose I lost the inspiration.”

He blinks and looks at you over his shoulder. “You could have fooled me.”

You scrunched your nose. “How? I haven’t added any flowers yet.”

He laughs softly, bowing his head in apology before turning back to the finished paintings along your wall. “I see you favour flowers.”

The defensive urge in you rises again but you’re quick to smother it down. It’s not judgment, simply an observation. “I’m not much good at anything else,” you admit sheepishly, wringing your hands at your front. “My mother really liked flowers… I suppose I wanted my creations to be like hers.”

He turns to you again, his gaze soft, and you quickly look away. You don’t think you can handle pity. “What did she think about yours?”

“I never showed her,” you admit solemnly. “I was too afraid she wouldn’t like them.”

The quiet that follows is deafening. You wish you hadn’t said anything at all. 

Sensing your discomfort, Shota pivots.

“Could you paint me something?”

You blink at the sudden question, lifting your gaze to his. “Huh?”

He bristles, cheeks flushing as he quickly drops to a deep bow. “My apologies, Your Highness. I shouldn’t ask such a thing from you, that was improper of me.”

You scramble to diffuse, having to reach over and nudge his shoulder to get him to rise again.

“That’s alright!” You say quickly, laughing awkwardly when his wide eyes lift up to you. “I can paint something for you.”

He straightens in a flash, beaming at you. “Really?!”

You can’t help it. You laugh, quick to hide it behind your hand. “Yes, it’s fine,” you tell him, and the tension leaves his body. “It might just be the inspiration I need to pick up a brush again.”

You miss the weight of them beneath your hand. The lull in your recent days has wiped you clean of any motivation. 

But the familiar prickles of artistic urge tingle under your skin when your eyes shift to the baskets on your desk, to the rose and the tulip sat at the tops.

𓆩⟡𓆪

You make an unlikely friend in Shota in the weeks to come. He’s the one you consult whenever you notice a shift between your brother and the Princess’s relationship, the one who agrees with you that there’s too many secret looks and disguised remarks for this to be a less than amicable union. 

He’s also the one you find yourself complaining to rather than Keeho, who’s become more mopey than usual.

Needless to say, you don’t dread having him follow you around anymore. You almost mourn when he bids you goodnight before he switches with the nightguard, but at least you spend those hours asleep so you’re not really missing out on him much.

You welcome his presence now. You even invite it during your afternoon tea, making an extra cup for him to enjoy with you out on the terrace. And during your evening strolls, you invite him to walk beside you instead of behind you.

He seamlessly becomes part of your routine. 

Until one morning when you open your doors to be met with Jiho, your nightguard, instead of Shota.

Your face falls. “Why are you still here?”

Jiho’s greeting smile falters. “I was informed that I would be accompanying you this morning and afternoon, Your Highness.”

“By who?”

“By Prince Jiung, Your Highness.”

You push past him and immediately make for Jiung’s office, Jiho’s scrambled footsteps falling in step behind you.

“Jiung!” You cry as you barge in through his doors.

Jiung, huddled over his mountain of paperwork, sighs before lifting his head to you and plastering on a smile. 

“Yes, love?”

You cross your arms. “Where is my guard?”

He blinks, glancing past you. “Right behind you.”

You click your tongue, feeling far too offended than you should at the notion of anyone other than Shota being referred to as your guard. “Not that one.”

“Oh,” he says, tilting his head. “You mean your favourite one?”

“Yes—” You bite your tongue immediately, realizing your grave mistake when Jiung’s lips stretch into a wolfish grin.

“I see you’ve warmed up to Shota,” he starts, all too satisfied at your mortified face as he leans back in his chair. “Who was it throwing a tantrum over him again?”

You simply glare at him before turning your head with an indignant huff. “Just tell me what happened.”

“He’s taken the day to train,” he chuckles. “He said he felt antsy. Too stagnant.”

“Oh.” You suppose that makes sense. A person of his station should keep on top of his physical being, and workouts in his quarters can only take him so far. “I see.”

He raises a knowing brow at you. “Hm. Anything else?”

You’re about to dismiss yourself but falter when your eyes catch onto Jiung’s state; pale and with shadows darker than usual under his eyes.

A frown settles on your lips, that familiar ache in your chest rekindling whenever you see him fall worse for wear like clockwork. “Are you okay?”

His smile softens, but it looks forced. “Don’t worry,” he insists. “I’ve been with our healer regularly. She’s been helping me.”

You nearly miss the flush on his cheeks past your worries. “Make sure your sessions with her are actually productive,” you chide, then quickly add, “Health wise.”

The glare he sets you with leaves you unphased. Anyone with two eyes and a brain would notice his crush on your family healer, but you just hope that that’s incentive enough for him to actually check up for his health and not just for his eyes.

Jiung dismisses you with a wave of his hand.

“The crown would be a mess without you,” you remind him before you leave, a subtle plea for him to actually look after himself. 

You turn back towards Jiho, who flinches under the sudden weight of your gaze.

“Take me to the training grounds.”

𓆩⟡𓆪

You shouldn’t have come here. Every alarm in your head tells you to turn around and run—but your body has other plans. 

There Shota is—sparring with another guard on tucked away grounds of the courtyard, moving with the wind like his bones don’t exist—shirtless.

He’s muscled in a way that you thought only existed in books. Not overbearing, but corded in a way that’s elegant on his lean body. The slopes of his defined abdomen keep drawing your gaze, but your focus remains on his veiny forearm as it shifts with every swing of his wooden sword. The sight of his hand, large and strong around the hilt, leaves you feeling suddenly parched.

The warm air feels hotter than it should, the breeze doing nothing to help it. And your body burns with an unfamiliar heat that leaves you feeling skittish and aching for something, you don’t know what.

You’re not sure how long you stand there for, or how long the spar even lasts. But next thing you know, the other guard is on his back and Shota stands above him with his sword pointed at the guard, chiseled chest heaving. 

You feel dizzy when you catch notice of the trickles of sweat gliding down his glistening body.

“Princess?”

You’re snapped out of your daze, eyes blinking up at Shota’s face that’s now turned to you. His sword is clutched limply at his side.

Your face burns in the fear of getting caught staring but he seems lost on it, round eyes wide in confusion.

“What are you doing here?”

It takes a magnitude of effort to keep your eyes on his face and not his enticing… everything. You didn’t know that under all his layers, he was carrying this, when his face is the complete opposite—sweet and doe-eyed and innocent looking. How are you supposed to look at him the same way ever again?

You’re spurred into motion when he approaches you—rather, the canteen of water placed on the bench beside you. You watch as he picks it up with long fingers, watch the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swigs the water back greedily.

Realizing you’re taking a little too long to speak, you force the words out of your dry mouth. “I was just wondering why you abandoned me without warning.”

He blinks over the lip of his bottle, lowering it before wiping his lips with the back of his hand. “Abandon you?” He asks. “That was not my intention, I apologize if—”

Noticing the actual distress that overtakes his expression, you quickly cut in with a shake of your head. “No, no, I’m not actually upset. But you could have warned me.”

He drops into a deep bow. “I apologize, Your Grace.” When he lifts, he gives you a nervous smile, shuffling on his feet. “I hope I haven’t offended you.”

You sigh, your eyes dropping momentarily before shifting quickly up when even just that slight glance sends your head spinning.

“You could have just brought me here instead of dropping me on someone else like I’m cargo,” you point out, crossing your arms. You’re not sure why this is so important to you, but you feel as though the point should be made.

He answers you honestly like he always does. “I didn’t think this would be something you’re interested in.”

He wouldn’t be wrong. But…

You glance down, your eyes lingering for a short moment before finding his wondering eyes again. “I might be.”

The smile that blooms on his lips is as warm as ever, but you think you see that familiar glint of mischief somewhere in his eye. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

𓆩⟡𓆪

You realize that even just a half day with another guard leaves you feeling more off kilter than it should. You miss Shota, you realize as you trudge through another noon full of tasks. It’s not the same without having your supportive hand and listening ear by your side. Jiho just doesn’t know how to keep up with you. 

You make that known when Shota returns by your side for your evening walk.

He’s ecstatic when he hears your woes, smiling to his eyes with the tips of his ears tinged pink.

“I’m happy to know you’re happier with me around,” he says and you’re quick to shut that down, your own cheeks turning pink.

“Okay, I didn’t say that,” you state defensively. You brush your hand along the flower bushes at your side as you stroll the familiar path. “I just said I prefer you to the other one.”

He turns to you, his smile tilted teasingly. “Is that not the same thing?”

Something about the mischief in his smile and the confidence in his eye sends your heart fluttering. You quickly look away, keeping your eye fixed along the cobblestone as you try to wave away the image that comes rushing to your brain of his body, glistening under the sun like a tantalizing dream.

“Believe what you want,” you grumble in defeat and he laughs.

Silence comes then, comfortable and familiar as it always is with him.

“Why now?” You find yourself asking after a warm moment. When he tilts his head in question, you continue. “Joining the Guard, I mean.”

“Ah.” He looks up in thought, folding his arms behind him as his eyes move this way and that to gather his words. “I’ve been training with my father since I was young. I knew I wanted to follow in his footsteps. I would have joined earlier but after his injury I had to stay with him and help him get back on his feet.”

You nod in understanding. Shota is former Knight Akiro’s only family. Akiro’s wife had died during childhood, which meant Shota was left to his care, which meant Shota was always around in the castle as a helping hand while Akiro worked.

Akiro’s injury protecting your Father in an ambush during a journey from the South rendered him unable to continue his duties. Which meant moving back into the common town, albeit the nicer side, after healing under the royal watch.

Shota must have had to bear the responsibility of helping his father for the past four years.

“What does he do now?” You ask. You’re not sure why you care, but seeing the fond look on Shota’s face as he talks about his father is one you’re not in a hurry to get rid of.

“Weaponsmith,” he answers, giving you a smile. “We opened up a repair shop. It’s doing pretty well now. So when the announcement for recruitment came, my father asked me to join.” He looks forward again, his smile dimming. “I didn’t want to leave him. But this has been my calling since I was young, so…”

“You must miss him,” you say, and the shy smile that lifts on his lips warms you inside. “But I’m happy you joined.”

He lifts his gaze to you, soft and searching against your own with an honesty that feels a little intimidating. When he stops walking, you do too, but you don’t once stray from his gaze.

“Me too,” he whispers.

The space between you is short but somehow it feels like nothing. The dying sun sets his hair alight like a halo, the pale white lit a gentle golden by the rays. 

You get lost in how soft the tresses look as they sway with the wind into his eyes.

The colour reminds you of something; it’s right on the tip of your tongue.

It comes to you just as Shota speaks, gentle like the wind.

“Princess—”

“Moonbeam!”

Just like that, the moment breaks. He blinks out of his daze, confusion filtering in. “What?”

“Moonbeam,” you repeat, then take off behind him.

You hear his footsteps follow after you as you rush to the bush of moonbeams planted alongside a section of the pathway you’d just passed.

You crouch down to hastily pluck one of the buds before rising and turning back to Shota, nearly crashing into him in your excitement.

Before he can question you, you lift the flower beside his hair and smile, satisfied when the pale yellow of the flower matches the shade of his pale hair almost perfectly.

The familiar prickle under the skin of your palm reawakens as you grin up at his starstruck eyes. “Moonbeam.”

𓆩⟡𓆪

You realize your growing affections for Shota when you’re in the middle of painting. 

The epiphany hits you so hard and so strong that you drop the brush, smearing the pale yellow paint against what was supposed to be clear waters.

You stare at the blemish as the wooden brush clatters to the ground, the terrifying thought that you may have feelings for your guard hanging heavily over your head.

No, you scold yourself as you start frantically tidying away your supplies. 

He is your guard. Your worker. Stations beneath you. You cannot grow feelings for him. It simply isn’t allowed and if either Taeyang or, heavens forbid, your father found out about this, they would have his head.

Whatever it is, it cannot be more than a simple crush—just some fleeting feelings for a boy your age that’s not terrible to look at and has the basic manners to tend to you.

That is no base for feelings. Certainly for nothing more than a meager crush.

But once the realization sinks in, it doesn’t leave you.

It carries with you into the next day, and you cannot explain to yourself, or to Shota, why you’re being distant.

But he seems to get the hint to leave you to yourself when his fourth question of the day goes unanswered. Though when he falls silent, devoid of his tinkling giggle or his soft voice or his subtly snide remarks about pompous nobles, you feel an ache grow alongside your weakening heart.

You hate every second that you leave him wondering what went wrong. You hate every second that leaves you feeling guilty for causing the pout on his lips and the melancholy in his eyes.

You’re hurting him. And you’re hurting yourself.

But it’s a necessary pain if it means it’ll drive away your misplaced feelings. You’re just not sure if it’s effective.

And the next week that you spend like this is simply torturous.

𓆩⟡𓆪

The assignment comes from Taeyang—through Jiung—to retrieve something from a trusted jeweller in town. A necklace he had commissioned for the West Princess, apparently, and it was not to be trusted in the hands of anyone else.

“Make sure it doesn’t leave your sight,” Jiung tells you as he fastens your cloak around your neck. You were dressed in simple garments so as to not draw attention to yourself. “And do not leave Shota’s eyesight, understand?”

You grow quiet at that, brows furrowing as you fix your eyes at the crest on your brother’s jacket. “Can’t Jiho come with me?”

He pauses, then places his hands on his hips and bends down to meet your eye. “What is with this hot and cold routine with you?”

You bristle, glaring at him. “It is not—”

“Did something happen?” He cuts in, gaze growing concerned. “Did he do something to you?”

Your eyes snap open wide and you quickly shake your head, waving your hands frantically. “No! No, brother, nothing like that.”

He raises his brow but when you give him an insistent look, he sighs. “Alright.” He straightens to his full height again. “Then what is it?”

You open your mouth to answer but nothing comes out. What are you supposed to say?

Defeated, you groan. “Nothing,” you mumble. “Nothing at all. I’m just in one of my moods.”

His curiosity quickly turned into a frown. “I told you not to call it that,” he states. “You’re a growing woman, it’s alright if you—”

Immediately, your face burns at the implications as your hands lift in instinct to press over your ears. “Please stop talking!” You cry, and Jiung bursts into laughter at your fluster. 

“Alright, enough with the melodramatics,” he chuckles, nudging you towards the carriage, which was mundane just like your dress for the very same reasons. You give under his push, trudging closer to where Shota waits for you by the opening. “Keep an eye on her,” Jiung tells him. “She’s slippery.”

Shota glances at you then gives Jiung an awkward smile. “I know.” Then he bows and draws open the curtain for you.

Jiung gives you one last squeeze on your elbow before stepping back and leaving you at the hands of the very person you’ve been trying to distance yourself from. “Be safe.”

The carriage ride to town stretched longer than it really was in the silence. Besides Shota sitting across from you, there were two other guards pressed to your sides.

Shota would keep glancing at your sides, clearly unhappy about something, before asking you if you were alright. You would answer him with a simple nod which would be enough until his next question of if you’re thirsty, or hungry, or uncomfortable. He really did feel more like a babysitter now than a guard.

And as much as you wanted to find it annoying, it only did more to weaken your heart.

𓆩⟡𓆪

Receiving the necklace was the easy part. You were more than shocked to find that the sketch sent to the jeweller was made by none other than Taeyang himself, that the vision for such an intricate piece was his own. You had to bite your tongue from mentioning the revelation to Shota, who was waiting by your side as you inspected the jewels before you could accept it.

It was only after stepping outside of the jeweller and walking towards the carriage that was stationed away from the crowds did you come across trouble.

Like a hound calibrated for danger, Shota unsheathes his sword. “Stay alert,” he commands, pushing you gently behind his arm. The other two guards immediately follow suit, forming a protective triangle around you. 

The hairs at your neck stand at the rising sense of prickling dread and you clutch the small jewel case close to your stomach, hidden under your cloak. 

The area you’re in is dead quiet. Isolated. You don’t hear a sound; there’s no signs of life but the trees and the birds. But still you feel the eyes on you.

Shota’s hand presses against your waist, firm and possessive.

“Shota,” you whisper shakily under your breath. 

His grip tightens. “I’ve got you,” he whispers back.

It happens all at once. Figures, cloaked in black clothing, emerge from trees and swords go swinging around you.

It’s all a blur to you. There’s a handful of those cloaked figures that come from all sides. Your guards take one each, Shota takes on two. And the other—

Your yell gets muffled by the burly arm that wraps around your mouth and neck, hauling you back. But you fight with the arm not clutching the case, swinging your elbow back and up into the attackers jugular.

It was sharp and quick enough to disarm the attacker for a weak moment, long enough that one of your guards could get the jump on him, his previous victim left bloody on the ground.

But your relief is short-lived.

“Princess, behind you!”

You turn to see a knife swinging, too late to do anything about it.

But there's a flash of silver and white, and the terrifying moment of clarity that follows right after makes you realize that Shota has taken your place.

His body drops into you and you’re barely prepared to catch him, the weight of him bringing you down to the ground. Before you can process anything more, a sword swipes the head of the attacker clean off and its dismembered body drops to reveal your other guard, pale as a ghost as he stares down at your and Shota’s crumpled bodies.

You watch as the guard’s gaze travels down Shota’s frame, stopping somewhere at his torso before he turns even paler.

“He’s bleeding,” he breathes, sheathing his sword and dropping down.

Shota’s head rolls onto your shoulder, his body feeling heavier on you by the second. Once the moments that had just transpired sinks into you, your own body lurches with panic.

You look down at Shota’s head against your shoulder to see his eyes blinking heavily up at the skies. “Shota?” You grasp his cheek with a shaky hand as the guard undoes Shota’s layers to reach the wound at his stomach.

“Princess,” he strains, forcing his watery eyes open to turn and peer up at you. There’s a single cut on his brow, but beyond that and his ghostly skin, he looks untouched. If only. “Are you okay?”

“Am I…” A surge of fury surges through you but it quashes down when the other guard rushes over with the medkit, handing it to the guard that scrambles to close the weeping wound.

“The carriage is damaged and the driver is nowhere to be found,” says the guard, looking less panicked than you feel but you can see it carefully concealed behind his stoic eyes. “We can’t risk taking Shota back on horseback. Princess, there’s an inn a few streets down. Take disguise and stay there, we will come back for you and for him in the morning.”

“Leave them here?” The guard tending to Shota asks in disbelief but he keeps his focus on closing the wound. “You can’t be serious!”

“We don’t have any other choice,” the other spits. “We need to stay in a pair in case there’s another ambush, otherwise we’ll never make it back to the castle.”

“We’ll be okay,” you intercept, despite the way your voice shakes. Their gazes lift to you, one relieved and one hesitant. “We can stay low. I’ll make sure he’s stable through the night.”

Though he’s still reluctant, the guard nods his assent. “Okay,” he says, then ties off the bandage around Shota’s waist. “Make sure he stays awake until you’re safe. Get him as much water as you can.”

You nod, and the guard rids Shota of his leather armour and his bloodied shirt, swapping it for the clean shirt off his own back. It’s dark so even if blood seeps through the bandages, it won’t be enough to draw attention. They take his sword and leave him with a dagger sheathed under the waistband of his trousers, and once he looks like a commoner just as you do, they bring him up to his feet.

With shaky limbs, you slip the jewel case into the waistband of your corset and rise to your feet.

Shota winces when you take the weight of him to your side, his arm winding around your shoulders as a pained whimper leaves his lips.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, holding him close to your side. “You can stay up for a little, can’t you?”

He takes a breath before nodding, though his movements are sluggish.

“I can,” he affirms. He looks up at the other guards and gives them a weak nod. “Hurry on. Stay safe.”

One of the guards goes to the carriage to retrieve the stash of food and supply left to bring back to you. When he sees your hesitance, he assures you they’ll stock up before they leave before strapping the satchel to you.

With a final bow, the guards take off and you and Shota are left to your own.

“Come on,” you breathe, pulling him firmly to your side as you trudge onwards.

Acting normal is easier than you think—at least, you hope your efforts are fruitful. The sun had started to fade so you feel a little safer cloaked under the darkening skies.

You pray to the heavens that neither of you look suspicious enough to set the innkeeper off. You’ve been told of this town’s displeasure for the royals so anything amiss could mean your demise. Luckily Shota is a master at schooling his face and hiding his pain. 

Shota has become heavier against you to the point where you’re pulling him along more than he’s walking, but you trudge through your sore muscles on sheer adrenaline. For a lean man, he’s hefty.

The innkeeper brightens when you and Shota push through the doors of the humble inn your guard had advised you towards. 

“Hi there!” She chirps from her desk.

“Hi,” you chime back with a pleasant smile that goes panicked for a split second when Shota sways in your hold. His arm tightens over your shoulder to straighten himself, his free hand clutching onto your arm around him as you make your way to her desk. “We’d like a room please.”

The woman, perhaps a decade older than you, gives you both a teasing smile. “He looks like a clingy one. Ah, young love,” she sighs dreamily, and before you can correct her, she turns to the line of keys behind her. “One bed, coming right up!”

Shota’s arm tenses around you and he seems to blink his bleary mind awake at that, standing to his full height.

You burn in mortification of what the woman’s words imply, but you suppose it’s good that she thinks you’re just a couple passing by.

The innkeeper turns back around to you and pauses, her smile fading just a bit. “Say, you look quite familiar, young lady. Have you stayed with us before?”

Familiar panic surges through you again but you force your smile. “Uh… no. No, I haven’t.”

“I know!” She gasps, eyes going round with realization. “You look so much like the young princess! The one from all those paintings they have around town.”

Your own eyes widen and flit quickly towards Shota to meet his side-glance with your own. “Oh,” you say, then let out a laugh that you know sounds far too awkward to be genuine. “I get that a lot, actually.”

The woman narrows her eyes at you for a horrifying moment before she bursts into another of her sunny smiles, waving her hand. “Ignore me, you kids probably just want to get to bed. Come along, dears,” she beckons as she takes down the hall. You hobble to keep up with her. “Are you just passing through?”

“Yes,” you pipe up, cutting Shota off before he could speak. He blinks down at you. “We thought we would take a trip… to… get away from the kids, you know?”

Shota stumbles over his next step but you’re quick to catch him before he can take you both tumbling down. You shoot him a sharp look that he just looks at with wide eyes.

“Oh!” The woman laughs. “Don’t I know? I keep telling the husband, let’s get away for a few days, reset our minds and come back! I love the kids, I really do, but gods do we need a break.” The woman stops at door twenty-five and fiddles with the key to unlock it. You wish she would go faster. “Good on you two. You’re a handsome couple, stay here for as long as you need and I’ll even swipe off a few bucks for ya.” She pushes open the door and turns to you to throw you a wink, pushing the keys to your hand. “Now I’m sure you two want your privacy so I’ll get out of your hair.” Then she’s sauntering back down the hall, waving over her shoulder. “Holler if you need me!”

You stand there for a moment, reeling from the barrage that was that woman. 

But Shota’s pained grunt snaps you back to the present and you’re quick to bring him in, locking the door behind you.

When you set Shota down on the bed, he practically melts against the sheets, the tension and exhaustion seeping out of him at once.

You drop the satchel, immediately reaching for his shirt to ruck it up and see his bandages drenched in blood.

He’s already watching you when you look up at him. “May I?” You ask him and he nods without delay.

You spring into action, prying open the stained bandages to reveal the wound, about three inches wide below his belly button. Your vision swims at the sight of spewing blood but you push past your nausea to press fresh gauze against the wound to soak up the blood.

“I can stitch it,” he offers, voice strained, but you quickly shoot him down. 

“It’s alright,” you say, picking out the needle and thread from the satchel. You prepare it with shaky hands before dousing it with the alcohol stashed among the supplies.

You can still feel his gaze on you as you get to work, but you draw all your focus on the task at hand. It’s not the cleanest, given that this is maybe your second time (the first was merely practice on a dummy), but it’s enough to hold him over until morning.

It’s hard not to give it all up at his little whines of pain as you work but you know without at least this, he won’t make it far.

Your mind still reels from the attack, but your barrage of thoughts stays at bay as you work. Though as soon as the fresh bandage is wrapped and he seems more at ease, they come at you full force.

It’s your fault, comes to you as you help him out of the sodden shirt.

He got hurt because of you, comes to you as tidy up, wrapping the bloody gauze with the shirt before shoving it in the satchel.

He took the hit for you, comes to you as you climb beside him onto the bed with the canteen of water and the food left in the satchel, some bread and some fruit.

You push those thoughts back as you help him lay against the pillow, lifted slightly to allow him to drink.

“Here.” You slide your hand under his head, the soft tresses of his hair damp against your palm, as you bring the canteen to his lips. His hand comes around yours to tilt the canteen further up as he drinks. You let him empty it out before placing it at the bedside table. 

It’s quiet as he nibbles away on the bread while you peel open an orange absentmindedly, preoccupied by those thoughts that keep prodding at your weakened mind.

“I didn’t realize we had kids.”

You blink out of your daze, looking up to meet his eyes peering up at you, a tired slant lifting his lips. 

You let out a soft breath, holding a slice of orange to him. “Two of them,” you say weakly.

Instead of taking it in his hand like you’d expected, he takes the slice right in his mouth, warm lips brushing against the tips of your fingers. His cheek puffs as he chews around his words. “What are their names?”

You watch him, the slow movements and the heavy eyelids that he fights to keep open as he watches you with those big brown eyes.

“Tulip and Rose,” you murmur without thought.

The corner of his lips twitch up. “Not Moonbeam?”

You feed him another slice, biting back a smile. “Saving that for our third.”

He laughs, soft and airy, and it's enough to ease away all your worries. The joy on his face takes you by surprise, considering the circumstances.

“You’re talking to me again,” he says, and amidst all of this, you’d forgotten that you were avoiding him.

You can’t anymore. Not after what happened.

The last dregs of your mirth slip away as you look down at the mangled orange in your hands. 

“You saved my life, Shota,” you whisper. Your vision blurs as the declaration lingers in the air.

His hand enters your view, wrapping over both of yours in your lap. “Please don’t be sad,” he begs. “I have to protect my Princess.”

You feel yourself crumble, the tears slipping down your cheeks unrestrained. His own expression falls, drowning in sadness at seeing you in a state like this.

“At the risk of your own?” You whisper. “That’s not fair to you.”

His breaths are starting to even out and you can tell consciousness is starting to feel evade him. But he fights until his very last nerve to breathe the words, “I would have done it even if I wasn’t your guard.”

Your sob falls on deaf ears as he finally slips under. You place your hand on his chest, just to feel the evidence that he’s okay beating against your palm.

And you fall asleep like that, by his side with his heart under your hand and the realization that yours is truly, and utterly, gone.

𓆩⟡𓆪

When Shota doesn’t wake up the next morning, your stomach twists itself in knots with panic. You had woken up right where you’d dozed off with your hand over his heart. There was a beat, slow and faint, but still there.

Your prayers were answered when the guards had returned with a small army to take you and Shota back, nevermind the commotion that it started amongst the townsfolk. The only focus was to get you and your guard back in one piece. 

The carriage ride was grueling. Shota laid unconscious with his head in your lap as the other guard kept his body from jostling through the ride. The medic that came with did his best to keep Shota stable until he could be seen by the royal healer.

All you could do for those painful few hours was watch his sleeping face, peaceful as though there was nothing amiss and your heart wasn’t in the throes of anxiety.

When you arrive at the castle, they immediately take Shota from you. Having him practically ripped away from you felt like having your own heart ripped away and you wanted to go after, but Jiung is there, grasping you by the shoulders and keeping you planted where you are.

“Sister!” His eyes are wide in panic, the shadows under them more prominent than ever. His chest rises and falls too quickly. “You’re… Are you—”

You don’t let him finish. You crumble in his arms, burying yourself into him as you sob. Your guilt, your grief, the weight on your chest—you let it all out on him. 

“Shota,” is the only word that leaves through your lips in a wrangled sob.

Jiung’s body slumps against you as he holds you tight, tucking you under his chin. “It’s alright,” he consoles gently, carding a hand through your hair. “He’s in good hands now. He’ll be okay.”

You desperately want to believe it. Because if he doesn’t wake up, you don’t know what you’d do with yourself. 

Jiung pulls you in closer, and you’re reminded of the small case tucked into your waistband as it digs into you under the pressure.

You pull away from Jiung, prying the case out of its place and holding it out to him. “The jewels.”

Jiung stares at the case in confusion before seeming to remember what it is he’d sent you out for in the first place. He takes it from you and hands it to a maid nearby without turning his focus from you. 

“Come,” he says, taking you by the arm. “Let’s get you cleaned.”

You dig your feet into the ground when he tries to pull you inside, turning to you with a puzzled look when you don’t comply. 

“I want to see Shota,” you state firmly.

Jiung looks like he’s about to deny you but when he sees that determined flare in your eye, he knows it's a lost cause.

So he sighs and gives you way.

𓆩⟡𓆪

They don’t let you inside as they operate on him, and the last thing you want to do is disrupt, so you wait outside the doors, practically quivering with anticipation.

Jongseob is here too, looking almost as nervous as you are as he paces along the hall.

Jiung’s arm around you as he waits beside you is not the usual comfort that it normally is for you.

“This kind of thing happens,” he tries to tell you, but you’re having none of it. “It’s not your fault, love, he just did what he had to do.”

You don’t respond to him. You can’t because if you try, you’ll let things slip that you shouldn’t. So you keep to yourself, and you wait for the one person you can say those things to.

It feels like hours later until something finally happens.

The healer steps out, wiping her bloody hands with a rag. “He’ll be okay,” she announces, and it relieves that crushing weight in your chest almost immediately. “He’s asleep for now but we’ll keep him here while he recovers.”

Jongseob steps forward to speak but you make it before he does. 

“Can we see him?” You ask, and the healer gives you a gentle smile. 

“Of course.”

Jiung lets you and Jongseob take the room, opting to wait outside with the healer.

You’re not sure if you regret not waiting until he’s awake, because the sight of Shota laying on the cot, pale and unmoving, unnerves you more than you expect it to despite knowing that he’s okay.

You and your brother simply stand there for a few moments, watching the shallow breaths that Shota takes. 

“How did it happen?” Jongseob asks quietly, like he’s too afraid to invoke the story.

You answer anyway. “He took a blade for me.”

Nothing more needs to be said. A quiet understanding passes.

Jongseob lifts his eyes to you, watching your solemn expression, and you internally thank him for not bringing it up. It would make it too real. And you're not sure you can face the truth just yet.

“I’ll give you some space,” he tells you and you couldn’t be more grateful for your brother’s emotional capacity. “Send someone for me when he’s awake.”

You’re left alone then, and even though you’d cried for him already, it doesn’t feel like enough.

It must be hours that you spend at his bedside, watching the healer come by every so often to tend to him (but mainly watching him) before you allow yourself to clean up when you realize he won’t be rising soon. 

Besides that, you don’t leave his side. You stay with him through the night, Jiho stationed outside the door to keep watch.

Sleep evades you. All you can do is sit there with his limp hand in yours and stare at the way his hair catches the moonrays from the window.

It must be after five past midnight, when you finally start to drift off with your lids too heavy to keep open, that you feel Shota’s hand twitch in yours.

Your foggy mind immediately clears as you straighten in your chair, staring at his hand laying loosely in yours. 

You start to think that you’d imagined it, until you see his finger tremble with slight movement. 

Then you hear it; his breaths picking up, quicker and uneven, before a groan, soft and quiet, leaves his lips.

You lift from the chair, leaning over him to watch as his face shifts. You bring your hand to his cheek, pressing gently against the smooth skin, and his eyes finally flutter open.

“Shota?”

You watch as he slowly blinks into focus. Once his vision seems to clear, a weak smile blooms on his lips.

“Princess?”

His voice sounds rough. Jagged and dry and like it might hurt to speak. But at this moment, it sounds beautiful.

“What are you doing here?” He has the nerve to ask.

Your emotions all come rushing back to you at once. 

“You didn’t wake up this morning,” you accuse, trying to stay stern though your voice wavers as tears start to brim your eyes.

His brows furrow, frown pulling his lips down. “I’m sorry…?” 

You can’t help the laugh that passes you, endeared and relieved, as your head drops gently against his.

A teardrop falls from your eye onto his cheek and his gaze only grows more worried.

He doesn’t understand how even melancholy looks so beautiful on you.

His trembling hand reaches up and brushes away the water that gathers at your lashline. “Why are you crying?”

“I thought I lost you,” you whisper, turning your face to seek out the warmth in his palm.

His hand presses into your cheek, turning you to face him again. “Your Highness,” he says, waiting for your eyes to meet his before he goes on. “I’ve told you. It’s my duty to protect—”

“I don’t want to lose you!”

He stops, watching you with wide eyes as you pull away from him and drop your gaze to his chest, face twisted with fear and a desperation he’s not sure he’s ever seen from you. A desperation for him.

“I don’t want to lose you, Shota,” you repeat, and he feels his heartbeat rise, like it’s coming alive again from your words alone.

He wants desperately for you to mean what he wants you to mean. But he knows it's a far cry, a foolish dream of a foolish man in love with someone that can never be his.

“Princess,” he tries again, unable to hold back the fear that trembles his own voice. Even if he can’t have you, he needs you to know you have him. “I won’t go anywhere,” he vows. “I won’t leave your side for as long as you’ll have me.”

“What if that’s not enough?” You ask him, and his heart stutters with hope again.

It needs to be killed before it can make a permanent home in his chest. “What do you mean?” He asks with bated breath.

He watches your eyes turn glassy again. He wants to reach over and catch the tears before they can fall, but he doesn’t. He simply waits, like he’s been waiting for you for all these years.

“I want you, Shota,” you whisper and Shota knows then that the wait was worth it. “I know I shouldn’t… But I want you.”

Maybe his hope isn’t misplaced like he’s led himself to believe. 

He reaches up to brush his knuckles against your rosy cheek, catching the tears as they fall. “I have been yours since the day I first saw you, Princess.”

The kiss is soft, dulcet like this night and reverent in a way that leaves him wanting to pray for more. But like this—with you in his arms, the warmth of your body over his, and the softness of your hair threaded between his fingers—Shota thinks he could die in that moment a happier man than any.

𓆩⟡𓆪

“So. You and my sister.”

Shota pauses with his mouth hung open, fork lifted halfway as his eyes flit up to Jongseob who stands above his bed with his arms crossed and eyes narrowed.

When he doesn’t say anything, Jongseob raises a brow. In response, Shota shoves the spoonful of food in his mouth and quickly averts his eyes.

Jongseob scoffs, dropping down to sit at the foot of the bed. 

“You know you don’t have to hide it from me,” Jongseob says. “I’ve been watching you pine after her since we were kids.”

Shota flushes, swallowing down his food. “Don’t tell anyone.”

Jongseob gives him an offended look that Shota just smiles sheepishly at.

“Sorry. The Princess is adamant that no one finds out.”

Jongseob makes a face. “You still call her that? You don’t call her by her name?”

“She hasn’t given me permission yet.”

“Dear gods,” Jongseob sighs, rolling his eyes to the heavens. “I’m pretty sure she’s waiting for you to use it first.”

“But that would be improper.”

“What about any of this is proper to you?”

Shota goes quiet before he scarfs down another spoon of rice. “Point taken,” he muffles around his mouthful to which Jongseob scrunches his nose. 

“She hasn’t taught you manners yet?” He asks then bats away the foot that Shota sends his way. 

“I’m not a dog.”

“Dog is basically in your job description. You’re at her beck and call and you follow her around like an emotionally attached puppy.”

“Oh? Like you and your little baker?”

It’s Jongseob’s turn to freeze up. He even turns a little pale and Shota smiles, self satisfied as he places his emptied tray on his bedside table. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jongseob says quickly, trying to recover as he clears his throat and straightens his back.

“Sorry to say but you’re not exactly subtle with your lovey eyes,” he giggles.

“They’re not lovey eyes,” Jongseob snaps, a little too harshly than he’s used to from him, and Shota realizes he may have stepped on something he shouldn’t have.

But he can’t help his curiosity. “What is it then?”

The pause before his response gives him enough of an answer. “It’s nothing at all.”

Shota can almost feel the ache in Jongseob's eyes, the familiar weight he’s used to seeing in his friend’s gaze ever since they were kids.

“Seobie—”

“You’re still here?”

Both their gazes shift over to you as you barge in through the door unannounced. Shota immediately lights up at the sight of you, adorned in your blue dress and colour-stained apron with your sketchpad and pastels gathered in your arms.

Jongseob scoffs, rising to his feet. “As if you don’t hog him for practically every hour of the day.”

“Don’t you have a maid to play with?”

Jongseob rears back like he’s about to start yelling, but he cuts himself off with a deep sigh. “Whatever,” he grumbles, marching past you for the door. “Have fun.”

“Jongseob,” Shota calls before he can leave.

Jongseob pauses in his tracks to look back, and Shota doesn’t have to say much at all for Jongseob to understand.

He gives a nod and a tiny smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I know,” he says, before he turns and shuts the door behind him, leaving Shota in the silence with you.

“...Did I say something I shouldn’t have?” You ask, eyes on the door where Jongseob just was.

“Maybe,” he hums, but everything else that isn’t you fades from his mind as soon as your gaze meets his.

You give him that shy, awkward smile of yours—a new and wonderful discovery—as you move to take your designated space at the foot of his bed.

It’s been a recurring sight for the past five days; you across from him with your book and pastels and graphites, sometimes tea, drenched in the dying sunlight from the window by his med-room bed.

It was a routine that eased his antsy limbs. He was bursting at the seams with unused energy, advised to keep movement minimal for two weeks, but whenever you were in the picture, you instilled him with a calm he wasn’t used to feeling.

“I have the rest of the day clear,” you tell him as you flip your book open to your unfinished sketch from yesterday.

“You have it clear or you cleared it?” He teases, leaning back against the headboard.

You scoff, though your smile gives him an answer, as you lift your pencil. “Don’t even get me started. There’s three weeks left until the wedding and it looks like Taeyang is finally attempting to court her. After all this time and drama!”

Shota laughs. “That sounds about as expected.”

There’s a quiet lull as he simply watches you work, just the rhythmic sounds of graphite on parchment filling the air. He smiles fondly when he catches a peek of your tongue caught between your lips, a habit of concentration of yours that he’s written into his heart.

“How’s the painting going?” He asks after a stretch of silence.

You pause, looking up at him. “Oh, I’d been meaning to ask you. What’s your favourite colour?”

Shota doesn’t have a favourite colour.

But his eyes catch onto the royal blue of your dress, the way it makes you glow, and he smiles, leaning forward. “Blue,” he answers. He lifts his hand, brushing his fingers against the low collar of your dress. He lets his touch linger, the pad of his finger ghosting over a sliver of your exposed skin as he catches your gaze, hazy as it falls to his lips. “This one,” he whispers.

The silence that follows is charged and heavy. But it doesn’t last long before your lips meet his with a needy grunt, your hands fisting into the collars of his shirt.

This is his favourite part of the routine. When you push aside everything on your lap to move over and make home in his, though careful so as not to hurt him.

But it’s different today. Your movements are hastier as you clamber on to straddle him but Shota welcomes you just as enthusiastically, the dull throb of his wound shoved to the back of his mind in favour of the feeling of your body pressed against his.

The kiss is hungry, a clash of teeth and tongue, a tangle of heavy breaths and needy moans. Your hands feel like they’re all over him, his own planted firmly on your hips to keep himself from traipsing into dangerous territories. 

“Shota,” you breathe into his lips and Shota nearly moans at just the sound of his name like that on your tongue.

He hums in response, and you bury your hand in his hair, slowing the kiss. 

He makes a questioning noise but he gets his answer when you take his hand in yours, sliding it up your body to place it on your chest.

Shota nearly loses his mind, when at the same time, you roll your hips down against the growing hardness straining under his cotton trousers. 

He groans, tossing his head back at the pleasure that sears through his body, hot and wanting. His hand kneads your breast, pulling a sweet moan of your own from your lips.

“Princess,” he breathes when your lips meet his neck, a clumsy but insistent declaration. Things have never gone this far before. 

You lift your head, lips latching onto the lobe of his ear. “I want you,” you whisper, grinding down against him once more, and Shota nearly forgets that they’re still in the med-room, a semi-public space.

And he would give in, damn it all, if it weren’t for the sharp footsteps approaching the room.

You must hear them too, because you immediately lift your head and stare at him wide eyed before your senses kick in and you both pry yourselves away from each other.

Shota winces at the sudden movement but he settles back as you reclaim your sketchpad at the other end of the bed just in time as Prince Jiung pokes in through the door.

“Hi,” Jiung chirps and Shota hastily pulls his pillow over his lap, waving back with a strained smile.

You don’t lift your head from your book as you grumble out, “What do you want?”

Jiung’s eyes scour the room, lingering towards the back end before he asks, “Is the healer here?”

You lift your head then and stare at your brother with a look so intensely judgmental that Jiung bristles and straightens with a cough. 

“Seems not. I just had a question about…” He trails off weakly before he just turns and walks right out.

As soon as the door shuts, Shota lets out the breath he’s been holding. But the steady thrum of heat in his veins lingers, roaring back to life when he looks at you again.

But you don’t meet his eye, fiddling with the pencil in your hand, gaze afar in thought.

“Princess?” He asks and your eyes snap up to his, blinking rapidly. “Are you alright?”

You let out a slow breath before smiling at him, though it isn’t one of those musical ones that he loves. “I’m okay.” He doesn’t believe you.

He feels the lie weigh on his chest. But he reminds himself that it's not his place to pry. 

“Actually, I should be going,” you say, gathering your things, and he feels the weight sink further.

He just watches as you rise up and make way for the door.

“Princess,” he calls out. You pause at the door, turning to him. “I’ll be returning to my duties in a few days.”

Relief comes to him instantly when the smile that lifts on your lips is one of genuine joy. “Good. I look forward to having you by my side again.”

Those words are enough to lull him to a peaceful sleep that night, and forgone are his worries. For now.

𓆩⟡𓆪

You couldn’t feel more relieved to have Shota by your side again. Though it brings a set of new challenges. No longer do you have the med-room to shield your stolen kisses and unbound words. You’re only left with lingering gazes and subtle touches to get you through your day. 

Even if you find a hidden corner to tuck yourself away in for a few heated moments, passersby leave you scrambling to right yourself before you’re caught. The castle is much too crowded now for you to remain hidden without four walls.

But it still feels exhilarating; living in a secret. As scared as the thought of getting caught makes you, you love the way it makes the blood rush to your head. It makes everything feel like… more.

“Shota,” you moan, burying your face into his neck. 

His fingers dig harder into your hips as he pushes you further into the marble pillar, his own breathy grunts echoing through the empty hallway.

The bundles of twine that you were supposed to bring down to the ballroom lay abandoned at your feet on the floor of the nook that you’d dragged Shota into. It’s not your fault he decided to wear half of his hair tied up with stray pieces framing his face tantalizingly. He looked too good for you to not do anything about it.

You gasp sharply when he presses his leg harder between your own, his thigh pressing insistently against your clothed core. 

“Quiet,” he hisses into your ear, though the guiding hands he has on your hips urge you to rock faster against him. “You’re going to get us caught.”

You dig your hand into his hair, fingers gripping the soft locks tight as you sink your teeth into the fabric of his shirt to muffle your moans. All while he chases his own pleasure by rolling his hardness against your hip.

“Unless,” he breathes, pausing to chuckle as one hand climbs up your body to knead harshly at your chest. He traces the tip of his tongue against the shell of your ear, whispering the words right into you, “You want to get caught.”

The words, along with the sharp push of his leg against you, leave a spike of hot pleasure crashing through your body. You cut your needy whine right off before it can alert the entire wing of your scandalous escapade.

He simply laughs, digging his thumb right into your nipple, the pressure overbearing even through the layers of your clothes.

“That’s it isn’t it? This is what gets you off,” he coos. 

His voice is so sweet, so soft and melodious that it might sound like he was reciting poetry if not for his filthy words. The silver tongue on him was a revelation you weren’t expecting, but one that makes you lose your mind.

“You want everyone to see what a whore their darling Princess turns for me?”

Before the moan can leave your lips, he takes a fistfull of your hair and pulls you back to devour it with his mouth.

You’re right there on the precipice, just about to take the leap as he rocks you to the edge—

“Where is she? She said she would be bringing them down.”

—Until it all comes crashing down. 

The heat of Shota’s body tears away from you all at once and you would crumble to the ground if not for the wall behind you.

You quickly right yourself, gasping for air to soothe your body as you pick up the bundles of twine. You glance over to Shota, who looks completely unmarred if not for the blush high on his cheeks, the bitten look on his lips, and the simmering lust behind his gaze—the only evidence that you’ve made him undone just as he has you.

He smiles at you as the footsteps of the maids draw closer. It’s not over yet.

𓆩⟡𓆪

Except that it was. 

That’s how it always goes and now it’s been over a week of being left dangling off the precipice. 

It was the same song and dance—sneaking off in the middle of your tasks for a quick second of pleasure that goes incomplete.

And Shota’s had just about enough. He knows you’re as pent up as he is. And even if this whole arrangement between you was just a mere chase for thrill and excitement for you, he’d happily comply, even if it isn’t sustainable for his heart.

He’ll have you any way he can get you before you realize you don’t truly feel for him, that you were just caught up in the adrenaline of him saving your life, and move on without him.

He’s well prepared for that. He’s okay with just being your temporary fixation, even though the weight lies heavier with each day that passes that he doesn’t tell you that he loves you and wants more.

He can’t go messing up what he already has.

These thoughts carry with him as Shota turns into the hallway leading to your room to take over for the night guard.

Until Jiung intercepts him. 

“Shota,” Jiung says, catching sight of him across the hall where his office leads from. “Can I see you for a moment?"

Shota thinks he’s done for. 

Did he get caught? Did you finally have enough of him and want to have him reassigned? Or did he mess up all on his own somehow?

It turns out to be none of that.

“I got to thinking after your heroic display for my sister,” Jiung says as he settles in his chair, Shota watching him from where he stands across his desk. “We could use more men like you in the War Guard.”

Shota blinks. The War Guard?

That’s an elite status reserved for the best and strongest soldiers in the country.

“Are—” Shota clears his throat when his voice cracks. He stands straighter, confusion etching his face. “What are you implying, Your Highness?”

Jiung smiles at his fluster, leaning back. “I want to offer you a starting position there. You’re incredibly capable. And having known the kind of man your father is, I see him in you. Honestly, I was going to offer it to you eventually anyway but I thought I’d give you an advance.”

Shota finds himself grinning, overjoyed at the opportunity.

“You’d start training after the wedding when you’re relieved of dealing with my sister. How does that sound?”

But it all falls away when he’s reminded of you.

Of course it sounded too good to be true. Joining the War Guard means training for a few years out in the outskirts of the country for a specialized program. That means leaving you.

But he reminds himself that he would have been reassigned from you after the wedding regardless. That this would be an opportunity for him to actually do something with himself rather than mope around from heartbreak because you were done with him.

This is the logical choice, right?

“Shota?” Jiung urges, brows furrowed.

Shota realizes his emotions must show on his face, so he shoulders the weight on his chest and puts on his best smile. 

“It would be an honour, Your Highness.”

𓆩⟡𓆪

When you open your doors to Jiho that morning, you know something’s wrong.

It can’t be training, because now Shota takes you along with him where you can sit in the courtyard and enjoy the scenery (the gardens and the cut marble of a man you have as your lover).

So you pull Jiho in tow with you to visit the guard quarters, but Shota isn’t there. Neither is he at any of your planned schedules that day. No one seems to know where he is and you can’t find Jiung either to ask him. And Jongseob is useless as always.

So you spend your day positively miffed, putting Jiho to work while you spend your time huffing over the smallest things and worrying about where Shota could possibly be. 

It makes you more upset than you realized. It doesn’t help that you woke up with a craving for him you cannot subdue on your own.

But beyond that, you miss him. You feel wrong without him at your side. It’s everything you felt that first day he’d abandoned you, powered up to a hundred. You feel angry.

The aggression shows through the strokes of your paint, a faint pink over lush greens. 

Your painting for him is slowly coming together. It’s nearly done, actually, but right now you don’t feel like putting love into it.

So you drop your brush and your palette, not even bothering to clean them off as you pry your apron off.

A sharp knocking on your window makes you pause. You look over at your drawn curtains, frowning.

When the knocking persists, you take the candelabrum from your table and wield it over your head as you cautiously step closer.

You hold it up, ready to strike as you rip open your curtains only to be met with the sight of Shota perched on the windowsill, out of his usual armour and in a simple shirt and trousers.

Relief washes over you first, then the same giddiness you feel whenever you see him, and then comes the simmering anger from being abandoned yet again.

You open the lock to your window and let him slide it open to climb his way through. The arm holding the candelabrum drops to your side as you watch him straighten himself up after shutting the window behind him.

“Where the hell were you?” You snap, and Shota lifts his eyes, wide and a little guilty.

“I took the day off,” he tells you meekly. “Did Prince Jiung not tell you?”

Your hand tightens around the candelabrum, gaze dropping to it to avoid holding his. Was he already getting sick of you?

“No, he didn’t,” you mumble, a bitter taste rising on your tongue.

He steps forward, tilting your chin up with his finger. There’s a soft smile on his lips. “Were you missing me, Princess?”

“Yes,” you admit quietly, and the mirth in his eye dwindles. “Did you… need a break from me?”

His eyes widen, looking utterly scandalized at the insinuation. “No! No, it's not like that,” he insists, taking your elbows in his hands. But there’s a hesitance in his voice as he continues. “I just had some things to do.”

”I get that,” you say quietly, your gaze lowering again. “But I wish you’d told me before I spent the whole day worrying about you.”

The soft brush of his hand slides up to your cheek, tilting your gaze up to his again. He has that reverent look in his eyes whenever he has you in his vicinity, the one that makes you weak to him.

“You really must have missed me,” he tries to tease, but it falls too gently.

“I don’t like it without you. Promise me you won’t leave me like that again.”

His eyes flash with something you can’t discern and his expression falls for just a moment. But it goes too quickly for you to dissect before he smiles at you again, bright like the moon behind him. He takes the candelabrum from your hand to place it back on the table.

“You have me now,” he tells you and the zip of electricity that his low voice sends through you makes you forget whatever it is you were asking for.

The craving you’d buried away in your body reawakens and you remember all at once just how pent up you’ve been for the past week of sneaking around.

But you finally have him alone. In the walls of your own room.

“I thought it was improper for you to be in here,” you murmur, taking a step back when he steps forward.

The smile on his lips is deceptively sweet. “I can think of a lot more improper things I’d like to do right now, Princess.”

You gasp softly when the back of your knees hit the edge of your bed. The heat of his body pushes into your space, not quite touching, but it hovers over you like an enticing wall of heat.

Your voice doesn’t allow for more than a whisper. “Like what?”

His eyes trace down the length of your body, taking in your curves like he was committing them to memory. 

“It might be easier if I just showed you.”

Before you can even take a breath, he grabs you by the waist and turns you around, pushing down your shoulder to bend you over the edge of your bed. His hand is firm against your back as he glides his heavy palm down the length of your spine and rests it on the dip of your lower back.

“Forgive me, Princess,” he says, pulling a moan out of your throat when you feel his hardening arousal pressing flush over your clothed cunt. “But I’ve grown impatient.”

Each delicious grind of his hips against yours makes your eyes rolling back at the pleasure that sears through you, your fingers clawing into the sheets. 

His hand brushes aside your hair to hastily tug down the zipper of your dress. You’re grateful you hadn’t bothered with a corset today when he traces his fingers down the bare skin of your spine, sending tendrils of electricity through your body that only add to your growing heat. 

“Shota,” you whine as his other hand finds its way up the skirt of your dress, trailing up the back of your thigh. You gasp when he grabs at the flesh of your ass, kneading it harshly, the pressure going right to your cunt. 

He lets out a breath, his thumb inching dangerously close to your heat. “Yes, Princess?” You can tell by the shake of his voice and his hand that he’s exercising the last of his restraint, the skirt still covering you. 

But you need it all. You push back, rocking your ass against his hardened erection and chasing that pressure once more. It gets a guttural groan out of him as he presses forward to chase the feeling. 

“Need you,” you whimper, and it seems to break his resolve. 

You hear a thud behind you but you’re too distracted to turn around because he pushes your skirt over your hips, exposing you fully. You gasp at the cold air that brushes against your bare cunt, then cry out when you suddenly feel his mouth against you, devouring your essence with his tongue. 

There’s no lead in, no easing you into it. No, he laps at you like a starved man, tracing every curve of you with his tongue as his fingers dig into and hold down your trembling thighs. 

You cry out his name when his lips latch around your throbbing clit and sucks, the pressure driving you towards an orgasm quicker than you’re prepared for. 

But he teases you on that edge, dragging his tongue back up to your drooling lips to circle and tongue at your entrance and draw you away from that high. 

The soft whimpers and harsh breaths that pull out of you soak into your sheets. He sounds just as affected as you, his own grunts and soft moans adding zips of pleasure against your sensitive skin, like he’s getting off on this just as much as you are. 

It makes you feel manic with need. 

“Sh-Shota,” you gasp as you feel that heat in your lower belly tighten. He only hums in response before latching onto your clit once again and flicking the tip of his tongue against it, pushing you right over the precipice like you’d been desperately wanting for the past few weeks. 

You come with another cry of his name, fluttering around nothing, and he laps up your release as it comes, licking you through your high until you’re left trembling and whimpering. 

He only pulls back when your sounds teeter towards pain. But you don’t get much time to recover before you’re flipped onto your back and the dress gets ripped off of your body. 

He towers over you, hungry eyes wide as they rove over your bare body. 

You flush under the intensity of his gaze, turning to curl in on yourself but he grabs your hips and holds you down. 

“Don’t,” he snaps, breaths coming out heavy. “I want to see you.” The next words come out breathy and with such worship that you burn. “You’re beautiful down to every crevice, aren’t you?” 

“Shota,” you whisper, feeling just a little more than dizzy. His wide eyes snap up to yours. “I-I’ve never…”

Understanding dawns on his face and the smile that grows on his lips is softer than he’d just sounded. “I know, Princess. I’ll be—“

“My name.”

He blinks, tilting his head in a manner that’s far too cute for the context. “Hm?”

“My name,” you repeat with a frown. “Use my name.”

His smile widens, a delighted giggle falling through it. And then he says your name, so softly and so reverently that you think you fall for him all over again. 

Then his eyes darken all at once as he stands to his full height. 

You’re reminded of your situation when you’re met with the intimidating ridge of his arousal prodding against his slacks. 

You watch, entranced, as his long fingers start to undo his shirt button by button. “Do you know how long I’ve been wanting to do this to you?” He asks you, like it's a simple question. 

You swallow, your eyes stuck to each sliver of hardened muscle that gets exposed with each button that comes undone. 

“No,” you answer quietly, the breath getting stuck at your throat when he rids himself of the shirt, his pale skin glowing against the moonlight. 

He lifts onto the bed on his knees. You scramble back but he only closes in until you hit the headboard, trapped between it and the daunting shadow of him. 

“Years,” he answers, pressing a palm over himself to relieve some of the pressure. He lets out a soft, breathy groan as he presses down on it but his eyes remain steadfast on you.

Your mouth practically waters at the sight of him. “That’s not very proper of you,” you try to bite, but it comes out weak.

He laughs, dry and amused. “You’ll have to forgive me then.”

Then he takes your knees and pushes them open, lowering himself on his stomach between your parted legs and you feel yourself burn at the thought of his mouth on you again. 

His eyes land on your glistening cunt where you feel yourself already dripping once more under all his attention. “I’ll repent later,” he murmurs, then reaches forward and lets his fingers brush against you. 

You gasp, skin still sensitive and recovering from your previous orgasm, legs moving to close but he grabs your thigh with his other hand and spreads you apart again. 

His eyes snap up to you, dark and heated as he tells you, “Stay still. I need to open you up.”

He doesn’t let you linger on what that might mean before you feel his fingertips tease at your entrance, gathering the slick that's started to pool there. 

Your mouth falls open, a deep moan lifting from the depths of your lungs when one of his fingers starts to press in, sheathing itself slowly to the hilt. 

It makes you feel impossibly full, even though it’s just one finger, against your unbreached walls. You clench down around him as the stings of pain start to quickly dwindle away into a sharp pressure that’s almost pleasurable. 

“That’s it, darling,” he coos softly, eyes locked onto the way you flutter around his finger. “You’ve gotta take more, don’t you?”

Your fingers clench into the sheets as he slowly pulls that finger out then pushes it all the way back in in a slow drag that has your thigh twitching under his hold. 

You whimper as he soothes his thumb against your skin in slow, consoling circles. If just one of his fingers feels this overwhelming, you think there’s no way you’ll be able to take him. 

He starts to fuck it in and out of you at a slow and steady paces, watching as your slick gathers at the base of his knuckle every time he pushes all the way in. 

When your discomforted whines give way to soft moans, he quickens the pace. And just like that, with soft praises and careful touches, he works all the way up to three fingers. 

He has you trembling by then, moaning and creaming around his knuckles as he pistons three fingers into your needy, sopping cunt. 

“Gonna come for me again, my love?” He asks you, sounding almost as ruined as you, as he crooks his fingers inside of you and drives them in even harder. 

You cry out, body arching off the bed as you tense all over, pulsating rapidly around his digits. 

“That’s right,” he says with a manic laugh, all too pleased with how quickly he’s tearing you apart. “Come for me. Do it again.”

And you do, with a sweet wail of his name, as his still moving fingers fuck you through it. 

He watches, entranced, just how much you gush around him. He only slows down when you shake like a leaf, bucking away from his touch. Hesitantly, he pulls his fingers out, staring at the coat of you glistening over his skin. 

His neglected cock pulses at the sight of you all liquid and already fucked out under him, breathing for relief from the raging heat. 

It’s too bad he has other plans. But he lets you recover for a moment. 

He swipes his fingers through your twitching cunt, gathering your slick before he slides that hand into his slacks and grabs ahold of himself, groaning softly at the pressure. 

He glides the moisture along his cock before he uses it to stroke himself to relieve some of the unbearable pressure. 

When he looks up at you, you’re already watching him with inquisitive eyes. 

He chuckles at the cute pout on your lips. “See what you do to me?” He asks, pressing a kiss to the inside of your thigh. “You drive me mad.”

“Shota,” your thin voice calls, and his dick twitches in his hand. 

“Yes, love?”

When you part your legs further for him and tell him in that soft, quiet voice that you, “Need him,” he nearly cums on the spot. 

But he quickly grabs himself at the base and takes a deep breath to ease himself down. No, he can’t lose so easily. He needs to take you, to give you what you want—no, need.

So he rises to his knees and rids himself of his final layers, exposing himself in full to you. He preens at your wide, prying eyes and the gasp that you give at the sight of him. 

He wraps his hand around himself once more, giving himself a few slow tugs as he shuffles to settle between your parted legs. 

“Ready for me?” He asks you and your eyes snap up to his, almost fearful. “Don’t worry, you can take me.”

He swallows your little whimper with a deep kiss, lowering his body to press against yours. The closeness seems to settle you, your arms wrapping around his shoulders to pull him in. 

He practically melts against your warmth, humming in content as your tongue licks its way into his mouth. He kneads gently at the flesh of your waist, kissing you languidly, thoroughly for a moment of blissful connection. 

He could live like this forever. In your arms, in your warmth, kissing you like there’s nowhere to be. 

But the reminder that this is borrowed time rears its ugly head and he pulls back, looking down at you. He wishes he could paint it—your flushed cheeks, the ruined look in your eye, the glisten of your lips. And he hasn’t even fucked you yet. 

He brings a hand to your cheek, his thumb gliding against the plush of your lower lip. 

“Ready?” He asks quietly. 

You don’t think you’ll be ready until it’s done. So with a steadying breath, you nod, bracing yourself for the pressure. 

But it doesn’t come just yet. He presses another soft, lingering kiss to your lips before he reaches down and guides himself through your slick folds. 

You let out a shaky breath at the feeling, your hands clutching onto his hard shoulders when his tip catches against your entrance. 

When he presses his forehead to yours with a silent question in his eye, you respond by wrapping your legs against his waist. 

The first push, the first inch feels like it blows your whole world apart. 

Your eyes squeeze shut at the searing pain, nails digging into his skin as a ragged groan slips from your parted mouth. His fingers weren’t nearly enough to prepare you for his girth.

“Shh.” He presses a soothing kiss to your heated cheek. “You can take it, love. Just breathe for me.”

You do. Slow and deep, and as he settles his full length into you, it feels like he’s carving out a permanent space for himself inside your body. 

And despite the pain, despite the overwhelming pressure, you welcome it. 

He settles with a groan and keeps still, dropping his head into the crook of your neck. “You’re so tight,” he mutters through a strained grunt. 

“Shota,” you sniffle, feeling your eyes prickle with tears. 

“I know, love, I’m sorry,” he breathes into your ear, kissing the shell of it. He cards one hand through your hair before cradling it against him. “It’ll feel better soon. Promise.”

Slowly, it does. Your body eases around him, welcoming him instead of rejecting, and the pain eases into an overwhelming pressure, a deep ache that itches to be settled. 

When you feel that ache deep in your gut start to pulse with want, when the walls of your cunt start to flutter with need, you slowly rock your hips up. 

Shota lets out a stuttered grunt, his hand finding your hip, the other staying pressed to your hair. 

He presses a kiss to your temple, then moves. 

The pain flares back at the first thrust, but it slowly eases away as he starts to gently fuck you. In and out, a lax rhythm that has your bodies rocking together in sweltering heat and breathless moans. 

You wrap your arms around his shoulder, body trembling under him as you take what he gives. 

“There you go,” he whispers, slow as he starts to pick up the pace. “Told you, didn’t I? You—fuck—you’re taking me so well.”

You whimper at his words, unable to speak. But your body talks for you, your cunt fluttering around him with each mind numbingly deep thrust, your hand digging into his hair and gripping down hard. 

He gets the hint. And he starts to fuck you in earnest now, a steady pace that has his hips snapping against yours and thrashing your body up with each firm thrust. 

“Knew you’d be so good,” he breathes, words slurred like he’s not really sure what he’s saying, lost in the throes of his own pleasure in the heat of your warm walls. “Knew you take me so—so well. So good for me…”

Your tears start to fall, whether from his words, whether from the pleasure, you don’t care. 

Because you feel that band in your gut pull tighter for the third time tonight and you need nothing more than for him to fuck it broken. 

“Shota,” you sob, clenching tightly around him. His hips stutter as he groans, hands flying down to your hips. “More.”

That’s all it takes for him to lose his composure. 

He pushes your hips down to the bed, lifting his upper body to look down at your wanting body, then starts to fuck you into your mattress, hard and uncaring for the loud moans that it pulls from your lips, for the way the bed knocks dangerously against the walls. 

All he can focus on is fucking you to tatters with single minded focus, chasing his own pleasure in the wet heat. But he focuses on you first. He can tell you’re close from the way you thrash under him and sob his name, watery gaze distant and needy. 

So he reaches between your bodies to thumb at your clit. It takes only a few quick circles to make you pulse and come over his cock with his name on your lips, again. 

It brings him down and he spills deep inside you, frantically fucking both of you through your highs. 

Even when he’s milked himself dry and worn himself to the bone, laying limp against your body, he keeps himself buried inside of you, because gods know he needs to savour every bit of you while he still can.

𓆩⟡𓆪

The days that come pass by like a rapidly ticking clock. Every moment with you feels like another one he’s stolen, that doesn’t belong to him. It starts feeling like he’s taken more than the universe would allow for.

But Shota hides his anxieties well enough to keep you happy for however long he can. Making you laugh, easing your daily burdens, giving you pleasure—it’s enough to make him feel like he’s stealing for a just cause. And that's fine, he’d steal the damn skies to keep you content if he had to.

He just hates that he can’t keep his own happiness. But he knew since he was a young boy that his love for you would go unfulfilled. He should be grateful he even gets this much.

The wedding is in a few days. And with how busy things are, he doesn’t get much time to sneak away with you.

He can feel that familiar craving for you prickling at his fingertips, the need to hold you despite having been in your bed just last night.

Maybe it's the knowledge that there’s not much time left that has his need for you grow tenfold. Or maybe it's just you.

He switches station with Jiho, who scurries off with a quick nod, and takes his place in front of your door. Like clockwork, at the dawn of the same hour, you open your doors with a sunny smile. Today’s one seems brighter than usual. 

“Shota!” You exclaim, grabbing him by the arm and yanking him in.

He stumbles in, caught completely off guard by your sudden pull but he straightens himself before he can tumble down. He turns around just as you shut the doors behind him, eyes wide.

“Princess?” He glances at the door as you make your way across your room. He never enters through the door, save for that first time, and he’s never here in the morning. “Someone could have seen.”

“Nonsense,” you dismiss, making your way to the corner of your room where your art is stationed. “Now will you come over here?”

He watches you for a moment—your fidgety demeanour, the manic glint in your eye, and the shadows under them.

A teasing smile crawls onto his lips as he slowly approaches. “Did you not get sleep last night? I didn’t keep you up that late.” He pauses. “This time.”

The flush on your cheeks is immediate. He preens internally at getting the prickly princess to lose her composure so quickly.

“No, it’s not that,” you say hastily, swatting him with the paint stained rag in your hand when he closes in. “I was working on your painting.”

His eyes widen, an eager anticipation waking under his skin. “Really? It’s done?”

“Yes,” you say sheepishly, turning to the tarp covered canvas. “I haven’t been able to find much time and I definitely wouldn’t have had the time for it for the next few days, so I stayed up last night. I was considering just waiting until after the wedding but…” You trail off with a shy smile. “I got too excited thinking about it last night.”

Your hand fidgets with the end of the tarp and he realizes with a wave of fondness that you’re nervous.

Shota grins, unable to stop the joy at being on the receiving end of so much effort. “I’m sure whatever it is, it’s beautiful. Everything you do is.”

You scrunch your nose, trying and failing to smother your smile. “Don’t speak so quickly.” You turn to the painting, taking a breath like you’re bracing yourself, before you pull the tarp off.

It’s a blue night over a lake, the moon full and bright at the centre made of actual moonbeam petals. The lake looks nearly alive, shimmering under the moon like it’s made of twinkling waves in real time. The land surrounding the lake is littered with flowers made of petals. Tulip and rose, he thinks. He recalls the first day he’d come into your room, the day you’d both hauled up baskets of mangled flowers and loose petals.

“It’s called Moonbeam,” you tell him with a smile in your voice. “This might sound silly but you remind me of the moon.”

It’s the greatest thing he’s ever heard.

His hand raises instinctively to touch, but he stops himself and looks at you. “May I?”

You grin, giving him a short shrug. “It’s yours. Do as you please.”

The words should make him ecstatic. Instead, they fill him with dread. Because now, when he looks back at the painting, it feels more like a parting gift. A present wrapped neatly to conclude your time together, a thank you for the past few months of excitement and pleasure. But how can that be if you don’t know he’s leaving?

You said it yourself, you were planning on finishing it after the wedding and giving it to him then. Like you assumed he would just… be there. Was he supposed to? Did you want him to?

“Shota?” Your voice calls gently. Your hand reaches up to brush away the wetness at his cheek. He hadn’t realized that he started crying. “Are you okay? I mean, I know I did well, but I didn’t think it was that—”

“I’m leaving,” he says, because he can’t keep it in anymore. He keeps his eyes on deep blue waters, unable to meet yours. “After the wedding. I’m leaving.”

You’re not sure you’re hearing him right. Or maybe you don’t want to have heard him right. 

“Leaving,” you repeat, breathing around the heavy thudding that grows in your chest. “What do you mean you’re leaving? Like on a trip?”

He lowers his head, teary eyes guilt-ridden as he swipes away the water at his cheek. “Your brother offered me a position in the War Guard. I accepted. It will take me across the country for a few years.”

You take a step back, the weight in your chest feeling more suffocating by the second. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

His eyes snap up to you, riddled with confusion. “Wha—”

“You can still visit, right?” You ask, clenching your fists tight when they start to tremble at your sides. The way he’s speaking of this sounds too permanent for your liking. But surely he can’t mean that he’s leaving for good. Why would he? Has he actually become sick of you?

“Visit?” He asks quietly. “You want me to visit?”

“Yes,” you snap and he flinches. “Why the hell wouldn’t I?”

You’re not angry, but your panic is manifesting as anger, and you don’t know how to stop it. You hate that you’re causing that twisted expression on his face, but you also hate where this conversation seems to be going, and you don’t know how to stop it. You feel helpless.

“I thought…” He starts, then stops. You can’t make out the emotions in his face; they’re too conflicting. “I’m only your guard for the wedding. Did you think I would stay?”

Your stomach feels like a pit. Your body feels like it wants to collide in on itself, trembling all over. “Was I wrong to think that you would?”

He looks down. “I don’t see why you’d want me to.”

The answer comes easier than you think. And only after you say it do you realize the truth you’ve been harbouring. 

“Because I love you.”

But it only seems to hurt him. “No. You don’t.”

Anger rushes louder in your veins. “What the hell?” You seethe and he flinches again, taking a step back. “Who are you to tell me what I feel?”

His gaze snaps up to you, fueled with a fire you’re not used to from him. “You don’t love me,” he insists, taking a step forward. You hold your ground. “You love what I did for you. You might think that you love me, Princess.” As quick as it came, his fight leaves him. His shoulders slump, eyes growing solemn once more as he whispers, “But you don’t.”

The silence feels tangible, too bright with the sun spilling through your windows, and it makes you feel misplaced. It makes this whole conversation feel misplaced. 

But you know that your feelings aren’t.

“I don’t love you, is it?” You ask, and he lowers his head again. “Do you love me?”

He lets out a wry laugh. “I have since we were kids.” It sounds strained. Painful, almost, to admit it.

“That’s all I need, then.”

Determined, you turn away and start to your door. It takes a moment, but then you hear him scrambling after you as you march your way out of your room and towards the offices.

“Princess?” Shota asks behind you, panicked more than confused. “What do you mean?”

You ignore him as you speed up, leaving his “Where are you going?” unanswered as you make your way to Taeyang’s office.

“Brother!” You call as soon as you barge into his office, Shota scrambling in after you. 

Taeyang lifts his head from where he had it cradled in his hands. He looks worse for wear. With how busy you and the West Princess had become, you hadn’t had the time to dissect his relationship with her so you really don’t know what stage of denial he’s in now. Nor do you really care at the moment, but it doesn’t seem good.

Taeyang furrows his brows, letting out an irritated breath. “Do you women not understand the etiquette of closed doors?”

“You’re in love, aren’t you?” You barrel on, and that takes Taeyang aback, his eyes snapping wide.

“What nonsense are you—”

“With your fiancée,” you elaborate.

He scowls at you and you wither just a little, realizing you might not be going in the right direction. 

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business—”

“But you do understand what it is to be in love, yes?”

“Princess,” you hear Shota’s voice whisper behind you, small and scared, but you ignore it.

“What’s your point?” Taeyang asks sharply, and you start to lose a bit of your bite. But you stumble on regardless.

“I am in love.”

The admission feels foreign on your tongue but also like it belongs right there. You hear Shota’s sharp exhale behind you, but the room stays otherwise silent for a stretched moment.

“...Congratulations,” Taeyang says after a moment, his brows furrowing. “Um.” He clears his throat. “Would you like a gift?”

You blink. “Are you not concerned who it is?”

“Should I be?”

You take a step aside to reveal Shota to him, not that he was hidden behind your smaller stature, but the point still stands.

Taeyang’s brows shoot up behind his hair, alarmed at the revelation. “Your guard?”

“I know father won’t approve–”

“You’re damn right he wouldn’t!”

“—but that won’t change anything!” Your breaths feel stuck in your throat as you scramble to make your plea. “Look, brother, I know you don’t like me very much and—”

“Woah, hold on a second—” He’s rising from his chair but you can’t see much past the blur of your tears and the fog of your panic.

“—I know we don’t see eye to eye, and I know you don’t approve of this, but I just need you to hear me out just once—”

You’re cut off when two arms engulf you and hold you to a warm chest. 

You freeze. You can’t remember the last time Taeyang held you, if he ever has.

Your emotion bears too much for you to contain. So you let it out into his chest in quiet, defeated sobs and he holds you tighter.

His voice is soft as he speaks into your hair. “Now what gave you that silly idea?”

You crumble, arms finally winding around his waist and clinging on. 

“I don’t know,” you sniffle, feeling completely off centre. “I know I can be difficult.”

He laughs wryly, breaths bristling your hair. “That runs in the family,” he states lightly before pulling back to take your face in his hands. 

You don’t meet his eye, too ashamed at your outburst.

“I’m sorry I gave you that idea,” he says, thumbing away the tear-tracks on your cheeks. “I know I haven’t been very present in your life, or the others’ at that, but I plan on changing that.”

“…The Princess really got to you,” you mutter without thought, then brace for his reprimand when you realize what you’ve said.

But it doesn’t come. He smiles instead. “I suppose she has.”

“So you are in love.”

“That I am,” he says sheepishly. You’ve never seen your brother this shy. But it doesn’t last long. He clears his throat, glancing past your shoulder. “I have no qualms with a union of you and a respected Knight, though it’ll take some time for him to achieve that.” Your brows furrow when he looks back at you. “Until then, not a word of this romance gets out. And when father passes, I’ll see to it that you marry him.”

The weight in your chest feels like it lifts off all at once, your eyes widening once Taeyang’s words settle in your mind. “Really?!”

“Given that he would also like to marry you,” Taeyang adds, glancing past your shoulder again. “He looks scared.”

You whip around to face Shota who immediately lowers his head, hiding.

“Shota?” You call and he barely lifts his head to address you.

Before you can get another word in, the doors open to a rather uneasy looking Intak. “Tae…” He trails off when he notices the audience and quickly falls into a bow. “Princess,” he greets before glancing over at Taeyang. “I need to speak with Taeyang.”

“That’s fine,” Taeyang says, then pushes you towards Shota with a hand on your back. “Take this elsewhere.”

You don’t waste time. You take Shota’s wrist and pull him along with you, only letting go when others pass by. You take him to one of the crevices of the halls that you would often find yourself tucked away with him under vastly different circumstances.

“Shota.” You press him against the wall that you usually find yourself pushed against. “Please tell me that you—”

He kisses you. And you’re too weak to talk first, so you kiss him back, your arms winding around his neck as his find home around your waist.

“I’ll stay,” he mumbles into the kiss, desperate and breathless. “I won’t leave your side. I’m sorry.”

You pull from the kiss, cradling his face between your hands. “No.” Your breaths mingle with his as you push your forehead against his nose. “I know you want to join the War Guard. And you should, it’s your calling. Besides, you heard my brother,” you add, lips lifting into a smile when you see the twinkle in his eyes livening again. “You can marry me once you’re a Knight.”

He grins at you, the bright and twinkling one that’s made its home in your heart. “I can go?”

You nod against him, tilting your head up to tuck your nose against his. “As long as you come back to me.”

𓆩⟡𓆪

“So, you and your guard,” Jiung says from where he’s standing beside you. “What was it that you called him? Demon? Cretin? Well what do you call him now?” He elbows your arm. “Darling? Love? My d—Ow!”

He rubs his forehead, pain etched on his face, as you cross your arms and turn back to watch Shota and Jongseob bid their goodbye’s. The carriage waits for him at a more secluded area of the castle, private enough so you can bid your goodbyes without any prying eyes.

“You’re all better now which means I get to hurt you more,” you warn him. “You know nothing.”

Jiung huffs, pushing his hands back in his pocket. “I know that Taeyang wouldn’t make something up like this just for his amusement.”

“You don’t know that, he’s a changed man now. Didn’t you see him smiling?”

He snorts. “Our Queen-to-be is a witch.”

“Or a saint.”

The conversation lulls as you watch Shota bring Jongseob into a tight embrace.

“You’ll be okay not having him attached to your hip around the clock? For two years?”

You take a breath to soothe away the pang in your heart at the reminder. You’re not happy about sending him away for so long. But if it means he can come back as the man you can marry, it’s a sacrifice you’re willing to make. 

Besides, the way Shota’s eyes sparkle whenever the word Knight comes up was enough reason for you to agree anyway. He’s wanted nothing more than to follow in his father’s footsteps. Besides you, of course.

“I’ll be okay,” you concur. “Jiho will do until then.”

You watch Jongseob finally step away, wiping his eyes quickly. You refrain from making a comment about him being emotional as you quickly move past him to get to Shota.

Shota’s eyes are stuck to Jongseob’s retreating figure when you reach him, gaze more melancholy than you expect.

“Don’t tell me you’ll miss him more than me,” you say, taking his hands in yours, and he blinks his gaze to you.

He smiles, pulling you in to wrap his arms around your waist instead. “If I said I would?”

“Then I’ll leave you for Jiho.”

Immediately, Shota’s face blanks and he moves to pull away from you. “Don’t joke about that.”

Laughing, you pull him right back into your arms. “Don’t be so jealous. My heart is set on you, moonbeam.”

He blushes down to his neck and grins, dropping his head onto your shoulder. You hold him like that for a moment, memorizing the weight and the heat of him against you like this, even though you’d spent all last night doing just that—it didn’t feel like enough though.

“You’ll visit when you can, won’t you?” You ask him quietly, swallowing down the emotion that threatens to rise.

His fingers dig into your waist, pulling you flush against him as he brushes his lips against your collarbone. “Any chance I get.” He lifts his head to smile down at you. “Until then I have Moonbeam to remind me of you.”

You scrunch your nose, a light heat rising to your cheeks. “You talk about it like it's a pet. It’s a painting.”

He giggles and the sound alone melts away all your woes. “I love it like it's my own.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you chide, but it falls weak with the fond grin on your lips.

When Shota presses his forehead to yours, you take the chance to commit the image of him so close to you to your memory—the slope of his nose, the scar on his brow, the slant of his lips as he smiles at you, and the warmth in his gaze as he looks at you, wide and twinkling like they always are.

You want to capture the stars and hang them in his eyes. You want to keep them for yourself and watch them whenever you want.

“You’ll come back for me, right?” You ask him in fear that you won’t get to.

“I came back for you once already, right?” 

He smiles, and you think you can see the stars already. 

“I’ll come back for you again.”

please leave your thoughts below!! it would make my day <3

SERIES MASTERLIST a collaborative event by @jiuchip & @liliesonthego

series taglist: @jellyybelly @chandlxa @delicatechris @keymeadoww @ericlvr @ozzysoatsolivesandpasta @cuppasunu @ferociouspapa2 @nezzasworld @bubu-love-24 @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx @filmsunshine @shmooooo @jsshu @reiofsuns2001 @kyoluvrs @halaziasupremacy @cherryyberry1 @peonyjoo @glitteryzombieexpert @onedirectionruinedme @rockstartaeyang @wuriwoori @embobema @myfavoritedelusion @soapyfish4life @sisakoekiee @snow0-0fairy @mellownorth @lunaryoongie @meiisamotherbitch @stxrxyyz @equillisation @rainyblahaj @melonia17 @louis4sho @soullesslien @cryptothecat @seobsongz @m-wraith96 @kha0sblossom @x-odid @stxrxyyz @youneedtonot @foreveronez @alienslostinworld @yumi-yearns @sjakewrld 

comment to be added to the taglist!

© jiuchip © liliesonthego

[skzdust]

I Guess I Can Stay...

This contains smut. MINORS DNI.

Welcome to the matz villa fic!! I've been thinking about this NONSTOP so I hope you all enjoy :D

@mid-loser hope you like :D

✧✩✮ Summary: Hongjoong's persuaded Seonghwa to stay at a villa with him during their break. Pining, tension, and smut. ✮✩✧

✧✩✮ Pairing: Park Seonghwa x Kim Hongjoong ✮✩✧

✧✩✮ Includes: tension, pining, secretly made songs, tequila sunrises by the pool, pillow fight that turns into something more, bottom!Hongjoong, top!Seonghwa, San and Yeosang do have a bet that they'll fuck LMAO ✮✩✧

✧✩✮ Word count: 3.5k ✮✩✧

✧✩✮ Taglist (Comment on a post/send an ask if you'd like to be added): @weirdowithaphone, @caught-in-the-afterglow, @palindrome969, @skzstan12345, @katsukis1wife, @tsunderelino, @hyunjinsjeans , @somethingkindazainy , @silverstarburst @atzlordz @breadpuddingboys ✮✩✧

✧✩✮ Network:@mirohs-aurora-society ✮✩✧

✧✩✮ Reblogs, likes, comments all appreciated!!! ✮✩✧

✧✩✮ Masterlist ✮✩✧

---

Seonghwa: You know I’m planning on visiting family… Hongjoong: [4 pictures attached] Hongjoong: Already booked a place, it really would be a shame for it to be wasted on one person

Seonghwa opened the pictures. The villa Hongjoong had picked out was big, with huge glass windows and a pool with a gorgeous view. 

The last picture was a mirror selfie, with a huge bed visible in the background. Hongjoong was only in board shorts, no shirt, with a little smirk on his face.

He sighed, then smiled.  Seonghwa: Fine, if you already booked it, I guess I can stay… Hongjoong: :]

“You texting Hongjoong?” San looked over from where he was folding clothes. “You’re doing an awful lot of wistful expressions.”

“I don’t look wistful.” Seonghwa said. “I’m just thinking. I don’t think I’m coming back to Korea with you guys.”

San laughed. “So you are texting Hongjoong.”

Seonghwa gave a short, irritated sigh. “Yes. He booked this villa, it looks beautiful.”

“Are you finally gonna talk to him?”

“About what?” Seonghwa said, although he knew exactly what San was talking about. 

“Come on.” San threw a grey tank top into his suitcase. “We all know the tension’s been building for a while now, and a villa for just the two of you… come on.”

Seonghwa rolled his eyes. “Sannie, you know as well as I do that there’s no way the company lets anything happen.”

“The company doesn’t have to know, if it’s just the two of you at that house on break. You can fuck to your heart’s content.”

“San!” Seonghwa said, but he was smiling just at the thought. “Oh my god, that’s not going to happen.”

“Sure, sure.” San said knowingly. “Deny it all you want, but I bet you and Hongjoong will have done something by the end of the week. You’re the only one he’ll touch, you know. He never cuddles with any of us.”

“I know.” Seonghwa closed his eyes. “But I’m his best friend. I don’t want to mess that up.”

San snorted. “I think you both have more feelings than that. Me and Yeosang have money on it, so don’t disappoint me.”

“You do not have money on it.”

“I do.” San pointed at him. “Something’s going to happen this week, I just know it, Seonghwa.”

—

“Seonghwa!”

Seonghwa looked to the top of the staircase to see Hongjoong standing there, grinning. He ran down the steps, stopping just short of him.

“Hi, Joong!” Seonghwa looked at his two suitcases. “Where can I take these?”

“Oh, uh—” Hongjoong cleared his throat. “There’s a few bedrooms. I took one of them, but there’s two others, too.”

“Oh, nice.” Seonghwa moved towards the stairs. “Let me set these down then.”

Hongjoong followed him. “The pool’s really nice! The water feels great.”

“Perfect, we can swim, then.” 

Hongjoong pushed open the door to one of the rooms. “I was thinking you’d like this one.”

Seonghwa smiled as they walked in. It was a nice room, with floor to ceiling windows and a small balcony overlooking the pool. “Thanks, Hongjoong, I love it.”

“Okay, well, um, I’ll let you get changed, and I’ll see you down there.”

“Sounds good.” Seonghwa nodded. 

As Hongjoong left and Seonghwa began to search through his suitcase for swim trunks, he thought about Hongjoong. 

He’d seemed more nervous than usual. He tended to be more relaxed when it was just the two of them, but for some reason, he was on edge today.

Seonghwa couldn’t help but wonder if he was planning something.

He got changed and went down to the pool. Hongjoong was sitting with his legs in the water, kicking them back and forth and staring down at the drink in his hand. Seonghwa watched him through the glass door for a second, noticing that his lips were moving. He was singing to himself.

He looked up when Seonghwa came outside.

“Having fun?” Seonghwa closed the door behind him.

Hongjoong lifted another drink that had been sitting beside him. “I made one for you, too.”

“Oh, thanks.” Seonghwa smiled, taking it. “What is it?”

“Tequila sunrise.” Hongjoong grinned.

“Oh, of course.” Seonghwa laughed. “Surprised you didn’t outright make lemon drops.”

“Well, this is a reference nonetheless.” Hongjoong shrugged. “And I like them more than lemon drops.”

“What were you singing just now?”

“Oh.” Hongjoong flushed red. “Just something I’ve been thinking about. Nothing too big.”

“What is it? I’m curious.” Seonghwa took a sip of his drink, sitting beside Hongjoong and carefully putting his legs in the water beside his. “Is it something you want to release?”

“I don’t think so.” Hongjoong shook his head. “I’m mostly working on it for… myself.”

“Are you producing anything for it?”

“Kind of.” Hongjoong looked into his cup. “It’s kind of a self-indulgent little thing. I’ve been spending too much time on it.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.” Seonghwa said. “You always have so many projects, Hongjoong, and all of them are worth it.”

Hongjoong sighed. “Thanks. It’s kind of a gift for someone, though. I was hoping to finish it within the next few days.”

“Oh.” Seonghwa said. “In that case, I can go, let you finish it.”

“No!” Hongjoong’s hand fell over his, trapping him to the ground. “No, stay. I want to spend time with you.”

Something about the way he said it, the way he looked at Seonghwa, with so much earnestness in his eyes, was almost intoxicating. Seonghwa held his gaze for a long moment. 

“I mean, you made me a tequila sunrise, I don’t really want to leave.” Seonghwa smiled. “I’ll stay as long as you want me to, Hongjoong.”

“Good.” Hongjoong smiled back, letting go of his hand with a nervous laugh. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Seonghwa lifted his glass to his lips, taking a long drink. “But don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere.”

—

Seonghwa knocked on Hongjoong’s bedroom door. “Hongjoong? Want to come watch something?”

“Come in!” Hongjoong called. 

Seonghwa walked in. Hongjoong was sitting on the floor in front of a coffee table, his laptop and midi board set up in front of him. His headphones were in. He was clearly working on something.

Seonghwa walked in and sat down across from him. “Hongjoong?”

“Mm?” Hongjoong pulled out his headphones and looked at Seonghwa. “What’s up?”

“I wanted to ask if you wanted to watch a movie.” Seonghwa said with a smile. “We’re on break, Joong, you don’t have to work on anything right now. Relax.”

“I want to work, though.” Hongjoong tilted his head. “It’s the gift I mentioned.”

“C’mon, you’re the one who wanted me to stay.” Seonghwa shrugged. “Didn’t you want to spend time with me?”

“Yes.” Hongjoong smiled. “Here, sit on my bed, we can watch in here.”

“You’re making an excuse to keep working on it.” Seonghwa said, but he climbed into Hongjoong’s bed anyway. He hadn’t been sleeping here that long, but it already smelled a bit like him. “I’ll queue something up while you get your software shut down.”

“While I shut it down… right…” Hongjoong muttered. 

Seonghwa leaned down the bed, peeking over Hongjoong’s shoulder to catch a glimpse of the file name: Hwa_surprise.

Hongjoong noticed, twisting around. “Hey! Don’t look!” 

“It’s for me?”

“Don’t worry about it!” Hongjoong saved his work and carefully shut his laptop before jumping up on the bed and laying back against the pillows. “Don’t worry about it, Seonghwa.”

“Okay. I’m not worried.” Seonghwa said. “Want to pick the movie?”

Hongjoong shrugged. “I don’t really care that much.”

Seonghwa picked something at random, some action movie, and laid back beside Hongjoong.

This felt so nice. So domestic. They didn’t have moments like this often. 

Seonghwa always fantasized about things like this. About him and Hongjoong in bed together, Seonghwa’s arms wrapped around Hongjoong’s shoulders, pulling him closer into a kiss that both of them needed. Hongjoong’s little whimpers as he chased Seonghwa’s lips. His heavy breath. 

Hongjoong laughed breathily at a joke one of the characters made, and Seonghwa looked at him. He looked so good, his orange hair a little messy, his glasses a little askew.

Hongjoong looked over with raised eyebrows, catching Seonghwa. “You’re staring at me.”

“No— no, I’m not.” Seonghwa laughed. “I’m not staring.”

“You are! Do I have something in my teeth or something?”

“No.”

“Then why are you staring?”

“You look good.” The words slipped out of Seonghwa’s mouth before he could hold them back. 

Hongjoong laughed. “Stop joking around, seriously, what’s wrong?”

Seonghwa could awkwardly recover from it, tell Hongjoong his hair was just messy. He knew Hongjoong was giving him that option.

But he chose to double down. 

“I’m not joking around.”

Hongjoong pulled a pillow out from behind himself and threw it at Seonghwa.

“Hey!” Seonghwa caught it and threw it right back at him. “I’m being serious!” 

“No, you’re not!” Hongjoong grabbed another one, whacking him this time. “Stop making fun of me!” 

“I’m— Hongjoong!” Seonghwa giggled, finding another pillow and hitting him back.

They didn’t say anything for a few moments, hitting each other with pillows and laughing. The moments of peace with Hongjoong were few and far between, but this? The carefree laughter and smiles and the glow on Hongjoong’s face? This hadn’t happened in years. 

Seonghwa ran out of ammunition and leaned over Hongjoong to grab the pillow behind him.

Hongjoong went still and silent, and Seonghwa realized he was straddling him, their hips pressed together.

He looked at Hongjoong’s face. His lips were parted, his face slightly flushed, his hair even messier. His eyes were wide.

 Seonghwa dropped his hands on either side of Hongjoong’s face, leaning in. “I wasn’t kidding, you know, you look good.”

Hongjoong’s breath caught. “You weren’t?”

“No.” Seonghwa said. “No, I wasn’t.” He leaned down further, until their noses were nearly brushing. “Hongjoong…”

Hongjoong kissed him. 

Seonghwa had thought he knew everything about Hongjoong. He knew he chewed mint gum when he was working on a beat. He knew what kind of shampoo he used. He knew his favorite drink, his favorite candy, his favorite book.

But despite all his imaginings, he didn’t know everything about Hongjoong. He didn’t know he liked to kiss with his tongue. He didn’t know he’d taste like his gum. He didn’t know he’d slide his hand into Seonghwa’s hair, gripping it tight to pull him in closer. 

Seonghwa couldn’t believe he’d been missing out on this for so long. 

Hongjoong made a desperate little noise. “Seonghwa, Seonghwa.”

Seonghwa pulled back a bit, pressing their foreheads together. “Yeah?”

“Nothing, just— just keep kissing me, please.”

Seonghwa couldn’t deny a request like that. He pressed his lips to Hongjoong’s again, and without even thinking about it, his leg slid between Hongjoong’s. He groaned into Seonghwa’s mouth as he began to gently work his hips against his thigh. His kisses grew messier, and Seonghwa could feel how hard he was getting. 

“You need something?” Seonghwa whispered against his lips. 

Hongjoong nodded. “Mhm.”

“What do you need?”

“You.” Hongjoong whimpered. “You, Seonghwa. Park Seonghwa. You.”

Fuck. That was going to be enough to fuel Seonghwa’s fantasies for years to come. “Oh, Hongjoong.” He put a hand down between their bodies, finding Hongjoong’s cock.

Hongjoong gasped as Seonghwa rubbed it through the fabric of his sweatpants. His hips gently pushed up into Seonghwa’s hand. “Fuck, Seonghwa, Seonghwa.”

“Yes?” Seonghwa smiled innocently.

“Should’ve known you’d tease me.”

“I can be nice, if you want.”

“I just want you to make me come.” Hongjoong groaned. “Please, Seonghwa.”

Seonghwa didn’t miss how he kept saying his name. Like he was trying to assure himself this was real. 

Seonghwa understood that feeling. He was kind of trying to convince himself it was real, too. 

“Yeah, Hongjoong.” He breathed. “I can make you come.”

He got off Hongjoong, pushing his pants and boxers down enough to free his cock. Seonghwa gently rubbed his thumb over the tip, which was already leaking precum. “Fuck, Hongjoong.”

Hongjoong whimpered. “Seonghwa…”

“I’ve got you.” Seonghwa spat into his palm, a dirty sound that made Hongjoong moan. Seonghwa began to stroke his cock in long, steady motions. He surveyed Hongjoong’s body as he went— the way his stomach muscles were clenching, the rise and fall of his chest with his breath, his squeezed-shut eyes. 

“Look at me.” He said gently. 

Hongjoong opened his eyes, meeting Seonghwa’s gaze. He looked desperate, his eyebrows contorted, his mouth slightly open. It might’ve been Seonghwa’s new favorite Hongjoong expression. 

“Seonghwa, it feels so good, so much better when you do it.” Hongjoong gasped as Seonghwa applied a bit more pressure. “So much better than I imagined.”

“You’ve imagined this?” Seonghwa said softly. 

“Yeah.” Hongjoong said. “Every time I get off.”

“Fuck.” Seonghwa whispered.

Hongjoong kept eye contact, his face getting progressively more needy, more desperate for orgasm. Seonghwa was almost uncomfortably hard now, and he adjusted his seat as he continued to get Hongjoong off. 

“You getting hard?” Hongjoong’s eyes flickered down to the outline of Seonghwa’s cock in his shorts. 

“Yeah.”

“Do you want…” Hongjoong trailed off.

“What?”

“Do you want to fuck me?”

Seonghwa exhaled. Now it was his turn to remind himself this was real, because this was a scene just out of one of his wet dreams— Hongjoong writhing under him, asking him if he wanted to fuck him. “Yes, fuck, I want to fuck you.”

Hongjoong smiled. “God, I want it so bad.”

Seonghwa stroked him faster still. “You’ve been thinking about this for a long time.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.” Hongjoong said. “I have, I— Seonghwa, I’m gonna come.”

“Come, Hongjoong, want to see you.” Seonghwa said, in what was almost a plea. 

A few moments later, Hongjoong was coming, his whole body shaking with his orgasm as he came all over Seonghwa’s hand. Seonghwa couldn’t help it, he moaned along with Hongjoong as he watched him. 

Hongjoong’s body came down from its high, and he sighed contentedly. Seonghwa’s hand slowed, then stilled, coming off Hongjoong’s cock. He licked some of the cum off his hand and mentally added that taste to the list of things he hadn’t known about him.

“Fuck me.” Hongjoong said softly, his eyes still closed. “If you want.”

“You already came, are you sure—”

“You didn’t.” Hongjoong interrupted. “I really want you to fuck me. Please.”

Seonghwa sighed, pushing his clean hand into his hair. “Yeah, Hongjoong, I’ll fuck you. I’d love to.”

Hongjoong smiled, opening his eyes. “Thank you, Seonghwa.”

“I should be the one thanking you.” Seonghwa smiled back. “Do you have any lube?”

“Yeah. In the front pocket in my small bag.” Hongjoong sat up, nodding at the bag. 

Seonghwa got up, finding a towel and wiping off his hand before going to the bag to find the little bottle. He got back on the bed and helped Hongjoong out of his pants. 

He just stared for a moment at Hongjoong’s soft cock, blinking at it. He was so pretty.

Hongjoong squirmed. “Will you just fuck me?”

Seonghwa squirted some of the lube onto his fingers, rubbing it between them to warm it up. “Yeah. You just look beautiful, that’s all.”

Seonghwa didn’t miss Hongjoong’s blush. “You’re beautiful.”

Seonghwa smiled. “You’re too kind to me.” Before Hongjoong could reply, he pressed a finger to his entrance, slowly pushing it inside him. Hongjoong gasped, his breathing growing heavier, but he kept still.

“How’s that?” Seonghwa asked when he was fully inside him.

“More.” Hongjoong said. “I can take more. I want to take you.”

“Fuck.” Seonghwa said softly. “I can do that. Just tell me how you’re feeling, okay?”

“Yeah.”

Seonghwa gently added a second finger, then a third. Hongjoong’s breathing was loud, and he was making little moans on every exhale now. Seonghwa had been avoiding finding his prostate, but now that he had more fingers in, he searched for it. Hongjoong cried out, and Seonghwa stopped. “You okay?”

“It’s— it’s so good!” Hongjoong whined. “Keep going.”

“I can do that.” Seonghwa murmured, pressing further into the spot. Hongjoong whimpered louder. “Good?”

“So good.” Hongjoong said. “Can I have your cock now?”

“Insatiable.” Seonghwa laughed softly. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay? Let me add one more finger.”

Seonghwa worked a fourth finger inside Hongjoong, making sure he was stretched enough. His breath was broken by moans as Seonghwa played with him.

“Okay, does everything feel okay?”

“Yes, Seonghwa, just fuck me.”

Seonghwa took off his shorts, throwing them to the side and stroking his cock with one hand. He bit back a moan as even just his hand gave him some relief. He knew Hongjoong would feel even better.

Seonghwa got his cock wet with the lube, and he pressed it to Hongjoong’s entrance. Hongjoong’s breath caught, and then he went quiet. Waiting.

Seonghwa gently pushed inside him. 

He was so tight, so warm, and the slide was so deliciously smooth. Seonghwa was worried for a moment that he hadn’t stretched him enough, but the thought was quickly banished by his pleading: “More, I can take it, I can take it.”

Seonghwa kept his slow pace, watching as Hongjoong took his cock, right to the base. He sat there, his hips flush with Hongjoong’s, for just a second, before leaning over him and giving a slow, experimental thrust of his hips.

Hongjoong moaned loudly, his hips pushing up, chasing Seonghwa’s cock. “Fuck, Hwa, Hwa, so good!” 

Seonghwa laughed, but the sound was breathless. “I’m glad, captain.” 

He wasn’t sure where the honorific had come from, but Hongjoong seemed to like it. He felt him clench around him, and it was his turn to moan. 

“Fuck me.” Hongjoong begged. “Call me that again, and please, fuck me.”

“Yes, captain.” Seonghwa said, moving his hips again, starting with slow rolls into his body. His arms were steady as he held himself over Hongjoong, and he mentally thanked his time in the gym with Yeosang and San. 

Yeosang and San. Seonghwa huffed a small laugh as he remembered their bet.

“What?” Hongjoong whimpered. “What are you laughing about?”

“Nothing.” Seonghwa said. “Yeosang and San had a bet we’d fuck.”

Hongjoong giggled breathily. “Mingi and Yunho had one, too.”

“No way.”

“Yeah.”

Seonghwa laughed again, slightly louder this time. “Who won?”

“Mingi.” Hongjoong said. “Keep going, I only want to say your name right now.”

“Yes, captain.”

Hongjoong moaned as Seonghwa punctuated it with a hard thrust. “Yeah, like that, oh, Seonghwa, like that.”

Seonghwa fucked him harder, rougher, his hips growing faster with every slide in and out of Hongjoong. Hongjoong’s hands found their way onto Seonghwa’s back, clutching, clawing, claiming him with long red scratches. Seonghwa sighed with each touch of Hongjoong’s fingers, the sensations giving him goosebumps. 

“Seonghwa— Seonghwa.” Hongjoong said.

Seonghwa stilled. “Yeah?”

“Nothing, keep going, just— just feels so good. Just wanted to say your name.”

“Fuck.” Seonghwa whispered, continuing to fuck him. “Hongjoong, Hongjoong, you feel so good, so good, so good, captain.”

“Yeah, that’s it.” Hongjoong said. “Captain. I’m your captain.”

“Yeah.” Seonghwa’s hips moved faster, more erratically, the motions growing irregular. He was getting close to his orgasm, and he was chasing it hard. 

“That’s it— that’s it, that’s it, Seonghwa, that’s it—”

“I’m gonna— Hongjoong, fuck, so good, I’m gonna— I’m gonna—”

“Come, Seonghwa.”

“Captain!” Seonghwa pushed into Hongjoong one last time, his arms finally starting to shake as he weakly moved his hips through his orgasm. Hongjoong felt so good, so tight and warm and wet around him. Even after he’d come, he didn’t want to pull out. He collapsed on top of Hongjoong. 

“Good job, Seonghwa, fuck, that felt so good.” Hongjoong whispered, pressing a kiss to his hair. “I need you to pull out, though. We should clean up.”

“Always practical.” Seonghwa muttered. “I’m sorry, I forgot a condom, it’ll be messy. I don’t have anything, I should’ve said that earlier.”

“I believe you.” Hongjoong said. “I’m just— fuck, Seonghwa, that was so good. You’re so good.”

“That’s definitely you.” Seonghwa said, closing his eyes. “I— I love you.”

Hongjoong pulled away, and he opened his eyes to meet Hongjoong’s gaze. “I love you too, Seonghwa.”

Seonghwa smiled. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Hongjoong smiled back. “The song was going to be a confession. I guess it’s not much of a surprise anymore, but you might still want to hear it.”

“I definitely do.” Seonghwa said. “I’m really excited to hear it.” 

Hongjoong laughed. “That was kind of the whole point of this house.”

“Telling me you loved me?”

“Somewhere away from all of it.” Hongjoong sighed. “There’s always so much going on. I just wanted to be us for a little while.”

Seonghwa kissed him, long and languid. “Then let’s make the most of it.”

[yeonlymine]

aloe vera ᢉ𐭩 mingi

saddle burn wasn’t the only thing raw

𐚁 mingi x f!reader

𐚁wc: 3.4k

𐚁warnings!: smut, a lil plot, spit play, bondage/rope, choking, power dynamics, size kink, cum play, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, marking, spanking, biting, cowboy!mingi, im prob forgetting some

𐚁fun fact, i rodeo irl. im here to burst the bubble that cowboys are gentlemen. majority are assholes that have community d :) but we love cowboy mingi so it's acceptable in this circumstance!! this isnt rlly proofread, this was for funsies. (fyi the term "roughie" means someone who competes in rough stock events! in this case mingi is a bull rider)

𐚁𓄀✮⋆˙ 𐚁𓄀✮⋆˙

You knew better, you knew riding in shorts would rub you raw. 

Yet you did it anyway because it’s warm out, who would put on jeans when it’s 90 out? Horses gotta get warmed up too. 

Mingi told you while you were saddling up, you waved him off. Listening to roughies never got you anywhere but in the back seat of a truck.

You weren’t going to let a very tall, muscular, good-looking bullrider sway you…right?

You didn’t need the distraction, not before a run, so you continued to lope circles in the warm-up pen.

There’s no shade of trees, barely a breeze, the dust is all in your lungs, and it’s like you can feel the heat radiating from the bleachers. 

Your horse’s ride is smooth, and you match it, but the constant rubbing of your thighs from the rough out saddle is making it more agonizing.

Other contestants are scattered throughout the grounds, eating, talking; it’s the most relaxed time before it’s time to run at night.  

All but one bullrider, whom you’ve sworn not to touch with a ten-foot pole. Mingi has a tank on, shades covering his eyes, a trucker cap, and jeans. His long limbs just hanging on the fence, watching you. 

Each time you get to his side of the fence, you glance his way. He smirks that stupid smirk, you get goosebumps even though you’re sweating bullets.

Your horse’s body heat isn’t helping, so you decided to give both of you a break. It feels like scraping your knee on concrete as you slide off the other side of your saddle, you wince to yourself at the sensation.  

You waddle to the fence to tie your horse and loosen up the girth for her.

“I told you.” Mingi walks over, pats your horse’s head, his voice is filled with glee. 

“Shut up, I’m fine, just slight saddle burn.” You roll your eyes as you secure the rope knot, you wipe your forehead with the back of your hand.

“Slight?”

“Isn’t that what I said?”

“Smart mouth.” He clicks his tongue, climbs over the fence, and goes to help remove the splint boots from your horse.

“I got it, Mingi.” He pays you no mind and continues to unwrap. You get up from crouching, and that’s when your thighs touch.

“Fuck—shit.” 

He goes around to your side, takes his shades off, he’s towering over you as he holds the left splint boot in his hand. 

“No, darlin’, you’re chafed really bad—not just ‘slight’.” 

You snatch the boot out his hand, “Stop looking between my legs.”

“It’s obvious from a mile away that you’re hurting, and one more ride in that saddle is gonna have you bleeding.”

“Now you’re being dramatic.”

“You’re standing like you had 15 beers.” Your jaw tightens, and you try to straighten up. He’s so close that the brim of his cap shadows your face. 

“No I’m not.” But even the small shift makes you inhale sharply, he catches it, his eyes are drilling into you. 

He smiles at you again, you shove at his chest. You hate proving anybody right, “Don’t you gotta buckle bunny hanging around somewhere?”

His tongue presses into his cheek, “See—I would,” he leans down a little closer, feeling his body heat against your own, “but they don’t ride in soccer shorts like you.”

Your stomach gets that empty feeling, and you hate that you’re falling for old patterns again. He reaches down before you can step back.

He hooks his finger under your shorts at your outer thigh; he doesn’t lift, just keeps his fingers there. 

“Mm.” He observes, and you swat his hand away. “Don’t.”

“C’mon, lemme see.”

“No.” 

He tilts his head, “So you’re just gonna be in pain through your run tonight, just to prove something?”

You don’t say anything, because that was the plan all along, you were just going to suffer the consequences of your actions for the day. 

Then he straightens up, “My truck–now.”

“Absolutely not.” You cross your arms, lean on the shoulder of your horse, you don’t dare cross your legs over. 

“Relaxxxx, it’s not like that—unless you want it like that.”

You glare, and his grin only gets wider, then he softens up a bit. “I got aloe.”

Now you know he’s getting serious, he’s actually offering you a practical solution, not just the thing between his legs.

He knows your run is important, he knows that’s the real threat for you. He turns and starts walking towards the field with the parked truck and trailers.

You don’t follow at first, but you wait about five seconds before you attempt a step across the gravel.

Pain immediately shoots up your thighs, you huff out, trying to keep it down because you swear he’s smiling even though he doesn’t turn around. 

He keeps walking as gravel shifts under your boots, it’s uneven footing, so every brush of skin makes you clench your jaw. 

His long legs make big strides, but you can tell he slowed down a bit, he definitely wasn’t trying to make it obvious. 

By the time you reach his truck, he’s already dropped the tailgate. No trailer hooked to it, as roughies only need to bring themselves and their gear, no animals to worry about until their performance. 

They have it easy outside of the 8 seconds of them risking their life. 

He leans against it, arms crossed, shades hanging on his tank. “Took you long enough.” You stop a few feet away.

“Whatever, you planning on actually helping or just enjoying the show?”

He looks you up and down slowly. You look all over the place, to be honest. A tank top on with dust sticking to your body,  sweat on your face, hair pulled back under a cap, with boots on. 

You never look your absolute best during the day of the show anyway. Except Mingi isn’t looking at your face or your chest, he’s looking at your legs.

“That depends,” he says lazily. “You gonna keep pretending you don’t need help?” He pushes off the tailgate, taps on it.

“Hop up.”

“I can stand.”

“I really didn’t ask.”   

You hesitate until he raises a brow, then you grab the edge and pull yourself up, the metal is hot through your shorts. His truck is not covered and has been sitting in the beaming sun. 

Your legs part just a little, limiting the friction against them. He goes around to the front of his truck and grabs a bottle that has green gel inside.  

The aloe, you could jump for joy. He steps between your knees as your legs hang and your back stiffens. 

“We’re in public– dude, you see how many trailers parked next to you?”

“Would you prefer this in the truck? Windows are tinted–plus nobody is looking at your legs but me.”

Your pulse jumps, it shouldn’t, because this is just a favor, but it seems your body doesn’t care what your brain thinks.

“Yeah, truck please.” You slide off the tailgate and go to the open passenger door. He follows and stands in front of you, his body plus the door covering you completely from any other eyes. 

It just looks like Mingi digging into his truck at this angle.  He flips the cap open with his thumb, squeezes some into his hand.  “Last chance to tell me to stop.”

You swallow, your pride is screaming, but your thighs are on fucking fire.

“...Just make it quick.” His mouth curves up.

“Oh—you know I don’t do anything quick.”

The first touch is cold, the aloe hits your skin, and you suck in a breath. It feels like pouring peroxide on an open wound. 

His hand is rough, calloused from the bull ropes and working with his hands all the time. He spreads it slowly along the inside of your thigh.

He doesn’t go high or inappropriately, just where the roughed-up skin is. He doesn’t rush, he rubs it in like he does baby powder before his rides. 

“You’re so sensitive,” he murmurs.

“Well, no shit.”

“You should’ve listened.” His thumb drags a little slower, and you can feel the shift in breathing. He looks up at you from under his hat.

“Still just ‘slight?’” His thumb presses a little harder as he works the aloe in some more, the stinging sensation still subtle. 

Your knees go loose, opening up a little more, and his eyes don’t leave yours. “You can tell me to stop.”

You swallow, you’re sweating even more now, and your hand finds the front of his tank. You don’t push him, you bunch it up in your hands, holding him there. 

“Mingi,” you warn, but it comes out more breathy, not serious in the slightest. 

“Didn’t think so.” He says, stepping where his hips brush the edge of the passenger seat, your thighs hitting his. 

You know the aloe is just becoming an excuse at this point, you both have played these games before. 

“You’re such an ass.” Your grip tightens, pulling him closer.

His voice drops lower. “Then tell me to fuck off.” His hand rubs your inner thigh again, getting close to where you’ve been secretly aching and wet.

He leans in, his other hand bracing against the middle console behind you. You don’t say anything, don’t tell him no.

He hooks one finger under the edge of your shorts, tugs on them. “These are in the way.”

“Then do something about it.” Your pulse has quickened, know you shouldn’t be getting involved with him. 

His eyes flash, he grabs the shorts at the inseam, and they rip. Your shorts hang open, exposing your panties, already damp.   

“Shit, Mingi.”

“You told me to do something.” He yanks them away, hangs them on the rearview mirror. You’re left in your underwear, tank top, boots, and spurs.

His hand cups you through your underwear and you bite back a moan. “You’re so damn wet, bet there’s evidence of a snail trail in your saddle, huh?”

“Don’t get cocky, honey.”

He pulls your panties to the side, fingers sliding through your folds, and you choke. “Mhm. Keep talking for me.”

You can’t form words. His fingers work you open, you’re still covered from the other trucks and people in the parking lot, as two fingers push inside and his thumb finds your clit.

Your head falls back against the console, and he leans by your ear, tongue swipes it and you shudder.

“All that mouth and you can’t say shit now.”

“Maybe if you were better at this–”

He pulls his fingers out, and you whimper slightly. He grabs your jaw, forcing you to look at him, and his fingers wet with you press against your lips. 

“Open for me.” You glare as you do. He slides his fingers into your mouth, and you taste yourself with the tart lingering taste of aloe. His eyes are dark as he watches. 

You hollow your cheeks as you suck, and his breath hitches. He then pulls his fingers out, a string of spit connecting as he puts his fingers in his mouth. Moaning around his own fingers, holding direct eye contact with you. 

He then leans over into the bed of his truck and comes back in front of you, holding his bull rope. The one he uses for his rides, worn leather and frayed orange cord. Your eyes go wide.

“Turn around.”

“I’m not a fucking bull, you’re gonna have to make me.”

His hand grabs the hair peeking out of your cap and spins you, bending you over the console. Your boots scrape against the truck frame, spurs jingling. 

“You keep acting like a bull, get treated like one, baby.” He loops the rope around your wrists, pulling them behind your back and tying them tight. 

He tears your underwear next, throwing them in the backseat to be added to his collection. You can hear his buckle and zipper, and then you feel the head of his cock pressing against you. 

You think about onlookers and slowly stop giving a fuck, you’re covered. If they want to see Mingi's cheeks, they’ll get a show. 

He’s fucking big, you feel every vein, every muscle as he pushes in slowly.  “Jesus–shit, shit.”

“Too much? Thought you could handle it like you do your horses.” His voice is strained while still mocking you.

“Fuck everything about you.” You grit out, but get broken by a moan as he bottoms out in you. You’re so full, the air is getting scarce. 

He doesn’t give you time to adjust, he just pulls back and slams in. His balls slapping against you as you cry out. It hits the chafed skin from the saddle, and it hurts, but feels so damn good you can’t think straight. 

“Take it.”

He fucks you hard as your cheek rubs against the console, slobber smearing along the leather. The truck rocks with every thrust. 

Sweat drips, the rope burns your wrists, and you pull against it, which makes him go harder. He leans over you, one hand wrapping around your throat, pulling you up slightly so your back arches.

Your spurs catch on him and he hisses. “Careful with those,” he goes deeper, hitting your cervix, which makes you go delirious. 

“Oh my god.”

“Uh uh, wrong name.”

You can’t form coherent thoughts, so you push back against him, meeting his thrusts, and he groans.

He pulls out, and you whine. He unties the rope and flips you over, pulling you back to the edge of the seat. Your legs wrap around his waist, spurs digging into his ass, and he grins.

He pushes back in and you both moan. The angle is deeper, you can see him now. His hat is half on, tank top clinging to his body with sweat, happy trail visible,  jaw clenched. 

He looks damn good. 

He spits into his hand and brings it between you, rubbing your clit in tight circles while he pounds into you. It’s so much, you’re coming before you can stop it, your whole body squeezes around him tight. 

“Fuck,” he thrusts three more times, and then he’s spilling inside you with a groan. He collapses forward, head hanging on your shoulder, both of you gasping.

He pulls out slowly, and you feel his cum drip down your thighs, they burn even more now. The aloe has gone to waste. 

He swipes his fingers through it and brings it to your mouth again. “Clean this all up, you’ve already fucked up my seats.”

You maintain eye contact as you do, and his cock twitches against your thigh. “You’re such a dick.”

He grins lazily, satisfied. “You’re the one who was on this dick in a parking lot with your spurs still on.” 

You can’t even argue with that, but then your breathing steadies, and when you look at him, there’s a look in your eyes that makes him falter.

“Looks like it’s my turn, huh.”

He blinks, “What–”

“Get in the truck.” He stares at you a moment, cock still hard, then he laughs. “You serious?”

“Does it look like I’m fucking joking?” You move over to sit on top of the console to give him room, it takes all your strength to move because of how shaky you are. 

The seat is soaked in spit, cum, everything that’s dripped out of you. It’s absolutely filthy. “But that’s your seat.”

“And now it’s yours, sit.” His cocky smirk returns, and he gets all the way in. The truck dips, and he takes up the entire passenger seat, even in his big ass truck.

His thighs spread wide, and when he settles into the seat, you hear the wet sound of him sitting in your juices and the leather.  

“Jesus christ I’m gonna need a detail.”

“You should be honored.” You climb over him and squeeze in where you can, the heat seeping through with no ac.

His hands go to your hips, the fit is tight. His shoulders are so broad you have to brace your hands on the roof of the truck to balance, your knees press against the seat on either side of him.

No one can hear or see into his truck, tinted so dark you don’t know how he drives it on the regular.

You reach down between your bodies and wrap your hand around his cock. He begins to harden even more, and you stroke him slowly. 

You sink down on him in one stroke, and his words cut off into a choked groan. The stretch is delicious. You never took off your boots, dirt in his seat, spurs digging into the side of his thighs as you settle.

“What’s wrong Mingi?” You roll your hips and watch his eyes roll back. “Thought you’d be able to last 8 seconds?

“Fuck–”

You brace your hands on his shoulders, you set a fast pace. Your thighs burn, but you lift yourself almost completely off him before slamming back down. Cum drips down your thighs, down his cock, adding more to the mess he’s sitting in. 

His hands go to your hips, trying to slow you down, but you slap them away. “Didn’t say you could touch.” You lean forward and wrap your hand around his throat.

His cock twitches inside you, and you laugh breathlessly. “Oh? You like?” You squeeze your thighs tighter, changing the angle.

“I’m gonna die before my ride. Shit–”

“You’ll make it, just maybe not last the full time–” You sit up as much as you can, your head nearly brushes the roof. Your hips roll and snap, your spurs jingle with every movement, scraping his skin that’ll leave marks. 

Sweat drips between your breasts, and you can feel his chest slick under your hands. The windows start to fog, but you don’t slow down. 

“Look at you—big tough roughie who can’t take what he dishes out. Pathetic.”

“I like it when your mouth is occupied.” He sticks his fingers into your mouth and shoves them down your throat, your hips stutter a bit. 

“Good girl, all nice and quiet.” His other hand comes up to grab your tits, squeezing hard, he pinches, causing you to moan and clench around him. It only makes you go harder. 

You spit his fingers back out, some of it hits his face, he uses his tongue to lick it off around his lips. The scene alone makes you want to buckle at the knees. 

“You’re fucking insane.”

His hand slides down to your ass, and he spanks you, the sting matching the sensation of your inner thighs. Then he does it again. 

“Fuck—yess–” He spanks you harder, and you grind down harder, taking him deep. Your clit rubs against his unshaven stubble with every movement. You’re getting close again.

“Shit, I’m bout’ to nut.” His voice is wrecked, and you can feel him throbbing inside you. 

You tap his cheek playfully, “Not yet.”

“Please–”

“Please what?” You roll your hips, start spelling your nickname with your hips, and he chokes. “Use your words, honey.”

“Please let me come—fucking please.” You lean down, lips brushing his ear. “Fill me up again, wanna feel it.”

He comes with a groan, hands on your hips, and the feeling of him pulsing inside you. You come shortly after, thighs clamping around him. 

Even as you come, you keep moving, slower. “Wait–I can’t.”

“Yes, you can, take it.” You sit up, wringing every last bit out of him. His head falls back against the seat, throat exposed, and you lean down to bite it.

Your muscles are screaming, you chase another orgasm as you grind down on him. His hands roam your thighs, ass, tits as you come down. 

He’s about to say something smart until the sound of a mic squeals. You both freeze. A voice echoes from the arena, running sound check for the speakers before the night.

The loading of bulls and horses into the chutes, it makes you realize how the world didn’t really stop, and you’re still parked between trailers.

Still supposed to compete. 

Your thighs burn when you shift off him, the aloe is smeared everywhere. He runs a hand over his face, hat crooked, jaw tight. 

You adjust your tank top like nothing happened, grab what’s left over of your shorts off the rearview. 

“Better ride better than how you handled this.”

He laughs, you lean down as your lips brush the shell of his ear. “Wouldn’t want you lasting less than eight seconds under those lights.”

You pull back before he can respond, open the door, and slide on your ripped shorts. Heat floods in, and real life hits you.

He watches your boots hit the gravel, your thighs are still red, still raw, and it’s all his fault.

“That aloe was absolute shit.”

[jyunhology]

oh, honey lady ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖ smg (m)

summary: when you get stood up and cancelled on one too many times, your friend takes it upon herself to get you to enjoy a night out. but you’re faced immediately with the source of your woes pressed up to another and a bartender who catches on quickly. the latter offers to dance with you; will you say yes?

a/n: have been getting a lot of feels for mingi lately .. i blacked out n wrote this aft watching the recent ateez whodunnit because jesus christ that man looked FINE acting as a bartender.

word count: 6.1k

warnings: MINORS DNI!!!! bartender!mingi, softdom!mingi, sub!reader, reader's (ex) bf is a loser, reader lowkey traumatised from her (ex) bf, mingi is very understanding, consumption of alcohol (however, they’re not drunk during the deed, just a little tipsy), grinding in a public space (a club lol), lots of teasing, oral (f! receiving) / cunnilingus, fingering, praise, use of pet names (baby, honey, doll), bit of fluff in the middle, clit stimulation, unprotected p -> v sex (pls wrap it up irl), creampie, slight aftercare, mingi is so soft and patient with reader .. ❤️

No matter how much you knew this wasn’t your fault, you still can’t help but find fault with yourself — looks, personality, fashion. You passed it off the first time as something akin to a mistake, a miscalculation with the overtime your boyfriend, Hyunjae, had to do because of his recent promotion.

With mumbled apologies into your hair and fairly enjoyable sex, you thought everything between you both was going to be okay. It was just one dinner date, plus, he made it up to you with a fancy trip over the weekend and several, impressive gifts.

But you think you should’ve known better, because it happened a second time not even a month later, and the cycle repeats itself: sin, repent, and fall back into temptation all over again.

The only mistake you were making was thinking too highly of Hyunjae, assuming temptation was reports and hard work for extra cash, and not having a fucking affair with another woman in the printing room.

By the time the third incident came around, your friend was quick to propose a night out the next day despite your protests, but you know it came from a place of love. With the way she comforted you with memes and funny reels and words of advice, you realised it was the first time you’ve laughed since the supposed dinner at seven.

Ignoring the sinking dread settling in your heart the next afternoon, you shoot a simple ill be out late tonight to Hyunjae before dragging your body out of bed. You moved on autopilot, then, choosing not to acknowledge that he didn’t even return last night, preoccupying yourself instead with picking out your outfit.

And it was easy enough with a clear vision in your head; you weren’t afraid to dress up even after getting together with Hyunjae. This time it wasn’t any different — miniskirt, a cute fitted top and boots — that you already felt a bit better upon arriving at a bar for some pregame. The alcohol felt good, the company was better, and the both of you were already giggling and tipsy when you entered the club.

“Isn’t this way better than crying over that dumbass?” Yunjin nudges you gently before offering you a small smile.

You sigh, “I guess. I just don’t want it to be a recurring thing and make you responsible every time.”

“At least you know your limit now,” She loops an arm around you to keep you close as you two walk deeper into the club. “Still, as much as I love you, it was difficult trying to get you out of the club because you’d only be talking in counts of 8.” 

Ever the teasing friend, you nudge her back before breaking into laughter together, heading right to the bar for a lighter drink. It’s buzzing with orders left and right with the (possibly) poor newcomer trying his best to work the counter with all its confusing buttons. But he’s saved by another, a taller, more experienced bartender who was definitely carved by gods.

You try not to gawk, though, feeling guilty even when he shoots the two of you a small customer-service smile. “Give us a minute, alright? We’ll get to ya soon.” The moment he’s turned around, Yunjin shakes your arm excitedly.

“What? What?” 

“Don’t ‘what?’ me! Tell me you didn’t see the way he was looking at you.”

“Yunjin…” You sigh. “You know Hyunjae and I aren’t broken up—”

“Yet.” She interrupts with that single word and you shoot her a half playful, half serious glare.

“Okay, but, I have no business looking at other people just ’cause I’ve been stood up thrice.” The words leave a bitter taste in your mouth, recognising that it really didn’t sound good out loud.

“Yeah, but don’t you think those are enough times to call things off?” She faces you completely now with both hands on your arms, trying to look you in the eye while you shrink, flustered and a bit embarrassed at how easily you seem to crawl back to Hyunjae.

Because you felt that if you let this go, you’d never feel this way ever again, having someone else walking out your life again like clockwork.

Your fingers tense subconsciously; clenching, unclenching. You settle for taut hands to your friend’s, removing them with the little fight left in you. “Yunjin, can— can we please drop this for now? I came out to forget my boyfriend for a bit, and then I’ll go back home and everything will be f—”

But the universe has other plans for you, conversation cut short from the handsome bartender asking about your orders now.

“Sorry to interrupt, ladies. What will you two be having?” In the midst of wiping his hands on the towel, he leans over the counter just as Yunjin gives her order, but you swear over the booming music, the bass reverberating, the screamed lyrics, you hear familiarity.

It’s funny how habitual you can become with someone; hearing that same laugh in your skin on slow mornings and during reruns of B99 that you can’t help but search the dancefloor frantically.

You weren’t even sure why you did it, but you think you were chasing that familiarity and safety of having someone even though they were shit at showing up.

But along the desperate scans you do with your eyes, you register that you were simply accustomed to having Hyunjae in your life, accustomed to coming back again to an empty house. Yet, you can’t even remember the last time you said I love you to him.

And always trust your gut, because that sinking feeling from earlier comes back tenfold when your eyes lock onto two people on the floor with bodies leaving no space.

Hyunjae has no qualms about getting caught, his hands roaming all over her body and practically grinding from behind that you feel your knees buckle a little.

“Yunjin…” The lights were too blinding, the music now too loud, but you don’t have to say anything to know she’s already helping you onto a bar stool. When she turns to where you were looking, her jaw tightens and wordlessly places a hand on your lower back.

You go through emotions, fast — denial, and then anger and then a hint of sadness. But what you’re mainly feeling is a thirst for revenge knowing he thinks you’re a coward, a girl desperate for love.

Maybe you are, and there’s nothing wrong with mourning what you had. Though, being cancelled on three times within two months and spewing lies about overtime, ignites your resolve easily.

All the while, the bartender watches the interaction carefully, skilled hands still able to fulfill people’s orders, but he’s got you and your boyfriend all figured out. Not that he meant to eavesdrop, though, exchanging a glance with your friend until you raise your head with unshed tears.

“Thought I lost you there for a moment. That your boyfriend?” He nodded in the general direction and had probably used that line countless times, but you give credit where credit’s due; he was attractive and didn’t choose to comment on your glossy eyes.

With semi-long hair, pretty moles and plump lips, you want to enjoy this seat a bit longer, proposing a silly idea as you nod.

“Ex-, now. Do you have any chance to get them both kicked out?” You smile, small and unsure, but he replies with an even sweeter smile laced with sympathy that makes your heart skip just a little.

“No can do. If he’s not causing trouble, our bouncers have no reason to throw him out. Sorry, ladies.” For a moment, he’s back to being professional and tries not to steal glances at you as you blink away tears and attempt to appear unaffected.

He serves the drinks he’s already made, helps the counter boy again with orders until he hears your friend beg again when he comes ’round to your side.

“Oh please, Mr Bartender!” He raises an eyebrow, eyes trained on the both of you while capping his shaker before shaking. You purse your lips teasingly despite your blurred vision and the heat on your cheeks, “She can be pretty persuasive.” God, you didn’t even know what you were feeling at the moment.

He shrugs. “Well, tell you what — I get off my shift in about fifteen, and you’re looking for some retribution. Why don’t we do a little dance of our own?”

With a sigh, you ponder over your cards — Hyunjae might be pleasantly surprised and you’d end up with a hot bartender in your arms to boot. But if this is only going to leave a hole in your heart after everything, what really was the point?

“It’s your call, doll. If you’re still holding this,” He holds up a slim piece of metal that matches the club’s colours with its letters engraved in stark white, “by the time I come back, I’m taking you onto the floor for a dance. Deal?”

It’s dropped into your palm before you flip it over, running a thumb over the debossed name.

“Mingi.”

“You got it.” Mingi gives you a dazzling grin and a wink while you stifle a smile.

You spend the next ten minutes debating your options that you can’t count the amount of times Yunjin had to get your attention back on her. Revenge sounded delicious before.

Now? Now you’re waddling deep in doubt, worried about the aftertaste; all you wanted was to go home and sleep this whole thing off. Even the name tag was weighing heavy in your hand.

But the late nights cooking dinner, sitting alone at restaurants and the sheer indifference Hyunjae’s currently dancing with, did you in.

If you were chickening out only so someone this terrible stays, then you might regret this single night with someone else who already has shown you more respect than Hyunjae ever did.

The music is a bit clearer to you, now, and less suffocating as you call out to the bartender with five minutes left until his shift ends. You play with the pin at the back, unfastening and popping it back into place repeatedly. 

“I’ll take a Lemon Drop.” A knowing smile, a swipe of your card, sugar sweet on your lips. It hits great, and with a bit of liquid courage in you, you wait.

Mingi is quick to show up by your side a few minutes later, but he manages to take your breath away all over again with a more casual look.

Jewellery, messy hair and unbuttoned shirt down to his pecs that gives you a glimpse of a pretty little pendant resting nicely on his chest and rings adorning his fingers.

“Care for a dance?” His deep voice up close already has your stomach turning, opening your hand to show how you still had his name tag and he grins. “Keep it for now.”

You barely hear the whisper into your ear, but without any second thought you place your hand in his, the metal of his rings sending shivers right up your arm and down your spine. A faint cheer from Yunjin encourages you on, already feeling the addicting beats of the music playing.

Mingi is considerate above all else, looking back to see if you were still there, clearing a path for the both of you until you’re a few bodies away from Hyunjae. But standing out here now brings another wave of panic and embarrassment.

You were really about to do this, but—

What if he doesn’t like the way you danced? What if he’s a clean freak and would rather not have his hands over your already sweaty sides? What if Hyunjae creates a scene?

The thoughts are never-ending, swirling in your mind until you can feel Mingi’s hand enclose around your other hand, halting you from adjusting your outfit, from scratching at your skin.

It’s hot, too crowded for a dance floor and he knows that you’re nervous again with the increased proximity to your boyfriend.

Without words, Mingi brings your hands to rest on his shoulders. “Is this okay?”

You nod. Bodies beside you cause you to inch closer to him and his hair is so soft. Your tongue tingles from the lemon’s sourness and you want nothing more than to balance it out with his mouth that smells of rum. 

“Hey, I realise I haven’t gotten your name just yet.” The smile he has isn’t teasing, cocky, and you manage a small one back. He leans down to get your answer.

“It’s (Y/N).”

“Pretty. Follow my lead.”

And slowly but surely, you get out of your shell as you both lose all formality with the ear-splitting songs. The cocktail makes your hands wander, trailing over his nape, over his broad shoulders. He still hovers.

You don’t know whether it’s Mingi, the dim lighting or the song but you don’t hesitate to force his hands to your sides and he takes it as a sign.

He’s pulling you close until you’re pressed to his front, head immediately going for your exposed neck, and the laugh that escapes feels so different from Hyunjae, so free that you giggle with him.

It turns from wanting to Hyunjae to see you could do so much better to genuinely enjoying your time with the bartender that you don’t register the shock forming on Hyunjae’s face when he spots you just a few people over. Mingi doesn’t miss it, squeezing your waist softly to bring it to your attention.

“B-babe? What’re you doing here?” He acts like he doesn’t even know the girl dancing with him, yanking her off of him as he tries to preserve his dignity. But you knew better — you’ve seen her face at company dinners, on his Instagram story.

“Why are you here?” He sputters out an answer, not expecting you to fight back. Hyunjae’s smaller than ever now.

The bartender resists the urge to scoff at his lack of explanation, about to tell him to piss off when you push at Hyunjae with a finger. “I’ll tell you why I’m here. Witnessing you and the girl you told me not to worry about. Talking crap about overtime just to fuck her in your workplace.”

“W-What? That’s bullshit, where’d you even get that from?!”

Thank God for Mingi’s Lemon Drop, because you shove Hyunjae harder than before, angering the people behind him who push him back towards you.

“Guess you’ll never find out how. Get your shit out of my apartment and leave before tomorrow morning or else I’ll be telling your boss about inappropriate workplace conduct.”

Hyunjae rolls his eyes and waves you off, “You wouldn’t dare.”

“I hope the job market’s ready for someone who promised overtime hours only to soil the printing room. Keep checking your emails babe.” You purposefully drag out the pet name he likes to use on you, which now sounds cheap and tacky. Mingi can’t help a cackle from escaping, tugging you closer as if you’re his.

And you might just be by the end of this night. 

Hyunjae doesn’t bother to one-up the bartender one bit, only throwing Mingi a scowl before elbowing himself through the crowd. Unknowingly, your body relaxes, melting into the other’s arms easily and wanting nothing more than to turn off your brain for the night. It makes Mingi smile.

You’re bolder when the night deepens. It starts with running your hands down his chest and grasping softly at his waist. There’s whispered lyrics into your skin, letting him trail kisses down your jawline to your sternum and you feel like you’re on top of the world. 

His body’s flush against yours, tensing and breathing hard. The heat’s suffocating and the kisses sweet, hovering over just where you both need each other desperately.

“Heard you’re a dancer,” Mingi mumbles, sneaky hands going past your hips to your ass and kneads. You laugh. 

“You heard whatever Yunjin said? It was one time,” You reminisce about the time you went out for her birthday before getting shit-faced drunk and talking to her only in counts, “and she was struggling to understand what I was saying.”

It takes a beat for you to take the leap. “Want me to show you?”

A pretty laugh leaves his lips, “Your dancing or your innate ability to only talk in eights?”

Fuck, he’s handsome and funny.

“Har-har, very funny.” The moment’s playful but charged with underlying tension that only increases once the song changes. With a hand, you lift his head from your neck, taking advantage of his surprise to turn around.

Pushing up against him, you make sure he’s feeling every part of your ass on him, swaying your hips until you get a small groan from him. Tempted, Mingi places his hands along your waist, helping you grind down on him while arousal pools in your panties.

He’s enamoured with how well you fit against him, even more so when you lace your fingers with his, tugging one up to rest on your chest.

He takes the bait with how you turn your head, boasting your pretty lips with eyes closed. But you’re not letting him get what he wants that easily, finger pressed against his lips.

“Did the Lemon Drop do this, hm?” He’s back on your neck like it’s his home, slurring his words in that deep, deep voice of his that you want nothing more than to hear that for the rest of your life (and hopefully in your bed tonight).

“Maybe.” You can’t help but chuckle triumphantly, but it’s cut short when he suddenly yanks you back to his front; shit, you can feel his hard-on — he’s big.

You subconsciously gulp and pull him closer (not without a mildly surprised “oh”), overwhelmed with the feeling of his chest against yours, of his hips moving in tandem with yours, of his breath on your lips.

“I’m full of surprises, too.”

“That was so corny.” Biting your lip, you try to stifle a smile but it bleeds out past your lips, “You’re lucky I still want to fuck you.”

“Aw, only fuck?” He feigns sadness as he bats his eyelashes at you. That question probably would’ve made you think twice, but with Mingi’s little pout, the vodka in your system and Rihanna in the background, you throw all complicated feelings out the window.

“Shut up, Mingi.” 

That elicits a low chuckle. “Gladly.”

He collides with you immediately, lips moulding into yours like two parts of a whole that you stumble a bit from the force. But you waste no time in reciprocating with neediness of your own, tugging him down to you with hands tangled in his black hair.

You could care less about your ex, about Yunjin excitedly texting you from the bar, nor the people around you.

Not when Mingi’s slipping his tongue into your mouth and your pussy’s just desperate for relief that you moan softly into his mouth.

“God, you sound pretty,” He pulls away for air, but he’s already hooked onto your taste, leaving pecks on your lips again and again. His hands rest comfortably on your sides, caressing, squeezing. “Need to hear that in my sheets.”

You mutter a soft fuck before licking your lips, “Your place?”

Mingi hums into your lips, “You have my name tag, baby. It’s up to you,” and grins when he sees you jolt. The pet name affects you. He knows.

Fuck it. You need this man now.

With a quick text to Yunjin, everything that happens on the way to Mingi’s doesn’t exist. The ride was both a torment and a blur when his hand trails so closely to where you need him and his hips adjust uncomfortably in the driver’s seat. You’re so horny that you’re sure you’ve sobered up already.

You lunge forward once the front door’s closed, eagerness undermining both your abilities to remove your shoes, too preoccupied with devouring the other.

Mingi tastes like sage and citrus, a flavour you’ll keep locked away forever; he breaks the kiss reluctantly, and that taste travels down your body, taking his time.

Mingi’s anything but composed, though, larger hands wrapped around your middle while he takes in your scent and sweat, nose pressed against your heaving stomach.

Just a mere bartender, a one-night stand acting like a lover when he fully goes onto his knees and zips open your boots. Torturously, agonisingly slow, and removes them even slower.

By the time the second shoe’s off, your hand has already messed up his hair. You push him to you, he pulls back.

“It’s my time to tease, doll. Patience.” You whine softly in disagreement, letting him plant soft kisses along your ankle, up to your shin and knees and finally your inner thighs that threaten to tighten in his hold.

“Mingi…” You don’t mean to sound so desperate off the bat, but your cunt’s pulsing and the AC’s sending goosebumps all over your skin and possibly the hottest man alive is on his knees in front of you.

“Fuck, baby, I can smell you from here.” Like a gentleman, he helps you to shimmy out of your miniskirt and underwear before tossing it somewhere and you’re suddenly self conscious about being all exposed.

But Mingi simply doesn’t care about decorum as he lifts your leg, prompting you to place it on his shoulder. He marvels at your arousal illuminated by the doorway lighting, stifling a moan.

“Look at you.” Sighing, he plays with your folds, trailing a finger up and down and smirking when he feels you shiver under his touch. “So perfect. All this for me?”

“Y-Yeah, just for you,” Your words are muffled from your hand, trying to hold back your sounds but Mingi isn’t having any of that. He thinks your ex-boyfriend may have something to do with it.

“Let me hear you, alright, honey?” Mingi takes your hand and interlocks it together with his, a promise that you’ll be the star tonight. “We’re safe here, there’s no need to hold back.”

You nod just as he blows into your cunt, making you clench around nothing and he smiles. “For now, let me eat my meal.”

And Mingi eats, convincing yourself that you’ve definitely driven a hole through his shoebox cabinet with how hard you were leaning against it. Your hips buck against his face, tongue flicking over your clit as you relish in the pleasure.

“Oh my G-God, Mingi…” You can barely hold eye contact with him as he latches onto your pussy like a vice, addicted to your taste, your sounds and how you drip endlessly all over his tongue.

“That’s it, doll, tell me how good you feel.” Mingi continues to inch closer on his knees, trapping himself under your thighs as his tongue works wonders.

With an experimental finger, he circles your pulsing hole and pushes in ever so slightly, making you almost keel over from the overwhelming feeling.

“Fuck, Mingi, that feels so—!” Your moans fill his house together with the lewd sounds of your pussy, feeling the vibrations of his hums on your sensitive clit. His thumb plays with it as he comes up for air, adding a second finger easily before starting to pump them with determination.

“That feel good?” He’s brutal in his thrusting, but it’s not even a minute when he returns with his merciless tongue again, swearing that you were seeing stars from this alone.

If Mingi was this pussy drunk, who knows how you’d feel when he’s in you? You tremble at the thought, fingers pulling at his hair until it stings.

But Mingi loves it, loves seeing your eyes flutter close and your toes curl in sheer pleasure as the prettiest mewls fall from your lips. You’re full on grinding into his face now, holding onto his hand like a lifeline, while there’s the audible slick sounds of your juices. 

It’s hotter than it was on the dance floor, and fully knowing you’d be buckling to the ground if it wasn’t for Mingi’s secure hold on you. Because you can feel yourself getting weaker and weaker the more the coil in your stomach turns, clamping down hard on his fingers.

“I-I’m close, baby—” Your words slip, every part of your body tingles and he pants out a plea.

“Call me that again for me, doll.” He’s ravishing you, ruining you for any other person and you wouldn’t have it any other way. His rings feel so cold on your cunt, while his mouth’s hot and he’s dizzy off of you.

“Gonna cum, baby,” If your friend couldn’t understand you while drunk, Mingi’s chest puffs with pride making you babble nonsensical things while you’re both tipsy with his name being the only coherent thing, “Mingi, Mingi, Mingiiii.”

The name becomes a chant together with needy whines that’s drowned out by your soaking pussy. Mingi lets the force of his palm stimulate your clit instead, and the visual of seeing him on his knees with this tongue out—

“F-fuck…” Your orgasm hits you in sudden waves, sending you jerking against his hold even when his fingers don’t slow down, “Feels s’good, Mingi—”

“There we go, baby, keep cumming… Taste just like honey.” Mingi groans and drives his tongue along your folds for a taste, but now he takes and takes, savouring whatever you have to give. Sweeter than his Lemon Drop, you taste so heavenly that he wants seconds.

But you have other plans, trying your best to regain your balance and simultaneously drag him up by the biceps. Mingi traps you in between the cabinet, and you trap him with a passionate kiss. Moaning into his mouth at your taste while he soothes your aching thighs with his gentle touch.

“Bed. Now.” Your cheeks warm as he laughs against your lips at your request. 

“You got it, doll.” With a hand outstretched, you grab hold and let him lead you just like the club. Along the way, you slip on your underwear just so you won’t be butt ass naked and he throws you a small smile. Except this time, you’re not performing for anyone, not for Hyunjae, not for yourself, and hopefully not for Mingi.

Though, if riding Mingi’s tongue had you thrashing left and right, you think you’d be safe, knowing he’ll take care of you.

His room feels strangely familiar — posters and records plastered up everywhere with a portable closet and pretty lights. There’s a few guitars in cases with one displayed proudly while his desk is littered with cute trinkets and a gaming set-up. It’s a lived-in bedroom, worn down from years of tape on walls and accidents from silly dance moves.

“Hard to believe I’m an adult with this room, huh?”

You smile at him, finding it endearing he’s still kept his hobbies and favourite things close to him. “No no, it’s charming. I like it.”

You continued, “I don’t think having a ‘serious’ job like bartending immediately eliminates your other hobbies.”

Mingi shoots you that boyish grin again, “You think my job’s ‘serious’?” and mimics your air quotes.

“Well, you are handling alcohol — it seems pretty serious, don’t you think?” There’s no choice but to giggle when Mingi’s expression turns from all-knowing to pondering. “And— And there’s always the usual brooding persons that come in to vent their problems to you.”

Mingi bursts out laughing at that with an attractive rasp to it, plopping on his Queen size. “You’re not wrong about that. I guess I’m sort of like a therapist too.”

Like a magnet, you feel the pull into his arms just as he whispers a c’mere, finally able to see his face properly when you stand in between his legs.

The glistening juices on the bottom half of his face make you flush just a bit, but up close, Mingi feels so familiar. Not the way Hyunjae was — that was habit disguised as familiarity.

But despite your unconfirmed fate and the possibility of never seeing Mingi again, he enchants like no other. Fuck, you were talking crazy. 

The other seems to see your dilemma, reaching for your hands. “We don’t have to do anything, you know?”

His touch is so tender, it makes your heart ache, “I know we only danced to scare off your boyfriend but I genuinely did want to know you. And… I know you feel it too, but I don’t wanna pressure you after seeing such a shitty thing in the club.”

“You’re… not wrong, Mingi. It has been only a few hours and you’ve already made me feel more worth than he ever did but, I’ll need time to process my feelings too.”

Slowly, you remove your hands from his but only to straddle him in the next second, whining softly when he tugs you closer if that was even possible. 

“But tonight, I want you to fuck all the feelings out of me. I don’t wanna think, I don’t wanna—” You heave a heavy sigh, swallowing when you think back to Hyunjae and his colleague. 

Mingi applies light pressure to your side to ground you. “(Y/N), hey, it’s no problem. Your wish is my command, tonight.”

“And after—”

“We’ll talk about the after later, don’t worry your pretty little head ’bout it.” You don’t even realise he’s flipped you over but he takes his time to remove his pants and boxers, ego stroked just a little when he sees your wide eyes at his size.

“You’re…” 

“I know, baby. We’ll take it slow, alright?” Mingi is steady even as he reaches over for a condom, but you stop him.

“Wanna feel all of you.” He swears his heart bursts at your cute pout. “I’m clean and on the pill, that okay?”

“More than okay. I’m clean too. You sure you’re okay?” He asks as he tugs your panties to the side, interrupted briefly from your impatient hum.

“Yes, Mingi. Please just fuck me already.” Your voice is less bratty, more pleading, but it strikes a chord within him. He obeys immediately. 

“Okay, okay!” His deep laugh elicits one out of you, too. At least you don’t stop him from taking the lube — he spurts a good amount and strokes himself with a soft grunt, mixing in with his pre-cum. Relief. “It’s gonna hurt. Need you to breathe and relax, okay?”

Mingi’s already much thicker than your ex, and you hiss slightly at the stretch once he inches his cock in. But it’s nothing you can take, eyes trained on how he’s pushing through slowly. 

“F-Fuck, baby, you gotta stop clenching. So tight—” You whimper at the sight, but Mingi uses his body to push you down, distracting you with deep kisses that subconsciously relaxes your body. His intoxicating smell and presence does the rest of the job.

“Taking me so well, good girl.” He mumbles into your skin as you become obsessed with the way his body engulfs yours, towering but certain.

His pendant’s movements are messy, colliding with your chin over and over but Mingi is just so deep it doesn’t register in your head. “Just a little more, honey, you got it.”

In the next minute, Mingi’s loud groan fills your ears, bottoming out in your walls that feel so warm that he never wants to pull out.

His furrowed eyebrows with sweat lined along it paired with his beautiful parted lips is enough to make your cunt pulse and heart full — making a pretty man like him lose his mind over you, desperation and profanity spilling over.

“M-Move, baby, please—” With a slow thrust of his hips, he has to drop his head to yours because you just feel too fucking good wrapped around his aching length. Both your shaky breaths mingle as he sets a comfortable pace that allows you both to feel every part of the other.

And his languid movements have never felt slower and more intense, the obscene noises of your soaking pussy stuffed full reverberating off the walls. It surrounds you like a cloud, making the feeling, the sensations rise to an all time high.

It’s worse when Mingi folds your legs to your chest, the image of his shaft disappearing into your pretty little pussy searing itself into his brain.

Mingi keeps his promise to you, taking your one-worded pleas and turning them into repeated “ah’s” with no room for any word or any doubt left in your mind. By now, he’s pistoning in and out of you, your release from earlier merging with the lube until both you and Mingi are filthy and soaking, juices flowing down your thighs and right into his sheets.

“You’re so wet, holy f-fuck—” His eyes are the ones struggling to stay open now, drunk off of everything you that he can’t even move his hips properly, stuttering every now and then.

There’s the delicious squelches every time his skin meets yours, the dizzying pap! pap! pap! that hypnotises you. “Listen to how wet your sweet pussy is, baby.”

You’re past words, only babbling incoherence as Mingi grunts above you, continuing to fill you up with his cock. His thrusts start to turn erratic, so lost in the feeling that the grip on your legs loses its hold. You take the chance to wrap them around his waist, barely catching his pendant and yanking him towards you.

“Kiss me stupid, Mingi.” The long, drawn out moan against your lips sends heat bubbling up from inside you. And the kiss he lands on you leaves fire along your skin, burning indefinitely until a particular thrust has your eyes rolling back.

“Cumming— f-fuck—!” It comes out in broken sobs as you see white, cumming so hard on his pulsating length that your juices spray everywhere and your legs shake uncontrollably. The slight sheen along his cock starts to form a ring of white and he whines at your warmth.

Everything — the craving for you, your tight cunt, how you leak all over him — makes him cum right after. “I-I’m gonna pump you full, baby— shit…”

Your eyes can’t help but roll back again at the sensation of Mingi painting your insides white, cum spurting so deep in you that you can feel it flow out. It’s so warm that you squirm as he holds your hips down, making sure your hole gets every last drop.

Without pulling out, he admires your sweaty top that’s been pushed past your tits, your heaving chest and the remnants of your trembling thighs with a lip bite accompanied by a smile.

Silently, he caresses your outer thighs, slowly bringing your feet down to rest on his soaked sheets. You whimper when you feel him pull out, the salacious sight of cum leaking out from your pussy comes out in blobs; it takes everything in Mingi to compose himself. 

Because you were utterly fucked out, eyes constantly blinking with a light-headed expression that tells him he might’ve fucked you dumb. Your little sounds are just adorable that he rubs his cum just one last time over your folds, claiming you.

“Okay okay, baby, I got you.” With a peck to your forehead, Mingi promises to come back with a wet rag and some water and the last thing you remember is sage and citrus wafting through the air as he plants a sweet kiss to your lips. “And then tomorrow, we’ll figure everything out, okay honey?”

You drift off easily, but you’ll find that for now and possibly forever, Mingi always keeps his promises.

A dream — you think, when you wake up, but you recognise that the bedroom is not yours and the ache in your body persists. But to your dismay, Mingi is nowhere to be found. Not until you hear faint humming coming from the kitchen and smell the lovely aroma of pancakes.

“Morning, baby.” Mingi says like you’ve always been in his life, like you’ve lived here for many years, like you’re familiar to him.

“Y-Yeah, good morning, Mingi.” Awkwardly, you take a seat at his island, but as you watch his broad back cooking breakfast for his one-night stand, you relax for a bit.

Mingi piles a few pancakes for you effortlessly, sliding the plate to you, followed by the butter and then holds up maple syrup in his left hand and honey in the other. The question is unsaid, but you nod towards his right with a small smile that’s returned.

“Eat.” With a plate in his hand as well, he plops down beside you as if one-night stands don’t complicate feelings and makes things messy.

But Mingi, the bartender, with a pure heart and even lovelier soul (you have yet to discover this), eats a meal beside you like you’re tied together by fate (maybe).

(You are).

Now, his deep voice sounds small, but sure. “And then we’ll talk feelings after. And we can talk about the ‘after’ after.”

A deep breath for good measure and luck. “And also maybe about the date I’d wanna bring you on.”

by. janus, from me to you ♡ also major thank you to this video which made me lose my mind n inspired this...

[yayayfics]

guys wyd if i write a lex luthor (smallville) fanfic LMFAOOOOOOO

[briefkittenearthquake]

[yayayfics]

this but smallville version let's talk about it

[emmiesoverthemoon]

i want to be cracked by him so hard that my bones crush in new ways never seen before and when i get buried and fossilised historians in the future think they discovered a new dinosaur

[mingi-buffering-24-7]

Open requests? Heck yes please 🔥 what keeps me up at night is mingi..& now yunho (omg those hands) having a baby kink and pounding you all night after agreeing to have one with him only for him to end up shy afterwards 😂 MY GOSH I'm sorry not sorry but I love you! 🩷

HEYYYY!! first… HAPPY NEW YEAR!!! 🥳💛 (a little late, i know, but the festivities have been relentless) now… this ask. oh my gosh. i’ve been thinking about it since you sent it. you know i have a soft spot for soft-husband energy and all the chaotic love surrounding little ones… i hope this hits the exact note you were craving and i hope you love it as much as i loved writing it 🩷

Baby, Please - Mingi x Reader

Baby fever isn’t subtle when it’s Mingi.

Pairing: Husband!Mingi x Fem!Reader Tropes: Married Life, Baby fever / Trying for a baby, Soulmate energy. Genre: Smut. Fluff. Warnings: Explicit sexual content (18+), Soft-dom!Mingi, Rough sex, Breeding kink / Baby fever, Attempting pregnancy, No condom / Fertility sex, Hair pulling, Marking/Hickeys/Bruising, Forceful but consensual sex, Dirty/Commanding language, Verbal teasing / Possessive dirty talk, Vulnerability / Emotional layering, Soft husband energy, Teasing, Pregnancy focus / Belly worship, Physical restraint, Euphoria / Pleasure-driven ferality. They talk about kids a lot... Word Count: 4.7k

masterlist

Dinner has gone quiet.

Not awkward. Not heavy. Just settled. Plates pushed aside, candle burning low, the table marked with the small evidence of having eaten together. Your glasses sit half-full. The room feels warm in that end-of-day way.

Mingi hasn’t stopped moving.

His fingers worry the edge of the tablecloth, smooth it, crease it again. The napkin gets folded, unfolded, abandoned, reclaimed. He leans forward like he wants to close the distance, then stays right where he is. Close. Careful.

You watch him for a beat before saying, “You’re thinking again.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “That obvious?”

“Yes,” you say gently. “And you’re doing the thing with the napkin.”

He glances down at it like it’s betrayed him and sets it aside. A breath. Another. He straightens, shoulders rolling back like he’s bracing himself.

“I’ve been trying to find the right moment,” he says. “And I keep missing it.”

“You’re here now,” you reply. “Talk to me.”

That does it.

He nods once, jaw tightening, then finally looks at you fully. No jokes. No deflection. Just him.

“I think I want to be a dad,” he says. Simple. Direct. “With you.”

The words land cleanly. No buildup. No apology.

He keeps going, slower than you expect, careful with himself.

“I’m not saying right this second,” he adds. “And I’m not pretending I have it all figured out. I just… I’ve been thinking about what comes next. About us. About whether we’re ready to try.” His thumb taps once against the table. “I didn’t want to assume.”

You tilt your head, studying him. “So this is you checking in.”

“Yes,” he answers immediately. “This is me checking in.”

You smile, slow and knowing. “You know you don’t have to make it sound like a presentation, right?”

That earns him a breathy laugh. “Sorry. I’m bad at this.”

“You’re really not.”

Silence stretches, but it’s easy now. You lean back in your chair, eyes still on him.

“A mini-you running around this house?” you say, thoughtful, then grin. “That sounds… dangerous.”

His brows lift. “Dangerous?”

“Too tall,” you list, ticking it off on your fingers. “Too dramatic. Way too much personality. Absolutely convinced they’re right about everything.”

His mouth falls open for half a second before he laughs, real and unfiltered. “Hey.”

“And the attitude,” you add sweetly. “God help us.”

He shakes his head, still smiling, relief written all over him. “You’re saying this like you haven’t married me.”

“That’s exactly my point,” you reply. “I know what I’d be signing up for.”

You lean forward now, closing the distance he couldn’t.

“But,” you continue, softer, “I’ve thought about it too.”

He stills. Completely.

“You have?” he asks, quieter than before.

You nod. “Of course I have. I wouldn’t be sitting here teasing you if I hadn’t.”

His hand moves without thinking, crossing the table to rest over your wrist. Not gripping. Just there. His thumb brushes over your pulse like he’s grounding himself.

“So… you’re not saying no,” he says carefully.

You smile, calm and sure. “I’m saying yes. I’m saying we can start trying.”

The breath he lets out sounds like it’s been trapped in his chest for weeks. Maybe longer. His shoulders drop, tension melting out of him all at once.

“Really?” he asks, still needing it said.

“Really.”

Something bright breaks across his face. Relief first. Then something softer. Almost stunned.

“Okay,” he says, voice quieter now. “Okay. Wow.”

He stands without even realizing it, coming around the table, cupping your face like he needs to check that you’re real. The kiss he gives you is slow, careful, reverent. Like this decision already means something sacred to him.

When he rests his forehead against yours, smiling so wide it aches, he whispers, full and certain,

“I love you.”

You smile back, steady and warm. “I love you too.”

No rush. No pressure.

Just the two of you, choosing what comes next together.

A few days pass.

Not rushed. Not forgotten either.

The idea lives between you now. In glances held a beat too long. In his hand lingering at the small of your back. In the way Mingi seems more aware of space, of you moving through it.

Tonight, he moves with purpose.

The bedroom smells clean when you step inside. Fresh sheets pulled tight, corners tucked with care. Pillows lined up like he’s been negotiating with them. The light is low, warm, deliberate. A couple candles burn on the nightstand, flames steady.

He stands there, hands on his hips, like he’s waiting for a grade.

You take it in and laugh softly, warmth blooming in your chest. “You’ve been busy.”

His ears go pink instantly. “I just— I wanted it to be nice.” Then, suddenly self-conscious, he reaches for a candle. “If it’s too much, I can—”

You catch his wrist before he can blow it out.

“Mingi,” you say gently.

He freezes. Looks at you, wide-eyed, caught.

“This is perfect,” you tell him. “I like that you thought about it. About me.”

His shoulders drop, just a little. Relief. Then something else slides in underneath it.

“You don’t think it’s silly?” he asks.

“No,” you say, honest and soft. “I think it makes me feel safe.”

That’s what does it.

Something in his expression shifts. The careful composure he’s been holding fractures, just enough to let something hotter breathe through. His hand comes up to your waist, firm but reverent, like he’s checking you’re real.

“I just want to do this right,” he murmurs. “I want you comfortable. Wanted. If at any point you—”

“I know,” you interrupt, smiling. “I’ll tell you.”

His thumb presses in slightly, like he’s grounding himself through you. His voice drops. “I’ve been trying not to think about it too much.”

You tilt your head. “And?”

“And I’m failing,” he admits, breath shaky. “A little.”

The admission hangs between you. Charged. Tender.

He leans in, forehead resting against yours, eyes closed like he’s bracing for impact. “I keep thinking about us,” he confesses. “About this meaning something. About you trusting me with it.”

You slip your fingers into his shirt, anchoring him. “I do.”

That’s when his control really starts to slip.

Not reckless. Not careless. Just… urgent.

His hands tighten at your back. His breathing deepens. The kiss he gives you isn’t rushed, but it’s heavy. Less careful. Like he’s done pretending this is casual.

When he pulls back, his eyes are dark. Focused. Almost overwhelmed.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he says, voice low and earnest.

You smile, slow and certain. “It won’t be.”

You’re still standing.

The room feels smaller, like it leaned in when neither of you were paying attention. Mingi doesn’t move right away. He just looks at you. Really looks. Eyes dark and wide, tracing your face like he’s trying to memorize it before something irreversible happens.

His body gives him away. The faint tremble in his hands. His breath coming a little too fast. Anticipation buzzing under his skin, loud enough you can almost feel it.

His hands come first.

Big. Warm. Sure.

The size difference hits you all at once, not intimidating. Comforting. You’d trust him with anything. He knows it. You see it settle in his expression.

For a moment, you just breathe each other in.

Then he cups your face. Both hands, careful but decisive, thumbs warm at your jaw. He tips your chin up exactly where he wants it and kisses you.

There’s nothing hesitant about it.

It’s hungry, immediate, held back only by his need to savor you. Like he’s been starving quietly and finally stopped pretending otherwise. You melt into him, hands sliding to his wrists, holding him there as if the pressure is the only thing keeping you upright.

Your knees wobble. He feels it instantly.

His grip shifts, firmer now, grounding you without breaking the kiss. A promise, wordless and solid.

He starts walking you backward, slow and sure, guiding you without asking. His mouth never really leaves yours. The edge of the bed hits the backs of your legs.

He doesn’t let you sit.

Instead, the kisses soften, turn messy and breath-heavy as his hands roam, learning you again with deliberate care. They’re everywhere. Confident. Rough with want, gentle in intention. Each touch unhurried, thoughtful.

Fabric slips away piece by piece. Not rushed. Not careless. His palms against bare skin make you shiver, not from cold, but from how safe it feels. Chosen. Seen.

You return it, fingers tugging at buttons, smoothing over his chest, just as intent. This isn’t about speed. It’s about devotion. About meeting each other exactly where you are.

Your foreheads rest together for a second. Breaths mingle. His thumbs brush your cheeks, softer now, almost shy again.

“Still okay?” he murmurs.

You smile, breathless, hands fisted in his shirt. “More than.”

Something in him loosens at that. Relief folding into want, into love, until he can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

You strip him bare just as carefully as he did you. Like it’s the first time, even after years together.

Hands slow. Familiar, yet reverent. You still pause. Still take him in. The line of his shoulders. The way his body reacts to your gaze alone. How his breath changes when you linger.

He watches you the same way. Touch following sight, palms mapping skin he already knows by heart but treats like something newly precious.

You both know why you’re here.

The certainty hums between you. It doesn’t rush you.

His mouth finds yours again, and this kiss is nothing like the last.

It’s messy. Frantic. Restraint thinning at the edges. You moan into the kiss without meaning to, the sound dragged from you, and he groans right back like it hurts not to. His arms close around you fully this time. No space left. No pretending.

He guides you down, gentle even in his urgency, lowering you onto the bed like it matters how you land. Like you matter. Because you do.

The mattress dips beneath you. He follows immediately, grinding hard against your thigh. You feel how ready he is, thick and hot, and it makes your toes curl.

“Fuck,” he mutters, more to himself than to you.

His mouth trails down your jaw, your neck, lingering where your pulse jumps. Kisses turn open-mouthed, sucking, tasting, leaving marks. One hand laces tightly with yours, grounding himself. The other cups your breast, heavy and warm, kneading until your back arches.

You pull him closer. Fingers in his hair. Nails biting into his shoulder, sharp enough to leave crescents. He groans at the sting, hips stuttering, rhythm breaking for a second.

He doesn’t pull away. If anything, he leans into it, a quiet sound slipping out that tells you he feels chosen too.

He’s trying to take it slow. You feel it in his breathing. The pauses he forces.

But your warmth, your scent, the thought of you carrying his child — it snaps something loose.

His kisses drift lower. Chest. Ribs. Down, until his mouth presses softly to your belly. He slows there, hands spreading wide, thumbs tracing reverent arcs, already imagining it rounded, full, heavy with his baby. He kisses you like a promise. Like a prayer. Like something sacred taking shape.

You push up on your elbows to watch him, fingers stroking his hair, gentler now. Your teeth worry your lip because you know exactly what he’s thinking.

You see it in his eyes.

Hope. Want. A future unfolding.

He lifts his head, resting his chin just above your navel, gaze locking with yours. Heat, yes, but also something shy. Something soft. He looks at you like you’re not something to take, but something to be trusted with everything he wants.

“I love you,” he murmurs, like the words have to exist or he’ll burst.

“I love you too,” you breathe back.

That’s all it takes.

His gaze darkens. He shifts lower, hands sliding down to your thighs, spreading them wide. He pauses just long enough to look at how wet you are, how open, how ready for him. His tongue drags slowly over his bottom lip.

Then he dives in.

A long, deliberate lick pulls through you, deep and unhurried, like he’s tasting every intention behind it. Your head drops back, body falling flat against the mattress as a broken sound tears out of you.

“Mingi—”

He groans into you, the sound vibrating straight through you, hands tightening on your thighs, holding you exactly where he wants you as he goes back for more.

He buries himself between your legs like he’s starved. All of him devoted to you. Your moans come in waves, breathless and trembling, but he keeps you steady. Strong hands anchoring your hips, your thighs, like nothing could pull him away.

He could die here and be the happiest man alive.

You try to push him back, panting. You love how well he knows you, how easily he could undo you. But not now.

“Babies aren’t made like this, Min,” you tease, voice unsteady, daring.

He stills for a heartbeat. Then he lifts his head slightly, eyes dark, possessive.

“I’m taking care of you,” he murmurs, low and rough. “Making sure my baby lands just right.” His thumb presses warm and grounding into your thigh. “Building you a proper nest. Safe. Warm. With me.”

The whimper you bite back shakes anyway. Your hips push insistently against him, hands gripping his shoulders.

“I need you inside,” you breathe. “Badly.”

His pupils flare. He looks up at you from between your thighs, a slow, dangerous smirk curling his mouth. He drags one lazy lick through you, leaves two more teasing traces, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, savoring.

His gaze sweeps over you. Hungry. Feral. Not cruel — claiming.

Then he moves.

His body cages yours, chest pressing flush to you, arms framing you in heat and strength. He’s everywhere — solid, warm, overwhelming.

You melt instantly, every sigh and shiver pressed into him, need and love blurring together until your nerves buzz.

His mouth crashes into yours again. Teeth scrape. Tongue pushes. Spit mixes. His hands roam — waist, hips, back — gripping hard enough to leave fire beneath your skin.

“Mine,” he growls against your lips, breath ragged. “All mine. Gonna fill you. Gonna make you mine in every way.”

You moan and grind into him without thinking, letting him feel it — how badly you want him, how completely you trust him with this.

Your nails rake down his back, light but insistent, urging him on. You want him, but tonight you want him in control. You want him to feel what this means. His hands tremble slightly, betraying the hunger beneath his careful restraint, the nerves, the gravity of what you’re about to do together.

Mingi’s eyes flick to yours, searching your face one last time. You meet his gaze and give a small nod. That’s all he needs.

He doesn’t hesitate.

One hand wraps around himself, guiding, steady despite the tremor. The other cups your face, thumb brushing your cheek as he leans in to kiss you again. This one is slower. Deeper. Desperate in a quiet way, like he’s grounding himself through you.

He pushes inside inch by inch. Torturously slow. Every careful movement screams how badly he wants this, how hard he’s fighting not to lose himself. He’s big, he knows it, and he’s determined not to hurt you.

You circle your legs around his waist and tilt your hips, pushing him in until he’s fully seated inside you. The moan you share is raw and unguarded. He bites lightly into your shoulder, barely holding back, while you hide your face against his chest, shivering at the stretch, the fullness, the rightness of him there.

For a few seconds, everything stills. Heavy. Electric.

Then he starts to move.

Slow at first. Careful. Almost reverent. One hand cradles your head, fingers combing through your hair. His mouth leaves messy, wet kisses over your cheek, your jaw, down your neck. His groans rumble deep and unashamed, loud enough to carry through walls.

He’s sweet. Almost unbearably so. But every roll of his hips, every deeper press, every greedy kiss sends stars bursting behind your eyes. Desire and love blur together, awe and need twisting into something bigger, the thrill of building something together, something real, something new.

He tries to stay measured. To keep you safe. To keep himself in check.

But the sight of you ruins him.

Your face, flushed and open, lips parted, eyes heavy with pleasure. The way your body responds to him without fear, without doubt. The realization that he gets to be the one here, with you, like this.

Something slips.

His hips snap faster, harder. Control gives way to need. His arms wrap around your head, fingers tangling in your hair, holding you close. Not trapping. Protecting. His grunts turn rough, desperate, filling the room.

You arch into him, grinding back, helping him sink deeper. Your moans tear out of you, broken and wet, and he buries his face against your chest, breathing you in, trying to keep himself together.

He fails.

“You feel so good,” he groans, voice low and wrecked. “So perfect for me. For this.” His grip tightens. “Gonna make you a mommy. Mine. Gonna make you a baby.”

Your hands clutch him harder, nails digging into his back, teeth grazing his shoulder. Your body answers for you, every tremor and whine pushing him further, telling him exactly what you want.

Please. Don’t stop. Take me.

He stays just above your chest, hiding his desperation, but watching you — watching your pleasure, imagining your belly swollen with his child, seeing your face twist in bliss — is too much. Control shatters.

A sharp gasp, a moan, and he pulls out, hips jerking as the sensation hits him full force. Chest heaving, forehead resting against yours, eyes wide, wild, untamed. He’s lost. Shaking. Utterly undone. And yet… he’s smiling, almost laughing at the intensity of himself.

You whine at the sudden emptiness, legs trembling. “Mingi… what’s wrong?” Your voice is soft, worried, breathless.

He can’t stop the shaky, small smile tugging at his lips between ragged breaths. His chest swells at your concern — when it should be him taking care of you, and here you are, instinctively tending to him.

“I… just…” he pants, voice rough, low. “Need a second. Trying not to—lose it—right here.”

Your pulse jumps at the honesty, the raw vulnerability behind this desperate Mingi. He swallows hard, chest rising and falling with need. He’s always been your strength, your protector, but right now, it’s him trembling under craving… craving you.

He shifts, settling back on his calves, then grips your ankles, hoisting your legs onto his shoulders. One arm keeps them pressed hard, unyielding; the other lines himself back inside you. The slick heat welcomes him instantly, greedy and insistent.

Sliding in again, harder this time, the stretch, the wetness — it’s perfect. He presses you into a sharp, feral mating press, folding you into him, burying himself deep. Not moving yet, he just lets himself feel your pulse, your shivers, your whines. Every tremble of your body is a command he obeys instinctively.

Then he claims your mouth. Teeth scrape lightly, tongue devours, kisses sloppy and demanding. The new angle has you gasping, moaning, pinned helplessly under him.

“You… have no idea how perfect you feel,” he groans, low and raw. “Gotta make sure… every drop lands right. All mine.”

And then he moves. Hips snapping hard, deep, fast — powerful, rough, primal. His grip on your legs is brutal, fingers digging, holding you exactly where he wants you. His hands roam everywhere — your hips, back, sides — large, hot, insistent, leaving marks and heat in their wake.

Every thrust drives him deeper, faster, blind with need, lost to pleasure. Your moans spiral into breathless gasps, words dissolving under his rhythm. Eyes roll back, back arches, body trembling — and Mingi? He’s unstoppable, ravenous.

“Mine,” he growls, teeth grazing your collarbone. “You’re mine… carrying this… our baby… feel it, doll? Feel me buried in you, just where I want it.”

He pounds harder, slamming into you with reckless devotion, possessive and feral. Dirty words spill from him, low, rough, unrestrained: “Gonna make you mine… make you ours… gonna breed you right, baby… all mine.”

You claw at him, nails raking down his back, hips pressing, moaning, panting — urging him to lose himself completely. He answers, big hands everywhere, fingers clutching, pressing, kneading, holding, claiming. His body is on fire, desperate, utterly worshipful of you and the tiny life growing between you.

Mingi finally lets go. Completely.

His restraint snaps. Hips slam hard, deep, relentless, each thrust claiming you like he’s marking you as his. Your body arches into him, fingers clawing into his shoulders just to stay upright, to keep your head from slamming the headboard as pleasure explodes through you. Breath comes ragged, high, trembling — too much, overwhelming — exactly where you want to be.

Seeing him like this… feral, possessive, wild yet reverent… it makes something dizzy and delicious bloom in you. Maybe it won’t work this time, you think, wicked and selfish, maybe you’ll get to do this again. And again.

He pants against your lips, forehead pressed to yours, chest rising and falling hard. Hands everywhere now — firm, hungry, impossibly strong, keeping you exactly where he wants you. Where he needs you.

One of his hands slides down, pauses at your stomach. Just for a second. A soft, reverent caress that doesn’t match the brutal pace of his thrusts. Then his fingers trail lower, pressing against your clit, rubbing circles rough and messy, dragging you to the edge with him.

“God…” he groans, voice raw and fractured. “I want to fill you… see you swollen with my baby.”

Your moan chokes out. Perfectly messy, perfectly right, his fingers pressing deep, long, demanding. Every movement screams ownership, desire, devotion.

“You’re doing so well for me,” he pants, thumb pressing harder, grinding you against him. “Can’t get over… how much I want you.”

His grip on your body tightens, fingers digging into your flesh, pressing deep, leaving marks as he forces your face up. Eyes wide, half-lidded in bliss, you can’t look away — he makes you meet his gaze.

“Look at me,” he growls, hips snapping harder, louder, eyes dark and feral. “I want you to see me while you come… I want you to watch me, feel me, know this is ours.”

Every thrust is primal, every snap of his hips drives you higher. His hands roam and grip, cupping, kneading, pressing into your thighs, hips, waist — everything he can reach, marking you, claiming you. You melt into him, shivering, trembling, completely under his control.

He buries himself fully, presses your face up again with one hand, keeping your eyes on his. “Mine,” he growls, teeth grazing your collarbone, voice low, rough. “You’re mine… our baby… gonna feel me right where I want it.”

Your nails rake down his back, encouraging, begging. He doesn’t slow. Fingers dig in, long and insistent, pressing you into him, keeping you helpless and exposed, completely his.

Every snap, every groan, every possessive murmur — “Look at me… mine… gonna make you mine, right here, right now… gonna fill you…” — drives you closer. You’re gasping, whining, shivering, lost in pleasure, love, awe, and need, your eyes locked on him as he pounds you hard and fast, rough, primal, completely undone by desire.

And then the walls of your body clench around him. You cry out, hips bucking, eyes rolling back. He forces your gaze to meet his, forcing you to watch him while your orgasm rips through you. Fingers digging in, hands tangled in his hair and shoulders, you milk him helplessly, his hips stuttering, spilling inside you with a strangled, feral groan.

His hands tighten, arms locking your legs and torso, trying not to fall right on top of you. Every finger, every palm, every press of his body is ownership, devotion, need.

“Look at you…” he pants, voice small now, awe creeping in between rough breaths. “My perfect girl… mine… mine to fill, mine to love, mine to make a family with.”

Bodies tremble, sweat-damp, heat thick in the room. Your eyes stay on him, chest heaving, hearts pounding, the world reduced to the fire blazing between you, the wild, hungry, and tender man who’s already yours — completely, fiercely, irrevocably.

Your legs tremble under him. Carefully, he slides them down, one by one, grounding you both, still tethered by heat and breath. Then, with meticulous care, he pulls back.

He stays hovering over you for a second, chest rising and falling hard, eyes unfocused like he’s trying to land back in his body. When he finally lets himself drop, it’s cautious. His weight settles against you, solid and warm, an arm braced so he doesn’t crush you. Exhausted. Spent. Still shaking.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The room smells like sweat and candle wax and something new. The sheets are a mess. The air feels thick, charged with everything that was just said out loud.

Then he shifts.

Just like that.

Like the wild Mingi was gone, replaced by the one who loves you deeply. Like he’s remembered himself all at once.

His head tucks into the crook of your neck, breath still uneven. One hand comes up, unsure, resting at your side before retreating, then returning again. His words stumble out halfway formed.

“I—” He swallows. “I didn’t mean to sound like that. I mean, I did, but—” A quiet, embarrassed laugh slips out of him. “I just… I get intense. And I don’t ever want you to think I’m—” He trails off, mortified now, voice dropping. “Too much.”

Your fingers are already in his hair, slow and steady, scratching gently at his scalp. You feel his shoulders sag a fraction at the touch.

“You are a lot,” you say softly, amused. Honest. “And I love that.”

He goes still.

You tilt your head, brushing your cheek against his temple. “You don’t scare me,” you add. “You excite me.”

A shaky exhale leaves him. Relief. Disbelief. Warmth.

His arm tightens around you, pulling you closer, and this time he lets himself melt fully against your body. Blankets are tugged up around you both, clumsy but earnest. His kisses follow, slow now. Your shoulder. Your neck. Your jaw. Each one careful, like he’s trying to apologize without words.

“I just—” he murmurs again, quieter. “When I think about it… about us…” He hesitates, then admits, shy and unguarded. “I see the house full. I see kids running through it, pulling at my pants while I’m trying to cook. I see you laughing at me for taking it too seriously.”

You smile into his hair. “You would.”

“I know.” He chuckles softly, then sobers. “I know it’s not something you rush. I just… there’s so much love in me, and sometimes it feels like it has nowhere to go.”

You feel his smile against you.

“And you,” he continues, softer now. “You’d be so beautiful. You already are, but… all soft and round, carrying our baby?” His thumb pauses, reverent. “I don’t think I’d survive it.”

His hand drifts then. Slow. Almost reverent. It settles over your stomach, palm warm, fingers spreading as if he could shield something there already. He traces small circles, absentminded, protective, like instinct has taken over.

Your hand moves to cover his, fingers slipping between his, thumb brushing over his wedding band. You ground him right back.

“You’d be a good dad,” you say easily. “You already are, in all the ways that matter.”

He lifts his head enough to look at you, eyes glassy, overwhelmed by the certainty in your voice.

“You really think so?”

You nod. “You love with your whole body. You pay attention. You show up. You worry because you care.” A smile curves at your lips. “That’s kind of the whole job.”

His laugh is quiet, breathless. He presses his forehead to yours, eyes closing.

“I picture you,” you continue. “On the floor. Letting them climb all over you. Pretending you’re annoyed while absolutely loving it.” A soft laugh slips out of you. “You’d be impossible. Overprepared. Overprotective. Teaching them things way too early.”

That finally gets a real smile out of him. You feel it against your skin.

“And I picture me,” you add, nudging him lightly with your knee, “telling you to relax. That it’s okay if dinner’s late. That they’ll survive if you don’t do everything perfectly.”

He lifts his head just enough to look at you now, eyes searching, a little shy, a little hopeful.

“I’ll be patient,” he whispers, like a promise he’s making to himself. “We’ll start with one.”

“One,” you agree, smiling. “Let’s see how that goes.”

His thumb keeps circling. Warm. Steady. Hopeful.

The candle flickers beside the bed. The room settles. His breathing evens out against your neck, arms holding you close, strong and gentle all at once.

And for now, that’s enough.

Just you. Just him. And a future that feels wanted, not rushed.

masterlist

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© All rights reserved. Do not edit, or translate without permission. Credit to @mingi-buffering-24-7.

[yeonlymine]

aloe vera ᢉ𐭩 mingi

saddle burn wasn’t the only thing raw

𐚁 mingi x f!reader

𐚁wc: 3.4k

𐚁warnings!: smut, a lil plot, spit play, bondage/rope, choking, power dynamics, size kink, cum play, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, marking, spanking, biting, cowboy!mingi, im prob forgetting some

𐚁fun fact, i rodeo irl. im here to burst the bubble that cowboys are gentlemen. majority are assholes that have community d :) but we love cowboy mingi so it's acceptable in this circumstance!! this isnt rlly proofread, this was for funsies. (fyi the term "roughie" means someone who competes in rough stock events! in this case mingi is a bull rider)

𐚁𓄀✮⋆˙ 𐚁𓄀✮⋆˙

You knew better, you knew riding in shorts would rub you raw. 

Yet you did it anyway because it’s warm out, who would put on jeans when it’s 90 out? Horses gotta get warmed up too. 

Mingi told you while you were saddling up, you waved him off. Listening to roughies never got you anywhere but in the back seat of a truck.

You weren’t going to let a very tall, muscular, good-looking bullrider sway you…right?

You didn’t need the distraction, not before a run, so you continued to lope circles in the warm-up pen.

There’s no shade of trees, barely a breeze, the dust is all in your lungs, and it’s like you can feel the heat radiating from the bleachers. 

Your horse’s ride is smooth, and you match it, but the constant rubbing of your thighs from the rough out saddle is making it more agonizing.

Other contestants are scattered throughout the grounds, eating, talking; it’s the most relaxed time before it’s time to run at night.  

All but one bullrider, whom you’ve sworn not to touch with a ten-foot pole. Mingi has a tank on, shades covering his eyes, a trucker cap, and jeans. His long limbs just hanging on the fence, watching you. 

Each time you get to his side of the fence, you glance his way. He smirks that stupid smirk, you get goosebumps even though you’re sweating bullets.

Your horse’s body heat isn’t helping, so you decided to give both of you a break. It feels like scraping your knee on concrete as you slide off the other side of your saddle, you wince to yourself at the sensation.  

You waddle to the fence to tie your horse and loosen up the girth for her.

“I told you.” Mingi walks over, pats your horse’s head, his voice is filled with glee. 

“Shut up, I’m fine, just slight saddle burn.” You roll your eyes as you secure the rope knot, you wipe your forehead with the back of your hand.

“Slight?”

“Isn’t that what I said?”

“Smart mouth.” He clicks his tongue, climbs over the fence, and goes to help remove the splint boots from your horse.

“I got it, Mingi.” He pays you no mind and continues to unwrap. You get up from crouching, and that’s when your thighs touch.

“Fuck—shit.” 

He goes around to your side, takes his shades off, he’s towering over you as he holds the left splint boot in his hand. 

“No, darlin’, you’re chafed really bad—not just ‘slight’.” 

You snatch the boot out his hand, “Stop looking between my legs.”

“It’s obvious from a mile away that you’re hurting, and one more ride in that saddle is gonna have you bleeding.”

“Now you’re being dramatic.”

“You’re standing like you had 15 beers.” Your jaw tightens, and you try to straighten up. He’s so close that the brim of his cap shadows your face. 

“No I’m not.” But even the small shift makes you inhale sharply, he catches it, his eyes are drilling into you. 

He smiles at you again, you shove at his chest. You hate proving anybody right, “Don’t you gotta buckle bunny hanging around somewhere?”

His tongue presses into his cheek, “See—I would,” he leans down a little closer, feeling his body heat against your own, “but they don’t ride in soccer shorts like you.”

Your stomach gets that empty feeling, and you hate that you’re falling for old patterns again. He reaches down before you can step back.

He hooks his finger under your shorts at your outer thigh; he doesn’t lift, just keeps his fingers there. 

“Mm.” He observes, and you swat his hand away. “Don’t.”

“C’mon, lemme see.”

“No.” 

He tilts his head, “So you’re just gonna be in pain through your run tonight, just to prove something?”

You don’t say anything, because that was the plan all along, you were just going to suffer the consequences of your actions for the day. 

Then he straightens up, “My truck–now.”

“Absolutely not.” You cross your arms, lean on the shoulder of your horse, you don’t dare cross your legs over. 

“Relaxxxx, it’s not like that—unless you want it like that.”

You glare, and his grin only gets wider, then he softens up a bit. “I got aloe.”

Now you know he’s getting serious, he’s actually offering you a practical solution, not just the thing between his legs.

He knows your run is important, he knows that’s the real threat for you. He turns and starts walking towards the field with the parked truck and trailers.

You don’t follow at first, but you wait about five seconds before you attempt a step across the gravel.

Pain immediately shoots up your thighs, you huff out, trying to keep it down because you swear he’s smiling even though he doesn’t turn around. 

He keeps walking as gravel shifts under your boots, it’s uneven footing, so every brush of skin makes you clench your jaw. 

His long legs make big strides, but you can tell he slowed down a bit, he definitely wasn’t trying to make it obvious. 

By the time you reach his truck, he’s already dropped the tailgate. No trailer hooked to it, as roughies only need to bring themselves and their gear, no animals to worry about until their performance. 

They have it easy outside of the 8 seconds of them risking their life. 

He leans against it, arms crossed, shades hanging on his tank. “Took you long enough.” You stop a few feet away.

“Whatever, you planning on actually helping or just enjoying the show?”

He looks you up and down slowly. You look all over the place, to be honest. A tank top on with dust sticking to your body,  sweat on your face, hair pulled back under a cap, with boots on. 

You never look your absolute best during the day of the show anyway. Except Mingi isn’t looking at your face or your chest, he’s looking at your legs.

“That depends,” he says lazily. “You gonna keep pretending you don’t need help?” He pushes off the tailgate, taps on it.

“Hop up.”

“I can stand.”

“I really didn’t ask.”   

You hesitate until he raises a brow, then you grab the edge and pull yourself up, the metal is hot through your shorts. His truck is not covered and has been sitting in the beaming sun. 

Your legs part just a little, limiting the friction against them. He goes around to the front of his truck and grabs a bottle that has green gel inside.  

The aloe, you could jump for joy. He steps between your knees as your legs hang and your back stiffens. 

“We’re in public– dude, you see how many trailers parked next to you?”

“Would you prefer this in the truck? Windows are tinted–plus nobody is looking at your legs but me.”

Your pulse jumps, it shouldn’t, because this is just a favor, but it seems your body doesn’t care what your brain thinks.

“Yeah, truck please.” You slide off the tailgate and go to the open passenger door. He follows and stands in front of you, his body plus the door covering you completely from any other eyes. 

It just looks like Mingi digging into his truck at this angle.  He flips the cap open with his thumb, squeezes some into his hand.  “Last chance to tell me to stop.”

You swallow, your pride is screaming, but your thighs are on fucking fire.

“...Just make it quick.” His mouth curves up.

“Oh—you know I don’t do anything quick.”

The first touch is cold, the aloe hits your skin, and you suck in a breath. It feels like pouring peroxide on an open wound. 

His hand is rough, calloused from the bull ropes and working with his hands all the time. He spreads it slowly along the inside of your thigh.

He doesn’t go high or inappropriately, just where the roughed-up skin is. He doesn’t rush, he rubs it in like he does baby powder before his rides. 

“You’re so sensitive,” he murmurs.

“Well, no shit.”

“You should’ve listened.” His thumb drags a little slower, and you can feel the shift in breathing. He looks up at you from under his hat.

“Still just ‘slight?’” His thumb presses a little harder as he works the aloe in some more, the stinging sensation still subtle. 

Your knees go loose, opening up a little more, and his eyes don’t leave yours. “You can tell me to stop.”

You swallow, you’re sweating even more now, and your hand finds the front of his tank. You don’t push him, you bunch it up in your hands, holding him there. 

“Mingi,” you warn, but it comes out more breathy, not serious in the slightest. 

“Didn’t think so.” He says, stepping where his hips brush the edge of the passenger seat, your thighs hitting his. 

You know the aloe is just becoming an excuse at this point, you both have played these games before. 

“You’re such an ass.” Your grip tightens, pulling him closer.

His voice drops lower. “Then tell me to fuck off.” His hand rubs your inner thigh again, getting close to where you’ve been secretly aching and wet.

He leans in, his other hand bracing against the middle console behind you. You don’t say anything, don’t tell him no.

He hooks one finger under the edge of your shorts, tugs on them. “These are in the way.”

“Then do something about it.” Your pulse has quickened, know you shouldn’t be getting involved with him. 

His eyes flash, he grabs the shorts at the inseam, and they rip. Your shorts hang open, exposing your panties, already damp.   

“Shit, Mingi.”

“You told me to do something.” He yanks them away, hangs them on the rearview mirror. You’re left in your underwear, tank top, boots, and spurs.

His hand cups you through your underwear and you bite back a moan. “You’re so damn wet, bet there’s evidence of a snail trail in your saddle, huh?”

“Don’t get cocky, honey.”

He pulls your panties to the side, fingers sliding through your folds, and you choke. “Mhm. Keep talking for me.”

You can’t form words. His fingers work you open, you’re still covered from the other trucks and people in the parking lot, as two fingers push inside and his thumb finds your clit.

Your head falls back against the console, and he leans by your ear, tongue swipes it and you shudder.

“All that mouth and you can’t say shit now.”

“Maybe if you were better at this–”

He pulls his fingers out, and you whimper slightly. He grabs your jaw, forcing you to look at him, and his fingers wet with you press against your lips. 

“Open for me.” You glare as you do. He slides his fingers into your mouth, and you taste yourself with the tart lingering taste of aloe. His eyes are dark as he watches. 

You hollow your cheeks as you suck, and his breath hitches. He then pulls his fingers out, a string of spit connecting as he puts his fingers in his mouth. Moaning around his own fingers, holding direct eye contact with you. 

He then leans over into the bed of his truck and comes back in front of you, holding his bull rope. The one he uses for his rides, worn leather and frayed orange cord. Your eyes go wide.

“Turn around.”

“I’m not a fucking bull, you’re gonna have to make me.”

His hand grabs the hair peeking out of your cap and spins you, bending you over the console. Your boots scrape against the truck frame, spurs jingling. 

“You keep acting like a bull, get treated like one, baby.” He loops the rope around your wrists, pulling them behind your back and tying them tight. 

He tears your underwear next, throwing them in the backseat to be added to his collection. You can hear his buckle and zipper, and then you feel the head of his cock pressing against you. 

You think about onlookers and slowly stop giving a fuck, you’re covered. If they want to see Mingi's cheeks, they’ll get a show. 

He’s fucking big, you feel every vein, every muscle as he pushes in slowly.  “Jesus–shit, shit.”

“Too much? Thought you could handle it like you do your horses.” His voice is strained while still mocking you.

“Fuck everything about you.” You grit out, but get broken by a moan as he bottoms out in you. You’re so full, the air is getting scarce. 

He doesn’t give you time to adjust, he just pulls back and slams in. His balls slapping against you as you cry out. It hits the chafed skin from the saddle, and it hurts, but feels so damn good you can’t think straight. 

“Take it.”

He fucks you hard as your cheek rubs against the console, slobber smearing along the leather. The truck rocks with every thrust. 

Sweat drips, the rope burns your wrists, and you pull against it, which makes him go harder. He leans over you, one hand wrapping around your throat, pulling you up slightly so your back arches.

Your spurs catch on him and he hisses. “Careful with those,” he goes deeper, hitting your cervix, which makes you go delirious. 

“Oh my god.”

“Uh uh, wrong name.”

You can’t form coherent thoughts, so you push back against him, meeting his thrusts, and he groans.

He pulls out, and you whine. He unties the rope and flips you over, pulling you back to the edge of the seat. Your legs wrap around his waist, spurs digging into his ass, and he grins.

He pushes back in and you both moan. The angle is deeper, you can see him now. His hat is half on, tank top clinging to his body with sweat, happy trail visible,  jaw clenched. 

He looks damn good. 

He spits into his hand and brings it between you, rubbing your clit in tight circles while he pounds into you. It’s so much, you’re coming before you can stop it, your whole body squeezes around him tight. 

“Fuck,” he thrusts three more times, and then he’s spilling inside you with a groan. He collapses forward, head hanging on your shoulder, both of you gasping.

He pulls out slowly, and you feel his cum drip down your thighs, they burn even more now. The aloe has gone to waste. 

He swipes his fingers through it and brings it to your mouth again. “Clean this all up, you’ve already fucked up my seats.”

You maintain eye contact as you do, and his cock twitches against your thigh. “You’re such a dick.”

He grins lazily, satisfied. “You’re the one who was on this dick in a parking lot with your spurs still on.” 

You can’t even argue with that, but then your breathing steadies, and when you look at him, there’s a look in your eyes that makes him falter.

“Looks like it’s my turn, huh.”

He blinks, “What–”

“Get in the truck.” He stares at you a moment, cock still hard, then he laughs. “You serious?”

“Does it look like I’m fucking joking?” You move over to sit on top of the console to give him room, it takes all your strength to move because of how shaky you are. 

The seat is soaked in spit, cum, everything that’s dripped out of you. It’s absolutely filthy. “But that’s your seat.”

“And now it’s yours, sit.” His cocky smirk returns, and he gets all the way in. The truck dips, and he takes up the entire passenger seat, even in his big ass truck.

His thighs spread wide, and when he settles into the seat, you hear the wet sound of him sitting in your juices and the leather.  

“Jesus christ I’m gonna need a detail.”

“You should be honored.” You climb over him and squeeze in where you can, the heat seeping through with no ac.

His hands go to your hips, the fit is tight. His shoulders are so broad you have to brace your hands on the roof of the truck to balance, your knees press against the seat on either side of him.

No one can hear or see into his truck, tinted so dark you don’t know how he drives it on the regular.

You reach down between your bodies and wrap your hand around his cock. He begins to harden even more, and you stroke him slowly. 

You sink down on him in one stroke, and his words cut off into a choked groan. The stretch is delicious. You never took off your boots, dirt in his seat, spurs digging into the side of his thighs as you settle.

“What’s wrong Mingi?” You roll your hips and watch his eyes roll back. “Thought you’d be able to last 8 seconds?

“Fuck–”

You brace your hands on his shoulders, you set a fast pace. Your thighs burn, but you lift yourself almost completely off him before slamming back down. Cum drips down your thighs, down his cock, adding more to the mess he’s sitting in. 

His hands go to your hips, trying to slow you down, but you slap them away. “Didn’t say you could touch.” You lean forward and wrap your hand around his throat.

His cock twitches inside you, and you laugh breathlessly. “Oh? You like?” You squeeze your thighs tighter, changing the angle.

“I’m gonna die before my ride. Shit–”

“You’ll make it, just maybe not last the full time–” You sit up as much as you can, your head nearly brushes the roof. Your hips roll and snap, your spurs jingle with every movement, scraping his skin that’ll leave marks. 

Sweat drips between your breasts, and you can feel his chest slick under your hands. The windows start to fog, but you don’t slow down. 

“Look at you—big tough roughie who can’t take what he dishes out. Pathetic.”

“I like it when your mouth is occupied.” He sticks his fingers into your mouth and shoves them down your throat, your hips stutter a bit. 

“Good girl, all nice and quiet.” His other hand comes up to grab your tits, squeezing hard, he pinches, causing you to moan and clench around him. It only makes you go harder. 

You spit his fingers back out, some of it hits his face, he uses his tongue to lick it off around his lips. The scene alone makes you want to buckle at the knees. 

“You’re fucking insane.”

His hand slides down to your ass, and he spanks you, the sting matching the sensation of your inner thighs. Then he does it again. 

“Fuck—yess–” He spanks you harder, and you grind down harder, taking him deep. Your clit rubs against his unshaven stubble with every movement. You’re getting close again.

“Shit, I’m bout’ to nut.” His voice is wrecked, and you can feel him throbbing inside you. 

You tap his cheek playfully, “Not yet.”

“Please–”

“Please what?” You roll your hips, start spelling your nickname with your hips, and he chokes. “Use your words, honey.”

“Please let me come—fucking please.” You lean down, lips brushing his ear. “Fill me up again, wanna feel it.”

He comes with a groan, hands on your hips, and the feeling of him pulsing inside you. You come shortly after, thighs clamping around him. 

Even as you come, you keep moving, slower. “Wait–I can’t.”

“Yes, you can, take it.” You sit up, wringing every last bit out of him. His head falls back against the seat, throat exposed, and you lean down to bite it.

Your muscles are screaming, you chase another orgasm as you grind down on him. His hands roam your thighs, ass, tits as you come down. 

He’s about to say something smart until the sound of a mic squeals. You both freeze. A voice echoes from the arena, running sound check for the speakers before the night.

The loading of bulls and horses into the chutes, it makes you realize how the world didn’t really stop, and you’re still parked between trailers.

Still supposed to compete. 

Your thighs burn when you shift off him, the aloe is smeared everywhere. He runs a hand over his face, hat crooked, jaw tight. 

You adjust your tank top like nothing happened, grab what’s left over of your shorts off the rearview. 

“Better ride better than how you handled this.”

He laughs, you lean down as your lips brush the shell of his ear. “Wouldn’t want you lasting less than eight seconds under those lights.”

You pull back before he can respond, open the door, and slide on your ripped shorts. Heat floods in, and real life hits you.

He watches your boots hit the gravel, your thighs are still red, still raw, and it’s all his fault.

“That aloe was absolute shit.”

[yawwni]

𑣲   shelf 07 ─ 𝓼eungmin ˙ ̟ !! ⓘ do not plagiarise, repost, translate, steal or feed to ai.

l❤︎ves 🫧req. 🍪riginals 🥛sugg. 𑣲fluff ⭑angst

🍪🥛 [𑣲⭑] 𓂃 stars and raindrops [series] ❤︎ ‎⤷ crushing on your best friend is really eventful. especially when he starts crushing on the campus' favorite girl.

🍪🥛 [⭑] 𓂃 hold my hand [twoshot] ‎⤷ you might have just crossed a boundary' catching feelings for your fwb, who is also your dormmate.

🍪 [𑣲] 𓂃 as we are [series] ❤︎ ‎⤷ a usual noon after uni, at your usual spot at one of the unoccupied fields of the small town. however, one day, it turned out you weren't the only person finding calm in the field anymore.

🫧🥛 [𑣲] 𓂃 hold me tight ‎⤷ aftercare with your boyf!

🫧 [𑣲⭑] 𓂃 here, always ‎⤷ your boyfriend helps you with a panic attack. [9th member au]

🫧 [𑣲⭑] 𓂃 and i'll still be right next to you, my dear ‎⤷ your boyfriend comes to your rescue, after uni, when your pms turns you into a gremlin?

🫧🥛 [𑣲] 𓂃 hazy mornings, lonely lips ‎⤷ mornings with your boyf!

🫧🍪🥛 [𑣲] 𓂃 over matcha lattes to something more? [twoshot+bonus] ❤︎ ‎⤷ when the popular girl meets the academic ace; gets assigned a project together, which leads to shared matcha lattes and puppies?

🫧 [𑣲] 𓂃 love is.. beyond the height ‎⤷ your boyfriend is taller than you, and he's annoying about it; but still cute‎!

🍪 [𑣲] 𓂃 i love you, but if you move another inch.. ‎⤷ painting your boyfriend's nails.

🍪 [𑣲] 𓂃 keep the change, and my heart ❤︎ ‎⤷ slowly falling in love with the barista at your newly-favorited cafe.

🍪🥛 [𑣲] 𓂃 baseball-bf!ksm texts ❤︎

🫧 [𑣲⭑] 𓂃 first-bf!ksm texts

🍪🥛 [𑣲] 𓂃 on air, off guard ❤︎ ‎⤷ fic 01 of 08 from yani's val26 special!

꒰ 𝓵ibrary ꒱ 📁 b.c l.mh s.cb h.hj h.js l.fl y.ji

─── 𝒶ll of my fics are strictly sfw. most of them are 𝒻luffy, and the rest can be 𝒶ngsty, borderline 𝓈uggestive, hurt/𝒸omfort, and/or 𝑒motional. 𝓱appy reading!

─── 𝓇equests are currently closed.

─── 𝓌ant to get notified everytime i post a fic? join the taglist here.

─── 𝓁ast updated : 2026.02.19

© yawwni ‘26  ★

[liuhsng]

─────⋆˚࿔ ⋆ after hours ( smg ! )

✩ˎˊ˗ ateez masterlist ( coming soon )

⤷ pairing — mingi x fem!reader

⤷ word count — 7.3k ⤷ permanent taglist — open !

⤷ a/n — hi loves ! I know i’ve been writing a lot for ateez lately—but don’t worry, i’m working on balancing out my wip’s so i can give some proper attention to my enhypen-related projects as well. thank you so much for sticking around and supporting everything i write. as always, enjoy reading 🤍

⤷ warnings — smut (minors dni), p in v, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), rough sex, dom!mingi, bottom!reader, possessive!mingi, markings (hickies), idol!au, idol!mingi, composer!mingi, non-idol!reader, established relationship, dirty talk, manhandling, kinda!perv mingi (if you squint), slight choking, recording of sexual acts without explicit consent, use of recorded audio in a professional project, mingi’s a workaholic, fluff

✩ˎˊ˗ summary — song mingi was a big workaholic, that much was true. but nobody ever knew the secret to getting him out of his creative ruts wasn’t coffee or sleep—it was you. you were his muse, and maybe, just maybe, every song he pours his soul into still carries traces of you—even in the soft sounds he never meant to record.

Song Mingi was a busy man.

That was the first thing you noticed about him—the very second Wooyoung decided it was a brilliant idea to introduce you to one of his groupmates in the middle of a cramped café, where the smell of burnt espresso lingered in the air and the line for the cashier wrapped halfway to the door.

Mingi was knee-deep in whatever he was furiously typing on his phone, thumbs moving so fast it looked like they were racing each other. His brows were knit together in concentration, lips pursed ever so slightly as if he were chewing on a thought.

Lyrics, you’d later find out. Lyrics for their next comeback—words that mattered more to him than the world around him.

Which included Wooyoung.

And Yunho.

And you.

Wooyoung had been talking for at least a full minute—loud, animated, hands flying everywhere as he roped Yunho into some silly little afternoon lunch plan—yet Mingi didn’t even blink. Didn’t hum. Didn’t acknowledge the presence of another human being within a five-foot radius.

“Wow,” Wooyoung muttered, offended. “So this is how you treat me now?”

Nothing.

Your lips twitched, amusement curling in your chest as you tilted your head slightly, curiosity getting the better of you. You leaned just a bit closer, eyes flicking to the screen before you could stop yourself—lines of text, scribbled thoughts, half-formed verses.

It was only when Wooyoung finally lost his patience and shoved him forward by the shoulders, chair scraping loudly against the floor, that Mingi huffed and looked up.

And froze.

Because you were already looking at him.

Doe eyes—wide, curious, unguarded—locked onto his, and for half a second, the world narrowed down to just that. Mingi had to fake a cough, bringing his fist to his mouth as heat crawled up his neck, right up to the tips of his ears.

Shit.

Getting too caught up in writing lyrics wasn’t ideal when his exact type was only a chair away, staring at him like he was a puzzle she wanted to solve.

He cleared his throat again, hurriedly shoving his phone into his pocket like it had personally betrayed him.

The younger smirked in pure, evil victory. “Finally,” he said. “You look alive.”

Wooyoung padded over to Yunho, who was already lining up by the cashier, leaving you and Mingi sitting there—alone, awkward, and way too aware of each other.

You tilted your head, arms crossing loosely in front of you, weight shifting to one hip. Mingi cursed under his breath when he noticed how that movement made your top stretch just slightly, his eyes flicking down before he could stop himself.

Double shit.

“Uh—hi,” he mumbled, voice lower than he expected. “I’m—uh—”

You laughed softly, the sound light and warm, shaking your head. “I know,” you said. “You’re Mingi.”

That didn’t help him at all.

“I’m (Y/N),” you added gently. “And I apologize in advance for Wooyoung.”

Your eyes drifted past him then, landing on where Wooyoung was now animatedly talking Yunho’s ear off by the counter.

Wooyoung’s hands were moving a mile a minute, eyebrows lifting and dropping like he was telling the most dramatic story known to man, while Yunho—looked far too amused, head tipped back in laughter as he listened.

Mingi followed your gaze, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah,” he murmured. “That tracks.”

His eyes found their way back to you almost immediately, like they’d been pulled on an invisible string. You were already smiling at him when he looked, head tilted slightly to the side, a curtain of hair falling over one shoulder, expression open—inviting.

Mingi had to physically fight the urge to grab your hand and drag you out of this café, consequences be damned. He’d only known you for ten minutes, and he was already planning a whole life with you.

“So,” you began, your voice pulling him back from the brink of insanity. “How are the lyrics going?”

Mingi swore, right then and there, that you were a godsend. An actual, literal angel sent to test his sanity. He blinked, his brain short-circuiting for a second before he managed to shrug, trying to play it cool.

“Oh—uh,” he started, rubbing the back of his neck as he shrugged. “They’re… not that good. I mean, I’m not even halfway done.”

You hummed thoughtfully, lips pursing as you shook your head. There was the slightest pout there—barely anything—but Mingi’s eyes betrayed him, drifting down to your mouth before he could stop himself.

The slight shimmer from the clear gloss coated your perfectly pink, plump lips, and he was cursing himself inside his head. ‘Get it together, you fucking perv.’

He was a grown man, for Christ’s sake, not a hormonal teenager. But here you were, making him feel like one.

“Well, we’ll never know unless we check, right?” you said, a sheepish smile playing on your lips.

You leaned in just a fraction, and the scent of your perfume—something sweet and vanilla-like—nearly knocked him sideways. “Would it be okay for me to see?”

Mingi felt his heart leap out of his chest and do a triumphant little jig on the floor. He was nodding before he even registered the question, a frantic, jerky motion.

You beamed, and it was like the sun came out from behind a cloud. You patted the empty seat next to you, the one Wooyoung had abandoned earlier. “Do you mind?”

Mingi shook his head. He shot up from his chair, the loud scrape of the wooden legs against the tile cutting through the café’s ambient noise. He felt every eye in the place turn to him, but he couldn’t care less.

You could have asked him to buy you a Prada bag right then and there, and he wouldn’t have even blinked, already fumbling for his wallet and handing you his card.

He rounded the small table, his movements feeling clumsy and oversized, and sat down next to you. The chair suddenly felt impossibly small. He cleared his throat awkwardly, his hands fidgeting in his lap as he unlocked his phone, his fingers suddenly feeling thick and useless.

You giggled, a soft, airy sound that made his chest feel tight. You placed a delicate hand over your mouth, but your eyes were sparkling with mirth. “For someone so big,” you teased, your voice light and playful, “you act like I’m going to eat you.”

He laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “I’m not—”

“Yes, you are,” you cut in, smiling. “Relax.”

That was the day Song Mingi decided that he was probably going to ask for your hand in marriage.

Song Mingi was aware that he was a busy man—more than he’d ever like to admit.

His days were packed down to the minute. Studio sessions that bled into early mornings, practice schedules that left his muscles sore for days, meetings stacked on top of meetings until his phone became a never-ending stream of reminders.

It was past one in the morning when his third alarm for yesterday rang through the studio.

“Fuck,” Mingi muttered under his breath, hand flying out blindly as he reached for his phone amid the organized mess of his mixing console. He slapped it down onto the empty gaming chair beside him, the cold metal of his rings digging into his fingers as the alarm finally died.

He let out a slow breath, shoulders sagging.

“Thank fuck for soundproof walls,” he muttered under his breath.

Walls he had very generously paid an interior designer for—one he hadn’t really had much say in when the two of you were choosing designs, because Mingi had long since learned he could never say no to you.

Any more seconds of that alarm and you would’ve woken up, despite the shared bedroom being a few doors away.

The thought alone made his jaw tighten.

“Stupid fucking work,” he hummed quietly, more tired than angry as he turned back to the console.

His fingers moved on autopilot now—muscle memory built from years of doing this. He adjusted the faders, nudging the levels just slightly, twisting the EQ knobs to clean up the lows, adding a bit more presence so the beat didn’t feel flat.

He pressed play.

The beat filled the room—low, steady. Mingi leaned back in his chair, eyes glued to the screen as his fingers hovered over the effects rack, adding just a touch of reverb, dialing in compression until it felt right in his chest.

Better.

He paused it again, letting the silence sit as a satisfied hum left him. His mouse clicked over to another screen, fingers typing out personal notes—small reminders to himself, half-formed thoughts, timing cues only he would understand.

“Fix second verse flow,” he murmured. “Lower gain on hook.”

He grabbed the mic stand, dragging it closer until the microphone hovered just in front of his mouth. He adjusted the height, rolled his shoulders once, breath steadying as he leaned in.

Just one more take.

Knock. Knock.

Mingi froze.

His hand stilled mid-reach, fingers hovering inches away from the mic before he slowly pushed it aside. A small, tired smile tugged at his lips before he could stop it.

“Well, shit,” he whispered, fond.

He stood up, joints aching as he stretched slightly, grimacing at the heavy feel of the clothes still clinging to him—the same ones he’d worn during filming earlier that day. He’d gotten too immersed, too deep into the music to even think about changing.

Padding toward the door, he rubbed a hand down his face before pulling it open.

You stood there in one of his hoodies, the soft, worn black fabric swallowing your frame, the hem barely brushing the tops of your thighs, leaving a long stretch of your legs bare to the chill of the hallway air.

The sleeves, far too long for your arms, were pushed up in messy bunches around your elbows, and your hair was a soft, slightly tangled halo around your face, a clear proof to the fact you’d just rolled out of bed.

In your hands, you held two plates, balanced with a practiced ease, steam curling up from the creamy pasta and perfectly seared steak—the same dish he’d fallen in love with years ago when you’d first cooked it for him in your tiny, shared dorm room, the smell of garlic and butter clinging to every surface for a week.

Your eyes were soft now—knowing—as you looked up at him.

“Good morning,” you murmured.

Mingi sighed, all the tension he’d been holding onto melting instantly. He leaned his head lightly against the doorframe, eyes slipping shut for a second—a small, helpless smile tugging at his own lips.

“Hey, baby,” he mumbled, voice low and tired and warm.

Your gaze flicked past him, into the dimly lit studio, taking in the glowing screens and scattered papers. You laughed softly, shifting your weight as your arms strained just a bit.

“These plates are heavy, Song Mingi.”

“Oh—shit, sorry,” he yelped quietly, immediately stepping aside. “Come in, come in.”

He guided you inside with a hand at your lower back, careful as you padded into the studio. The smell of the food filled the space instantly—rich, comforting—and it hit him then just how long it had been since he’d eaten anything proper.

You set the plates down on the large table beside his mixing console with a soft clink, sighing under your breath as your eyes drifted over the mess.

“Wow,” you muttered.

Your hands reached for the scattered sheets of paper—lyrics, notes, half-written melodies you’d long stopped trying to understand. You hummed absently as you stacked them, straightening bent corners, smoothing them down against your palm.

“You know,” you said quietly, “I’ve lived with you for years and I still don’t know how to read any of this.”

Mingi chuckled, closing the door behind the two of you, the soft click sealing the studio off from the rest of the house. “It barely makes sense to me half the time.”

You glanced back at him, lips quirking. “Always so messy.”

He stepped closer, his feet padding softly against the worn wooden floors. His arm slipped around your waist from behind, pulling you flush against him as he rested his chin on your shoulder.

Mingi pressed a line of soft, warm kisses against the column of your neck, his breath fanning out in a contented sigh. “You love me,” he mumbled, the words muffled against your skin.

“I love you,” you corrected him gently, your arm reaching back to ruffle his already messy hair. You leaned your full weight back into him, your other hand coming to rest softly over his arms where they were locked around your waist. “Your mess? Not so much.”

He laughed, the sound a low rumble that vibrated through your entire body as he pressed a light kiss to your cheek, causing you to scrunch your nose in protest. He only pulled you closer, his embrace tightening. “You didn’t have to cook,” he murmured.

“I wanted to,” you said simply, turning your head to look up at him. Your eyes traced the faint shadows beneath his own, the exhaustion showing despite the layers of makeup he’d forgotten to remove after filming. “You forget to eat when you’re like this.”

Mingi smiled sheepishly at you, his hands caressing the sides of your waist as he mumbled, “Guilty.”

You patted his cheek, your touch soft and fond. “Eat up.”

But before you could utter another word, Mingi hooked his chin over your shoulder and pulled you down with him, a playful strength in his arms. You released a small, undignified squeak as he landed right back in the rolling chair he’d been in before, pulling you flush into his lap.

You landed with a soft huff, the air knocked from your lungs as you glared at him. “Mingi, I swear—”

He just laughed, leaning his head back against the headrest, his eyes sparkling with mischief as he shifted to settle you more comfortably against him. His arms wrapped securely around your middle. “What? You didn’t get hurt, did you?”

You only rolled your eyes at him, a gesture you knew was utterly ineffective.

He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head, lips lingering there for a moment before he spoke again, quieter this time. “Let’s eat together. But first… I want you to listen to this.”

Reluctantly, he let go of your waist just long enough to roll the chair closer to the mixing console. His hands hovered over the laptop for a second—hesitant, almost shy—before he pressed the space bar.

The beat that erupted from the speakers was refreshing and utterly summer-like, a vibrant pulse of synths and bass that echoed off the dimly lit walls of the studio, wrapping around you both like a warm breeze on a sun-soaked beach.

Then came the familiar voice of Hongjoong, smooth and commanding, chording through the air with that signature edge that always made your skin tingle.

You couldn’t help but burst into laughter, the sound bubbling up from your chest as you moved forward in Mingi’s lap, your body instinctively seeking more of that infectious rhythm.

Mingi groaned low in his throat, the vibration rumbling against your back as you wiggled closer, but you were too immersed in the demo playing out on the screen. Your eyes zeroed in on the waveform visuals, those jagged peaks labeled with initials that danced hypnotically.

“Are those San’s vocals?” you asked, voice laced with genuine curiosity and a hint of playfulness, twisting just enough to glance at Mingi over your shoulder.

His large hands landed firmly on your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh there as you pushed yourself more firmly onto him, feeling the heat of his body seeping through the layers.

“Yes, baby, it’s San,” he murmured, his breath hot against your ear, voice already roughening with the strain of holding back.

You pressed your palms flat against his thighs, the muscles tensing under your touch as you leaned forward, your ass rubbing against the growing bulge in his pants.

Mingi had to physically bite down on his lower lip, teeth sinking into the plump flesh to stifle the curse bubbling up, his hips moving involuntarily and dragging you along with him in a slow, teasing grind.

“Your rap sounds really nice, baby,” you hummed appreciatively, snuggling back against his broad chest, the scent of his cologne—woody and spiced—filling your senses as the track built to a crescendo.

Mingi forced the groan threatening to escape back down his throat, but his grip on your hips tightened like iron vices, knuckles whitening as he glanced down to where your bodies met.

Your ass, barely covered by the hem of his oversized hoodie that you’d claimed as your own, pressed insistently against him; only the thick fabric of his sweatpants and the thin barrier of your panties separated your heated cores.

You hummed along to the beat, the melody vibrating through you both, and leaned even more into him, the full weight of your body adding delicious pressure to the tent straining against his zipper.

His cock throbbed beneath you, hard and insistent, the outline clear even through the layers as it nudged up against your cleft.

“Baby, wait—” Mingi groaned out, the word strained and desperate, his voice cracking slightly as one hand slid up under the hoodie to splay possessively across your bare stomach.

“Hmm?” you replied absently, your hands moving to cover his where they gripped your waist, fingers tracing the cool silver rings adorning his long digits.

You did it slowly, almost teasingly, nails scraping lightly over the metal and his skin, but Mingi knew you were far too lost in the demo’s pulsing rhythm to notice the torment you were inflicting.

He gritted his teeth, jaw clenching so hard you could hear the faint grind. “Nothing… but can you please stop m—” But the words cut off into a sharp hiss as you moved again, moving your position on his lap with a subtle roll of your hips.

Your ass pressed up harder against the ever-growing tent in his pants, the friction sending a jolt straight through him, his cock twitching violently as pre-cum likely soaked into the fabric.

You paused the motion just enough to tilt your head back, lips brushing his jawline in a feather-light kiss. “Stop what? I’m just getting comfy while we listen,” you teased innocently, though the way your thighs squeezed around his made it anything but.

The track hit a drop, Yunho’s voice layering over San’s ad-libs in a hypnotic flow, and you swayed with it, grinding down in time with the bass, your pussy clenching at the feel of his hardness slotting perfectly between your cheeks.

Mingi’s breath came in ragged pants now, one hand abandoning your waist to fist the arm of the chair, the other pulling you flush against him as if he could fuse your bodies together.

Fuck, you’re killing me,” he rasped, nipping at your earlobe before soothing it with his tongue. “That ass of yours… grinding on my cock like that. You feel how hard you’ve got me? All because of this damn demo.”

You laughed softly, the sound breathy and aroused, turning your face to capture his lips in a messy kiss. Your tongue slipped past his bitten lip, tasting the faint metallic tang as you deepened it, hips circling lazily while the music swelled around you.

“But it’s so good, Mingi. Your parts blend perfectly with theirs—listen to that.” As if on cue, his own pre-recorded verse kicked in, deep and gravelly, sending shivers down your spine.

He broke the kiss with a growl, forehead pressing to yours, eyes dark and hooded. “Yeah? You like hearing me sing while you’re teasing my cock?”

His free hand ventured lower, slipping under the hoodie to cup your mound through your panties, fingers pressing just enough to feel the damp heat gathering there. “Because I can feel how wet you’re getting, baby. This pussy’s soaking for me already.”

A soft moan escaped you as his thumb circled your clit through the fabric, the pressure building in tandem with the track’s rising tension. You rocked into his touch, ass still firm against his throbbing length, the dual sensations making your head spin.

“Mingi, fuck, don’t stop,” you whispered, your voice coming out husky and breathless, laced with the need pulsing through your veins.

Even as the words left your lips, you reached back, threading your fingers through his dark hair, tugging him closer with a desperate pull that made his scalp tingle under your grip.

Mingi leaned down immediately, his hot breath fanning over your skin before his mouth descended. He pressed open-mouthed kisses along the side of your neck, each one soft and teasing, his lips dragging slowly as if savoring the taste of you.

Then came the suck, his teeth grazing just enough to send sparks down your spine. Red marks bloomed in his wake—dark, possessive blooms that would linger as reminders of this moment in the dim studio light.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he mumbled against your throat, his voice a low rumble that vibrated straight into your core—the sound alone made your thighs clench.

Without warning, his fingers hooked into the waistband of your panties, yanking them aside with a rough tug that exposed you completely.

The cool air of the studio hit your bare folds for a split second, a shocking contrast that made you whine sharply, your hips bucking involuntarily at the sudden vulnerability.

But the chill didn’t last—Mingi’s hand was there in an instant, two thick digits sliding through your slickness, coating themselves in the evidence of your arousal as they circled your entrance.

“But I’m gonna need you to let that track continue playing while I fuck you good, yeah?” he murmured, his tone husky and commanding, the words brushing against your ear.

His other hand stayed firm on your hip, holding you steady against his rock-hard cock straining through his pants, the heat of it searing into your ass.

A deep moan tore from your throat at his words, your hips moving forward instinctively, trying to draw him in deeper, to chase that penetration you craved.

But Mingi was set on letting you suffer just a little longer, pulling his fingers away at the last moment and returning to circle your clit with agonizing slowness. The swollen nub throbbed under his touch, each loop sending jolts of pleasure that bordered on pain, your body trembling in his hold.

“I need words, baby,” he demanded, his voice dropping even lower, that rumbling timbre making your pussy clench around nothing.

You moaned again, louder this time, turning your head to the side to glare at him over your shoulder.

The heat in your stare was fierce, a mix of frustration and desire, but Mingi only laughed—a dark, throaty sound that echoed softly in the room, his eyes gleaming with amusement and hunger as he met your gaze.

Then, without mercy, he plunged his fingers into you, two thick lengths stretching your walls in one swift thrust. The intrusion made you cry out, a sharp moan that mingled with the beat still pulsing from the speakers, your inner muscles fluttering around him as he curled them just right, hitting that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids.

Before you could catch your breath, Mingi caught your lips in a heated kiss, his mouth crashing against yours with bruising force. His tongue swept in, tasting of mint and something more primal, as he devoured you.

His other hand tightened its grip on your waist, fingers digging into the soft flesh there, anchoring you as your body arched into him.

Just as quickly, he removed his fingers, sliding them out with a wet sound that left you empty and aching, your pussy clenching desperately around the sudden void.

A whine of protest escaped you, high and needy, and you pulled harder at the ends of his hair still tangled in your hold, yanking his head back slightly to emphasize your frustration.

Mingi groaned at the tug, the sound rough and guttural, vibrating through his chest against your back. But the smirk curling his lips said he was anything but bothered—relishing the way you fought back, even in submission.

“I said words,” he repeated, his voice a low growl now, edged with that teasing dominance that made your pulse race.

To punctuate his demand, his fingers slapped lightly against your clit, the sharp sting blooming into heat that had you jerking in his hold, a gasp ripping from your lungs as fresh slickness coated your thighs.

“F-Fuck, Mingi, please—” you stammered, the plea tumbling out in a rush, your voice breaking on the edges as your body betrayed you, hips grinding back against him for any friction.

He hummed in satisfaction, the sound deep and approving, like velvet wrapping around your nerves.

Leaning in closer, he bit down on the lobe of your ear, teeth grazing the sensitive skin before soothing it with a flick of his tongue. “That’s a good girl,” he mumbled, the praise sending a shiver straight to your core, warm and intoxicating.

“Ngh…” The moan slipped out unbidden, helpless, as Mingi shoved his two fingers back into you, deeper this time, letting you adjust to the stretch.

You arched your back against him, pressing your ass firmer into the bulge of his cock, soft pants leaving your lips in quick, ragged bursts.

The fullness was exquisite, his digits scissoring slightly to open you up, the slick sounds of your arousal filling the air alongside the track’s building rhythm.

Mingi’s arm that was wrapped around your waist shifted, his hand sliding up to push the hoodie higher, bunching the fabric around your ribs and leaving your bottom half fully exposed to the cool studio air.

You barely registered the chill anymore—the heat coursing through you was too intense, a wildfire spreading from where his fingers pumped steadily inside, thumb now brushing your clit in time with his thrusts. Your skin flushing hot as beads of sweat gathered at the base of your neck.

“Look at you, so fucking wet for me,” Mingi rasped, his lips trailing down to nip at your shoulder, voice that low rumble that made your toes curl.

He twisted his fingers, dragging them along your inner walls with slowness, feeling every flutter and squeeze. “This pussy’s gripping me like it never wants me to leave. You gonna be good and keep that track going? Let it play while I stretch you out?”

You nodded frantically, but that wasn’t enough for him—his free hand came up to cup your chin, tilting your head back so you could see the dark promise in his eyes. “Words, baby. Tell me you want my cock ruining you right here.”

“Y-Yes, Mingi,” you gasped, the words spilling out as his fingers curled again, hitting that perfect spot that made your vision blur.

“Please, fuck me… don’t make me wait.” Your hand tightened in his hair, pulling him down for another kiss, messy and desperate, teeth clashing as you rocked back against his hand.

Mingi chuckled into your mouth, the sound vibrating through your lips in the heat of the moment, his tongue swirling with yours in a lazy, dominating dance that left you breathless.

His fingers pumped a few more times inside your aching pussy, each thrust deep, the pads of his digits curling to drag along your sensitive walls.

Sometimes, the cool edges of his metal rings caught against your entrance as he drove them in, the stark contrast to the warmth of his skin making you whimper sharply, your body jolting at the unexpected chill that only heightened the fire building low in your belly.

“My good girl,” he mumbled against your lips, the praise rough and affectionate, his voice that familiar low rumble that sent shivers racing down your spine.

With that, he withdrew his fingers slowly, the slick drag leaving you clenching around nothing, a soft whine escaping as the emptiness throbbed insistently.

His hand on your hip traveled upward, sliding along the curve of your side until it reached the side of your face. Mingi cupped your chin firmly, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip as he tilted your head back, forcing you to stare directly up at him.

Those dark eyes locked onto yours intensely, holding you captive in their gaze. He brought his two fingers—the ones that had been buried inside you moments earlier—to his mouth, rubbing them together first, the glistening strands of your arousal catching the dim light.

Then, without breaking eye contact, he shoved them past his lips, groaning deeply at the taste of you, the sound guttural as it rumbled from his chest.

You watched, transfixed, as his tongue lapped over the soaked digits, swirling around them to savor every drop of your juices, the sight making your core pulse with renewed need.

He sucked them clean, hollowing his cheeks before letting them go with a wet pop that echoed softly in the quiet studio. A smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth as he looked down at you, satisfaction gleaming in his expression like he’d just claimed another victory.

Before you could form a coherent thought, he leaned down to kiss you again—this time less messy, more passionate, his lips moving against yours with a controlled hunger that made your knees weak.

His tongue traced the seam of your mouth, coaxing it open to delve inside, sharing the faint tang of your own flavor.

“Always so sweet for me,” he mumbled into the kiss, the words brushing hot against your tongue, sending a flush of warmth through your cheeks.

You smiled into the kiss, soft and involuntary, the tenderness in his touch contrasting the desire still simmering between you.

Mingi pulled back just a few inches, his breath mingling with yours as he hovered close. “Up,” he murmured, tapping your hip twice with a firm press of his fingers, the command gentle but insistent.

He let you stand on your own, though your legs trembled from the torture he’d just put you through, muscles quivering like jelly under the weight of your arousal. You steadied yourself against the edge of the table, the cool wood pressing into your palms as you gripped it tightly.

Behind you, the shuffle of the chair—the one you’d both been tangled on seconds ago—scraped across the floor, followed by the faint clink of his metal rings hitting his belt buckle as he worked it open with hurried precision.

Mingi leaned his body into yours from behind, not enough to push you forward but close enough to loom over you, his broad frame casting a shadow that made you feel deliciously small and exposed.

The heat radiating from him seeped through the fabric of your pushed-up hoodie, and you felt the shift as he shrugged off the heavy jacket that had been weighing him down for hours, the material whispering to the floor in a heap.

“Hands on the table,” he ordered, his voice dropping to that husky timbre that brooked no argument, “and you better not move anything from that console, baby.”

A whimper slipped past your lips as you bit down on your lower one, nodding obediently while your hands splayed out on the empty spot of the table in front of you.

The smooth wood was cool against your heated palms, calming you even as your body thrummed with anticipation, the console's glowing buttons just inches away—a temptation you wouldn’t dare touch.

Mingi let the material of his jeans slide down to his ankles, kicking them aside with a rustle, leaving him in nothing but his boxers, which he didn't even bother pushing down all the way.

The desperation was evident in the way the fabric tented obscenely, strained against his arousal. His white buttoned top hung loose, half-untucked and forgotten, the thin material doing little to hide the flex of his muscles beneath.

His hands settled on your hips, warm and possessive, his large palms spanning the flesh easily, fingers digging in just enough to keep you steady as your body leaned forward slightly.

A soft moan escaped you at the contact, your voice breaking on the plea. “Mingi, please…”

He chuckled, the sound dark and teasing, vibrating through his chest as it pressed against your back. His other hand slipped from your waist, wrapping around the base of his cock—already aching and heavy, the tip glistening with pre-cum that had been leaking since the moment you first sat on his lap.

He stroked himself once, twice, the wet sound of it making your breath hitch, before lining up the blunt head against your slick folds.

The first brush of him there was electric, the velvety heat of his tip nudging your entrance, and it was enough to make your knees buckle, a sharp gasp tearing from your throat as your legs threatened to give out.

Mingi breathed out heavily, the sound low and deep, like a growl restrained, his arm wrapping tighter around your waist to hold you upright.

“Atta girl,” he murmured, the praise warm against your ear, his lips brushing the shell as he leaned his body into yours.

Slowly, he pressed inside—an inch at first, the fat head of his cock stretching you open with a burn that bordered on exquisite pain.

“Ngh—ah! Fuck—” you moaned, the cry high and broken, your fingers curling against the table's edge as your walls fluttered around the intrusion.

He pressed soft kisses to the top of your head, his height making the gesture almost endearing amidst the pleasure, and you could hear the almost-laugh in his exhale at the stark difference in your statures—him towering over you like this.

Another inch pushed in, his girth filling you inch by inch until you felt impossibly full.

“You’re doing so well for me, baby. That’s it,” he mumbled, voice strained with restraint, his breath hot on your skin as he bottomed out, his hips flush against your ass.

The head of his cock nudged deep, almost kissing your cervix, the pressure sending stars exploding behind your closed eyelids, your body arching involuntarily.

It was too much—the stretch, the fullness, the way he hit every sensitive spot—and the coil inside you snapped without warning.

“Mingi, I’m cumming—!” you whimpered out, the words fracturing into a sob as waves of pleasure crashed over you, your pussy clenching around his length.

Mingi leaned down, pressing soft, soothing kisses to your shoulder, his lips lingering on the skin as he murmured, “Let go for me, baby.”

You shivered violently against his hold, the strength of your orgasm rippling through you like wave, nearly toppling you both as your walls clamped down hard, milking him in tight, pulsing squeezes.

He hissed through his teeth, the sound sharp and needy, fighting every instinct not to shove you forward onto the console and ruin the hours of meticulous work he'd poured into the tracks.

Instead, his other arm flew up to wrap softly around your neck, pulling you back against his body, your back flush to his chest as he held you steady.

“Fuck…” he breathed, the word a ragged exhale, his eyes scanning over the console's buttons—familiar as the lines on his own hand—before landing on the glowing red one labeled ‘record.’

A glimmer of mischief flashed in his eyes, dark and playful, and he removed his grip from your waist just long enough to casually press the button.

The soft beep was drowned out by the synth waves that appeared on his laptop screen, capturing the moment in digital eternity.

He smirked to himself, the expression wicked, before his arm returned to your waist, pushing the material of the hoodie higher to expose more of your skin to the cool air.

“I’m gonna move now, okay?” he said, his voice a low rumble against your ear, thumb stroking your hip in a gentle circle.

You could only nod, too lost in the haze of pleasure, your body limp and pliant in his grasp, breaths coming in shallow pants as aftershocks still trembled through you.

Mingi pulled out slowly, inch by torturous inch, leaving just the tip nestled inside your fluttering heat, the drag making you whine at the loss.

The emptiness hit you like a punch, your walls clenching desperately around nothing but that teasing crown, slick and swollen from the stretch he‘d given you moments ago.

Your thighs quivered, muscles spent, but the ache deep in your core begged for more, for him to fill you up again and chase away the void.

Then, with a smooth thrust, he plunged back in, burying himself to the hilt in one fluid motion. The slap of skin echoed through the room, sharp and resounding in the sudden quiet—only the soft, unfinished beats of the song pulsing from the speakers, those wavy visuals dancing across the screens.

Mingi’s grip on your waist tightened, his large palms kneading the flesh there, fingers digging into the soft give of your hips as if securing himself against the urge to lose control entirely.

His other hand stayed firm on your throat, not squeezing but guiding, pushing you further back into him with every roll of his hips, forcing your body to arch and take him deeper.

He buried his nose into your hair, inhaling deeply the familiar scent of your shampoo—that light, citrusy tang he always found himself missing during long shoots away from you. It calmed him, mixed with the musky evidence of your arousal clinging to your skin, and a low groan rumbled from his chest.

“Shit, baby, you feel so good,” he murmured, voice rough and gravelly, laced with that raw hunger that made your pulse stutter.

You could only moan in response, the sound high and needy as you arched into him, your back bowing off the surface beneath you, chasing the fullness of his cock splitting you open.

He continued his assault on your pussy, each thrust powerful, the obscene slap of skin against skin filling the studio—wet, rhythmic, punctuated by the squelch of your juices coating him, your folds sucking him in greedily with every withdrawal and plunge.

It was enough to send him into overdrive, his breaths coming hotter, faster against your neck, muscles in his arms flexing as he held you steady.

Mingi’s fingers reached over to your cheeks, tilting your head back gently but insistently, his touch warm. He leaned down, pressing a hot kiss to your mouth, lips crashing against yours in a messy claim.

His tongue shoved into yours without preamble, tangling and dominating, tasting the salt of your sweat and the faint sweetness of your earlier whimpers. It had you seeing stars, sparks bursting behind your eyelids as the world narrowed to the slide of his mouth, the grind of his hips.

Your other arm, the one that had been propping you up, gave way slightly, landing on his arm around your throat. The feel of his warm skin under your palm sent electricity shooting through you, a jolt that made your toes curl and your inner walls flutter around his length.

“Ah, fuck, you feel so—so big—!” you whimpered out, the words tumbling breathlessly, broken by the way he filled you so completely.

Mingi preened at that, a smug glint in his eyes as he squinted down at you, watching your face contort in bliss. Your eyes rolled back to the depths of your skull, lashes fluttering, as he hit your g-spot effortlessly with the next thrust—sending a fresh wave of heat coiling tight in your belly.

You whimpered into his hold, body jerking, and he chuckled low, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours. “Yeah? Love how my big cock is pounding into your little pussy?” His voice dropped an octave, teasing yet filthy, each word punctuated by the snap of his hips.

“Y-yes, fuck…” you moaned, your voice cracking as his pace fastened.

His cock dragged along every ridge and spot inside you, veins pulsing against your sensitive walls, reaching depths your fingers could never dream of touching—not the way Mingi did, especially on those nights he came home late, too exhausted to ravage you properly but making up for it now with ruthless precision.

You arched into him harder, spine curving as your walls clamped down on his cock, squeezing in rhythmic pulses that made him hiss through clenched teeth.

He leaned down, teeth grazing your lower lip before biting down—not hard enough to break skin, but enough to sting and spark pleasure-pain that shot straight to your core.

You moaned louder, the sound muffled against his mouth as his hips staggered for a split second, the intensity nearly undoing him.

His grip on your waist tightened further, bruising in the best way, before one hand slid down, fingers finding your clit swollen and throbbing. He rubbed small, firm circles there—his touch slick with your combined arousal.

“Are you close?” he whispered, breath hot against your ear, his thrusts never faltering, each one driving you higher.

“F-fuck, yes!” you cried out, voice pitching up, body trembling on the edge as the coil wound unbearably tight.

“Good,” he groaned, and without hesitation, he plunged deep into you one final time, hips grinding flush against yours.

Hot, white thick ropes of cum painted your womb white, flooding you with warmth that spread like liquid fire, his cock twitching as he emptied himself inside.

His fingers sped up on your clit, relentless circles that shattered you—sending you tumbling over the edge. Your walls clamped down on him, milking every last drop as ecstasy ripped through you, vision blurring with white-hot bliss.

You fell limp against his hold, boneless and spent, gasps tearing from your throat. Mingi held you firmly against him, steadying your shaking form, his arms a solid cage around your body as he rode out the waves.

Your juices mixed with his release, the amount enough to spill out around where he was still buried deep, trickling down your thighs in warm, sticky trails that cooled against your heated skin.

He let his fingers drag over the mess, gathering the evidence of your shared peak, and murmured softly, “Open.”

You did, parting your lips on instinct, tongue darting out as he brought his fingers to your mouth.

The taste exploded on your tongue—salty tang of his cum mingled with the sweet musk of your own arousal, intimate and filthy. You licked them clean slowly, sucking gently, eyes locked on his darkened gaze.

Mingi pressed a tender kiss to the side of your head, lips lingering. “Good girl,” he mumbled, voice soft now, laced with affection amid the afterglow.

His eyes glanced back at the array of waves on his laptop screen, the same hypnotic patterns reflecting across the monitors in front of you both—undulating lines that mirrored the rhythm he’d just set in your bodies.

He hummed under his breath as he steadied you against him, his arms wrapping around your waist. His gaze flickered to the recorded audio of the both of you, the soundwaves frozen in time, a proof to the moment you’d created together.

His eyes then returned to his microphone, the blinking red light casting a faint glow on the surfaces of the equipment in the studio.

A smirk tugged at the corners of his lips as he pulled your hoodie down to shield you from the cold, his fingers brushing against your skin in a gesture that was both protective and possessive.

He may not be able to use your voice now, not with their comeback goal being all about summer and fresh vibes, but he could already hear it—your voice, layered into the backing vocals of their upcoming album.

Hongjoong would probably agree, he thought, but Mingi knew he’d have to hide the fact that it was your moans.

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© 2026 liuhsng — reblogs are highly appreciated and please don’t hesitate to request some fics here if you want me to write anything !

[yourfavtangerine]

Felicity

Pairing : husband!bangchan x wife!reader

Established relationship, honeymoon, smut, fluff

Wc:~4.3k

Warnings: p in v, creampie, oral f receiving, unprotected sex, praise kink, light possessiveness, mild overstimulation, mild breeding kink

A/N: just a quick something before doing the requests i got lately

The gravel crunched under the tires as the rental SUV finally rolled to a stop in front of the cottage. Chan killed the engine and for a long moment neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t empty, it was full: of pine sap, distant woodpeckers, the faint metallic tick of the cooling motor and the sudden, almost embarrassing awareness that this was real. You were here. Married. Alone. For ten whole days.

Chan turned to you first. His left hand still rested on the wheel; the new platinum band on his fourth finger caught a stray shaft of late-afternoon sun and threw a tiny prism across the dashboard. He noticed you looking at it the same second you did.

"Still feels weird" he murmured, flexing his fingers once like he was testing whether the ring would stay put.

You reached over and covered his hand with yours. Your own ring, thinner, more delicate, but matching, clicked softly against his.

"Good weird?" you asked.

He exhaled through his nose, the sound half-laugh, half-sigh. "The best kind."

Then he was out of the car before you could answer, rounding the hood with that quick, purposeful stride he always used when he was trying not to look nervous. He opened your door like it was ceremony. Offered his hand. You took it and let him help you down even though the drop was barely 10 cm.

The air smelled sharply of resin and damp earth. Somewhere a stream flows. The cottage sat maybe twenty meters ahead, dark cedar siding, wide windows framed in forest green, a generous wraparound porch already dusted with fallen needles. Smoke was supposed to curl from the stone chimney later; right now the sky was still too bright for that kind of coziness.

Chan didn’t let go of your hand. Instead he tugged you gently toward the front door, then stopped short on the bottom porch step. You felt the shift in him before he even spoke, the way his shoulders squared, the sudden sheepish tilt of his head.

"What?" you asked, already smiling.

He rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand. Ears going faintly pink. "I, uh… I know no one’s watching. But I still want to do it right."

You blinked. "Do what right?"

He didn’t answer with words. In one smooth motion he bent, hooked an arm under your knees and the other behind your back and lifted. You yelped, more surprise than anything, then dissolved into helpless laughter as he carried you up the three steps. Your arms automatically wound around his neck; his hoodie smelled like the airport, your perfume, and him.

"Chan-"

"Tradition" he said solemnly, though the corners of his mouth were fighting a grin. "Can’t skip tradition on day eleven."

"Day eleven of forever" you corrected and felt the way his chest stuttered under your palms at the reminder.

He paused at the threshold long enough to nudge the door open with his foot. The hinges gave a soft, almost polite creak. Then he stepped inside, careful not to knock your head against the frame, and only set you down once he was fully over the line.

The moment your feet touched the wide-plank floorboards he kissed you. Not the quick, giddy ones from the past few days. This was slower. Deeper. His hands framed your face like he was afraid you might vanish if he let go. When he finally pulled back his forehead rested against yours.

"Hi, wife" he whispered.

Your heart did something ridiculous: tripped, then soared.

"Hi, husband."

He smiled against your mouth, small and private, then kissed you again. Shorter this time. A punctuation mark rather than a paragraph.

Only then did he step back and actually look around. The cottage was exactly as the photos had promised, only better in person. Open-plan living area with a vaulted ceiling crossed by exposed beams. A stone fireplace that took up most of one wall. A kitchen island made from a single thick slab of walnut, still showing faint saw marks. Windows everywhere, floor-to-ceiling on the back wall looking straight into dense evergreens. The light inside was green-gold, filtered through needles.

Chan let out a low whistle. "This is… wow."

You wandered toward the windows while he went back outside to grab the suitcases. By the time he returned, two trips, stubbornly refusing your help, you had already kicked off your sneakers and were padding barefoot across the cool floorboards.

He dropped the bags near the couch, then came up behind you. Arms sliding around your waist. Chin hooking over your shoulder.

"Smell that?" he murmured.

You inhaled. Cedar. Woodsmoke from the last guests. Something faintly sweet, maybe wax polish. Underneath it all, him. Warm skin, faint traces of cologne that had survived twelve hours of travel.

"Yeah" you said softly.

He pressed his lips to the side of your neck. Just once. Lingering. "We’re really here."

You turned in his arms, hands sliding up to rest against his chest. His heart was beating a little fast. "We are."

For a few minutes you just stood like that, swaying slightly, not quite dancing, just breathing each other in. Eventually hunger won out. You hadn’t eaten since the airport breakfast sandwiches.

Chan insisted on making dinner. You perched on one of the bar stools at the island and watched him move around the tiny kitchen like he’d lived there for years. He’d packed half the suitcase with groceries from a market stop an hour back: fresh vegetables, thick slices of hanwoo beef, garlic, gochujang, sesame oil, a bottle of soju wrapped in a towel so it wouldn’t clink.

He hummed under his breath while he worked. Some melody you didn’t recognize, probably something he was still tinkering with in his head. Every so often he’d glance over at you and smile. Small. Secret. Like he couldn’t quite believe you were sitting there in his hoodie (the black one with the frayed drawstrings you’d stolen three years ago) watching your brand-new husband cook.

When the beef hit the hot pan the kitchen filled with sharp, caramelizing sizzle. You inhaled so deeply your eyes watered a little.

He laughed. "Hungry?"

"Starving."

He plated everything family-style: thin slices of perfectly seared meat, blistered shishito peppers, quick-pickled radish, steamed rice still sticking slightly to the sides of the pot. You ate at the little dining table near the windows as the sun dropped behind the ridge and turned the forest into velvet black.

After dinner you didn’t bother clearing the table right away. Instead Chan pulled you onto his lap on the wide leather couch. The fire he’d started earlier was crackling now, throwing shifting shadows across the walls. You tucked your face into the crook of his neck and felt him exhale, long and slow, like he was finally letting the last of the city tension bleed out of him.

"Tell me something" he said quietly.

"Hm?"

"Anything. Just… talk to me."

So you did. You told him about the way your mom had sobbed when she saw you in the wedding dress for the first time. How your little cousin had tried to sneak an entire tray of macarons under the table. How you’d caught Chan’s youngest sister filming you both during the first dance and making kissy faces behind the camera.

He laughed, soft, rumbling, every time you got to a funny part. His fingers kept tracing absent circles on your lower back.

Eventually you ran out of stories and just listened to his heartbeat instead. After a while he spoke again, voice so low you felt it more than heard it.

"I keep thinking about the vows."

You lifted your head. "Yeah?"

He nodded. Eyes on the fire. "When I said ‘in all the chaos and all the quiet’… I didn’t know what the quiet would actually feel like. Not really. Not until right now."

You cupped his cheek. Thumb brushing the faint freckle under his eye.

"It’s nice, isn’t it?"

"More than nice."

He turned his head to kiss your palm. "I could get used to this."

You smiled. "We’ve got nine more days to practice."

His grin turned a little wicked. "Nine days" he echoed. "And nights."

You laughed and swatted his chest. He caught your wrist and kissed the inside of it, then tugged you closer until you were straddling him properly. The hoodie rode up your thighs; his hands found skin immediately: warm, possessive, but still careful.

"Not tonight" you murmured against his mouth. "Tonight I just want… this."

He searched your face for a second, then nodded. "Okay."

So you stayed like that, kissing slow and lazy, hands wandering without urgency, the fire popping every so often like it was keeping time. Eventually you migrated to the bedroom upstairs. It had a king bed made up with cream linens, a thick wool throw at the foot, and another wall of windows that looked out over nothing but treetops.

You changed into sleep clothes while Chan brushed his teeth. When he came back he was shirtless, sweatpants slung low. The new tattoo on his ribs: the tiny crescent moon you’d drawn on a napkin three years ago and begged him to keep forever, was stark against his skin in the low lamplight.

He caught you staring. "Like what you see, Mrs. Bahng?"

The name hit like a soft punch every time.

You crossed the room and slid your arms around his waist. "Very much, Mr. Bahng."

He kissed the top of your head, then your forehead, then your mouth, gentle, lingering. When you finally crawled under the covers he followed, pulling you back against his chest the way he always did. One arm under your pillow. The other wrapped around your middle. His breath warm against your nape.

"Love you" he whispered into your hair.

It wasn’t the first time he’d said it. Not even close. But tonight it felt different. Permanent. Etched.

You turned your head just enough to find his lips in the dark. "Love you too."

Sleep came slow and sweet, wrapped in laundry scented sheets and the steady rhythm of his breathing.

The next morning you woke to birds and the smell of coffee.

Chan was already up, barefoot, hair a disaster, wearing the soft gray hoodie you’d abandoned last night. He’d opened every window on the ground floor; cool morning air moved through the house like a sigh.

He handed you a mug without a word. Black. Two sugars. Exactly how you liked it.

You sat together on the porch steps while the mist still clung to the pines. Neither of you spoke for almost twenty minutes. Just sipped. Watched. Breathed.

Eventually he bumped your shoulder with his. "Walk?"

You nodded. So you walked. Hand in hand down the narrow dirt path that curved behind the cottage and disappeared into the trees. The forest smelled like wet bark and green life. Ferns brushed your calves. Chan didn’t talk much. Just pointed out little things: a woodpecker flashing red against a trunk, mushrooms the color of apricots growing in a fallen log, the way sunlight shattered through the canopy and landed in bright coins on the path.

At one point he stopped, crouched, and picked up a perfect pinecone. Turned it over in his fingers like it was treasure.

"Souvenir?" you teased.

He looked up at you, eyes soft. "For the studio. Put it on the desk. Every time I look at it I’ll remember this."

Your throat tightened. He stood, slipped the pinecone into his hoodie pocket, then pulled you close and kissed you right there in the middle of the path. Slow. Thorough. Like he had all the time in the world. Because for once, he did.

The rest of the day passed in that same gentle rhythm. Coffee. Breakfast (pancakes he insisted on flipping dramatically, nearly catching the ceiling fan). A long nap on the couch with your head in his lap while he scrolled through photos from the wedding on his phone, showing you his favorites and pretending he wasn’t tearing up at the candid of you laughing during your vows.

Late lunch turned into early dinner because neither of you wanted to stop touching long enough to cook properly. You ended up eating cheese and crackers and fruit on the rug in front of the fire, feeding each other bites and laughing when strawberry juice dripped on his chin.

Night fell soft and cool. You took a bath together in the deep clawfoot tub, bubbles up to your chin, his long legs folded awkwardly around yours, both of you giggling like teenagers when water sloshed over the side.

Afterward he wrapped you in the biggest towel like you were something precious, carried you to bed, and spent twenty minutes just kissing every inch of skin he could reach. Not trying to start anything. Just… worshipping.

When he finally settled behind you again, spooning close, his voice was rough with sleep and something deeper.

"Best decision I ever made" he mumbled into your shoulder.

You laced your fingers with his. Felt the rings click together. "Second best" you whispered back. "First was letting me steal your hoodie three years ago."

He huffed a laugh against your neck. "Fair."

And then you both drifted off to the sound of wind moving through the pines and the soft crackle of embers dying in the hearth downstairs.

The golden hour had stretched longer than usual that afternoon, painting the entire cottage in honey and amber through the tall windows. You’d spent most of the day barefoot, wearing nothing but Chan’s oversized black hoodie, the one with the faded logo across the chest and sleeves so long they swallowed your hands. It hit you mid-thigh when you stood still, shorter when you reached or bent. You hadn’t bothered with anything underneath. Not today.

Chan had noticed. He’d noticed the first time you stretched up to grab a mug from the high shelf and the hem rode up just enough to show the soft curve where thigh met hip. He’d noticed again when you leaned across the kitchen island to steal a slice of apple from the cutting board he was using, the fabric shifting, exposing skin that made his knife pause mid-chop. He’d noticed every single time you walked past him, slow, deliberate, pretending you didn’t feel the weight of his gaze dragging down your legs like a physical touch.

By four, the air inside felt thicker than the pine-scented breeze drifting through the open windows. The fire he’d built earlier had died down to glowing coals; neither of you had bothered to add more wood. You were both too distracted.

You were rinsing a glass at the sink when you felt him move behind you. Not sudden. Not rushed. Just… inevitable. His chest pressed lightly to your back first. Then his hands, those beautiful, veined, calloused hands, slid over your hips, thumbs brushing the bare skin just under the hoodie’s hem. He didn’t speak right away. Just stood there, breathing you in, letting you feel how hard he already was through the soft fabric of his sweatpants.

You tilted your head back against his shoulder. "You’ve been staring all day."

His laugh was low. Rough. "Can you blame me?"

One hand slid up, slow and deliberate, until his palm flattened against your stomach under the hoodie. The other stayed low, fingers splaying across the top of your thigh, not quite touching where you wanted him most. Teasing.

"You look…" He swallowed. Voice dropped even lower. "…like mine."

The words landed heavy in your belly. You turned in his arms. The glass clinked forgotten against the sink edge.

Chan’s eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, that familiar flush creeping up his neck and into his ears. He looked wrecked already and he hadn’t even kissed you yet.

You reached up, fingers threading into the soft hair at his nape, tugging just enough to make him exhale sharply through his nose. "Then take what’s yours, husband."

The word snapped something in him. He kissed you like he was starving, open-mouthed, hungry, tongue sliding against yours with none of the careful sweetness from the night before. His hands shoved under the hoodie immediately, rough palms skating up your ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. You arched into him; he groaned into your mouth at the feel of bare skin, no bra, no barriers.

"Fuck" he breathed against your lips. "No underwear?"

"Thought you might like the surprise."

He made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a growl. Then he was lifting you, effortless, like you weighed nothing, until your thighs wrapped around his waist. The hoodie rucked up completely now, bunched around your ribs. Cool air hit overheated skin; you shivered.

Chan carried you the few steps to the sturdy oak kitchen table. He didn’t bother clearing the cutting board or the half-chopped vegetables. Just shoved them aside with one forearm, carrots rolling, knife clattering and set you down on the edge.

He stepped between your legs, hands immediately pushing the hoodie higher until it bunched under your arms, exposing you completely to him. His gaze raked down your body like he was trying to memorize every inch all over again.

"God…" His voice cracked. "Look at you."

You leaned back on your palms, thighs parting wider in invitation. "Like what you see?"

He didn’t answer with words. Instead he dropped to his knees, right there on the worn rug in front of the table and hooked your legs over his shoulders in one smooth motion. You gasped when his mouth found the inside of your thigh, teeth grazing just enough to sting. He worked his way up slowly, deliberately, kissing and licking and sucking marks into skin that would bloom purple by morning.

When he finally reached where you were already slick and aching, he paused, just long enough to meet your eyes.

"Been thinking about this since the second we walked through the door yesterday" he murmured, breath hot against you. "About spreading you out. Tasting my wife on my tongue. Making you come so hard you forget your own name."

Then he licked a slow, broad stripe up your center. Your head fell back on a broken moan.

Chan didn’t tease after that. He devoured. Tongue flat and firm, then pointed and quick, circling your clit with devastating precision. Two fingers slid inside you without warning, thick, curled just right and you clenched around them immediately. He groaned at the feel of it, the sound vibrating through you.

"Fuck, you’re so wet" he rasped between licks. "So fucking perfect."

You threaded your fingers into his hair, tugging hard enough to make him hiss. He only doubled down, sucking your clit into his mouth, fingers pumping steadily, thumb brushing the sensitive spot just above where his tongue worked.

The table creaked under your shifting weight. Your heels dug into his back. Heat coiled tighter and tighter in your belly until it snapped, sudden, blinding. You came with a cry that echoed off the high ceiling, thighs trembling around his head, fingers yanking at his hair so hard it had to hurt.

He didn’t stop. Kept licking you through it, slower now, gentler, until the aftershocks faded and you were whimpering from overstimulation. Only then did he pull back.

His lips were swollen, chin glistening. Eyes wild. He rose slowly, hands sliding up your thighs, gripping hard enough to leave prints. When he kissed you again you tasted yourself on his tongue, salty, intimate. You moaned into his mouth.

"Need you" you whispered against his lips. "Now."

Chan didn’t make you ask twice. He shoved his sweatpants down just enough, cock springing free, thick and flushed dark at the tip, already leaking. He fisted himself once, twice, eyes locked on yours. "Condom?" he asked, voice gravel.

You shook your head. "I’m still on the pill. And we’re married now." You smiled, small and wicked. "I want to feel you. All of you."

Something feral flickered across his face. He lined himself up, notched the head against your entrance and pushed in, slow at first, letting you feel every inch, every ridge, until he was buried to the hilt. Both of you froze.

He dropped his forehead to yours. Breathing ragged. "Fuck…" The word was punched out of him. "You feel, shit, baby, you feel like heaven."

You clenched around him on purpose. He jerked. Swore under his breath in Korean, low, filthy things you only half-understood but felt everywhere. Then he started moving. Slow, deep rolls of his hips at first. Letting you adjust. Letting you feel him stretch you, fill you, claim you in a way that felt brand new even after years together. His hands gripped your hips, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh above your hip bones.

"Look at me" he breathed.

You did. His eyes were liquid dark, pupils swallowing the brown. Sweat already beading at his temples. That stupidly beautiful face flushed and focused entirely on you.

"Mrs. Bahng" he whispered, testing the words again like they were still new magic. "My wife."

He thrust harder on the next stroke. Deeper. You gasped. He smiled, slow, dangerous.

"That’s it. Let me hear you."

The pace built steadily. The table rocked beneath you now, wood groaning in protest. Your nails dug into his shoulders, leaving red crescents across ink and skin. He fucked you like he was trying to imprint himself inside you: long, punishing strokes that hit exactly where you needed, grinding his pelvis against your clit on every deep thrust.

"God, you’re so tight" he groaned. "So fucking wet for me. Always so ready."

You wrapped your legs higher around his waist, changing the angle. He swore again, loud this time, head dropping to your shoulder as he drove in harder.

"Chan-"

"Say it again" he demanded against your neck. Teeth grazing your pulse. "Say my name."

"Chan" you gasped. "Husband, fuck, please-"

He lifted his head. Kissed you messy and desperate. One hand slid between you, thumb finding your clit, rubbing tight circles that matched the rhythm of his hips.

"Come for me again" he growled against your mouth. "Wanna feel you come all over my cock. Wanna feel my wife fall apart."

The words, combined with the relentless pressure, the stretch, the way he was looking at you like you were the only thing in the universe, sent you over the edge for the second time.

You shattered. Loud. Unrestrained. Back arching off the table, thighs shaking, walls pulsing around him so hard he nearly lost rhythm.

"Fuck, yes...fuck..." His voice broke. "That’s it, baby, milk me, fuck..."

He fucked you through it, harder, faster, chasing his own release now. His thrusts turned erratic, hips snapping, breath coming in sharp pants against your throat.

"Where?" he managed, voice wrecked. "Tell me where-"

"Inside" you breathed without hesitation. "Want it inside. Want all of you."

That did it. He slammed in one last time, deep, grinding and came with a guttural moan that vibrated through both of you. You felt him pulse, felt the hot rush of him filling you, felt the way his whole body shuddered as he emptied inside.

He didn’t pull out right away. Just stayed buried deep, arms wrapping around you, pulling you up until you were sitting pressed chest-to-chest. His forehead rested against yours again. Both of you breathing hard, skin slick with sweat.

For long minutes there was only the sound of your breathing, the faint crackle of dying coals in the fireplace, and the occasional drip of water from the sink you’d never turned off.

Chan kissed your temple. Soft. Reverent.

"Mrs. Bahng" he whispered again, like he couldn’t stop tasting it.

You smiled against his cheek. "Mr. Bahng."

He huffed a laugh, still breathless, then kissed you properly. Slow. Lazy. Full of all the things neither of you needed to say out loud anymore.

Eventually he softened enough to slip out. You both winced at the loss. He glanced down between you, watched the slow trickle of his come leak out and made a low, appreciative sound in his throat.

"Fuck. That’s hot."

You laughed, swatting his chest weakly. "Perv."

"Your perv." He grinned. Kissed the tip of your nose. "Forever."

He helped you down from the table, legs shaky, thighs sticky then scooped you up bridal-style like he had on the threshold yesterday. You looped your arms around his neck.

"Bed?" you asked.

"Shower first" he decided. "Then bed. Then maybe round two."

You raised an eyebrow. "Already?"

He carried you toward the stairs anyway. "I’ve got eight more days to make sure you can still feel me when we get home" he murmured against your ear. "Gonna make sure you never forget what it feels like to be mine."

You shivered. Pressed closer.

"Good" you whispered back. "Because I don’t ever want to forget."

He kissed you again, right there on the stairs, slow and deep and full of promise.

Then he carried you the rest of the way upstairs, into the bathroom, under the warm spray of the shower where he washed you carefully, reverently, like you were something sacred.

And when you finally collapsed into the big bed afterward, clean, boneless, tangled together under the thick quilts, he pulled you close, lips brushing your shoulder.

"Love you" he murmured into your skin.

You turned just enough to find his mouth in the dark. "Love you too."

The forest outside was quiet except for the wind in the pines.

Inside, it was only the sound of two hearts beating in time. And the soft click of wedding rings brushing together under the covers.