imhaechanshoe

[imhaechanshoe]

tied

jung ji-hoo x reader

warnings :smut, BDSM,light dom/sub,restraints

Your first week as team lead at G.N. Media had gone smoothly — until you returned from lunch to find a nondescript box on your desk. Thinking nothing of it, you opened it mid-conversation with another manager.

Your words died in your throat.

Leather cuffs. A collar. A blindfold. And a black leash.

You closed the box slowly, heart thumping.

“Ah—Th-that’s mine!”

You looked up.

Ji-hoo stood in the doorway, horror on his face. His ears turned crimson. “I didn’t mean—it was supposed to go to my desk. I’m so sorry.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You order gear to the office?”

He swallowed hard, clearly panicking. “I—it was an accident. I’ll never—Please, don’t report this. I’ll handle the consequences.”

Instead, you studied him quietly. “You have someone waiting to use these on you?”

His eyes widened. “No.”

A beat passed between you. Something unspoken crackled in the air. You saw it then — the truth behind his well-mannered exterior. The quiet desperation.

That night, you couldn’t stop thinking about it.

~~~~~~~

The knock on your office door was timid. Ji-hoo entered, hands clenched around a folder.

“This might be completely inappropriate,” he said softly. “But I… I trust you.”

He slid the folder across your desk. Inside: a contract. It was clear, structured — safewords, soft/hard limits, aftercare preferences. Every box checked. Every line careful.

You looked up. “You want me to dominate you?”

He didn’t look up. “I understand if—”

“I’ll do it.”

His breath caught.

You stood, slowly walking around the desk. “Is that what you want, Ji-hoo?”

He nodded. Barely.

“Say it.”

His voice trembled. “I want you to own me, ma’am.”

~~~~~~~

He knelt before you, shirtless, trembling, eyes downcast.

Your hand rested under his chin, guiding his face upward. “Color?”

“Green,” he whispered.

You dragged the black leather collar along his shoulder slowly, letting the sensation crawl across his skin before snapping it into place around his throat.

Ji-hoo visibly shivered.

“I’m not here to break you,” you murmured, guiding the blindfold over his eyes. “I’m here to take care of you. But you’ll give me control, won’t you?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

You kissed him — deep and slow — tasting the surrender on his lips.

Then you pushed him back against the bed, straddling him with calculated grace. His wrists obediently rose when you reached for the cuffs, fastening him to the headboard.

He was panting already.

“Please… touch me,” he begged, hips twitching helplessly under you.

You leaned down to his ear. “You don’t tell me what to do. You beg.”

He whimpered, squirming. “Please, Mistress. I need it.”

You ran your fingers down his chest, teasing over his ribs, then his stomach. He twitched under your touch, every nerve lit. He was so sensitive. So responsive.

His cock strained against his briefs, leaking slightly at the tip.

“I love how needy you are,” you whispered, kissing just under his jaw. “You’re such a good toy for me.”

“God—yes,” he gasped. “Please, please—”

You palmed him through the fabric, watching his hips jerk upward.

“No touching,” you warned. “You don’t come until I say.”

He whimpered again. “I’ll be good. I swear.”

You slid his underwear down, letting his cock spring free. Red. Dripping. Your mouth watered.

Without warning, you took him into your mouth.

Ji-hoo nearly sobbed.

Your tongue worked slowly, deliberately, swirling around the head while your hand tightened around the base. His thighs trembled beneath you, fingers curling into fists against the restraints.

“M-Mistress—I’m close, please—”

You pulled off, dragging your tongue along the underside. “Not yet.”

You stroked him slowly, keeping him on the edge. When he started to whimper too much, you stopped completely, letting him writhe.

“Are you going to come without permission?” you asked.

“No! Please—don’t stop again. I need to feel you.”

You smirked, finally straddling his hips and guiding him to your entrance.

When you sank down onto him, his entire body arched. “F-fuck—”

You rode him slowly — hips rolling, nails digging into his chest. He was crying out under you, blindfolded, helpless, and completely yours.

He begged. Praised. Worshiped.

And when you finally whispered, “You may come,” he shattered beneath you — moaning, body seizing, cock pulsing as you pushed him through it.

~~~~~~~

Ji-hoo curled into you, still shaking slightly as you held a warm towel to his chest.

“You okay?” you asked softly.

He nodded against your shoulder. “That was…”

You stroked his hair. “What you needed?”

His voice cracked. “More than that.”

He kissed your wrist.

“I didn’t think anyone would ever want this part of me. But you didn’t hesitate.”

You smiled, kissing the top of his head.

“Ji-hoo,” you said gently. “You’re mine now. And I take very good care of what’s mine.”

[imhaechanshoe]

title: chuck e. cheese

paring: josh lee x reader

warnings: Fluff, slow burn, tension, secret crush

Josh’s name popped up on your phone:

“come over. bring ur laptop. justin’s tryna scare me again 🙄 we filming.”

You didn’t even hesitate. You grabbed your charger, your laptop, a hoodie you definitely stole from Josh months ago, and headed out the door.

By the time you got to the Lee house, Jonny was already yelling at Justin about the camera angles and Josh was setting up four chairs in front of their usual setup.

“Y/N!” Justin beamed. “You’re about to get jump-scared so bad—this game is actually cursed.”

Josh turned to you, his face lighting up a little more than it should’ve for someone seeing their best friend.

“You made it,” he said softly, nudging his shoulder against yours as you sat next to him.

“You called. I answered,” you smiled.

Recording starts.

“Okay, guys,” Jonny said, adjusting his mic, “today we’re playing Night Shift at Chuck E. Cheese’s 2. It’s a horror Roblox game and—”

“—and Josh is gonna cry,” Justin cut in.

“I’m not gonna cry,” Josh argued, eyes flicking to you for backup. “Y/N’s the one who screamed watching Coraline, don’t even.”

“That button-eyed little girl is terrifying!” you defended, shoving him gently. “You got scared of a squirrel once.”

“I didn’t know it was in the trash can!”

Everyone cracked up, and the camera caught the way Josh was looking at you—smiling like you were the only person in the room.

The game loaded.

It was dark. Flashlights flickered. Animatronic noises buzzed through the headphones.

You screamed. Justin screamed. Jonny screamed.

But Josh?

Josh let out the most high-pitched shriek when a Chuck E. animatronic sprinted down the hallway on-screen.

“Brooo, Josh!” Jonny laughed, wheezing.

“Nah, ain’t no way that was from a grown man,” Justin cried.

“Y/N screamed too!” Josh protested, pointing.

“Yeah, but she cute when she screams,” Justin shrugged.

Josh instantly turned toward you, ears red. “Don’t listen to him. You’re always cute.”

Your heart paused for a second.

Then—

“Wait—what?” you said, blinking. “Did you just—?”

“I said what I said.” Josh tried to keep a straight face, but the tips of his ears were glowing. “Anyway, watch the hallway—I think Chuck E. coming back—”

“Don’t switch the subject!” Jonny shouted. “Man just confessed mid-jumpscare!”

The whole group was laughing, but you couldn’t stop smiling.

Neither could Josh.

After filming

Everyone was hanging out post-video, eating chips, yelling about who was the biggest coward. Jonny and Justin left to go grab ice cream. It was just you and Josh on the couch now, your legs tucked under you.

Josh nudged your knee with his. “So… was I that obvious?”

You bit your lip, trying not to grin too hard. “A little.”

He looked nervous. “Do you… hate that?”

“Not even close.”

He exhaled, smiling so big you could see his dimple. “Good. ‘Cause I’ve been wanting to tell you for like… ever.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder, feeling his hand inch toward yours. “I know.”

He looked down at you, voice soft. “So what now?”

You squeezed his hand.

“We survive more haunted Chuck E. Cheese nights together.”

He laughed, resting his head against yours.

“You’re stuck with me then,” he said.

You smiled. “I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

© imhaechanshoe 2025

[imhaechanshoe]

pairing: choi yeonjun x reader

title: can you come back to me ?

Warnings: 18+ content (NSFW), unprotected sex (wrap it up irl), praise, soft dom Yeonjun, emotional intimacy, light angst, hotel room setting

The FaceTime call had only lasted five minutes.

Yeonjun tried to smile through the screen, lying on a stiff hotel bed with hair still damp from rehearsal. He’d tried to pretend he wasn’t exhausted or aching for your touch, but you could tell—his voice was quieter, his eyes duller.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he murmured, staring into the phone like he wanted to teleport through it. “I just… miss you.”

So you packed a bag.

No warning. No texts. You booked the quickest flight and spent hours replaying what his voice had sounded like—tired, soft, a little broken. You needed to fix it.

Now, standing in front of his hotel room door, your heart thundered. You knocked twice.

Nothing.

Then the door creaked open.

Yeonjun stood in front of you shirtless, sweats low on his hips, wide eyes blinking in disbelief. “Babe…?”

Your lips parted. “Hi.”

He pulled you into him so fast your bag dropped to the floor. His arms wrapped around your waist like he was scared you’d vanish.

“You’re real,” he breathed into your neck. “You’re actually here.”

“I couldn’t let you be sad and alone in a hotel room,” you whispered, fingers brushing the nape of his neck. “So I came.”

Yeonjun pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes. “You didn’t even tell me—”

“I wanted to surprise you,” you smiled. “Did it work?”

He kissed you so hard you stumbled back into the room.

The door slammed shut behind you.

His hands were hungry—gripping your waist, sliding under your shirt, fingers tracing your spine like he needed to memorize it. The kiss turned desperate, teeth grazing your bottom lip, his breath shaky.

“I missed you so fucking much,” he growled against your lips, “I’ve been going crazy without you.”

Your hands roamed his bare chest, nails grazing down his abs. “Then show me.”

That was all he needed.

He backed you toward the bed, pulling your shirt over your head and tossing it across the room. His eyes darkened when he saw you weren’t wearing a bra. “You did this on purpose.”

“Maybe,” you whispered, watching the way his jaw clenched.

Yeonjun pushed you gently onto the mattress, hovering above you with an intensity that made your thighs clench. “You don’t know what you do to me.”

He kissed down your neck, your collarbones, then sucked a bruise just above your breast. “I’m gonna take my time with you,” he muttered, fingers already tugging at your jeans. “I need to feel you. Every inch.”

Your clothes disappeared piece by piece. His lips trailed fire down your stomach, leaving wet kisses until his head was between your thighs, tongue flicking, teasing, worshipping.

Your hands fisted the sheets, gasping his name as your back arched off the bed. He didn’t stop until your thighs were trembling around his head, his name broken on your tongue.

When he finally crawled up your body, you grabbed his face and kissed him like your life depended on it. “I need you, Jun. Now.”

He didn’t make you ask again.

His sweats hit the floor. He lined himself up and pushed in slowly, watching your face twist in pleasure. You gasped at the stretch, the feeling of him finally filling you.

His forehead rested against yours. “Fuck, I missed this.”

Yeonjun started to move—slow, deep thrusts that had you whining his name, your nails digging into his back. He kissed your jaw, your cheek, your lips over and over like he couldn’t get enough.

“You feel so good,” he moaned, “So perfect for me.”

You clenched around him, drawing a sharp breath from his throat.

His pace quickened, hips snapping into yours, the sound of skin slapping and your breathy moans filling the room. He held you close like he was afraid this was a dream.

“I love you,” he whispered, voice cracking slightly. “Don’t leave yet.”

You cupped his face. “I’m not going anywhere.”

That sent him over the edge.

His hips stuttered, and with a low groan, he spilled into you, gripping your waist like you were the only thing anchoring him. You followed moments after, body wracked with pleasure, collapsing under him.

Afterward, he lay there, face tucked into your neck, arms tight around your waist.

“I really thought I’d be sleeping alone tonight,” he mumbled sleepily.

You kissed the top of his head. “Not tonight. I’m here.”

And for once, Yeonjun didn’t have to pretend everything was okay.

© imhaechanshoe 2025

[imhaechanshoe]

i love you papa

stay with me- yeon sieun

Pairing: Sieun x Fem!Reader

Genre: Comfort, Fluff

The hospital room was too quiet. The kind of quiet that made your ears ring and your heart beat louder in your chest.

Sieun stood just inside the doorway, frozen.

He hadn’t been there when it happened.

That’s what made it worse.

Suho had gone to fight alone.

No texts. No heads up. Just vanished—and came back like this.

Lying still in a hospital bed, face bruised and bloodless, machines doing the work his body couldn’t.

Sieun’s throat tightened, the sterile air burning with every breath. He took a shaky step forward, then another. When he reached the side of the bed, he hesitated before sitting down stiffly in the plastic chair.

"You didn’t tell me," he said quietly. “You just… went.”

His voice cracked, barely audible.

“I would've gone with you. I would've—”

He clenched his fists, fingernails digging into his palms.

"I thought we were doing this together,” he whispered. “But you just… left.”

His eyes flicked to Suho’s hand. Still. Cold. He reached for it and held it, awkward and trembling. His fingers curled around Suho’s knuckles like they could will him back to consciousness.

“I didn’t get to stop you. I didn’t get to say anything. You didn’t give me a chance."

His shoulders began to shake.

“You always tell me I’m too quiet,” he muttered. “So I’m talking now. Okay? I’m saying it.”

Tears slipped from his eyes, one after another. He didn’t bother wiping them away.

“I miss you already,” he whispered. “And I don’t even know if you’re coming back.”

He leaned forward until his forehead pressed lightly against the back of Suho’s hand. The sound of the heart monitor filled the room—steady, but haunting.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” Sieun breathed. “I should’ve been. I should’ve known.”

The words felt small, useless.

But he said them anyway.

It was almost midnight when he showed up at your place.

You weren’t expecting anyone. You were in your pajamas, half-asleep on the couch when you heard the knock was quiet at first, then a little more desperate. You peeked through the peephole and your heart nearly stopped.

"Sieun?"

He looked like he’d been through a war. His hair was disheveled, eyes rimmed with red, and there was blood on his collar—not fresh, but dried into the fabric. You opened the door without hesitation.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “Can I... come in?”

You didn’t ask questions. You stepped aside, and he walked in like he didn’t know how to move anymore, like each step cost him something.

You closed the door softly. “Did something happen?”

He didn’t answer right away. His back was to you, his posture rigid. “Suho’s in a coma.”

The words hung in the air, thick and heavy.

“Oh my god...”

You stepped closer, your voice trembling. “Is he going to be okay?”

Sieun didn’t respond. His jaw clenched, and you could see him fighting to keep it together. You reached out, gently touching his wrist.

That’s when he broke.

He didn’t collapse or scream—Sieun never did that. But his shoulders shook, and his head dropped, and he turned toward you like a lost child, desperate and drowning.

You pulled him into your arms without hesitation.

He clung to you, his hands gripping the back of your shirt like he was afraid you'd disappear too. He buried his face in your shoulder and let out a strangled, broken sound—something between a sob and a breath he'd been holding in for hours.

You held him tighter. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

“I didn’t protect him,” he whispered. “I let it happen.”

“No,” you said firmly. “You didn’t let anything happen. This isn’t your fault.”

“It is,” he whispered. “I should’ve known. I should’ve been there faster. I should’ve been stronger.”

You cupped his face and made him look at you. His eyes were glassy and raw, his cheeks damp. You brushed the hair away from his forehead.

“Sieun, listen to me. You can’t carry this alone. You did everything you could. Suho... he chose to protect you because he cares about you. Just like you’d do for him.”

He didn’t answer, but his eyes flickered, like he wanted to believe you.

You led him to the couch, pulling a blanket over the two of you. He sat beside you in silence, his head resting against your shoulder.

Eventually, his breathing evened out, and you realized he’d fallen asleep—finally, finally asleep.

You didn’t move. You didn’t need to. He came to you because he needed somewhere safe, someone who didn’t expect him to fight or be strong. Just someone who’d hold him when the world got too heavy.

And in that moment, you promised yourself you’d be that person—for as long as he needed

[imhaechanshoe]

𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐲 𝐨𝐧 𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐚 || Liu Yangyang

pairing: best friend!yangyang x camgirl!reader

Warnings: camgirl work, sexual tension, language, secret-keeping, voyeurism, eventual smut 18+, dom!Yangyang, fingering (f receiving), orgasm denial/edging, public teasing (semi-public setting), jealousy/possessive behavior, dirty talk, rough kissing, praise & mild degradation, sexual tension in public space, strong language.

A/N: this is freaky asl, this is INSPIRED by @hyuckiefluff

Liu Yangyang was your best friend. Not the casual kind who lent you notes once a semester and waved in lecture halls, but the kind who knew you liked strawberry milk in your coffee even though you claimed you hated sweet drinks.

The kind who showed up to your apartment at 2 a.m. with greasy fries and a Powerade because he “had a feeling.” The kind you secretly, shamefully, maybe just a little bit—wanted to fuck.

But Yangyang? He saw you as just a friend. Just a girl who wore baggy hoodies and stole his socks, who cursed too much and watched horror movies like they were lullabies. He didn’t know the version of you that other people paid to see.

At least, that’s what you thought.

You were a camgirl.

Not because you wanted to be forever—but because tuition was murder, your scholarship only covered so much, and frankly? You were good at it.

A few hours a week. Lingerie. Sometimes toys. Always a mask. Always a fake name. Never in person. You were careful.

And Yangyang? He was never supposed to know.

“Dude,” he groaned, flopping back on your dorm bed, legs dangling off the edge. “If Professor Jin assigns one more group project, I swear I’m gonna commit a crime.”

You didn’t look up from your laptop, fingers dancing over your keyboard. “You mean like not showing up to half your lectures already?”

“Low blow.” He kicked your thigh lightly with his socked foot. “You love me.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled. “Yeah, yeah. You bringing your ass to film club later?”

He shrugged. “Only if you promise to actually pay attention this time. Last week you were glued to your phone.”

You stilled for a second.

Last week’s stream. You had just finished a pretty intense session—your most generous subscriber, P1nDown, had sent a massive tip. You’d thanked him with a custom video. The rush afterward was addictive. You couldn’t stop checking for his next message.

You cleared your throat. “Yeah. Sorry. Just had stuff.”

Yangyang tilted his head at you like he was trying to read behind your words. He was always good at that—getting too close, asking too little, and seeing too much.

The problem with secrets was that they lived everywhere: in the way you avoided his gaze when a notification popped up on your phone, in the way you kept a second folder on your laptop labeled “Taxes” that definitely wasn’t about taxes.

You had a system. You were careful.

Until you weren’t.

It happened on a Tuesday. The air was heavy with pre-storm heat, your dorm Wi-Fi was shot, and you had an econ assignment due by midnight.

You didn’t think twice when you texted Yangyang.

you home?
need to borrow ur laptop, mine’s dead.
i’ll bring iced coffee?

Yangyang💕: only if it’s that trash vanilla almond shit you get
Yangyang💕: door’s open

You snorted and headed to his place. His dorm was across campus in the international student housing building—cleaner, nicer, quieter. Typical.

He wasn’t home when you got there. You let yourself in, dropped the coffee on his desk, and booted up his laptop.

That was your first mistake.

The tab was already open when the browser loaded.

It wasn’t porn—not exactly. It was a paused video. Full screen.

Your video.

You blinked, brain buffering.

It was you—wearing the navy lace teddy you’d bought for your two-month streaming anniversary. Knees parted. Lips parted. Fingers wet. Eyes half-lidded under your crystal-studded mask. The words “Thanks for the love, P1nDown 💋” were scrawled in text across the bottom.

And in the top-right corner?

The account name was logged in.

L.Yang99

Your stomach dropped.

No. No way. No fucking way.

You slammed the laptop shut like it had burned you. Your chest felt tight, ears ringing.

Yangyang… was your top subscriber?

He came back ten minutes later, earbuds in, hoodie damp with sweat.

“Hey, did it load okay? Wi-Fi was—"

“You’re P1nDown.”

He froze mid-step. Slowly, he took his earbuds out.

“…What?”

You stood, heart racing, pointing at the laptop like it was a crime scene. “Don’t lie. Your tab was open. My video. Your account. Logged in. I saw everything.”

Yangyang went still. Then exhaled a long, shaky breath.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “Yeah.”

Silence.

“You knew it was me,” you whispered.

“I figured it out a while ago.” He looked at you then, eyes dark, unreadable. “Didn’t mean to find it. I was just scrolling and… I saw the mole on your inner thigh.”

Your breath hitched.

He’d noticed that?

“You shouldn’t have—”

“I know.” His voice cracked. “I shouldn’t have watched. But I couldn’t stop.”

You swallowed hard. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He gave a humorless laugh. “What was I supposed to say? ‘Hey, by the way, I jerk off to your streams every other night and tip you more than my rent’? That’s not exactly best friend behavior.”

Your face flushed. The words should’ve made you angry. Ashamed. But part of you—the part that had fantasized about Yangyang’s hand between your thighs, about him seeing that side of you—lit up like a fucking firecracker.

“You’re my best friend,” you said, throat dry. “This could ruin everything.”

He stepped closer. “Yeah. Or maybe it changes everything.”

You didn’t speak for a long time.

Just stared at Yangyang like he was a stranger wearing your best friend’s face. Your throat was dry, stomach twisted, but your thighs were clenched tight and warm in a way that made you furious at yourself.

This was wrong. He was Yangyang—the boy who used to spoon-feed you ramen when you were too hungover to move. The boy who held your hand through every mental breakdown. The boy who, for the last six months, had been your highest paying subscriber—without you knowing.

And now, he was just standing there. Looking at you like he’d seen you naked a hundred times.

Because he had.

“You saw everything,” you murmured.

“You’ve been seeing everything.”

Yangyang looked wrecked—flushed, eyes glassy, tongue darting out nervously across his bottom lip.

“Yeah.”

“And you still came over like nothing happened? Let me crash at your place? Let me sit on your bed when you—when you’ve watched me—?”

“I didn’t do it to be creepy,” he cut in, voice strained.

“It wasn’t some plan. I didn’t even know it was you at first. But once I did, I just— I couldn’t stop.”

You backed away a step, pulse erratic.

“So you just kept watching. Tipping. Getting off to me. While pretending to be my best friend.”

“Don’t say it like that.” He stepped toward you, hands open.

“It wasn’t pretending. I’m still your best friend. I just…” He exhaled shakily.

“You were so confident. On camera. It didn’t feel like you were just performing. It felt real. Like you wanted it.”

You did. You do.

But admitting that felt like throwing a match into a pool of gasoline.

“I don’t show my face,” you muttered. “You weren’t supposed to know. That wasn’t you I was performing for.”

“I didn’t care. I still don’t.” His voice dropped.

“I just wanted to see you. All of you. Even the parts you think you have to hide.”

Your skin burned. Your heart pounded. But something deep and hot and twisted inside of you ached at those words.

This was Yangyang. He was the only person you’d ever trusted with your ugly. With your midnight breakdowns and your shame and your softness. You never imagined he’d want the other part of you too.

But maybe he had all along.

“You’ve tipped me over two grand,” you said softly, breaking the silence.

Yangyang laughed weakly. “Yeah. I might’ve had to ask Xiaojun for rent last month.”

You blinked. “You’re serious?”

He nodded.

You narrowed your eyes. “Why?”

Yangyang stepped closer again, and this time you didn’t move.

“I liked making you feel good,” he said.

“Even if you didn’t know it was me. I liked knowing I could do that for you. That I was your favorite.”

Your breath hitched. “You were my favorite.”

“I still want to be.”

The air between you snapped like a live wire.

He reached out slowly, hand brushing your jaw. You didn’t pull away. Your eyes searched his—unsure, trembling, but needy.

“I’ve wanted you for months,” he whispered. “Every time you moaned someone’s name on camera, I pretended it was mine. Every time you said ‘good boy,’ I imagined it was me you were teasing. Touching.”

Your knees buckled.

“Yangyang…”

“Tell me to stop, and I will.” His thumb grazed your cheek. “But if you don’t—tell me what you do when you know I’m watching.”

You didn’t sleep that night.

You didn’t kiss him. You didn’t take your clothes off. You didn’t let things go further than they should.

But you let him stay.

On the floor beside your bed, blanket over his shoulders, eyes locked on you like he could read every filthy thing you’d ever streamed—and still wanted more.

The next few days were weird.

Not bad weird. Just hot and slow and buzzing with tension that you didn’t know how to handle.

Yangyang came over to your place more. He brought snacks. Teased you.

Caught your eye when you leaned too far forward in a low-cut shirt.

You caught his eyes lingering too long when you stretched in your shorts. He never pushed, but the air between you was never innocent again.

He never brought up your streams. Never asked when your next one was. But one night, you checked your page, and your private inbox lit up.

P1nDown:
if you’re going live tonight
can i request something special?

You:
what kind of special?

P1nDown:
just want to hear you say my name
once
just once

You stared at the screen for a long time.

Then typed:

You:
only if you ask nicely.

You didn’t say it on the stream.

You thought about it. Played with the idea. Even put on the red lace bodysuit—the one that always made you feel like a weapon.

But when the tip came in—$500, and the caption “Please, baby. Say it for me.”—you only smiled at the camera and whispered, “Not yet.”

You were going to make him earn it.

You didn’t mean to tease him.

Okay. Maybe you did.

Just a little.

The night you wore the red lace on stream, Yangyang didn’t speak to you for a full day.

You didn’t blame him. You were his best friend—his favorite streamer—and you’d stared directly into the lens, lips parted and plush with gloss, and whispered, “Not yet.”

He knew it was for him. And you knew what that did to him.

The silence only lasted until the next night, when he showed up at your door with a bottle of soju and a six-pack of mango sparkling water like nothing had happened.

“Movie night?” he asked, eyes dark.

You nodded. “Movie night.”

But neither of you made it to the end of the movie.

You were sitting on your bed, laptop on your lap, one foot tucked under you. Yangyang was next to you, scrolling on his phone, his body angled slightly toward yours. Close enough that your knees brushed when you laughed. Close enough that your whole body was on alert.

It was suffocating. This weird electric buzz in the air that never left anymore.

When the movie ended, the silence lingered. Heavy. Heated.

You cleared your throat. “I have a stream tomorrow.”

Yangyang’s head snapped up. “Yeah?”

You nodded slowly. “Haven’t done one since… you know.”

His lips quirked. “Since you found out I’ve been jerking off to you?”

Your face flamed. “Yangyang.”

“What?” he leaned in slightly, gaze

locked to yours. “You asked.”

You licked your lips. “You could’ve just pretended you hadn’t seen it.”

“I didn’t want to pretend.”

A pause.

“Do you still…watch?” you asked.

His eyes darkened. “Every time.”

Your breath caught.

“Do you…” You couldn’t believe you were saying this. “Do you touch yourself to me?”

The corner of his mouth curled up, slow and devastating.

“Do you want the truth?”

You swallowed. “Yeah.”

He leaned forward, and this time, there was no space left between you. Just heat. Just tension. Just the past year of him pretending and you hiding and all of it boiling over.

“I’ve come to your voice more times than I can count,” Yangyang whispered. “To the sound of you begging, moaning, teasing. You’ve ruined me for anyone else.”

You whimpered. Literally whimpered.

“And you know what the worst part is?” he said, voice ragged. “It still wasn’t enough.”

Your body moved on instinct. You dropped the laptop to the floor, barely heard it hit the carpet, and grabbed his hoodie, fisting it in your hands.

He didn’t wait.

Yangyang crashed into you like a storm—mouth hot, hands possessive, tongue sliding into your mouth with months of pent-up hunger. You moaned into the kiss, your back hitting the mattress as he pushed you down and slotted himself between your thighs.

“Fuck,” he gasped against your lips. “I’ve wanted this for so long.”

“You should’ve said something.”

“You should’ve said my name on stream.”

Your laugh broke on a moan as he kissed down your neck, hands already slipping under your shirt. He tugged it off, eyes darkening at the sight of your bralette.

“This the one you wore in the birthday stream?” he asked.

You flushed. “Yeah.”

“I came so hard to that video.” He licked a stripe between your breasts. “Still do.”

“Yangyang—”

“Say it again,” he growled. “Say my name like that.”

You did.

And he lost it.

His mouth moved lower. Hands under your waistband, dragging your shorts down in one smooth motion. You gasped when his tongue traced your hipbone.

“I always wondered what you tasted like,” he murmured. “Thought about it every time you opened your legs on cam. Wondered if you got wet just for the camera—or if you were already dripping before you hit record.”

“I’m always wet,” you whispered.

“Thinking about who’s watching.”

“You mean me.”

You bit your lip, nodding. “I didn’t know. But maybe part of me hoped it was.”

He growled low in his throat. “Fuck. You’re evil.”

Then he kissed your inner thigh. Your stomach. The crease of your hip.

“Yangyang—”

“I want to taste you,” he said. “But I want to hear you first.”

You blinked. “What?”

He sat back, legs sprawled, hoodie riding up just enough to tease the waistband of his boxers.

“I want you to touch yourself,” he said. “Like you would on stream. Like you do when you think about me.”

You should’ve hesitated. But you didn’t.

You spread your legs, fingers dipping between your folds, and started slow. Deliberate. The way you always did for your top-paying subscriber—who, as it turned out, had always been this close.

Yangyang watched with wide, dark eyes. One hand down his pants, gripping himself hard.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “You’re even prettier like this in real life.”

You whined as your fingers circled your clit, thighs trembling already.

“Did you ever think about me?” he asked, voice low. “When you streamed? Did you ever think about what it’d be like if Iwas the one tipping you? Watching you?”

“Yes,” you gasped. “Always.”

That was all it took.

Yangyang was on you in seconds, lips on your throat, hand replacing yours between your legs. He slid two fingers into you, fucking you slow and deep while your mouth fell open.

“You’re so wet for me,” he groaned. “You want me to fuck you, baby?”

“Yes—please, please—”

He yanked off his hoodie and pants in record time, eyes locked to yours the whole time.

And when he finally sank into you?

It was everything.

It was soft moans and whispered names and the sound of his hips hitting yours.

It was him biting down on your shoulder, whimpering, “You feel so fucking good.”

It was you wrapping your legs around him and crying out, “Don’t stop—Yangyang, please—”

And when you came?

You didn’t hold back.

You said his name.

Over and over and over.

Just like he’d always wanted.

“You’re still wet.”

Yangyang’s voice was low, right against your ear, as his fingers brushed the inside of your thigh under the table.

“Yang—someone might see—”

“I want them to.”

You squeezed your thighs together, pulse pounding.

You were in the library.

At the back corner table where you and Yangyang usually studied, hidden behind stacks of textbooks and his laptop. You were trying to write an essay while he claimed to be “editing photos” for his class—which clearly translated to “see how wrecked I can get you without anyone noticing.”

You wore a skirt. That was your first mistake.

No panties. Your second.

Letting him come with you today, even after he whispered “You’re not allowed to cum again until I say so” last night—your third.

His fingers grazed the slick heat between your legs again, slow and deliberate.

“You were moaning so pretty for me last night,” he murmured. “Now look at you. Dripping in a fucking library.”

You bit down on your pencil.

“If someone comes back here—”

“Then you better keep quiet.” His fingers

slid deeper, just shy of slipping inside.

“Be a good girl.”

Your hips bucked instinctively, and Yangyang grinned.

“You like being edged like this, huh?” he whispered. “Been thinking about it all day, haven’t you?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

He moved his fingers faster, but still shallow. Not enough to satisfy, just enough to torment.

“Bet your subscribers would love to see this,” he said. “You all spread out at a library desk, stuffed full of my fingers, trying not to cry.”

“Yangyang—”

“You’d put on a good show, wouldn’t you?” His lips brushed your temple. “Let them tip while you beg to cum. But I’d be the only one who actually gets to touch you.”

Your walls clenched hard.

He leaned in close, voice like velvet and venom.

“Say it.”

You whined under your breath. “Say what?”

“Say you’re mine.”

You turned to look at him—flushed, lips parted, pupils blown wide.

“I’m yours.”

And then—only then—did he let you cum.

Later that night, you were back at your place. Still sore. Still dizzy from the orgasm he wrung out of you with two fingers and a threat.

You didn’t plan to stream.

But something burned inside you.

A need to push the line. To play again.

To see if he’d crack.

So you went live.

Red lace. Lights low. Fingers already glistening.

It was supposed to be short. Just a teaser stream. Something to keep the top tippers active. But then someone new joined.

"S!nner773". You’d never seen the username before.

He tipped $300 within five minutes.

Then $200 more.

“Tell me how wet you are, baby. Want to hear you moan.”

You smirked and kept going—figuring Yangyang was probably watching silently like he always did, getting off knowing only he had actually been inside you.

But then your private inbox pinged.

From P1nDown—Yangyang’s account.

P1nDown:
log off.

You blinked.

Another tip from S!nner773 rolled in:

“Spread it wider, babygirl.”

Then Yangyang messaged again:

P1nDown:
now.

Your heart slammed in your chest.

You hesitated. Just one second too long.

And the next thing you saw was your door swinging open.

Yangyang walked in—chest heaving, jaw tight, eyes locked on your still-streaming body on your laptop screen.

“You ignored me.”

You scrambled to pause the stream, heart in your throat.

“Yangyang—what are you doing—?”

He slammed the laptop shut.

“You’re mine. You said you were mine.”

“I—I was just putting on a show, I didn’t even respond to the messages—”

“You let someone else talk to you like that. Tip you like that.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Wetness already pooling again between your thighs.

“I’m not mad you streamed,” he said. “I’m mad you didn’t tell them who you belong to.”

“Yangyang…”

“Get on the bed.”

You froze. “What?”

“You wanna act like a toy for strangers?” His voice dropped. “Fine. But I’m the only one who gets to play with you.”

Your legs moved before your brain caught up.

Yangyang stalked toward you, dragging his hoodie off. “Tonight, you don’t cum until I say so. Again.”

You whimpered.

And then—he made you show him everything.

Made you keep the red lace on. Made you read the anonymous tips aloud while he edged you again and again. Held your wrists above your head while he fucked you open with his mouth, his hands, his cock—and all the filthy words he never dared say before.

“You gonna moan his name, baby?” he hissed. “Or mine?”

“Yours,” you gasped.

“Say it louder.”

“Yours—Yangyang, please—”

“Then don’t ever let anyone else think they can touch you again.”

He didn’t let you cum for nearly an hour.

And when he finally did?

You moaned.

And he didn’t even care if the neighbors heard.

© imhaechanshoe 2025

[imhaechanshoe]

title: come back to me

pairing: jeon jungkook x reader

genre: fluff,comfort

The front door creaked open softly — a gentle sound, but enough to make your heart stutter. You sat up from the couch, half-asleep, wrapped in one of Jungkook’s oversized hoodies. The room was dark except for the faint flicker of a K-drama playing on mute.

You knew it was him before you even saw his face. The quiet rustle of his suitcase, the low shuffle of his sneakers being kicked off, the familiar scent of cedarwood and fabric softener.

“Baby,” you whispered, just as he stepped into the light.

Jungkook dropped everything — his duffel bag, his hoodie halfway hanging off one shoulder — and crossed the room in three long strides. He didn’t say a word, just wrapped his arms around you so tightly your toes lifted off the floor.

You buried your face into his neck. “You smell like the airport.”

He chuckled, voice soft and raspy. “You smell like home.”

You melted.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. His heartbeat thudded against your chest, steady and real. His hands ran up and down your back like he was reminding himself you were solid — not just a FaceTime call or a dreamy thought he held onto between rehearsals and stages.

“I missed you,” he mumbled against your hair. “Like, so much it physically hurt.”

“You were only gone for six weeks.”

“That’s like twelve years in Jungkook time if you think about it.”

You laughed. “Well, I waited. And I stocked the fridge. And your stuffed bunny is still on the bed.”

He looked up with wide eyes. “Bam Bam didn’t move it?”

“Nope. He was holding your pillow for you.”

“You’re the love of my life,” he said instantly.

He tugged you to the couch, not even bothering to unpack. You curled up on his chest, and he absently ran his fingers through your hair while your head rose and fell with his breathing. His eyes were barely open now.

“Wanna talk about tour?” you whispered.

“Mm-mm. I wanna talk about how you’re warm and soft and mine.”

Your cheeks flushed. “You’re such a sap when you’re sleepy.”

“Only for you,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Always for you.”

© imhaechanshoe 2025

[imhaechanshoe]

sound of silence

Pairing: Yoon Dong-ju x Reader

Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn Romance, Trauma Healing

You were called a badminton prodigy with flawless footwork, explosive energy, and the kind of focus most athletes spent their whole lives chasing.

On the outside, you were graceful. Fast. Fierce.

But on the inside?

Silence.

Not the meditative kind. The heavy, suffocating one. The kind that follows grief when it’s never been spoken out loud. The kind that still wraps itself around your throat years later.

Because while the country celebrated your Olympic gold medal, your father bled out in a back alley, a victim of a senseless shooting you didn’t even know about until hours after the match.

You’ve hated applause ever since.

Now, you were an officer.

A quiet, obedient, overly competent one—exactly the kind the higher-ups liked to overlook. Which was probably why they placed you in the newly formed special force with a bunch of other ex-Olympians.

They thought your silence made you easier to manage.

They didn’t know silence was your rebellion.

Yoon Dong-ju noticed you before you said a single word.

He noticed the way you stood during briefings—hands behind your back, eyes low, feet never completely still.

He noticed how your answers were clipped and polite, but never cold.

How you only spoke when you had to. And when you did, your voice was gentle. Soft. Almost apologetic.

At first, he thought you didn’t like the team.

Then he realized: it wasn’t dislike.

It was grief.

One day, after a field simulation, the team sat down in the gym to decompress. Everyone laughed and teased each other, sweaty and loud.

You were off to the side, back turned, unwrapping tape from your wrist with slow, methodical movements.

Dong-ju walked over, towel around his neck.

“You’re really fast. Even in boots.”

You looked up, startled that he was speaking to you. Your lips parted slightly, but no words came.

“Badminton, right?” he continued, nodding to your stance. “Footwork like that doesn’t come from track or taekwondo.”

A pause.

Then, softly, your first words to him:

“Yeah.”

He gave a small smile.

“I was a boxer. You probably figured.”

Your eyes flickered to his hands—scarred, strong, calloused. Obvious.

“I saw.”

“You always that quiet?” he asked. Not mockingly. Just curious.

You looked down at your knee brace, tugging it tighter.

“Only when I’m awake,” you said dryly.

And that was the moment he decided you weren’t just quiet.

You were hurting.

Over the next few weeks, he didn’t press you.

He just sat near you. Handed you things before you had to ask. Matched your walking pace in the hallway. You barely noticed, at first. But you never moved away.

You weren’t friends. Not yet. But he was safe. And that was enough.

Until one night, everything cracked.

You’d just finished a long debrief. It was storming outside, hard and cold, and the sound of rain on the roof made something twist in your chest. You headed toward the locker room alone, fists clenched.

Dong-ju found you standing in front of your open locker, staring at your gold medal, which was tucked inside a sock in your bottom drawer.

“You bring that with you?” he asked from behind.

You didn’t turn around. “Sometimes.”

“Why?”

Your throat tightened. “To remind myself… it wasn’t worth it.”

The room went quiet except for the hum of flickering lights.

He stepped closer, but didn’t reach out. Just waited.

“He died the day I won it,” you said, voice barely a whisper. “My dad. Got caught in something he shouldn’t’ve. I was busy smiling on TV.”

You turned to look at him, eyes wet but defiant.

“So, no. I don’t like crowds. I don’t like cheering. I don’t like being called a hero.”

Dong-ju didn’t say “I’m sorry.” You’d heard that enough.

Instead, he quietly said, “You know what I did the day I lost the gold medal match?”

You blinked at him, caught off guard.

“I punched a mirror,” he continued. “Got fifteen stitches. Coach said I embarrassed the country. But I didn’t care. I was already so full of hate, I couldn’t even see straight. And then… I got drafted into this team. Told I had to protect people when I couldn’t even protect myself.”

Your lips parted. Your shoulders lowered.

“I think we’re both here because we lost something,” he said, “and no one knew how to give it back.”

That night, you sat together on the rooftop, the rain now a light mist.

You gave him half your convenience store kimbap without saying a word.

He took it and smiled.

And in that quiet… something started to heal.

Weeks Later…

Dong-ju walked into the gym late, expecting it to be empty.

Instead, he found you standing at the net, badminton racket in hand, ponytail high, hoodie sleeves rolled up.

You looked over at him.

“Wanna learn how to serve?”

He blinked. “What?”

You tossed him a racket. “I may not talk much. But I can teach.”

He caught it.

Grinned.

“Only if you promise not to beat me too bad.”

You didn’t smile. But your eyes finally held light.

“No promises, boxer boy.”

© imhaechanshoe 2025

[imhaechanshoe]

mine

han su-gang x reader

warnings: smut, Dark themes, possessiveness, dubcon elements, public sex, toxic relationship dynamics, rough sex, degradation, power imbalance, emotionally manipulative behavior, soft aftercare.

su-gang never really liked when you talked to other people.

especially not the boys he bullied

he always knew you didn’t like when he hurt other people.

he would tell you how he stopped but then you’d catch him smashing some kids face in just because they looked at you.

you were currently at the convenience store with jin-hyung after su-gang beat up up really bad.

“i’m so sorry that you have to go through this everyday with him.” you genuinely say out of pity.

jin-hyung looks up at you but doesn’t meet your gaze “no— it’s fine, you have nothing to do with it. he’s only doing this because of some i did.”

you shake your head in disbelief “he’s not in his right mind…he thinks just because his family is rich and has connections to whatever they have connections to— but that doesn’t make it right.”

jin-hyung finally meets your gaze but quickly looks away.

you furrowed your eyebrows in confusion

did i just make him…nervous?

you finally speak “you okay?”

he looks up again “huh? yea— yea i’m okay, i’m fine—no— i’m great actually…uh”

you just stare at him because what the hell is wrong with him?

“you know,i used to like you—but then you started dating him so i started distancing myself from you… and i’m really sorry for that”

oh so that’s what was wrong with him

“jin-hyung…”

he shake his head cutting you off

“no! no— let me finish. Ignored you that day when you were crying because you thought you did something wrong because i started ghosting you…and it wasn’t you, it was him,he made cut off all contact with you— said he’d kill me if i didn’t.”

“exactly,i did say that so why the fuck are you talking to her?”

both you and jin-hyung turn around fast.

“su-gang…”

he starts laughing and walks up to jin-hyung.

“su-gang…i— i can explain,me and her were just—“

su-gang slowly shakes his head, still laughing,“you were just what? just…leaving?”

jin-hyung looks at me, looks back at su-gang and nods his head quickly. He shoves past su-gang and leaves.

you shove his chest “what the fuck is wrong with you?”

he put his hand on her heart as if he was hurt “what’s wrong with me? what’s wrong with you? you’re in a store with another guy—oh shit…you’re fucking him aren’t you?”

you look at him in utter disbelief “what? you’re not serious right?”

his expression is still the same, he doesn’t say anything.

“holy shit—you’re serious?” you shove past him and walk out.

you don’t look back to see if he’s following after you.

he throws his back and lets out a loud groan and follows you.

“jagiya! i’m sorry…”

you stop in your tracks and slow turn around.

“you’re what?”. you genuinely couldn’t believe what you were hearing.

he looks around to see if anyone else is near “i’m…sorry” he says very quietly to the point where you could barley hear him.

you fake gasp “woahhhh the han su-gang apologizing?”

he makes a face “shut up and get in the car. now.”

you start walking to car and mumble “jeez why’d he get so angry?”

he stopped “what?”

“huh? nothing.”

you open the car door.

“no.”

you turn around “no what? you told me to get in the car?”

“no get in the back.”

oh

you slowly start to open the back door.

“girl if you don’t open—“

you quickly open the door and get in.

he gets in after you and starts taking off his clothes.

“uhm…what…”

“get undressed.”

“uhm no…you do realize that we’re literally in public—“

“take your fucking clothes off before i make you.”

that was probably the fastest you ever moved in your life.

The windows of Su-gang’s sleek grey car were heavily tinted, but that didn’t stop the adrenaline spike crawling through your chest as you sat trembling in the backseat, now in just your bra and panties, trying to keep your thighs from rubbing together in anticipation.

You knew this was wrong. You knew Su-gang was dangerous—borderline psychotic. You should have walked away when you had the chance.

But the intensity in his eyes, that wild neediness masked as possessive rage, always made your heart hammer in your chest and your body betray your common sense.

“Fucking listen when I talk to you,” he muttered as he yanked his shirt off and tossed it to the front seat.

“You’re really out here playing house with Jin-hyung?”

“Su-gang…” you start, but his hand is already on your throat, pressing lightly—just enough to steal your breath and steal your voice.

“You did that shit on purpose,” he murmured, voice low and venomous, but so needy.

“You wanted to see how far you could push me, right?”

“I didn’t,” you whispered, mouth dry. “He was just—he’s just a friend.”

“Oh, now he’s just a friend?” Su-gang’s laugh was cold, eyes scanning your mostly-bare body as he slowly slid his hand from your throat down your collarbone, resting it between your breasts.

“You think I’d let you cry on another man’s shoulder? You think I’d let anyone else see you like this?” He leaned in until his breath tickled your lips.

“Nah, baby. That body’s mine. That mouth—” He suddenly grabbed your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes, “—is mine.”

You wanted to fight it. You should’ve pushed him away. But the heat between your legs made your head foggy, your morals blur.

“Then show me,” you dared him, your voice barely above a whisper.

That was all it took.

His lips crashed onto yours with bruising intensity, his tongue invading your mouth as his hands roughly grabbed your waist, pulling you onto his lap.

His cock, already hard and straining against his briefs, pressed against your clothed core and made you gasp into the kiss.

“Fuck, you’re already wet, huh?” he murmured, sliding a hand down to cup you over your soaked panties. “Little slut. You like when I get mad, don’t you?”

“No—I mean—”

He pushed your panties to the side and slid two fingers between your folds, rubbing slow, taunting circles over your clit. “Don’t lie to me. Your pussy’s dripping, baby.”

You moaned against his neck, shivering as he bit down on your collarbone hard enough to leave a mark.

“Keep still,” he warned.

You whimpered as he pulled his fingers away and shoved his briefs down just enough to free his cock. Thick, veiny, angry red at the tip.

“Beg for it.”

“What?” you looked at him, eyes wide.

He gripped your hair, yanking your head back gently.

“I said beg. You wanna act like a little whore with other boys? Then beg your real man to fuck you right now.”

The heat rushed to your face as shame and lust tangled deep in your belly.

“Please… please Su-gang… I need you.”

He grabbed your hips and lined himself up with your entrance, still teasing your clit with his thumb. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you breathed, voice breaking from the pressure of his tip pressing against your entrance.

“Say no one else gets to touch you but me.”

“No one but you. I promise.”

That was all he needed.

He slammed into you in one swift thrust, burying himself to the hilt. You let out a strangled moan, your body clenching tightly around him as your nails dug into his shoulders.

“Shit—tight as ever,” he growled, rocking his hips up into you, hard and fast. “This is what you wanted, huh? This is what you needed?”

You were speechless, lost in the sensation of his cock filling you up and the lewd slap of skin-on-skin echoing inside the car. The windows were already fogging, your moans and his grunts mixing in the thick, heated air.

He didn’t let up—grabbing your waist and pounding into you relentlessly, head buried in your chest, teeth grazing over your sensitive skin. He didn’t just want to fuck you—he wanted to own you.

“Come on, baby—come for me,” he groaned. “Soak my cock. Make sure the whole fucking world knows who you belong to.”

You shattered with a cry, your orgasm crashing over you like a tidal wave. He groaned as your walls clenched around him, pushing him over the edge as he spilled into you, hips jerking erratically as he rode out his high.

The car was silent afterward—only the sound of your heavy breathing and the soft hum of traffic outside.

Su-gang reached forward and grabbed his jacket, gently draping it over your shoulders. You blinked at him, confused at the sudden shift.

He looked at you—really looked at you—for the first time in hours. “...Did I go too far?”

Your throat tightened. You didn’t know what to say. Part of you wanted to scream yes, another part wanted to pull him close again.

But when he reached out and wiped the sweat from your brow with trembling fingers, something soft bloomed in your chest.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he murmured. “I know I’m fucked up. I know I’m not what you need.”

You pressed your forehead to his, eyes fluttering shut. “But you’re what I want.”

© imhaechanshoe 2025

[imhaechanshoe]

where it hurts

han su-gang x reader

warnings: Physical abuse, bullying, implied neglect, trauma, parent loss, poverty, emotional distress

The first time he hit you, it was in the stairwell behind Building C. You’d bumped into him by accident — or maybe not. Maybe he was just looking for an excuse. The slap echoed louder than your gasp.

The second time, it was worse. He shoved you into a locker so hard your shoulder throbbed for two days.

By the third week of school, everyone knew: You were Han Su-gang’s target.

He tripped you in the hallway. He yanked your chair from under you in class. He forced you to clean his sneakers, and when you hesitated, he grabbed the back of your neck and pushed your face toward the floor.

No one helped. No one ever helped.

So you stopped reacting.

It was a Wednesday afternoon when you made your choice.

You passed him in the hallway without flinching. No flinch. No fear. You didn’t even look at him.

He stared at you as you walked past, ignoring the low laughter of his friends.

And then he snapped.

Rough fingers twisted in your hair and yanked you backwards. You screamed, hand flying to your scalp, but he didn’t let go. He dragged you across the floor like you were weightless.

The hallway filled with gasps and muffled laughter. Phones came out. No one stepped in. Not a teacher, not a student, not a soul.

“Think you can ignore me?” he sneered, eyes wild, sweat glistening on his brow. “You think you’re something now?”

He finally let go, and your head slammed against the tile. The lights above you spun.

You didn’t cry.

You just got up. Quiet. Shaky. Bleeding from your elbow, hair matted with dust.

You walked away.

That night, he followed you.

He hadn’t planned to. Something about the blankness in your eyes wouldn’t leave him alone. He told himself he just wanted to keep the fun going.

But when he saw you cross the street into a neighborhood full of broken fences and cracked windows, his steps slowed.

You unlocked the gate of a run-down building and walked up three flights of stairs.

He watched through the broken window.

Inside: chaos.

Three little kids. A crying toddler, a boy doing homework on the floor, and a girl stirring a pot on the stove.

And you — dropping your bag, wiping your face, rolling up your sleeves.

He watched you hand the little girl some coins and whisper something. You pulled out a shirt from a plastic bag, clearly from your shift at the diner. The toddler clung to your leg.

The room was small. Too small. The wallpaper peeled, and the ceiling leaked.

There were no parents.

No help.

Only you.

Han Su-gang didn’t move for a long time.

His fists were clenched, but not in anger. Not this time.

What the hell had he been doing?

You weren’t weak. You weren’t “easy prey.”

You were stronger than anyone he’d ever met. Stronger than him.

He didn’t go to school the next day.

No reason, no call. He just didn’t show up.

Not that you cared.

You were too busy rushing from your morning shift to your first class. Too busy worrying about the gas bill. Too busy to notice the way your classmates were still whispering about yesterday. Or the way some of them looked at you with pity for the first time instead of amusement.

Your elbow was bruised. Your scalp burned every time you ran your fingers through it.

But you were still standing.

When Su-gang came back, he didn’t speak to anyone.

He didn’t laugh. Didn’t shout. He sat in the back of class, staring at your desk. Quiet. Cold.

You pretended not to notice. You were used to pretending.

But you felt it. The way the air shifted when he walked into the room. The way he didn’t try to trip you in the hallway. The way his friends glanced at him, confused.

It was worse than before.

Because now it wasn’t loud.

It was silent.

He was watching you.

Not with hate.

But with something else.

Three days later.

You stayed after school to clean the gym. Detention, again. They said you’d “disrupted the environment” by letting yourself be dragged in the hallway.

As if you had done something wrong.

You were mopping up a spill by the bleachers when the door creaked open.

You didn’t look up.

Didn’t have to.

You knew who it was.

He stood there for a minute. Hands in his pockets. Breathing low and even.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” he muttered.

You paused, staring at the mop water. “What would I say?”

He walked closer. Too close.

“I could’ve gone to jail,” he said, voice hard but not cruel. “I dragged you across the floor. In front of everyone. And you just walked away.”

You kept your back to him.

“I’ve had worse,” you said softly.

He flinched.

He actually flinched.

“Your mom and dad,” he said. “They’re gone.”

You stiffened. Turned.

His face was unreadable.

“How do you know that?” you asked, voice sharp.

“I followed you.”

“You—what the f—”

“I didn’t mean to—” He rubbed his neck, frustrated. “I didn’t know. You got three siblings. You’re feeding them. Working at the fried chicken spot, the gas station, and the laundry mat. And you still come to school.”

You stared at him, heart pounding.

“Why are you saying this?”

“I’m not apologizing.”

You scoffed. “Of course you’re not.”

“I just—” He stopped. Looked down. For once, he looked… human. “You didn’t cry. That day. When I dragged you.”

“Why would I?”

“Because I would’ve.”

Silence.

Then:

“Don’t follow me home again,” you said quietly. “If you��re not gonna help, leave me alone.”

You walked past him with the mop bucket.

And for the first time in his life, Han Su-gang stepped aside.

The next week, things started to change.

Not with you — no, you were still tired, still working, still showing up to school with bags under your eyes and that same stiff walk from healing bruises.

But he changed.

Han Su-gang didn’t trip anyone in the hall.

He didn’t speak unless spoken to.

He punched a senior who laughed about “the broke girl raising orphans.”

And when his friends joked about you behind your back, he didn’t join in.

He just said, flatly, “Shut the fuck up.”

They looked at him like he’d lost his mind.

maybe he had.

You noticed when the vending machine dropped an extra sandwich one day — and no one else was around.

You noticed when your youngest sister came home with a warm coat from a “school donation” that didn’t exist last week.

You noticed the envelope of cash slipped under your front door with no name, no note, no explanation.

You weren’t stupid.

You knew it was him.

So you waited.

Two nights later.

You caught him again. Outside your building. Hoodie on, hood up, pacing.

“You following me again?” you called from across the street.

He stopped.

Didn’t run. Didn’t deny it.

Just stared.

You walked up to him slowly, arms crossed, face unreadable.

“You think if you sneak around and toss money at me, it’ll make up for what you did?”

“I’m not—” He looked frustrated. “I’m not trying to make up for it. I just—didn’t know. Back then.”

“That I was a human being?”

He flinched again. Just like last time.

“You beat me in front of the whole school. Humiliated me. Made me feel small every damn day. And now you’re out here playing ghost charity?”

His voice was quiet. “I don’t know what else to do.”

You laughed — but it wasn’t kind.

“You could start by not acting like you deserve forgiveness.”

Silence.

Cold wind moved through the empty street.

“I don’t,” he said eventually. “I know that.”

You tilted your head. “So what do you want from me?”

He hesitated. Then, honestly:

“I don’t know. I just—can’t stop thinking about it. About you. About how you’re doing all this alone.”

“I’ve been alone,” you said. “Long before you ever laid hands on me.”

He didn’t argue.

And that scared you more than anything else.

From that night on, he kept his distance.

But not completely.

You saw him. Watching. Walking past the gas station where you worked. Sitting on the bleachers during your last class. Always nearby, never close.

And once — just once — you came home to find your broken stove replaced.

No note. No name.

Just guilt. And silence.

It happened during lunch.

Your brother, Taejoon — 9 years old, too small for his age — got shoved down the stairs by an older student during recess. Something stupid. A ball bounced, he didn’t throw it back fast enough, and the other kid pushed him.

You found out when a teacher came into your class mid-period.

“Emergency,” she said, and the look on her face made your chest tighten.

By the time you got to the nurse’s office, Taejoon was crying into a cold compress, his lip bleeding and one wrist swelling.

“What happened?” you demanded.

The nurse looked uncomfortable. “We called emergency contacts, but… there’s no one listed but you.”

Of course. Because you were the only one.

You didn’t cry.

You helped him into the car when the ambulance came.

You sat next to him at the hospital while they checked for a fracture.

You signed the forms.

And when the doctor asked why your parents weren’t there, you calmly said:

“They’re dead.”

Two days later, Child Protective Services called the school.

Apparently, someone reported that a minor was raising three younger siblings alone in a barely livable apartment.

You knew what that meant.

They wanted to separate you.

Put your brothers and sister in different foster homes.

Rip the only thing you had left apart.

You stormed out of class and ran to the principal’s office.

You were already yelling when you slammed the door open. “I take care of them! I work! They’re fed, they’re clothed—what more do you want from me?!”

The counselor blinked. “Y/N, calm down—”

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” you shouted, chest heaving. “You think throwing them into the system is better than being with their sister?!”

That’s when another voice cut in, low and cool:

“She’s right.”

You froze.

Turned.

Han Su-gang.

Standing just inside the door.

Hands in his pockets. Expression unreadable.

“What are you doing here?” you snapped.

“I heard,” he said simply. “I’m here because you’re not doing this alone.”

The principal blinked. “Su-gang, this doesn’t concern you—”

“I’m her witness,” he said, already pulling a chair and sitting down like it was his own damn office. “She’s not lying. She works three jobs. I’ve seen her walk her siblings to school before coming here. They’re clean, respectful, smart. You take them away, you’re punishing the wrong person.”

You stared at him.

Mouth dry. Heart confused. Chest tight.

Later that day.

You confronted him in the hallway. No one else around.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to.”

“Why?”

He looked at you, tired and distant.

“Because no one ever stood up for me either.”

You swallowed hard. “That doesn’t mean you get to rewrite everything you did to me.”

“I know.”

He stepped back. “But if I can stop one more thing from hurting you, I will.”

You looked at him then.

Really looked.

Not the violent, cocky thug everyone feared.

Not the broken boy trying to patch guilt with silent favors.

Just a person.

Messed up. Cold. Twisted. But real.

And you hated that part of you — a very small part — didn’t know how to feel about that.

It started small, like most violations.

You found him outside your job again — not lurking, just… leaning against a wall, arms crossed, eyes on you like it was routine.

You ignored him.

Then he walked one of your brothers to school.

Then your sister mentioned “Su-gang” bought her a stuffed animal.

Then the school counselor said:

“I didn’t know you had a boyfriend helping at home. That’ll really support your case.”

Your mouth went dry.

“What boyfriend?”

“Oh, Han Su-gang. He said you two were—”

You were already out of the room.

You found him behind the gym.

He wasn’t even surprised to see you.

“You told them we were dating?” you hissed.

He didn’t blink. “They needed a reason not to split you up. That’s what worked.”

“You don’t get to decide that for me.”

He looked at you, jaw tense. “They’re still with you, aren’t they?”

“That doesn’t make it okay!” you snapped. “You don’t own me, Su-gang!”

Silence.

Then he said it — soft, terrifyingly honest:

“I know. But I’m scared that if I ask, you’ll say no.”

Your stomach twisted.

Because he was right.

Two days later, he disappeared.

No one saw him after school.

Not in the cafeteria. Not outside the gate. Not on the corner you started expecting to see him at.

And for the first time in months, you felt something weirdly close to… panic.

You called his name in the hallway. Nothing.

Checked behind the gym. Empty.

And then someone told you — just casually, like it didn’t matter —

“Oh, Su-gang got into it with a senior. Broke his nose, but the guy had a knife. Pretty sure Su-gang’s in the hospital.”

Your blood went cold.

The room was too white. The bed too still.

He looked smaller lying there, hooked up to monitors. Bandaged shoulder. Split lip. Black eye.

You sat down beside the bed.

And said nothing.

For a long time.

Then, barely above a whisper:

“You could’ve died.”

He didn’t open his eyes. But his voice was hoarse and dry when he said:

“Would it have made it easier for you?”

You blinked.

“What?”

“If I was gone. You’d be safe. The guilt would be gone. The fear.”

You leaned forward. Voice shaking. “Don’t you dare say that.”

“Why not?” he asked. “You’re the only thing I care about, and all I ever did was ruin your life.”

You stared at him.

Not the bully. Not the ghost who followed you home. Not the violent boy who dragged you through a hallway.

But the human underneath all of that.

The one who was just now realizing how broken he actually was.

You took a shaky breath.

“Then stop doing it again,” you said. “Stop helping without asking. Stop showing up like you’re my savior. If you want to fix anything—let me choose.”

His eyes opened slowly.

And for once, he didn’t try to argue.

[imhaechanshoe]

title: brown sugar

paring: oh beomseok x reader

warnings: fluff,mentions of bruises

In which, Beomseok comes over for the first time to bake with you and he ends up meeting your parents

You stood by the front door, glancing at the clock as your heart raced. It was weird being nervous—Beomseok was your boyfriend now. Still, this was different. He was coming over. To your house. To meet your parents. And bake cookies.

What kind of date was this again?

Before you could spiral further, the doorbell rang. You jumped a little, wiped your hands on your jeans, and opened it.

Beomseok stood there, awkwardly holding a small bag of ingredients you forgot to tell him you already had.

“Hey,” he said with a shy smile. “I, uh… wasn’t sure if you had brown sugar.”

You laughed, your nerves melting a little. “We do, but you get points for being thoughtful.”

He stepped inside, glancing around like he was trying to memorize everything. “It’s really… cozy here.”

“My mom’s obsessed with candles. If it smells like cinnamon apple or whatever, that’s why.”

You led him into the kitchen where the supplies were already laid out. He set the bag down and looked at the recipe you’d printed out.

“You sure you wanna make these from scratch?” he asked, rolling up his sleeves, revealing faint bruises you knew not to ask about.

“I don’t do pre-made dough,” you teased. “This is a real baking date, Beomseok.”

He smirked faintly. “Then I’ll follow your lead, chef.”

As the two of you worked side by side—measuring flour, cracking eggs, arguing about how much vanilla was too much—you caught him staring more than once.

“What?” you asked, smiling as you leaned on the counter.

“You just look happy,” he murmured, brushing a bit of flour off your cheek. “I like seeing you like this.”

You could feel your cheeks heating up, but before you could reply, your mom peeked into the kitchen.

“Oh! You must be Beomseok!” she said brightly.

His eyes widened. He quickly wiped his hands and bowed politely. “Yes, ma’am. It’s nice to meet you.”

She gave you a secret thumbs up behind his back before calling out, “We’ll leave you two to it—but no burning my oven!”

Once she left, Beomseok let out a breath. “She seems really nice.”

“She is,” you said. “She already likes you, don’t worry.”

He blinked. “Really?”

“Yeah,” you said, sliding the tray into the oven. “I think she can tell you make me feel safe.”

The words hung between you for a second, and Beomseok’s expression softened in a way you rarely saw. His tough, guarded demeanor always dropped around you, like you were the only place he could breathe.

“You make me feel safe, too,” he said quietly.

After the cookies were done, you both curled up on the couch with warm plates, half-watching a movie while you rested your head on his shoulder. Your fingers were laced with his, and every now and then, you caught him stealing glances like he still couldn’t believe this was real.

“You’re staring again,” you whispered.

“Can’t help it,” he replied. “I’m just… really glad I’m here.”

You squeezed his hand. “Me too.”

And for once, everything was simple. No fights. No school drama. Just you, Beomseok, the smell of cookies, and the feeling that—whatever was out there—you’d face it together.

[imhaechanshoe]

title: Say something

paring: yeon sieun x reader

warnings: Eating Disorder (Anorexia), Self-harm(starvation), Vomiting / Blood, Emotional Distress

in which, Sieun discovers y/n’s anorexia and stays by her side after she collapses, promising to support her through recovery.

Yeon Sieun was never good with emotions. He wasn’t the type to pry, to ask questions you didn’t offer answers to. But he wasn’t stupid — and lately, he’d been watching you carefully. Too carefully, for your liking.

You were always cold. Wrapped in hoodies even when it was warm. You’d pick at your lunch with your chopsticks but barely eat it. You’d smile when he asked if you were okay, but it never reached your eyes.

Sieun was quiet, analytical. He didn’t accuse. He observed.

And one day after class, he caught you in the hallway bathroom, the sound of retching echoing against the tiles. He froze for a second. Then, without a word, he pushed the door open.

You panicked. Eyes wide, lip trembling, face pale. You tried to say it was nothing. That your stomach was just upset. That you had the flu or something.

But then he saw it—bright red streaks in the sink. Blood.

“(Y/N),” he said, voice sharp and low. “That’s not nothing.”

You tried to laugh it off, voice hoarse. “I’m fine. I just… I probably scratched my throat. I’m fine.”

He walked over, hands clenched into fists at his sides like he was holding himself back from something. His jaw tightened. “How long?”

You looked away. Your throat burned.

“I don’t know,” you whispered. “A while.”

There was a long silence. He didn’t say anything. You thought he was going to walk away.

Instead, he did the last thing you expected.

He took off his jacket, draped it around your shoulders, and stood beside you at the sink. Not touching. Not pushing. Just… there.

“You need help,” he finally said, voice quiet, eyes never leaving yours. “And I’m not going to pretend I know how to fix this. But I’m not leaving.”

Your lip quivered. You hated crying. But his words cracked something in you.

“I didn’t want anyone to find out,” you admitted. “Especially you.”

“Why?” he asked, so calmly, like he was asking about the weather.

“Because I didn’t want you to think I was weak.”

He shook his head. “I don’t think you’re weak.”

“Then what do you think?”

He hesitated. Then, voice rougher than before, he said, “I think you’re hurting. And I hate seeing you like this.”

You didn’t respond right away. You were too busy wiping your mouth, blinking away tears, trying to hold yourself together.

He didn’t force you to talk after that. He walked you home that day, keeping his distance but never letting you out of sight. He bought you warm tea when your hands shook too hard to hold your cup. And when you didn’t show up to class the next day, he was the one who showed up at your door — textbook in one hand, a quiet look in his eyes that said I’m still here.

And slowly, with time, you started to believe he really meant it.

[imhaechanshoe]

title: Dalmatian days

pairing: Lee myung-gi x reader

warnings: post squid games,fluff,flirting,past scamming,i think that’s it

In which, Lee Myung-gi ruins lives with a scam coin, disappears into a bookstore café, and accidentally falls in love with the barista he owes $30.

The small bookstore café you worked at didn’t get many customers in the mornings—just the smell of fresh pages, strong coffee, and quiet music floating between bookshelves. It was perfect for someone like you. Peaceful. Predictable.

Until he started showing up.

You noticed him the first time because he knocked over an entire display of graphic novels. Not on purpose. Just clumsy. He looked… rough. Hoodie pulled low, dark circles under his eyes, and hands that trembled when he reached for the coffee.

You didn’t recognize him at first.

But on his fifth visit, he left his phone at the counter. You saw the cracked screen light up with a notification: “MG Coin Telegram Chat - 2 unread messages.”

Then it clicked.

Lee Myung-gi.

The crypto YouTuber who went down with the Dalmatian scandal.

You had friends who lost money in that scheme. You lost some money. Not a lot, but enough to remember.

He didn’t come back for the phone until the next day. You almost didn’t give it back.

But when he returned, eyes low, voice hoarse, he simply said:

“Keep it. Not like anyone wants to talk to me anymore.”

You stared at him. “Then why keep coming here?”

He shrugged. “I dunno. Feels quiet. Like I’m not being watched. Like people don’t know I ruined their lives.”

“That’s a funny thing to say at the place you keep coming back to.”

He blinked at you. “You knew?”

You nodded. “I lost $30. You owe me a drink.”

For the first time, he smiled. It was small and unsure—but real. “Just one drink?”

“Start with one,” you said, pouring him a vanilla latte with extra whipped cream. “We’ll see if you deserve more.”

Over the next few weeks, he kept coming.

Not as the “MG Coin” guy.

Just as Myung-gi.

He started reading. A lot. Mostly philosophy books and manga. You caught him once crying while reading One Piece volume 101.

“Don’t laugh,” he sniffed. “It’s the bond of brotherhood, okay?”

He told you about the games once, in a whisper over cinnamon buns. About the red suits. The deaths. The betrayal. You didn’t ask for details. You just offered him your hand under the table, and he held it like a lifeline.

One night, after a small snowstorm and a slow shift, he waited for you outside the shop.

You were locking up when he said, “You ever think I could fix things?”

You turned to him. “You already are.”

He stared at you, like he didn’t believe it.

“I mean,” you teased, “you haven’t tried to sell me a dog-themed crypto coin in two months, so that’s progress.”

He groaned. “I’m never living that down.”

“Nope.” You smiled, tucking your gloved hand into his. “But you can make new memories. Just… no more dogs or coins.”

He laughed. Really laughed this time.

And under the falling snow, with his hand in yours and regret in his past, Lee Myung-gi leaned in and kissed you softly—like someone who knew he didn’t deserve a second chance, but was finally brave enough to accept it anyway.

[imhaechanshoe]

title: Take a break

pairing: Yeon Sieun x reader

warnings: fluff,smut,fingering(f!receiving),oral fixation(f!receiving),cuddling,aftercare.

In which, sieun is studying for a while and you get tired.

The soft tick of the wall clock was the only sound in the room aside from the faint scribbles of pens and the occasional turn of textbook pages.

You were over at Sieun’s place, studying for your upcoming midterms. Somehow, he’d managed to pull you into the abyss of notes and review guides for hours. It had been productive, sure, but your brain was now complete mush.

You glanced at the clock. 7:30 PM. You had been studying for almost four hours straight. Your eyelids drooped, and your highlighter had stopped moving some time ago.

Across the room, Sieun was still focused, pen tapping lightly on his notepad. His sleeves were pushed up, revealing his veiny forearms, and his black hair was slightly tousled from the way he kept running his fingers through it.

You exhaled quietly, stretched your arms with a yawn, and padded toward his bed.

“I’m just gonna… close my eyes for a second,” you mumbled.

“Go ahead,” Sieun said without looking up, his voice low and calm. “You’ve earned it.”

You smiled lazily before curling up on his bed, inhaling the faint scent of laundry detergent and him. Within minutes, you slipped into sleep.

9:42 PM.

You jolted awake to the dim room lit only by the desk lamp in the corner.

The weight of a blanket was over you — had he tucked you in?

Blinking away sleep, you looked toward the desk. Sieun was still there. Still scribbling. Still typing. Still frowning slightly, deep in focus.

“Sieun…” your voice cracked a little from sleep.

He glanced over, a slight smile tugging at his lips when he saw you awake. “Hey.”

“You’re still going?”

“Mhm.” He looked back at his notebook. “Didn’t want to waste time.”

You sat up, a pang of worry settling in your chest.

“Come to bed,” you murmured, sliding your legs over the edge of his mattress. “You’ve been at that for hours.”

“I’m fine. You go back to sleep.”

You shook your head, standing up and walking over to him. “Nope. You’re done for tonight.”

Sieun raised a brow. “I’ve still got—”

“Sieun.” You placed your hands gently on his shoulders and squeezed. “You can finish tomorrow. Just… come lay down with me. Please?”

His shoulders dropped a little, and you could tell he was tired — more than he’d admit.

You tugged at his hand until he stood up, letting you pull him toward the bed. He let out a soft sigh and kicked off his hoodie, then slid under the blankets with you.

“You’re dangerous,” he muttered as you settled next to him.

“How?”

“You make me want to stop working.”

You grinned and curled into him, throwing a leg over his hip. His body was warm, and his hand automatically found your waist.

“You’re allowed to rest,” you whispered, running your fingers through his hair. “You don’t always have to be strong. Not with me.”

Sieun closed his eyes for a moment. “…I know.”

Your faces were close in the dark. He watched you silently for a while, thumb brushing along your hip under the hem of your shirt.

“You always take care of me,” he murmured.

“So let me take care of you for once.”

His eyes flickered to your lips. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

He leaned in, brushing his lips against yours — slow, warm, thoughtful. You kissed back just as softly, hands tracing the sides of his face. His fingers slipped under your shirt, exploring your skin gently, as if he didn’t want to rush anything.

“I missed this,” he whispered against your lips.

You nodded, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him closer. His body pressed against yours, his thigh slotting between your legs.

“I want you, Sieun,” you breathed.

He paused for a beat, his forehead resting against yours. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” you whispered. “Want you so bad.”

His lips returned to yours, deeper now. Hungrier. His hands moved up your shirt, pushing the fabric over your head. You gasped slightly as the cool air hit your bare skin, but his hands were warm, grounding you.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, kissing down your jaw, your neck, your chest. You arched into him, letting out soft sounds as his mouth found your nipple, tongue flicking gently while his other hand roamed lower.

He slipped a hand into your shorts, fingers grazing your folds, already wet and needy.

“So wet already?” he teased softly.

You whined. “Don’t tease…”

“I’m not.” He smirked faintly. “I’ll take care of you.”

Two fingers dipped inside you slowly, curling in just the right spot as his thumb circled your clit. You moaned into his neck, gripping his shoulders.

“God, Sieun…”

“You’re doing so good, baby,” he whispered, thrusting his fingers a little deeper, a little faster. Your thighs began to tremble, breath coming in short gasps.

“Gonna come,” you whimpered. “Please—”

He pressed his lips to yours again, swallowing your moans as your orgasm washed over you, hot and intense. Your body shook slightly, clinging to him.

But he didn’t stop.

“S-Sieun,” you gasped as his fingers kept moving, rubbing circles against your clit with maddening precision.

“One more,” he said softly. “Can you give me one more?”

You nodded quickly, too far gone to say no.

Your second orgasm hit even harder, leaving you breathless and spent in his arms. He pulled his fingers out slowly, licking them clean with a hum.

“You taste so sweet,” he said, kissing your lips again.

You reached for him, fingers brushing over the bulge in his sweatpants. “Want to make you feel good too…”

He caught your wrist gently and shook his head. “Next time. Tonight’s about you.”

You blinked, surprised. “But—”

“No buts,” he said, pulling you against his chest. “You needed rest. And you needed me. That’s enough.”

You smiled, heart warm as you buried your face in his neck. His hand rubbed soothing circles on your back as your breathing began to slow.

“Thank you,” you whispered sleepily.

“Always,” he murmured, brushing a kiss against your temple. “Sleep, baby. I’ve got you.”

[imhaechanshoe]

title: spotlight

paring: park jihoon (박지훈) x black!oc

A/N: Even though this is targeted towards black readers, anyone can read 😘

In which, jihoon finally wants to go public with your relationship but people only known you as his backup dancer…until now.

The studio lights were still warm on her skin as Vayla stepped off set, towel slung over her shoulder, curls damp with sweat. She had just wrapped the final take of Park Jihoon’s latest music video — all smooth footwork, synced heartbeats, and the subtle glances only the two of them noticed.

They’d gotten good at it — sneaking those quick touches, lingering stares when the cameras weren’t rolling, and pretending like she was just one of the dancers, like she wasn’t the one Jihoon whispered to at night, or kissed when no one was watching.

He appeared behind her before she could make it to the dressing room.

“You were amazing,” Jihoon said softly, voice low so no one nearby would hear the shift in tone. His eyes were warm as they swept over her, his gaze lingering like it always did when they were alone.

Vayla smiled. “You too, superstar.”

She started to turn away, but he caught her wrist gently.

“Wait,” he said. “I… need to talk to you.”

Her heart skipped. She glanced around. The hallway was busy, but not too crowded. “Right now?”

He nodded, then pulled her into a quiet corner where the shadows swallowed most of the overhead light. He still held her hand, fingers intertwining with hers like muscle memory.

“I’m tired of hiding you,” Jihoon said. His voice was steadier than she expected, but his thumb was brushing nervously over the back of her hand.

“Jihoon…”

“I mean it. Watching you on set, dancing with me, knowing you’re mine — and not being able to show that? It sucks. I don’t care what anyone says. I don’t care about comments or headlines. I want the world to know you’re the one I love.”

Vayla blinked. His words hit harder than she thought they would. They’d spent so long in secret — late-night ramen runs, quiet birthdays, private Polaroids in his hoodie pocket — and she’d almost convinced herself that was enough. But this?

This was Jihoon, standing in front of her with that fire in his eyes. Ready.

“I don’t want to be your secret anymore either,” she said quietly. “But… are you sure? They might say stuff about me. About us.”

He stepped closer, gently lifting her chin. “Let them. You’re beautiful. You’re talented. And you’re mine.”

Before she could stop him, he pulled out his phone.

She gasped. “Wait! What are you doing?!”

He smirked, cocky but affectionate. “Posting this.”

0529.jihoon.ig

My favorite dancer, my favorite person. my everything 🤍

Posted.

Her phone vibrated seconds later. Her name was already trending.

Vayla laughed in disbelief. “You’re really crazy.”

Jihoon leaned in, brushing a kiss against her temple.

“Crazy about you.”

[imhaechanshoe]

txt twt links

warnings: every link is nsfw

-Yeonjun

1

2

3

-soobin

1

2

3

-beomgyu

1

2

3

-huening kai

1

2

3

-taehyun

1

2

3

[imhaechanshoe]

Title: More than friends?

pairing: Ma Minhwan x OC(Pi hanewools sister)

Warnings: smut,protected sex,fluff,friends to lovers

The room was dimly lit, the scent of antiseptic clinging to the air after Ma Minhwan had cleaned up a cut on his lip. The fight earlier had been brutal — but what fight wasn’t when you were trying to survive in that hellhole of a school?

Pi Ha-yun sat cross-legged on the old couch, watching him silently. She’d snuck out again — told her brother she was crashing at a friend’s place. She always came to Minhwan after things got too loud at home.

They’d known each other for months now. Maybe longer. She wasn’t like the other girls at school — she didn’t flinch around blood, didn’t ask questions when he came home broken. And she never looked at him like he was just muscle. She saw past all that.

“You should let me help,” she said softly, eyeing the bruise blooming along his jaw.

“I’m fine,” he replied, not even looking up.

“You’re always ‘fine,’ Minhwan.”

He glanced at her then. Her voice had a tired edge to it — not annoyed, but something deeper. Something like hurt.

He set the first-aid kit down.

“Come here.”

She stood slowly, walking toward him, and something shifted in the space between them. It wasn’t just tension anymore — it was heat. It was everything they’d been ignoring since the first time she patched him up. Since the first time he let her see him vulnerable.

Minhwan’s fingers brushed her wrist, warm and hesitant. “You… don’t have to keep coming here, you know.”

“But I want to,” Ha-yun said. Her voice was barely above a whisper now. “I feel safer here than anywhere else.”

He looked at her then — really looked. The curve of her mouth, the flicker of nervousness in her eyes, the way her breath caught when his hand moved to her waist.

“Ha-yun…” His voice was rough, low. “If you stay tonight…”

“I want to.”

There was no hesitation this time.

Their mouths met halfway — urgent, messy, familiar. Not a first kiss, but the first that mattered. Minhwan cupped her cheek, pulling her in closer, and her fingers tangled in the fabric of his shirt.

He guided her backward, carefully, until the backs of her knees hit the edge of the couch. She sat, and he sank down with her, lips never parting. Hands explored now — over clothes at first, but then beneath them.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured against her skin as he pushed her hoodie up. “Tell me now if you’re not sure.”

She reached up, dragging him back to her mouth. “I’m sure.”

Minhwan’s kisses turned hungrier — trailing down her neck, along her collarbone. He unzipped her hoodie slowly, like he was memorizing every inch of skin he exposed. Ha-yun shivered under his touch, hips shifting beneath him as he slid between her thighs.

Clothes were pulled off one piece at a time — not rushed, but needy. His hands were everywhere — exploring, teasing, gripping. She was already wet when his fingers brushed her there, and he groaned softly at the feeling.

“You’ve been holding back,” she whispered, biting her lip.

His eyes darkened. “You have no idea.”

He slid a finger inside her slowly, watching her reaction. Then another. Ha-yun’s back arched as he curled them just right, drawing moans from her lips that she didn’t even try to hide. His thumb pressed against her clit, slow and firm.

“Minhwan—please…”

That word — please — lit something in him. He pulled back just long enough to grab a condom from his drawer, rolling it on with one hand while the other stayed wrapped around her thigh.

“Keep looking at me,” he said as he lined himself up, pressing slowly into her. “Don’t look away.”

Ha-yun gasped as he filled her, inch by inch, until he was fully inside her. They stayed like that for a second — just breathing, eyes locked, fingers intertwined.

Then he started to move.

Deep, slow thrusts that had her crying out his name, nails digging into his shoulders. Every push made her feel more full, more connected, more his. The couch creaked beneath them, but neither cared. His name slipped from her lips like a secret she’d been dying to tell.

When she clenched around him, legs trembling, he cursed against her mouth. Her orgasm hit her hard — a wave of heat and sound, her body writhing beneath his as he held her close.

Minhwan wasn’t far behind — hips jerking, groan muffled against her neck as he came, shaking slightly with the force of it.

They collapsed together — sweaty, breathless, still tangled.

For the first time in forever, silence didn’t feel empty.

He kissed her forehead. “So… friends, huh?”

She smiled lazily, still catching her breath. “Maybe something more.”

[imhaechanshoe]

Yoon Ga-min NSFW alphabet

A = Aftercare

Very gentle. He doesn’t say much, but his actions speak. He wipes you down with a warm cloth, gets you water, and tucks you into his arms. He stays skin-to-skin until your breathing slows.

B = Body part

On you: your hands — especially when they touch his chest or hold his face during sex. On himself: his back. He loves when your nails leave red trails down it.

C = Cum

He finishes deep inside you, gripping your hips and breathing raggedly. He likes seeing it drip out afterward — something about it feels possessive. He’s not messy, but always leaves a mark.

D = Dirty talk

Usually quiet, but when he talks, it’s intense and low:

“You feel that? How deep I am? You’re mine. Say it.”

He doesn’t talk much unless you bring it out of him.

E = Experience

Not very experienced, but extremely intuitive. He learns fast and focuses on what you like. If you teach him something once, he’ll do it perfectly next time.

F = Favorite position

• Missionary — slow, deep, and intimate. He likes seeing your face.

• Cowgirl — loves when you ride him slow and grind, watching you take control. His hands never stop roaming.

Bonus: Against the wall when he’s rougher.

G = Goofy

Almost never. He’s focused, serious, and intense in bed. The only time he smiles is when you kiss him mid-thrust and giggle — it makes his expression soften for a second.

H = Hair

Natural and soft. He trims below for cleanliness but doesn’t obsess. You running your fingers through his hair when he’s eating you out or thrusting into you? He melts.

I = Intimacy

If he’s sleeping with you, it’s serious. Even rough sex is emotionally heavy. He’s quiet but very present, like he’s memorizing every sound you make and the way your body moves under his.

J = Jack off

Not often. When he does, he thinks of you — your mouth, how you moan his name, the way you claw at his back. Usually finishes with a low grunt and heavy breath.

K = Kinks

• Praise kink — he wants to know he’s making you feel good.

• Marking — loves leaving hickeys and being scratched.

• Dom/sub energy — he’s quiet dominant, but open to you taking control sometimes.

• Breeding kink (quietly intense; the thought of you full of him drives him crazy).

L = Location

• Bedroom.

• Couch.

• Against your bedroom door with the lock on.

Anywhere private where he can take his time and not worry about being overheard.

M = Motivation

Your voice. The way you say his name softly, or how you look at him with need. If you kiss him and grind a little too long, he’ll press you against the nearest surface.

N = No

• Public sex

• Anything degrading

• Threesomes or sharing

• Being filmed

He’s possessive and protective. If anyone else sees you like that, he’ll lose it.

O = Oral (Giving/Receiving)

Giving: Obsessed. He’ll stay between your legs until your thighs are shaking and your voice is hoarse.

Receiving: Tries to stay quiet but ends up gripping the sheets, jaw clenched, eyes fluttering shut.

Length: He’s about 6.4 inches (16.3 cm), thick and slightly curved upward — perfect for hitting deep spots.

P = Pace

Slow and deep — he wants to feel every second of it. When he’s emotional or jealous, he’ll go harder, rougher, pulling you close and grunting your name through clenched teeth.

Q = Quickie

Rare, but if needed, he’ll press you against a wall or drag you onto his lap. It’s rushed but hot — deep thrusts, teeth on your neck, and him finishing with a breathless growl.

R = Risk

Cautious. He doesn’t like taking big risks with sex, but in private? He’ll push your limits. You saying “stop” is all he needs to back off instantly — your safety is sacred.

S = Stamina

One round? Never. He can go two or three with a short break between. He’s the type to go again after cuddling, especially if you start teasing him again.

T = Toys

Not big on toys himself, but if you pull one out, he’ll watch and help — fingers in your mouth, voice in your ear. But he secretly prefers when you fall apart from just him.

U = Unfair

Very unfair. He’ll tease your inner thigh, hover his mouth over you without touching, and whisper, “Beg for it.” He likes control — likes making you squirm and beg before he finally gives in.

V = Volume

Low, breathy groans. The occasional sharp gasp when you clench around him or say his name. He pants against your ear, voice rough when he’s about to come.

W = Wild card

When he’s jealous, he’s a different person. He’ll fuck you harder, eyes locked with yours, low grunts in your ear: “Only I get to see you like this.” Rough hands, bruising kisses, possessive thrusts.

X = X-ray (Size)

Length: About 6.4 inches (16.3 cm)

Thick, enough to stretch you nicely — especially in certain positions. Slight upward curve for deep, targeted thrusts.

He’s not the biggest, but the way he uses it? Devastating.

Y = Yearning

Always. Even when he doesn’t say it, you can feel it — in the way he touches you, how long he holds eye contact, how he grips your waist like you’re slipping away.

Z = ZZZ

He stays awake just long enough to pull you close and kiss your shoulder. He’ll fall asleep holding you, body pressed tightly to yours, heart still beating hard against your back.