synopsis ▸ when jiung gets caught practically stripping on stage, you’re none too happy to find out just how showy your boyfriend is for his fans. but when you banish him from the bedroom, he manages to weasel his way back into more than just your bed.
δ — nsfw (mdni), smut, extremely needy jiung, degradation/anger kink, fucking while they're mad sorta, one sided arguments (reader yells and jiung just takes it and gets horny), unprotected sex, creampie
ᯓ an — thank u lily for bringing my motivation back with this scrumptious idea <3 this is just porn with a little plot bc if would be mad asf if i was his gf and he was out on stage lifting his shirt and telling people its because he was wet yeah u were mf i see u
“Choi Jiung.”
Jiung hasn’t even taken one step into his home, and he knows already that he’s in deep, deep shit.
For what, he can’t surmise. Though he might have an inkling.
He shuts the door behind him very slowly, takes his shoes off very slowly, then rounds the corner from the hall into the living room very, very slowly.
And there you are, standing against the island with your arms crossed. You don’t look angry, and that’s the worst part. You just stare at him, expecting, like he’s the one who called this impromptu intervention.
He doesn’t dare speak first because he knows whatever he says will be the wrong thing anyway.
But when you keep staring at him, eyes growing narrower by the micron as the steely seconds pass, he’s left with no choice.
“I missed you—“
“What the hell is this?” Your voice makes him step back, startled at the sudden way you step forward and shove your phone into his space.
He blinks rapidly, the screen coming into focus.
It’s a looped, blurry video of him on Twitter, lifting his shirt and exposing himself—butterflies and all—in the middle of a performance, on stage and in front of thousands of people... thousands of women. Well, that’s what it seems like but all he remembers is trying to detach the sticky fabric off his skin.
But watching it now, it looks… suspicious… and when he lifts his gaze back to you, the glare explains it all.
“Wait, no, that’s not what it—“
“Not what it looks like?” You huff, shoving the phone in your pocket. He stammers silently, unsure how he’s somehow said the wrong thing again.
“The shirt was wet! I was—“
“So you had to flash everyone?”
Well, truly he can’t remember what he was doing. His brain goes on autopilot sometimes during the shows and the questionable things he does aren't really in his control. That’s stage Jiung, not normal Jiung. Stage Jiung is the promiscuous harlot, not him!
He means to say all of this. But all his brain can make him do is gape like a fish.
You click your tongue, and in his 24 years of life Jiung has never felt so chastised—not even when his dad found him after he ran away from home that second time.
You turn to leave and Jiung lurches forward, grabbing you by the arm.
“Love, I promise that wasn’t me—“
Okay, that came out wrong.
You whip around again, your glare somehow even sharper, and Jiung nearly curls into himself.
“Oh? Who was it then, prancing around the stage like a show whore?”
His face burns, his body burns. He knows you’re upset with him, but his dick doesn’t seem to get that hint.
He swallows down his pride, wringing his hands together, eyes flitting away. “…Stage Jiung?”
The silence is somehow worse.
Then a sigh, and you’re turning away again.
“You’re sleeping on the couch tonight.”
And you leave him there, kind of scared that he’d actually pushed it too far this time, and kind of turned on that it just makes him want to push more.
𓆩⟡𓆪
You should’ve known that banishing Jiung to the living room would be a fruitless attempt. He’s clingier than you are possessive, and keeping him away from you for more than a workday is like depriving him of oxygen.
So, soon enough, when it hasn’t even been an hour since you’d tucked into bed, you hear his soft footsteps pad eagerly up to your door.
You take a breath, mentally preparing yourself for a war of attrition, completely determined to not let him win this time.
Even his quiet, endearing little “jagi?” as he pokes his head into the room doesn’t sway you. You shut your eyes quickly in hopes that he’ll just change his mind and go away.
He doesn’t.
“I know you’re not asleep,” he says, and his tone is so stringy and drawn out and warm in the way that makes you want to coddle him that you nearly hurl a pillow at his head.
It makes you violent sometimes just how cute he can be with his voice alone.
You let out an irritated huff, sharply turning to face away from him.
Like the nuisance that he is, he crawls into the space behind you anyway. You curse yourself for not keeping it all occupied to steer him away.
He’s quiet for a while, and you’re fine to just let it go and go to sleep without saying anything to make your point, but then he’s talking to you again in that tiny voice of his.
“Are you really ignoring me?”
You grit your teeth. Yes, you yell telepathically.
It’s a strategy, you remind yourself. He knows how to weaponize his cuteness. You’re not falling prey to it again.
You feel a gentle tug at your hair—he must be twirling it around his finger like he always does when he wants to just be connected to you somehow.
You’re about to turn around and bat him away—but then he’s plastering himself to your back.
“Please don’t ignore me,” he whines into the back of your head. Then, he grinds his hips against your ass, and your eyes snap open at the prominent hardness you feel prodding against you. He buries his face into your shoulder, his hot breath hitting your neck. “‘M so hard… help me?”
You squeeze your eyes shut, pursing your lips as you turn your face into the pillow.
Fuck, what the hell are you supposed to do now?
Nothing, your brain supplies.
But Jiung gets restless without attention, and very persistent. He’s bound to wear you down.
Whatever, he hasn’t earned the grace of your attention. If he wants to get off, he can get off himself.
“Tried on my own. Didn’t work,” he grumbles like he’s got a gateway into your inner thoughts.
You hold in a gasp as he adjusts himself to slot his bulge against you, giving just enough pressure against you that has you nearly pushing back for more. You hold yourself strong.
And he hates it, clicking his tongue as he ruts helplessly against you again like that’ll get you to cave.
“Jagi,” he whines again, drawing out the word as he shoves his face into the back of your head.
You swallow down your hammering heart, squeezing your thighs shut to quell the growing burn.
The thin fabric of your sleep shorts is a feeble barrier to hide the way his cock pulses against you with heavy need.
He lets out a short grunt, frustrated when you still don’t respond.
“Fine,” he huffs and you can almost hear the pout.
You think it’s a cue to him leaving and you nearly protest the idea—until you hear the shuffle of clothes and then feel the blunt head of his cock nudging against the back of your clothed cunt.
“Just—” He cuts off with a guttural groan as he traces your slit, the heated line of pressure of his cock carving through you as he pushes into the warm crevice created between your thighs.
His arms wrap around your waist, clinging desperately as he messily bucks into you, slathering your silk shorts with his precum and quickly making you make a mess of it too with your own growing arousal.
“Please,” he mumbles, words slurred against your ear. “Jus’ let me have this… just this, ‘ma make you feel—hah—feel good too…”
You fight to hold in every little noise that threatens to escape you whenever he nudges against your clit, but the pressure is so quick and short lived that you kind of want to throw a tantrum and demand he fuck you properly. But that would mean him winning. And you’re very egotistical in that sense, maybe even worse than him.
Your fist clutches into the sheets as he drives himself against you, very uncoordinated and clumsy, but the careless noises that spill out of him that he would normally contain point to that fact that he couldn’t give more of a fuck about anything if it doesn’t mean him getting to cum.
And it’s becoming almost unbearable for you to hold it all in, with the thick pressure of his cock sliding against your heat just a barrier away, so hot and so enticing.
Your cunt weeps with the emptiness. And you nearly sob when he stops moving, just for a second.
“‘M sorry I’ve been misbehaving,” he mumbles into your ear, gasping when he starts to rut into you again, even quicker and even clumsier. “Promise it was a mistake… fuck—” he breaks when his cock slips into the leg of your shorts, pushing into the wet mess of your folds.
You can’t hold your gasp back then, your body seizing at the sudden friction of his bare cock against you.
“Sorry,” he gasps, but just starts to fuck into that space anyway, apparently not very sorry.
He holds your hip with one hand to keep you still, whimpering when his tip catches against your hole.
And instead of heeding his own word to get himself off and pulling away, he pushes in.
“Sorry!” He gasps again, grunting at the tight heat of you clamping down at the sudden intrusion.
“J-Jiung,” you heave, starting to squirm, but your train of thought gets completely derailed when he starts chanting ‘sorry, sorry, sorry,’ as he just pushes in and in and in until he’s seated deep inside you.
You both settle with deep, shuddering breaths, bodies seized tight to get used to the feeling after days of nothing.
And then you push your hips back, just a little, and the dam breaks.
He clamps both his hands on your hips, pulls you back into an arch, and starts pounding into you, whispering and begging and sobbing into your hair about how he needs you, wants you, has to cum in you or he won’t be able to sleep.
And it drives you mad, how even after thoroughly pissing you off, he somehow manages to piss you off even more with how good he can fuck that anger out of you.
Your body melts into the mattress as he flips you down and pistons you into it, muttering his apologies and singing his gratitude.
“Won’t be bad ever again,” he vows into the back of your shoulder as he fucks right into that gummy spot inside you. “‘M just yours—fuck, thankyouthankyouthankyou—fuck!”
His cock pulses inside you, but just before he can spill, he rips himself off of you and flips you over.
Because Jiung has an obsession with filling you with his cum that it doesn’t matter what position you’re in, he’ll fold you in half and drive in as deep as he can to make sure he’s giving it to you properly.
And you lay there, eyes rolled to the back of your head as the warmth of his cum pools deep in your womb, his head buried in your chest, that you thank whatever power that’s out there that makes him act like a whore on stage, because none of them know just what Jiung reduces himself to for you and only you.
suguru has a habit of correcting your posture. a light palm between your shoulder blades to remind you to sit up straight when he sees you slouching. a finger under your chin, raising it slightly just to make you make eye contact with him when you've been staring at your phone for too long.
"good," he whispers when you do as directed.
it shouldn't be as hot as it is, until you remember that he does the same thing when he's slamming into you from behind. one hand on your hip, the other between your shoulders to angle your body just the way you both like it.
the same sweet praises fall like honey from his lips, "there it is," and "just like that." you can picture him with his head tipped back and his inky hair falling down his back as those deep, elongated groans that let you know just how good you're doing for him.
or, when you're in missionary and he tilts your head back with just one finger to leave hot, open-mouthed kisses over your throat. god forbid his teeth scrape the sensitive spots on the sides of your neck - he knows you're weak there and doesn't let up once he starts. he's made you cum like that more than once and is more than happy to do it over and over until you're begging him to stop.
so, if you start occasionally slouching on purpose, who could really blame you? if they knew the images of your husband that it conjured for you, their posture would suffer the same fate as yours just for a small taste of what you experience.
corruption not as in turning you into something you're not, but rather. corruption as in unlocking the person you secretly already are. corruption as in making you admit the things you feel embarrassed or guilty for wanting. corruption as in being the first person to give you those things, and being the person you will remember every time you let yourself want them from now on.
Warnings: face slapping, choking, reader rides intak
Word count: 900+
Authors notes: the picture is very important to the story... also literally wrote this at 4 am haha
—
"Can you slap me."
You blinked and raised your gaze from the book you’d been half-heartedly reading to look at Intak, eyes nearly bugging out of your skull.
He watched you intently, propped up on one elbow beside you in bed.
"H-huh?"
He chuckled cutely at your reaction before clarifying. "Sorry I meant like... during sex," A flush crept up his neck as he explained. "You know I like when you get more dominant and the thought of you doing that to me..." His voice trailed off, heavy with vulnerability.
The question sparked a heat low in your belly, though you were shocked. Slap him?
Before Intak, your sex life had been... fine. A little boring and predictable but alright.
Since being with him, he’d introduced you to a whole new world of pleasure. Nothing too extreme, but far from the vanilla you were used to.
Each new discovery had felt like uncovering a hidden layer within yourself, filled with surprising desires. You never thought you'd be into being the dominant one, but he brought it out of you so easily.
This, though? This was new territory.
You weren't opposed. Not exactly. But nervous? Absolutely. What if you hurt him? What if you did it wrong? What if it killed the mood, shattered this incredible connection you’d been building?
"Intak..." you started, your voice shaky.
He instantly softened, reaching out to gently cup your cheek. "Hey. No pressure. Seriously, none. If it freaks you out, forget I said it. It’s just... a thought." His thumb brushed your skin, his eyes earnest. "You never have to do anything you're uncomfortable with. Ever."
His reassurance, the priority he placed on your comfort over his own desire, quelled some of your fears
You were overcome with a new determination to meet him in this strange, new place. You looked into his warm, expectant eyes and saw the flicker of hope he couldn't quite hide.
"No," you whispered, finding your voice again. "I... I want to try it."
His eyes widened, pure joy flooding his face. His lips curved into a dazzling, almost disbelieving smile that forced one onto your own.
He looked so happy, so utterly grateful, that in that moment, you knew you’d move mountains for him if he wanted you to. You’d never deny him anything that could put that light in his eyes.
He didn't mention the topic again.
But when you were alone, you researched. You watched endless videos, read forums filled with discussions about different techniques and angles and pressure. You were still nervous but now you were buzzing with anticipation, especially at the memory of his happy smile.
A week later, Intak lay sprawled beneath you on the bed, his dark eyes wide and fixed on you with adoration. His cock was buried deep inside you as your hips rolled in slow, deep circles that dragged your clit delicious against his base.
Then you lifted yourself almost entirely off, hovering for a second before sinking back down onto his length with a sharp gasp that mirrored his choked groan. You kept the rhythm, up and down, then grinding again as you used his body for your pleasure.
His mouth hung open, soft whines and breathy whimpers escaping him. His eyes were glued to the hypnotic bounce of your titts above him, hands gripping your waist, fingers digging in slightly with each deep thrust you took.
Then as you arched your back, bringing your chest closer to him, his hands slid upwards, fingers finding your nipple.
The added pleasure had you writhing above him. It wasn't unwelcome exactly, but right now, it felt like a distraction from where you were working his cock. You needed control and complete focus.
Fueled by the dominant energy, you brushed his hand away from your chest.
He whimpered when you thrusted down on him particularly hard—a sound of pure need—and his hand drifted back almost immediately, seeking the heat of your skin again.
Almost on instinct, after hours of research and studying, your left hand that was braced beside his head on the mattress, lifted.
In one swift motion, your palm connected sharply with the curve of his cheekbone and Intak’s head snapped sideways with the force, a gasp tearing from his throat.
Then, slowly, he turned his face back towards you as a slow, dumb smile spread across his lips, wide and blissful and slightly dazed. His eyes, when they met yours, were hazy with euphoria.
The sight of pain and pleasure on his face sent a jolt straight to your pussy as you clenched around his cock, a new wave of intense pleasure washing over you so powerfully it made your thighs tremble, drawing a shudder from your own lips.
He bit his lower lip, his gaze locked onto yours, dark and pleading and so needy. He wanted more.
Drunk on power and his surrender, you wrapped your hand firmly around his throat.
You used the grip as leverage, pulling yourself down onto him harder, fucking yourself onto his cock with a new intensity.
Beneath you, pinned by your hand and your body, Intak looked... transcendent almost. His eyes fluttered shut for a second before reopening, gazing up at you with a look full of worship, a contented sigh escaping his constricted throat.
He looked as if where he was, under your body and at your mercy as you rode him, was the only place in the entire universe he ever wanted to be.
You tightened your grip just slightly and his cock pulsed inside you, on the edge of release.
he makes a sideshow of your porn faces, wearing them back at you in caricature: lips parted, tongue lolling, eyes rolling, brows scrunched, all of it a grotesque parody of your pleasure. and just as your walls clamp down around him, he drives in deeper, waiting for the funniest reaction.
it’s a little game he’s invented to pass the time between stirring your guts with his cock—because nothing screams “romance” like being mocked mid-fuck, lol. lucky for you and your masochistic tendencies. a shaky “mgh-hahh—” slips out, and mahito parrots it right back, as if mocking the very idea of you enjoying it. cock plunging deep, he tilts his head to match your fucked-out face, a cruel reflection of your own helplessness.
it’s obvious he’s chasing the comedy more than the orgasm—this isn’t about fucking you as much as it is about fucking with you. but that doesn’t stop you from taking every inch while he giggles like you’re both in on the joke… except you’re the joke.
𓏲⠀incel!mahito who gives you the stank face every time he sees you in public and tries to ignore you, like he doesn't stay hunched over his computer until 3 a.m. stalking your socials. he doesn't follow you though, nor does he like any of your posts.
𓏲⠀incel!mahito who bites his lip so hard that it sometimes bleeds when he sees you with a new boyfriend you got from god knows where. he hates them, he hates every single one of them. or maybe he hates you more because you never gave him a chance.
𓏲⠀incel!mahito who gets sweaty palms and hot cheeks whenever you talk to him or even just stand close to him.
𓏲⠀incel!mahito who fantasises about getting you under his desk, sucking his cock while he plays games, even though he knows he would fuck up and cum as soon as you wrapped your lips around him.
𓏲⠀incel!mahito who can't resist the urge to jerk off in his room after every minor interaction he has with you.
"mmfuck- i'm so gross... ngh-ahh, why am i even thinking about her - hic - like this?"
he ends up shooting his load all over himself, whining about how he didn't want to cum yet.
𓏲⠀incel!mahito whose feelings somehow got even more complicated when he saw you at the local game store. who do you think you are, barging in here like that? this place is for disgunting people like him, not beautiful girls like you who get stares left and right. you're probably another poser, just in here for the 'niche'.
but when he sees you picking up one of his favourite games, his breath hitches and he almost chokes on his own spit. he ducks and then leans on one of the stands, a hand over his mouth as he tries to remain unnoticed (and hide his raging boner).
𓏲⠀incel!mahito who cringes at the sheer thought of you having sex with him. he dreads the day when he will have to be naked in front of a woman (even though he doubts this day will come soon) and she will have to see all of his scars. he's skinny and weak, no matter how hard he tried he just couldn't get any muscle. he's sure you'd hate that.
𓏲⠀incel!mahito who, even though he has seen his fair share of badly animated hentai, has no idea how to treat a woman sexually. your first kiss is sloppy with too much saliva. he's way too eager and almost choked you with how deep his tongue went inside your mouth.
ﾒ૦ﾒ૦ ❝ sho drabble i say as i grin and smirk . . . ⟡ ݁₊ .
freak!bf!shota ・ fem!reader genre ・ smut cw ・ js like idk man mdni idk wat to put so! wc ・ 188
[ sunzy's callin' ] : well! it's my huzzes bday today guys... lowk he's my situation-ship so like idk wat to do bout that tbh.... ANYWAY ts from the drafts :)
─────── ⟡ ˙ m.list ̟ ⊹
소울. SOUL
freak!bf!shota who 100% started touching himself to the thought of you when you guys were still in the holding hands phase.
freak!bf!shota who is so so soo observant when it comes to your likes & dislikes — he noticed early on that your face would flush at basic praise, even more so when he’d jokingly degrade you. he filed that information away for later.
freak!bf!shota who acts innocent and clueless for a while, waiting for your call to overstep that line — once you do? his hands are everywhere, mouth on you, smothered by his attention…
freak!bf!shota who has crazy stamina, constantly ready for more — claiming that it’s “hard not to want more” when you’re just so pretty and tight.
freak!bf!shota who keeps the rings on when fingering you, practically drooling at the sight of your juices all over the shiny metal.
freak!bf!shota who would ask you if he could film you/take photos, he’d always have the best angles. he even saved a photo of you arching your back as his lock screen once — you had to beg him to change it before anyone saw it…
Your Saturday nights are so calm and quiet now, just sitting in your couch with a good show, maybe a face mask and some chips. There's no man in the other side of the couch whining about how needy he is or complaining about how hot your apartment is. There's no man trying to bury his face in your neck while you hug him. It's just you and the nice show you were excited to see.
At least for a moment.
Around 11 p.m you hear two knocks in your door, sheepish and shy, like whoever was outside was scared of seeing you.
And he should be. Because when you open the door, you can't help to loudly groan.
"Reiner, for the love of god." You try to push the door back, but he stops it with just one hand.
"Baby, please," he whines softly. His hands are already close to grab your waist.
"Don't baby me, Reiner. It's the third time this week."
He's already making his way inside your apartment, closing the door behind his back and dropping to his knees right in front of you.
You sigh deeply, pinching the bridge of your nose as you stare down at the massive blond man currently on his knees in your living room.
Reiner’s broad shoulders are slumped, his head bowed so his forehead almost touches your thighs. His hands hover desperately near your legs, not quite daring to grab without permission, but close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off his palms.
“I can’t do this anymore,” he whispers, he’s been crying for hours. “I tried, baby, I really tried to stay away tonight. I sat in my car for forty minutes just… staring at your window. I thought if I waited long enough maybe the feeling would go away, but it just got worse. Everything feels wrong without you.”
You fold your arms, trying to look unaffected even though the sight of him like this (six-foot-something of pure muscle reduced to a sniveling mess on your floor) does something twisted to your stomach.
“Reiner, you need to leave. We’re done.”
He shakes his head frantically, blond hair falling into his eyes. When he looks up at you, his face is flushed, eyes glassy and red-rimmed. Tears are already threatening to spill over.
“I know what you said,” he chokes out, “but you don’t understand. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. Last night I woke up reaching for you and when you weren’t there I...” His breath hitches, and he actually presses his face against your thigh this time, muffling his words. “I felt like I was dying. Please… please just let me stay for a little while. I’ll be good, I'll be so good. I won’t complain about anything or ask for anything. I just need to be near you.”
His arms finally give in and wrap around your legs, holding you in place with that terrifying strength he never seems to use against you, only to cling like a lifeline. He’s nuzzling into you now, shameless and desperate, lips brushing the fabric of your pants as he keeps whispering.
“I miss your voice. I miss the way you smell. I miss when you’d let me put my head in your lap and you’d play with my hair even when you pretended to be annoyed… I’m sorry for everything. I’ll change, I swear. Just don’t make me go back to that empty apartment. I’ll do anything.”
He pulls back just enough to look up at you again, cheeks wet, lower lip trembling. He’s one rejection away from completely breaking down.
“Baby… please. I’m begging you. I’m already on my knees. What else do you want me to do? Tell me and I’ll do it. Don’t send me away tonight. I don’t think I can survive it.”
His grip on your legs tightens just a fraction, not painful, but possessive in a needy and broken way. The whiny edge in his voice has gone softer like he’s been repeating these same words to himself in the mirror for days.
You can feel his heartbeat hammering against your shin.
He really is a pathetic little mess.
And he’s not moving until you decide what to do with him.
synopsis: When a new trainee at your favorite tattoo studio catches your eye, a simple session turns electric. What starts as subtle tension builds into a heat neither of you can ignore, culminating in a private after hours release…
genre: tattoo studio au, strangers to lovers, smut
warnings: tattooing (needles, pain), oral & fingering (reader receiving), semi public (in studio after hours), praise kink
word count: 2.2k
a/n: lowkey inspired by my bestie’s tattoo artist!namgyu smut
︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶
The bell above the studio door jingles as you push through, the familiar hum of tattoo machines and low indie rock greeting you like an old friend. The place is your second home, the walls plastered with flash sheets, the air thick with antiseptic and ink. You’ve been coming here for years, building your collection one session at a time. Today, you’re itching for something new, a spontaneous addition to the map of stories on your skin.
Namgyu, your go to artist, spots you from his station and waves you over with a grin, his own arms a riot of color under the fluorescent lights. “Back already? Thought you’d at least give the last one time to heal.”
You shrug, leaning on the counter. “Can’t help it. Got an idea brewing.”
He’s wiping down his tools when he glances toward the back room. “Actually, perfect timing. I’ve got a trainee shadowing me today, Semi. She’s got steady hands and a killer eye. How about letting her take this one? On the house, since she’s still building her portfolio.”
Your eyes flick to the doorway just as she steps out, and something in your chest stutters. Semi. Short, dark hair that frames her face strikingly, piercings scattered on her ears like constellations, and rings on her nostril and lip that catch the light when she smirks. She’s in a black tank that hugs her frame, tattoos peeking from her shoulders - clean, bold designs that scream confidence. Her gaze locks on yours immediately, sharp and assessing, like she’s sizing up more than just your canvas of skin.
“Yeah.” You say, voice steadier than you feel. “I’m game.”
Namgyu waves her over. “Semi, meet your canvas. She’s a regular. Knows the drill.”
Semi nods, pulling on nitrile gloves with a snap that echoes a little too loudly in the charged silence. She wheels over a stool and settles in close, close enough that you catch the faint scent of her, something clean and spicy underlying the studio’s sterility.
“Hey.” She says, voice low and smooth. “What are we working with today?”
You pull out your phone, showing her a rough sketch. “Something like this. Simple linework, but make it yours.”
She nods, studying it intently before her eyes flick back to you.
“Bold choice. It’ll look good on you.” There’s a pause, her gaze lingering a beat too long on the visible edges of your ink and metal. “Ready when you are.”
She stencils it out efficiently, pressing the transfer to your skin with careful fingers that linger a second longer than necessary. When she peels it back, the purple outline looks perfect, edgy but feminine.
“Looks good.” She murmurs, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “You’re used to this, huh? All that art on you… you won’t flinch easy?”
“Don’t worry, I’m tough.” You reply, a teasing lilt in your tone as the needle buzzes to life.
The first prick stings but you hold still, watching her work. Her focus is intense, brow furrowed slightly, tongue poking at her lip piercing in concentration. It’s mesmerizing, the way her hand steadies yours, the buzz filling the space between you.
As she shades the tattoo, she glances up. “What’s the story behind the one on your collarbone? Those hurt like a bitch.”
You chuckle, the vibration making the needle dance a bit. “Birthday gift to myself. Went in hungover… worst idea ever. But worth it.”
She smirks, wiping excess ink with a gentleness that contrasts her edge. “Brave. Or stupid. Kinda hot either way.”
The comment slips out casual, hidden under the hum of the machine, but it lands like a spark. Your pulse quickens, but you play it cool. “Flattery gets you tips, apprentice.”
“Free session.” She counters, eyes glinting as she switches needles. “But I’ll take the ego boost.”
The rest of the tattoo flies by in that easy tension - cheeky remarks veiled as small talk, her breath warm on your skin when she leans in to detail the tattoo. When she finishes, she cleans it up and wraps it with a satisfied nod. “Done. Check it.”
You twist your arm under the light, admiring the crisp lines, the way the ink curls like it’s alive. “Damn, Semi. That’s clean. You’ve got a gift.”
Her cheeks flush just a touch, and it almost looks like she’s shy under that cocky exterior. She peels off her gloves, rubbing the back of her neck. “Thanks. Means a lot coming from someone with skin like yours. Come back if you hate it in a week and I’ll fix it.”
You hop off the table, the new ink throbbing faintly. “Hate it? Nah. Might come back for more though.”
Her eyes linger on yours, a silent promise in them. “Door’s always open.”
A week later you’re back.
You tell yourself it’s for the ink, but the truth is simpler: you haven’t stopped thinking about her. The way her hands moved, steady and sure. That shy smile at your praise. The tension humming between you like a live wire.
Namgyu raises an eyebrow when you walk in, but doesn’t question it. “I’m booked solid, but Semi’s free.”
You nod, heart picking up pace. Semi emerges right on cue, that same tank and jeans combo, her lip piercing catching the light as she smiles - genuine this time, with a hint of surprise. “Missed me already?”
“Missed the freebies.” You shoot back, but your grin gives you away. “Ribcage this time. Under the boob, small script. Figured you could handle something… delicate.”
She leads you to a smaller bay, curtains pulling shut for privacy. The space is intimate with just a table, mirror, and her setup, the studio behind the curtain quieter now with the evening crowd thinning. “Shirt up, then. Let’s see the spot.”
You peel your top just enough, exposing the sensitive skin right under your breast, along the rib. The air is cool, but her gaze is hotter, tracing the curve with professional detachment that doesn’t quite hide the hunger.
“Perfect placement.” She says, voice a notch lower. Stencil applied, needle ready. “This one’s gonna sting. Breathe through it.”
The first pass is fire. The ribs are brutal, the vibration rattling your bones. You grit your teeth, but Semi’s free hand steadies you, thumb pressing gently into your side.
“You’re doing good.” She praises, soft but firm. “Real good. Hold that for me.”
Heat pools low in your belly, unbidden. Her words shouldn’t affect you like this, but they do, pooling warmth between your thighs, making you hyper aware of every glide of the needle, every brush of her fingers. A particularly sharp spot makes you hiss, back arching slightly.
“Shh, easy.” She coos, not missing a beat. “You’re doing so good. Almost there.”
The praise only intensifies the ache, and you shift, thighs pressing together instinctively to ease it. The movement doesn’t go unnoticed by Semi.
“Still.” She says, tone commanding but laced with amusement. “Wouldn’t want to mess this up.”
You freeze, but the damage is done. She pauses the machine, eyes dropping to your lap before meeting yours again.
“Good girl.”
The words hit like a spark to dry tinder. Your breath catches, thighs clenching harder, a barely audible whimper escaping before you can stop it. Semi’s smirk widens, cocky now, but she says nothing. She resumes her tattooing, her touches deliberate, grazing closer to sensitive skin than strictly necessary.
By the time she finishes, you’re a mess: breath uneven, face flushed, embarrassingly wet. The final wipe of the antiseptic cloth is feather light, but it still makes you flinch, half from the sting of fresh ink, half from the way Semi’s gloved thumb lingers at the edge of the bandage, tracing the curve of your rib like she’s memorizing the shape of you.
“Done.” She says, voice low. She peels the gloves off slowly, letting the latex snap against her wrist before tossing them aside. The sound cracks through the quiet studio.
You sit up, shirt still bunched under your arms, and try to act normal. Try. Your thighs are slick, pulse hammering between them, and every breath feels too loud. Semi doesn’t move back. She stays crouched between your knees, elbows resting on the trolley, chin in her hands, watching you like you’re the most fascinating thing she’s ever tattooed.
“Looks good.” She murmurs, eyes flicking to the ink, then higher, to the way your chest rises and falls too fast. “You though… not so much.”
You swallow. “I’m fine.”
“Mm.” She tilts her head, lip piercing catching the light. “You’re breathing like you just ran a mile. And-” her gaze drops pointedly to your lap, “-still squeezing those thighs like they owe you money.”
Heat floods your face. You force your legs apart, but the motion only makes the ache worse. Semi’s grin turns sharp.
“Careful.” She warns, voice velvet and cruel. “Move too fast and you’ll smear my work. I’d hate to redo it… unless you want another hour under my needle.”
Your answering whimper is involuntary. She hears it - of course she does - and her eyes darken.
“Thought so.” She stands slowly, towering over you now.
The studio is empty now, with Namgyu long gone for the night. Semi flips the lock on the front door with a click that echoes like a starting gun. When she turns back, she begins stalking toward you with purpose.
One hand plants beside your hip, the other lifting to brush a stray hair from your cheek. Her thumb lingers at your lower lip, pressing just enough to part it. “You’re shaking, baby. All that tough girl ink, and one little ‘good girl’ turns you into a mess?”
You try to speak - I’m not - but it comes out a breathy stutter. She laughs, soft and mocking, and leans in until her forehead almost touches yours.
“Tell me to stop.” She whispers, lips ghosting the shell of your ear. “Say the word and I’ll let you walk out of here with your dignity intact.”
You don’t say a word.
She pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. “That’s what I thought.”
Her hand slides down slowly, fingertips skating over the fresh bandage, then lower, stopping just above the waistband of your jeans. She doesn’t touch where you need her. She hovers, letting the heat of her palm radiate through the denim.
“Been thinking about this spot all week.” She says conversationally, like she’s discussing line weight. “Right here-” a single finger draws a lazy circle over your hip bone, “-wondered how you’d sound if I kissed it. If I bit it.”
Your hips jerk involuntarily. She tsks.
“Still.”
You freeze, and she finally rewards you by sliding her hand between your legs, cupping you over the fabric. The pressure is maddeningly light.
“Fuck, you’re soaked.” She breathes, almost awed. “All this from a little praise? From me calling you a good girl while I marked you up?”
You nod, helpless.
Semi’s smile is wicked. “Then let’s see how good you really are.”
She pops the button of your jeans with one hand, the sound loud in the now empty studio. The zipper follows, slow and deliberate. Cool air hits your skin as she peels the denim down just enough to expose the lace beneath, already ruined.
“Look at that.” She murmurs, tracing the wet spot with a single finger. “You ruined my station, baby. Gonna have to clean this up later… or maybe I’ll leave it. Let Namgyu wonder who got fucked on his table.”
Your head falls back with a broken sound. She hasn’t even touched you skin to skin yet, and you’re trembling.
She leans in, lips brushing your collarbone, then lower, mouthing over the bandage like she’s kissing her own artwork.
“You’re gonna stay right here,” she says against your skin, “legs open, hands on the table. And you’re gonna let me taste how sweet you get when you’re desperate.”
She drops to her knees.
The first swipe of her tongue is teasingly slow, dragging up your center like she’s savoring you. Your back arches off the table, a choked moan ripping free.
She pulls back just enough to speak, breath hot against your clit. “Quiet. Wouldn’t want anyone walking by to hear what a needy little thing you are, would we?”
Then she devours you. There’s no teasing now, just relentless, perfect pressure, her piercing cool and filthy against your heat. One finger slips inside, then two, pumping in time with her tongue until your thighs shake and your hands scrabble for purchase on the vinyl.
You cum hard, vision whiting out, her name a broken prayer on your lips. When you float back, she’s standing again, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, eyes gleaming.
“Next time,” she says, voice rough, “I’m tattooing right here.” She presses two fingers to the spot just above your clit, right where your skin is still fluttering with aftershocks. “So every time you look down, you remember who made you fall apart on my table.”
You can’t speak, only nod, dazed and wrecked. Semi smirks, leaning in to kiss you slow and deep, letting you taste yourself on her tongue.
“Book your next appointment on the way out, baby. We’re just getting started.”
︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶
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