secret-orange-slice

[secret-orange-slice]

i saw these and just said "wow.." with like the dreamiest fuckin voice lmao heart eyes fr

[secret-orange-slice]

⊹ gnabnahc ♡ instagram live (250731)

[secret-orange-slice]

HYUNCHAN — GOLD 🌟

[secret-orange-slice]

The Easy Way vs The Hard Way

˚ʚBang Chan x fem!Readerɞ˚

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ summary: I was thinking about brat taming the other day and I came to the conclusion that Chris has 2 different ways to tame a brat. So I procrastinated on my fics + assignments and wrote this :)

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ word count: ~1k

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ warnings: fem!reader, largely based around Daddy kink, creampie (try to pee after sex pls <3), breeding mentions, Chris calls himself Daddy, 'good girl' used #2: kinda hard dom!chris, man handling, spanking

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ notes: sorry not sorry that 'hard' is longer than 'easy' (are u surprised? have you SEEN my content?) and take this off of schedule because I hate letting things sit in my drafts for more than a day 😭 ALSO Sharing is Caring part 2 coming out later this week :3 (along with a Jisung request I got hehe <3)

DO NOT republish or translate+post my work!

I think he has 2 ways of taming brats depending on what his mood is. So here's a little scenario to picture so that I can explain what I mean!

After a long day for the both of you, you guys indulge each other in a nice hour or 2 of foreplay before he finally fucks you. After you both finish, Chris pulls away to watch his cum drip out of you and you wiggle your hips to tease him. He slaps your ass playfully in response and teases you back by saying something along the lines of “Unless you’re trying to get bred tonight, I suggest you stop shaking your ass at me like that baby.” “As if you would complain about that. For somebody who calls himself ‘Daddy’ and says he ‘DoEsN’t MeAn It LiKe ThAt’, you sure as hell are trying to become one.” He originally laughs, but once he processes that you mocked him he rolls his eyes at you, “Just have to be a little brat? Maybe I didn’t fuck you thoroughly enough.” You scoff, crossing your arms and turning to look at him, “You think you do that anyways?”

So. How does theee Bang Christopher Chan deal with this?

‘Easy’ Way; aka “kill them with kindness”

“You think you do that anyways?”

He simply narrows his eyes at you, placing his hands on his hips, “Yeah?”

You proudly respond with an “Mhm." and stick your chin up.

He chuckles, stepping towards you and raising his hand to rest against your cheek, softly caressing the skin there. “But baby, you were just the one begging me to fuck you. Surely if I ‘never’ fucked you thoroughly enough, you wouldn’t be on your knees begging for my dick to be in you?”

You frown and he laughs in response, not giving you a chance to speak up before he continues. His free hand trails down your stomach and stops at your cunt, where he ghosts his fingers along your folds. You whimper and chew on your bottom lip, looking away from him shyly.

"And... Where did my good girl go? Hm? My pretty baby who listens soo well.” His fingers tease your hole before you’re filled with two of them. “My sweet doll who would never let her Daddy down like this.” His fingers double their efforts and the hand on your cheek slides a thumb into your puffy lips. "The good girl who doesn’t disrespect her Daddy like this… Where is she at?” Your breath suddenly becomes hectic and he can tell you’re getting close.

Between the bittersweet words and the eager movements against your pussy, you slip into another mindset all too easily. He smiles when you finally look at him with glossy eyes and respond in a small voice, "'M right here..." He tilts his head at you expectantly and you squirm in his hold before repeating yourself louder. "I'm right here Daddy.."

"Oh, hi baby. Is my good girl back now?" You nod desperately in response, tightening your hands into fists against his chest as you grip around his fingers. "And is she ready to behave?"

"Yes, Daddy. 'M sorry.."

"Shhh, it’s okay baby. Now be good and cum on my fingers, kay?"

Hard’ Way; aka “fuck around and find out”

“You think you do that anyways?”

His eyebrows furrow and his tongue drags against the inside of his cheek. “Yeah? You’re really gonna do this right now? Right after I was nice enough to let you cum?” You gulp but stand your ground, making a scene to roll your eyes and lean back against the headboard.

He sits there silently, trying to give you another chance to come to your senses to realize that you’re butt ass naked in front of him and at his mercy. When you instead cock your head sideways with a bunch of attitude, he sighs loudly. His hands suddenly grips your ankles and drags you towards him. Then you’re flipped into your stomach and he renters you with no warning.

Your jaw drops and you moan loudly in surprise. His hands take turns slamming down against your ass cheeks over and over, seemingly getting harder with each slap. He sighs contently at the way you cling tightly around him with each smack, and he only stops once your cheeks are beet red and you’re trembling below him.

He hums to himself and taps the flesh, making it burn more and watching as you shake. "Such a pretty thing with such pretty reactions.. If only you were a good plaything and shut that pretty mouth for once."

He watches as your head snaps back towards him for a moment, the angry face and tears running down your face only make him smile at you. You feel his hips drag away from you, painfully slowly, until only the first centimeter or two of his tip are in you. You're taking a deep breath trying to regain your composure when a hand grabs a tight grip of your hair and pulls you backwards, his hips slamming forward at the same time.

A choke leaves you at the suddenness but he wastes no time, using the leverage in your hair to hold you in place as he fucks into you roughly. The aftermath of your previous orgasm sneaks up on you and you feel another one building up in no time. You melt into the sheets at the feeling, shaking as you almost tip over from one of the faster orgasms you've experienced, but Chris proves himself to be faster.

In an instant he's pulling out completely and holding you down preemptively for when you start thrash and whine. He waits until you stop kicking your feet at him, a tell tale sign that the tightness in your stomach finally faded, then he all of the sudden plunges back into you. The slide against your walls is rough, but you can’t deny how well it’s breaking down your resolution.

He uses the hand in your hair to tilt your head up at him when he leans forward to tower over you. It's very uncomfortable but it gives him the advantage as his narrowed eyes bore directly into you. He eventually changes positions, not wanting to actually hurt you like that, and he uses the new one to bring you to another orgasm. One that he, of course, ruins immediately with no hesitation.

This happens multiple times across the next 2 hours, to the point where you lost count of how many orgasms slipped away. It's not until you're sobbing beneath him and no longer kicking at him with each ruined orgasm, that he's flipping you onto your back and leaning down to kiss your tears away.

"Are you done now, love? You ready to be my good girl again?"

Your arms wrap around his neck and your lower lip trembles as you nod. He smiles, petting your hair and cooing at you before returning to his previous pace fucking you.

"There we go..."

Taglist:

@jiminssluttyminx @changisworld @juskz @linohumina

[secret-orange-slice]

AAAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaa

[secret-orange-slice]

250727 ⁝⁝ dominATE Paris D2 / ESCAPE

© J.OneQuokki

[secret-orange-slice]

　　ᯓ. . . .𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐖/ 𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐆 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍

ᯓ. . . PAIRING: bang chan x f!reader

ᯓ. . . GENRE: fluff, suggestive, private but not secret relationship.

[secret-orange-slice]

When You Need Them But Their Busy

Warnings: fear of thunderstorms, insecurities, implied panic attack, mentioned sickness, mentioned puking, period cramps, and of course stray kids being wondering and amazing boyfriends!

Hyung Line

Maknae Line

[secret-orange-slice]

I just woke up and the first thing i saw was chan wearing all black n formal with his pretty pretty hands and black painted nails and im kinda going crazy rn :( imagine him going back home to u after the promotions and u waiting patiently to suck on those fingers not even in a dirty way just satisfying the oral fixation that daddy gave u cuz of how delicious his hands look while slowly slipping into sub space 😖😖

in which you're overwhelmed so you suck on chris' fingers.

╰┈➤ bang chan x f. reader ╰┈➤ tags: some angst, daddy!chan, sub space, praise, petnames (baby, angel, baby girl) ╰┈➤ word count: 1.6k

i added a sprinkle of angst in here for plot, sorry can't help it 😖

.·:¨¨ ≈☆≈ ¨¨:·.

chris looked completely different coming home from work. during the band's press conference for their new comeback, photos of him circulated around the internet as he wore a signature all black outfit. your man looked clean and sophisticated, yet the contrast of those goddamn black nails that you painted on for him added that needed edge to his aura.

yet he came bursting inside your apartment wearing his comfy hoodie and shorts. "baby!" you greet him with open arms, engulfing his scent that you missed so badly. chris nestles his cheek against yours as his arms tightly locks you close to him.

chest to chest, heart to heart. no matter how long the two of you are apart, you'd always wait for him.

"missed you so much!" he squeals, slightly lifting your body up from the floor, making you giggle. he presses his lips into your own, tasting you after a long time. he kisses you like a true gentleman with his big hand behind the back of head for support, guiding and leading you. you missed this, you missed feeling so cared for.

you take his hands into your own, dragging him to the couch. he invites you to sit on top of him, straddling his thighs.

"yeah?" he smiles at you, his pretty eyes turning into crescents.

"mhm! you always work so hard. i'm so lucky to have you, especially here, right now with me."

chris tilts his head to the side as he listens to you wholeheartedly. "i... i know it's probably hard to balance your work and, uh, i guess me?" you awkwardly chuckle. and at those words, you feel his hands tightly squeezing your hips. chris doesn't seem to notice but his mouth was unconsciously forming into a small frown, eyebrows creased as he listens to you.

"b-but you did it! you always know how to do it. and..." suddenly, the air around you shifts and you feel a heavy weight on your chest.

do you really want to tell him?

"and even though there's times where i feel like... like..."

why did you feel overwhelmed all at once?

you look away from your boyfriend, staring at the wall over his shoulder as you attempt to recollect your thoughts — stitching up the correct words as not to aggregate his concern.

"angel? what's wrong?" his voice was soft. he places a finger gently underneath your chin to direct your gaze back at him.

worried eyes. fuck. he just got home from work and you're already worrying him. you shouldn't have started it. you should've just kept quiet and—

"tell daddy what you feel," chris says lowly.

chris uses that name to refer to himself unintentionally, but every time he says it, it was as if that term was a key to let your guard down. taking a deep breath, and after an encouraging smile from him, you continue.

"i don't know," you admit softly, "sometimes i feel like such a big burden to you. instead of stressing about work, you stress about me too. i don't want to make you feel like you have two jobs."

"angel, you're not a burden, you know that! you're not a job!" he exclaims in a whisper, slightly making you flinch yet you push yourself to finish what you've started.

"see? i mean," you shrug your shoulders defeatedly, "i could have been congratulating you more on your comeback, spoiling you, giving you the rest that you need, but here i am making this all about myself!" it all came crashing to you; a surge of emotions. you wanted to stray away from his hold and stand up. it was too embarrassing to let him see you like this, for crying about such a thing.

"no," he says through gritted teeth, "my baby's not going anywhere. come here, come here," chris was quick to pull you back closer to him to soothe you. you feel that your heart was going to burst as it clenches, pounding so hard that chris can probably feel it. he presses your upper half onto his, cradling you tightly.

"don't say those things, angel, hm?" he kisses the top of your head, "daddy loves to take care of you. that's what i love to do, baby. think about like this — daddy loves you so much that he’s working so hard to give you everything that you want. you just have to trust me, little one. do you trust daddy?”

you nod your head up and down, biting your lip as you slowly calm down. although that was not enough for chris.

“daddy needs to hear you, baby. use your big girl words.”

feeling all soft and fluttery on the inside, you shyly respond, “i trust you, daddy.”

he ruffles the hair on top of your head, proud of your answer. "you know how tough schedules are during times like these, yea?" he asks, referring to his comeback, "but we've been going strong, angel. we've survived and we've been through this together. daddy will do everything just to tend to his baby's needs, just like he always do."

chris notices that your mind was slowly turning cloudy and mushy; he sees that shift in you so fast as if it’s second nature for him. hence, he presses a gentle kiss on your cheek and pulls you back into him.

he lifts you up a bit to change your position in his lap, making you sit sideways with the left side of your body pressed against him. with your body in between his thighs, chris makes you stretch your legs on the couch as one of his big, veiny hand rubs up and down your exposed skin.

"good girl. come to daddy, baby girl. that's it," he tilts his head up, looking at you in awe as if cooing at you, "daddy’s right here. you feel his arms around you, yea?” he chuckles when you nod cutely.

the position you were made you feel vulnerable as he rocks you back and forth, slowly humming a tune with his fingers tapping to the beat.

black nails.

you remembered the instance where you painted his nails black for the press conference. it was specifically a difficult time for you — not because you weren’t good at painting nails — but because his hand was too distracting. it was too attractive for your own sanity; long yet boney at the same time with his veins full on display.

in a second, your mouth was craving to suck on them.

"hands," you mutter, looking up at him with big eyes.

"hm?" he smiles at you, chuckling, "hands?" you nod.

"what about them, angel?"

suddenly, you feel your cheeks heat up as you bite your lip. chris knows about your oral fixation, of course he does. you don't have to tell him that you have one because it was evident. at this moment, he was just playing with you like the huge tease that he is.

"i-it's pretty."

"pretty because my baby girl painted them for me, yeah?"

chris notices that after that, you couldn't take your eyes away from his hand that was resting against your thighs. he knows you're becoming needy, that your mouth was craving to suck on it. he uses this to his advantage to rub your soft thighs up and down to make you squirm.

without warning, he leans down to lowly whisper in your ear, sending shivers all over your meek frame, "wanna suck on daddy's fingers?"

chris earns a delicious whine from you at that very moment. "yeah, you do?" he replies and hears another whine. "words, baby. or you're not getting it."

the thought of not being able to satisfy your current fixation had you pouting and pressing your cheek into chris' chest. he lifts his hand closer to your face just to see how your breath quickens. his hand clasps onto the side of your face while his thumb, painted in black polish, grazes gently across your bottom lip. finally, you give in.

"wan' them in my mouth, daddy," you whisper. and with the way you looked into chris' eyes, he can't help it but to give in.

anything to satisfy your needs.

"here, open, open," he carefully inserts both his index and middle finger inside your mouth, and you instantly suck. chris studies you intently, learning how the muscles in your face relax and your entire body submit to his hold. he leans back on the couch so that the both of you can get comfortable.

"you're such a patient girl for me, baby. always so patient. daddy needs to reward you at every chance he gets... fuck you're sucking so hard now, angel." he gives your head a kiss again in adoration, "you like that idea, huh? my angel likes her rewards from daddy, mhm? is sucking on daddy's fingers one of them?"

"mhmm," you hum, your eyes creasing in a small smile. you can't help but to use your tongue to idly dance around his fingers as you suck deeper, wanting to feel as much of his hot, long digits inside you. chris groans lowly at your ministrations.

"aww, baby. don't worry. you don't have to suck so hard, daddy's here. i'm not going anywhere anymore, yeah? let your mind go blank, angel. slip into that pretty little space of yours."

chris knows the heightened responsibility he has when he's gotten you so vulnerable like this. he keeps a sharp eye on you for any sign of discomfort, and holds you in his arms a bit firmer.

"so, so proud of you," he slowly inches his hand back and forth now, letting his fingers glide in and out. this action made you whimper, your eyes fluttering shut in euphoria.

"you like that?" he smirks, licking his lips. "you're so, so cute. so divine like this. i should let you suck on my fingers more, huh?"

chris doesn't want to say it now, but what he had in his mind was a more... explicit idea.

.·:¨¨ ≈☆≈ ¨¨:·.

i am not jealous at all.

[m.list | kofi]

[secret-orange-slice]

hi leli!! i was thinking 😈 maybe skz seeing some tweets from y/n about them (like omg channie could use me as a gym weight) or smtg and they react to it in chat? like uhhhh I didn't know you were like that

maybe like a friends with benefits trope? but it's up to you!

(Hi anon thanks for the idea!. Y/n ‘s tweets saga still continues muejeje😈)

-

warnings: very explicit language loool

📲 fwb!SKZ sending screenshots of your tweets thirsting over them ! / (requested)

❀ chan

❀ lee know

❀ changbin

❀ hyunjin

❀ han

❀ felix

❀ seungmin

❀ jeongin

🤍 check my masterlist HERE !

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ REQUESTS ARE OPEN ! ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

[secret-orange-slice]

© immiks

[secret-orange-slice]

📱instagram stories with bf! jisung !

🤍 check my masterlist HERE !

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ REQUESTS ARE OPEN ! ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

[secret-orange-slice]

𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑

pairing: idol!bang chan x fan!reader

genre: fluff, couple

warnings: chan a little possessive, reader is a fan, using of pet names.

summary: you just had dinner with his bandmates for the first time, but you were always a fan of stray kids -- your bias was jisung for a long time before you stepped into the relationship with Chris.

You were still glowing. Practically bouncing in his lap from the aftershocks of getting to sit next to your bias at dinner. Chan didn’t even have the heart to interrupt you — not really.

Until—

“Jisung’s jawline in real life is, like, CRIMINALLY sharp. I could slice bread on that thing.”

Chan blinked. Slowly.

You didn’t notice.

“And the way he speaks? So soft but raspy? He really talks like his lyrics sound. And his SMILE?!”

“Okay,” Chan cut in, his voice a little lower, a little darker. “That’s enough about Jisung.”

You stopped, blinking wide, you tilted her head. “Wait… are you—”

“I’m not jealous,” he said immediately, too quickly.

You smirked. “Oh?”

He looked away. “I just think you need a reminder.”

Before you could ask what he meant, Chan had leaned in. His hands slid around your waist, tugging your flush against him on the couch. His lips brushed against your jaw, your pulse. His voice, velvety low, rumbled against your skin.

“I’m the one who knows the sound you make when you’re falling apart,” he murmured, tracing kisses down your throat. “Not him.”

You sucked in a breath, warmth spreading like wildfire.

“I’m the one who makes you beg,” he whispered, trailing his fingers under the hem of your oversized shirt — his shirt. “The one who knows how to touch you until you forget your own name.”

You breath hitched. “Chris—”

“You talked about his jawline,” he continued, teasing your earlobe with his teeth, “but who left all those marks on your thighs, baby?”

You were squirming now, shy and flustered and completely undone.

He kissed just beneath your ear. “Who had you crying last night because you couldn’t take another round—”

You whined into his shoulder, covering your face.

“Say it,” he ordered softly.

“You,” you mumbled.

“What was that?”

“You! You, you idiot, you did all of that—”

His grin returned, cocky and smug and so unfair.

“That’s right,” he murmured, hands warm on your hips. “So no more simping for Jisung.”

You rolled your eyes, cheeks red. “You're such a brat.”

He kissed you again, this time on your lips — slow, deep, and possessive. The moment you whimpered into his kiss, he lost whatever restraint he was clinging to.

warnings: slight touches, nothing too crazy but he touches you.

“Up,” he commanded softly, patting your thigh.

You blinked. “W-What—”

“Get on my lap properly, baby. I’m not done reminding you.”

You swallowed and obeyed, straddling him with the same innocence that made his jaw clench. Your body was soft and familiar, warm where your thighs bracketed his. You were wearing nothing but his shirt and underwear — not even a bra — and now that you were this close, he could feel everything.

“You really got worked up over Jisung’s voice, huh?” he asked, palming your hips and pulling you closer.

“N-No, I—”

“But you forgot mine,” he whispered, lips brushing your neck. “Let me remind you.”

His hands were already roaming, slow and heated — one trailing up your back under the fabric, the other dipping down, slipping beneath the band of your underwear just to feel you.

“Chris—”

“Shhh, sweetheart,” he crooned, nipping your collarbone. “You wanted to run your mouth about someone else. Now you’re gonna use that mouth to moan my name like a good girl.”

Your head tipped back. “You’re so—”

“Mine,” he growled, grinding up into you. “You’re mine.”

You gasped, hips rolling down instinctively. His grip on your thighs tightened.

“I’ll remind you again. And again. Until you forget anyone else’s name but mine.”

Your breath was coming faster now, fingers curling into his shoulders, your soft tummy pressed against him. He leaned back a little to look up at you, to take you in.

Hair a mess. Lips kiss-bitten. Cheeks flushed.

His girl.

“Say it,” he demanded again, voice rougher now. “Who do you belong to?”

“You,” you whispered.

“Again.”

“You, Chris.”

He licked his lips. “That’s my good girl.”

And then he stood up — with you — hands cupping under your thighs as you yelped, instinctively wrapping your arms and legs around him.

“Kitchen,” he muttered.

“Kitchen?!” you squeaked, face buried in his neck.

“I was gonna cook,” he said with a wicked smirk. “Guess I’ll have something else for dinner.”

He set you down on the counter with a soft thud, caging you in with his body. His hands slid up the insides of your thighs. You trembled.

He leaned close, lips barely touching yours.

“No one else gets to touch you like this. No one else gets to ruin you like I do.”

Your hands tangled in his hair. “Then do it.”

He grinned.

“Oh, baby. You’re gonna beg me to stop.”

[secret-orange-slice]

BANG CHAN — SKZ-TALKER GO! S5EP19 ARLINGTON

[secret-orange-slice]

Try Me

pairing: Dom!Lee Minho x Dom!Female Reader

wc: 2.4k

cw: explicit sexual content, friends to lovers, power struggle, mutual edging, brat taming, switch dynamics, rough sex, dry humping, oral, unprotected sex, marking, orgasm denial, teasing (lmk if I missed anything here) (not proof read)

Minors DNI

Requested

Summary: You and Minho have been circling each other for months, too stubborn to admit who wants who more. But when a heated argument in his shared dorm turns physical, it becomes a full-blown battle for dominance. You push him, he pushes back, and neither of you is willing to submit.

Minho’s room is dim, the only light coming from the glow of his monitor still running something in the background. The air is warm, still humming with leftover energy from whatever half-assed argument had started earlier in the night. You’re both standing too close now, the kind of close that begs for someone to break first.

Minho leans back against the edge of his desk, arms crossed, tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek as he eyes you with a slow, calculated gaze.

“You always gotta act like you're in charge,” he says, voice low, laced with challenge.

You scoff, stepping in and crowding his space on purpose. “That’s funny, coming from someone who’s all talk every time I get near you.”

His eyes flicker. He shifts his weight but doesn’t back down. “Keep pushing me, and we’ll see who really folds first.”

You smile, just a little cruel. “You think I’d fold for you?”

He lets out a laugh but there's tension behind it. You know he’s been waiting for this. Maybe you have too.

You lean in, your chest brushing his. “What’s the matter, Min? Scared if I got on top of you, you’d actually like it?”

Something in his jaw twitches. He doesn’t move away, but his voice dips even lower. “You really wanna test me in my own bedroom?”

“Why not?” you whisper. “Unless you’re worried about Jisung hearing the way you moan.”

He pushes off the desk before you finish the sentence, one hand gripping your jaw, not rough, but firm, asserting pressure. His face is close now, eyes boring into yours.

“If you’re gonna run your mouth,” he murmurs, “you better be ready to back it up.”

You tilt your chin up, smirking. “Then try me.”

A beat.

Then his mouth is on yours, and it’s not sweet or hesitant, it’s sharp, a collision of lips and teeth and stubborn pride. You grab at his hoodie, pulling him closer, and he presses you backward until your thighs hit the bed.

The kiss breaks just long enough for you to breathe, and even then, barely.

He stares down at you, pupils blown wide. “You really want to do this here? With Jisung two doors away?”

“I’m not the one worried about getting caught,” you taunt, falling back onto the mattress like an open invitation.

Minho follows, slow and predatory.

“You’re gonna regret that.”

But the way your legs spread to make room for him says otherwise.

Minho’s weight settles between your thighs like it belongs there. He doesn’t rush. His hand slides up under your shirt, warm fingers dragging across your stomach like he’s claiming the space inch by inch. You arch just a little, more to provoke than invite.

“You gonna play nice now?” he murmurs against your throat.

You let out a breathy laugh. “Not even close.”

Your fingers tangle in the neckline of his hoodie, yanking him down until your teeth scrape the edge of his jaw. He makes a low sound, something between a growl and a groan, but you don’t let him linger. You flip him fast, thighs tightening around his hips as you push him onto his back. The look on his face is priceless, surprised, impressed, turned on.

You straddle his waist, smug and slow as you roll your hips down against him. “Didn’t think I’d pin you that easily, huh?”

His hands flex at your hips, but he doesn’t push. “You think this means you’re winning?”

“I know it does.”

He scoffs, gaze dropping to where your bodies grind together, friction heavy even through clothes. “You’re cocky.”

“And you’re hard.”

That earns you a sharp slap to your thigh, more a warning than punishment. You smirk.

But Minho’s done letting you lead.

In one swift move, he sits up, grabs your wrists, and flips you underneath him again, this time with intent. The mattress dips beneath the shift, and your back hits the sheets with a soft bounce. He looms over you, knee nudging your legs apart.

“Didn’t think I’d pin you that easily,” he echoes, voice pure sin.

Your wrists are pinned above your head now, held with one hand while the other slips under the waistband of your shorts, his fingertips dangerously close to heat.

“You gonna be a good little brat and take what I give you?” he whispers, lips brushing your ear.

You shiver but tilt your head defiantly.

“Make me.”

His grip tightens.

“Oh, I intend to.”

He kisses you again, messier this time, all teeth and tongue, biting at your bottom lip hard enough to make you gasp. It’s punishment for mouthing off, and it works. Your thighs twitch around his hips, body reacting even if your mouth won’t give in.

His hand finally slips inside your shorts, knuckles brushing your slick.

“Already wet?” he murmurs, almost disappointed. “Guess you do like being under me.”

You hiss through your teeth, back arching. “I’m wet cause I’m winning, asshole.”

Minho’s smile is all teeth as he drags his fingers down slow, teasing. “Not for long.”

Minho’s fingers slide through your slick folds like he owns the place. The look in his eyes is unforgiving, focused, sharp, like he’s got something to prove. You’re not surprised. He always plays like he has a point to make.

He circles your clit slow, infuriatingly light, just enough to make your hips twitch.

“You're gonna come so fucking fast,” he murmurs. “And then you’re gonna beg me to let you do it again.”

You glare up at him, breathing hard. “You’re dreaming.”

He presses his thumb down suddenly and your whole body jerks. The moan escapes before you can catch it, but his hand slams over your mouth almost immediately.

“Uh-uh,” he taunts, voice low and threatening near your ear. “Don’t let Jisung hear how pathetic you sound.”

Your eyes flutter as he keeps working you, two fingers sliding in, curling just right. Your thighs shake, breath caught somewhere between a curse and a cry. You’re close, so close, and he knows it.

But then he stops.

Just… gone. His fingers pull out and leave you empty, clenching around nothing. You bite back a scream as he pulls his hand away, smug and shining with your slick.

“Oops,” he says, sucking one finger into his mouth. “Guess you don’t get to come yet.”

You lunge.

Your legs wrap around him and twist, flipping him onto his back again before he can blink. You’re on him in seconds, knees planted on either side of his chest, pinning his wrists to the bed.

He blinks up at you, breathing just as hard, face flushed. “So you do like being on top.”

“I like seeing you squirm,” you snap.

And you make good on the promise.

You slide down, grabbing at the waistband of his sweatpants, dragging them down enough to free him. He’s hard already, leaking at the tip, and you waste no time wrapping your hand around him.

“You’re gonna come so fucking fast,” you echo mockingly, stroking him slow and mean. “And then I’ll make you wait while I fuck myself on your face.”

He curses under his breath, hips jerking up into your hand. But you don’t speed up. You slow down, just enough to tease, to make him twitch.

When his head falls back, throat exposed and lips parted, you lean in.

“You moan too loud and Jisung’s gonna know who really breaks first.”

His breath stutters, body tensing, but then his eyes snap open, feral.

“You think this is breaking?” he growls, and suddenly he’s moving again, fast and violent.

He grabs your wrist, yanks you down by the back of your neck, and kisses you like he’s starving. His free hand sneaks between your bodies, finds your clit again, and rubs you in tight, furious circles.

You gasp into his mouth, hips stuttering. “Fuck, Minho!”

“Come on,” he snarls. “Do it. I dare you.”

You’re both panting now, foreheads pressed together, locked in a battle of stubborn pleasure. You’re so close you’re seeing white, clenching around nothing, his cock pressed between your bodies, angry, leaking, neglected. But you won't beg. Neither of you will.

You pull your hand away from him just before he tips. He does the same to you.

You lie there, ruined, chests heaving, sweat dripping down your backs, and neither of you has come.

“Fuck you,” you mutter.

Minho laughs, breathless. “You’re trying.”

The room is heavy with sweat and unfinished lust. Your bodies are tangled, flushed, tense like a live wire stretched too far.

Minho’s hair is stuck to his forehead, chest rising and falling with short, frustrated breaths. Your thighs are trembling from being worked up and left empty, but neither of you is willing to say it, not yet.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes roaming your body like he’s memorizing every twitch.

“You’re shaking,” he says, smug and soft.

“So are you,” you snap, but there’s less heat behind it now.

You crawl over him again, straddling his thighs this time, and when you reach for his cock again, slick and throbbing, his whole body jolts.

“Don’t you fucking-”

But you’re already sinking your mouth onto him.

Minho lets out a sound that might’ve been a growl, might’ve been a moan, he doesn’t even know. Your hand works what your mouth doesn’t reach, and you’re ruthless, punishing. His hips twitch but you hold him down, using your weight and grip to keep him still.

His hands grab at the sheets, jaw clenched tight, but his eyes flutter. “Fuck, fuck, you’re not gonna, shit, stop-”

You don’t.

He’s so close you can feel it in how he stiffens, how his abs lock under your arm. He moans your name, almost pleading, almost like surrender. But you pull off at the last second, lips soaked, mouth smirking.

“Thought you said I was gonna fold.”

He sits up fast, furious and flushed. “Get on the bed. Now.”

“You gonna make me?”

He grabs your thighs, flips you over like you weigh nothing, and shoves two fingers inside you so fast you gasp, back arching.

“Still so fucking wet,” he grits out. “You love being ruined like this.”

You try to buck against him, to bite back your cries, but your body betrays you. You’re soaked, sensitive, and on the edge again in seconds.

And this time he doesn’t stop.

He fucks you with his fingers while mouthing at your throat, sucking hard enough to leave bruises, pressing his palm against your clit until your legs jerk and your breath hits a high, shuddering pitch.

“Go on,” he growls. “Come for me. Fucking do it.”

You snap.

Your orgasm crashes over you so hard you cry out, sharp and involuntary, thighs clamping around his hand. You try to muffle it, biting your wrist, but it’s loud enough to echo.

From the living room you hear Jisung, “Jesus Christ, are you guys serious?”

You’re too far gone to care.

Minho pulls his hand away, licking his fingers like a reward, but you’re not done.

You push him back, panting, and sink down on his cock without warning.

He shouts, not expecting it, not prepared, and you ride him like you're trying to kill him.

Fast, punishing, furious.

“You wanted this?” you hiss, nails dragging down his chest. “Take it.”

His hands grip your hips so tight you’ll have bruises tomorrow, but he doesn’t stop you. He lets you fuck him raw, lets you chase your own pleasure, until it’s his, too.

Minho’s eyes squeeze shut. His mouth falls open. “Shit, fuck, I’m-”

You clench around him, and he spills with a strangled groan, back arching, fingers bruising your waist. The two of you collapse together, a tangled, wrecked mess of sweat and pride and stubborn, burning want.

Silence.

Just heavy breathing.

Your head rests on his shoulder. His hand strokes your spine without thinking. You’re both too wrecked to move.

After a long beat, he mumbles, “You didn’t win.”

You hum against his skin. “Neither did you.”

Another pause.

Then, muffled through the wall, “Can you two not do this while I’m alive?”

You snort. Minho grins against your temple.

“Next time,” he says, “I’m gagging you.”

“Next time,” you say, “I’ll make you beg.”

The room smells like sweat and sex and Minho’s cologne. Your limbs are heavy, stuck to his with skin-on-skin dampness and no desire to move. Your chest rises and falls against his as you both try to remember how to breathe.

Neither of you says anything for a while after that.

Then…

“You drooled on me,” he mutters.

You snort into his collarbone. “You came like a virgin.”

He slaps your ass, half-hearted. “You rode me like you hadn’t come in a year.”

“Maybe I hadn’t,” you mumble. “Was waiting for you to stop running your mouth.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t tie you up.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t ride your face.”

He groans, dramatic, arm thrown over his eyes. “Stop talking. You’re gonna make me hard again and I just recovered.”

You hum smugly, tracing idle shapes across his chest. “Sounds like a you problem.”

He peeks at you from under his arm. “Give me five minutes.”

“Three,” you challenge.

A pause.

His lips twitch. “Done.”

You grin.

But before either of you can make good on that threat, a sharp knock hits the door.

“I swear to God,” Jisung’s voice comes through, exhausted, “if you two start round two while I’m still in this dorm, I’m calling Chan.”

You both burst into laughter, lazy and giddy from the high, limbs tangled like you forgot how to be separate people.

“Maybe we should invite him next time,” you say, deadpan.

Minho smirks. “You’d let someone watch you submit to me?”

You turn your head slowly. “I submitted?”

“You came first.”

“Did you hear yourself when I got on top of you?”

“Because you were milking me like a fucking machine-”

“Didn’t hear a complaint.”

“Because I was too busy seeing God-”

You kiss him quiet.

Not gentle. Not sweet. Just honest.

His hand comes up to your cheek, holding you there, like maybe you’re not going anywhere this time.

When you finally break apart, he whispers against your mouth, “So… what are we calling this?”

You raise a brow. “Friends with very competitive benefits?”

“Terrifying benefits.”

“Earth-shattering benefits.”

He grins. “Rematch tomorrow?”

You tilt your head, smug.

“You’ll need more than three minutes.”

[secret-orange-slice]

𝐋𝐄𝐓 𝐌𝐄 𝐅𝐄𝐄𝐋 𝐈𝐓.

PAIRING: gentledom!christopher bang x fem!reader WARNINGS: CONTAINS NSFW MINORS DNI, ab riding/grinding, degradation (light), porn without plot GENRE: smut PLAYLIST: here WORD COUNT: 640 NOTE: this is my first time writing smut so please be nice :')

navigation | request | bang chan masterlist

your thighs are already shaking by the time you straddle his waist.

he’s lying back against the headboard, shirtless, the light from your lamp casting shadows over the ridges of his abs. his arms are behind his head, watching you with a smirk as if he knows exactly how wrecked you're about to be.

and he does.

“you’re really gonna make yourself come like this?” he says, lips twitching.

you don’t answer. you just drag your hips forward, the thin fabric of your underwear catching on the cut of his torso. his abs firm, flexing slightly beneath you. your breath caught, warmth flushed through your whole body.

chan hums, low in his throat. “cute.”

you press down harder, angling your hips to catch that perfect spot of friction. his skin smooth and hot beneath you, the slope of his stomach giving you something to ride, his abs twitch with every pass.

a reaction he can’t fake.

you're not even fully grinding yet, just experimentally shifting, and it's already making you dizzy.

the tease of your panties dragging over him, the way the line between his abs fits right between your folds, it's too good. 

“you like that?” he asks, voice rougher now.

your hands land on his chest, nails digging in just enough to make him grunt. “shut up.”

he grins wider, but he stays silent. like he’s challenging you now. like he’s saying, alright. show me.

so you do.

you roll your hips slow at first, letting the drag build pressure. it’s crazy how wet you already are, the fabric of your underwear darkened and clinging, you’re practically soaked through. 

you can feel the mess you’re making on his stomach, feel it smear with every shift of your body.

chan’s jaw tightens, his abs flexing involuntarily under you.

“fuck… look at you,” he mutters.

your thighs burn, but you don’t stop. you grind harder, faster, chasing the friction. the tension builds fast, too fast and you hate that he knows it. hates that he watches you like your desperation is exactly what he wanted in the first place.

you catch his eyes. “don’t just lie there.”

he doesn’t move for a second. 

then his hands are on your hips, gripping tight, guiding you rougher. “then ride me right.”

the way he shifts his body. just slightly, makes his abs clench. it hits you perfectly now. your head falls back, a broken moan slipping from your mouth as you grind down, using him just like he wants.

your clit rubs against the grooves of his abs again and again, and it’s messy now. sloppy, desperate. he holds you there, lets you rut yourself against him like you're completely owned by the pleasure of it.

“look at you fucking soaked,” he growls. “you’re gonna come just from this?”

you nod, moaning as you move faster. there’s no elegance in it anymore. just heat. desperation. your thighs trembling from how close you are.

chan’s breathing sharpens. “you’re close, aren’t you?”

“y-yeah–”

“do it,” he bites out. “rub that pussy all over me. soak me with it. show me how needy you are.”

that’s all it takes.

your whole body locks up, a strangled whine rips from your throat as the orgasm crashes over you. you grind through it, riding the wave as your hips jerk against him, your slick making a mess of his stomach, your thighs still quivering from the aftershocks.

chan just watches, his abs deliberately flexing under you, feeding into your release. he grins.

“good girl.”

you collapse forward, panting against his chest but he grabs your hips again, tilts them down and you feel him, how hard he is beneath his sweats, still untouched.

“hope you’re not done,” he murmurs against your ear. “you made the mess. now you’re gonna ride the rest of me too.”

reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated ᯓ★

© 2025 ialreadymadeyouapromise !

[secret-orange-slice]

Five minutes

Pairing: Bang Chan x F!reader

Word Count: 2277

Genre: smut, pwp

Warnings: smut (minors DNI), softdom!Chan, sub!reader, oral (male receiving), hair pulling, cursing, public-ish setting / risk of being caught (backstage, unlocked door, knock on door), power dynamics, slight degradation / dirty talk (mild), lipstick smearing / marking, no aftercare (reader walks away separately), time constraint / rushed sex.

Writer's note: As soon as I saw this picture, I knew I had to write a little blurb. He's got all of us going feral. Enjoy!

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

My phone buzzes in my pocket.

I pull it out, thumb already clammy, and everything inside me stills.

A photo.

Black tank top clinging to his chest and shoulders, catching on muscle like it was stitched just for him. Reddish-brown cargo pants creased sharp where his thighs part, legs spread just enough to look careless and commanding at once. His arm draped over one knee, bicep flexing under that black armband, chain bracelet glinting in the low backstage light — like a dare.

His hand hangs off the chair. Two fingers curled in, loose, lazy. Like even gravity answers to him.

But it’s his eyes that steal the breath from my lungs. Half his face hidden behind the phone, but that gaze — heavy-lidded, dark, molten — like he can already see me on my knees.

No smirk. No words. Just heat.

My heart kicks so hard it aches.

Another buzz, sharper this time, slicing through the haze:

Come here. Five minutes.

Fuck.

I don’t even remember slipping the phone away. My boots hammer down the corridor, each step a pulse between my thighs. I try to steady my breathing, but it’s useless; my chest feels too tight, skin too warm, the heat crawling up my neck giving me away.

Staff drift by, barely glancing at me. Thank god.

He’s still in stage clothes. The thought burns low in my stomach, sharper than I want to admit. My pulse feels like it’s everywhere at once — throat, wrists, under my tongue, where I’m already wet and wanting.

Five minutes. That’s all he offered. But I’d trade hours for just that.

The last corner comes too soon, yet not soon enough.

The door stands ajar, shadows spilling out across the hallway floor. My hand hesitates for half a breath — then I push it open.

The air inside is warmer, the faint scent of cologne and sweat curling around me. Or maybe that’s just him.

Chan’s there.

Exactly like the photo — only worse. Real. Breathing. Shoulders loose, legs spread, gaze cutting through me like a blade.

Black tank top clinging to his chest, cargo pants rumpled at the thighs. That damn chain bracelet catching what little light there is, the black armband hugging muscle so tight it looks ready to split.

His eyes drag up my body, slow as a hand on bare skin.

“Took your time,” he murmurs — voice low, rough, a scrape of sound that lands hot between my thighs.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t need to. Just tips his chin, waiting. Watching me squirm.

My breath stumbles, chest tight enough to hurt.

He shifts, the chain clinking against the chair’s edge. His fingers stay curled, knuckles pale from restraint.

“Go on,” he says, so casual it burns. But his eyes give him away — hot, dark, pupils swallowing the brown. “Take what you want.”

My pulse trips, boots still planted on the floor. And then I do.

I walk toward him — boots hushed against the floor, every step deliberate, controlled, though heat’s already licking up my spine, pooling low.

He doesn’t move. Just tracks every step I take.

The chain at his wrist catches the light as his fingers twitch against the chair, a silent reminder of everything he’s not doing.

I stop close enough to feel the warmth radiating off him. Close enough to see his chest rising, slow and steady, muscle carved sharp under the stretch of that black tank top. The overhead light slides over his jaw, catching on the faint sheen of sweat at his throat.

My breath catches. Heat clenches low and tight.

I step in, swing a leg over, sink onto his thigh. The cargo fabric drags rough under my skirt, scraping against bare skin and soft cotton — and fuck, the friction lights me up fast. My lips part on a quiet gasp I don’t bother to swallow.

His gaze stays locked on mine. Steady, unreadable. No smirk, just dark, unblinking heat — like he’s letting me work for it, letting me burn.

I brace a hand on his shoulder, palm pressed flat against solid warmth. Tilt my hips, slow, deliberate — grind down once, breath catching on the sharp spark it sends through me. I let it go, soft and shaky, because I want him to hear it.

His mouth twitches — barely. A flicker of hunger, approval, something darker.

I drag my hips again, harder this time. The chain on his wrist clinks as his hand curls tight against the chair, but he still doesn’t move. Just watches. Lets me take what I came for.

Heat climbs, sharp and restless, tightening under my ribs. It’s good — so fucking good — but it won’t be enough. And we both know it.

My breath quickens, chest rising and falling as I chase it anyway, grinding down against the solid line of his thigh, needing more. The edge stays out of reach, teasing, taunting.

“Please,” I breathe, meeting his gaze head-on. “Help me.”

For a heartbeat, nothing.

Then he shifts — just enough. His thigh tenses under me, the chain clinks as his knuckles go white, and his free hand settles at my hip. Not pulling — just guiding, steady, like he could do more but won’t.

“Show me, baby,” he murmurs, voice lower now, rough around the edges. “Get yourself off.”

The new angle drags a gasp from my lips, heat sparking up my spine. I rock against him, harder, chasing the sharper pressure. For a second, I swear it’s enough — almost.

But it slips, dissolving under me, leaving only frustration and a slick ache that makes my breath stutter into a broken moan.

I look up at him. Jaw clenched, chest rising deep, pupils blown wide enough to swallow me whole. He wants this. Wants me like this — wrecked, desperate.

My teeth scrape over my bottom lip. Heart pounding so loud it feels like it’ll shake me apart.

Fuck it.

I slide off his thigh, sinking to my knees between his legs. The cargo fabric drags over heated skin, my pulse beating out a messy rhythm in my throat.

His eyes darken, mouth parting on a ragged breath. He thinks I’ll keep grinding, keep chasing something we both know there’s no time to catch.

But time’s slipping through my fingers, and I’m done wasting it.

I press my palms to his thighs, heat seeping into my skin, pulse drumming at my temples. I look up at him — breath catching, but steady where it matters.

“Not enough time for me to come,” I murmur, voice low, roughened by heat and frustration. My mouth tips into the smallest curve, a promise dressed up as a threat. “So I’ll make sure you go on stage wrecked instead.”

His breath catches — sharp, chest hitching. His jaw tightens, a flicker of muscle betraying him.

“Bet you’ll still feel my mouth while you’re out there,” I add, softer this time, taunting. Letting him see every filthy thought behind my eyes.

His throat bobs in a swallow, helpless. For once, he doesn’t hide it.

My fingers find the waistband of his cargos. Button slips open under my thumb, zipper dragged down slow enough to hear. The chain at his wrist clinks as his knuckles turn white against the side of the chair — tension drawn so tight it feels like it might snap. He doesn’t reach for me. Won’t. It’s killing him, and fuck, that only makes it worse.

“Fuck,” he breathes — voice barely there, rough like it’s been scraped raw. The sound sinks straight to my core, leaving heat pulsing low and thick.

I palm him through his boxers. Hard already, hot and straining under the thin fabric. His breath breaks, chest stuttering into a quicker rise. Almost shaky now.

“Eyes on me,” I murmur, voice softer than I feel.

He obeys. Pupils blown, lips parted around a shallow inhale he can’t quite catch.

I free him, fingers wrapping around the weight of him. My palm floods with heat, slick already gathering at the tip. His head tips back just a fraction, and a ragged sound scrapes out of him — part gasp, part groan, too raw to be anything but real.

His knuckles blanch around the chair, veins standing out in sharp relief. Grip so tight it looks painful.

I lean in, breath ghosting over flushed skin. His hips twitch, the smallest break in control.

“Just watch and enjoy,” I whisper — and then I take him in my mouth.

The first slide drags a hiss from between his teeth, head falling back enough for me to see the stretch of his throat, tendons drawn tight. Chest heaving, breath uneven, shoulders tensed like he’s fighting every instinct to fuck into my mouth.

I swirl my tongue around the tip, tasting salt and heat, lipstick smearing messily across flushed skin. The chain rattles as his fingers crush the chair, plastic creaking under the force.

“Shit,” he rasps out, voice frayed and broken around the edges.

Heat coils hot and tight inside me, my own thighs pressing together, but I don’t stop. I hollow my cheeks, sink down slower, deeper, deliberate. His hips jerk despite himself, a breathy groan tearing free before he can swallow it down.

Every time I glance up, his gaze is waiting. Dark, locked on mine, pupils drowning out the brown. His chest staggers in uneven pulls, jaw so tight it looks painful, lips still parted around each rough, punched-out breath.

He’s holding back. For me. And fuck, it makes me ache.

Laughter and footsteps drift in from the hallway, closer than they should be. The door’s still unlocked, the reality of it scraping against my spine like teeth. His breath stutters — he teeters, caught between control and the need to let go.

Then he snaps.

His hand lifts — gentle at first, like he’s just going to move my hair out of the way. But his fingers curl into the back of my head, guiding me down. The other slips from the chair to cradle the nape of my neck, steady but heavy. At first it’s coaxing, soft. Then firmer, rougher, making my pace match the ragged drag of his chest.

The slap of wet heat, the broken sounds falling from his lips, the burn of my knees against cold floor — it all tangles together into something fever-hot.

“Fuck—” he chokes out, voice rough, shaking apart in my ears. “Just like that—don’t stop—”

My lipstick smears messily across him — hot red stains blooming vivid against flushed skin. I see it when I pull back just to breathe: messy, ruinous, mine.

His breath shatters into short, panicked gasps; chest heaving wild under my palms, shoulders bunched so tight the muscle strains at the seams of his tank. His fingers flex in my hair, the other hand heavy and grounding at my nape — desperate to keep me there, to hold on as he breaks.

Then — a knock. Sharp. Too close.

“One minute!” someone calls, muffled but cutting through the haze.

His whole body jolts, grip spasming tighter, a raw curse tearing free: “Shit—ngh—fuck—”

He tries to answer, voice cracking, strangled from the edge. “Y-yeah—one sec—”

But it breaks him.

His hips jerk up, hand fisting harder in my hair, guiding me down, forcing me to take him deeper. His thighs go rigid under my palms, trembling so hard it feels like they might give.

A ragged moan rips from his chest, hoarse and broken, heat flooding my mouth in sharp, salty pulses. I swallow around him, tongue chasing every twitch and pulse until the tension leaks out of his muscles and his hands fall away, limp, shaking.

His chest heaves, sweat darkening his hairline. The smear of lipstick is still there — vivid, ruined, clinging to flushed skin. No time to wipe it away; his pulse kicks wild under his skin, breath still fractured.

He tucks himself back in, fumbling, breath ragged, chest rising and falling too fast to hide. His ears glow crimson, flush licking up his neck and across cheekbones still too sharp with adrenaline. His fingers tremble around the zipper of his cargos, betraying what he won’t say.

His gaze drags down to my lips — swollen, color smeared in the filthiest proof of what just happened — and his throat works around a swallow.

I lift my chin, breath shaky, pulse hammering under my skin. “Don’t forget who put that look on your face,” I murmur, voice low, wrecked, but sure.

His jaw flexes, breath stuttering through parted lips — just once. Then his eyes spark darker, a flicker of that teasing dominance rising through the ruin.

“Don’t worry,” he rasps, voice shredded and low. “I won’t. And you won’t forget what’s coming either.”

He leans in, thumb brushing over my lower lip, smearing the red even further — claiming, messy, intimate. “Watch me out there,” he breathes, voice still hoarse, still raw. “Remember what you did.”

Another knock snaps against the door, harder this time, urgent.

His jaw twitches. Breath still ragged, chest still fighting to calm as he drags the door open. Harsh hallway lights spill over him, catching the flush still climbing his throat, the red burning at the tips of his ears.

For a heartbeat, he pauses on the threshold — lips parting like he might say more.

Then staff tug at him, pulling him toward the wings. His steps stumble, just for a breath, like the memory of my mouth still clings to him, heat branding itself into bone.

And when he squares his shoulders under the blinding stage lights, chest still heaving, the smear of my lipstick hidden under his clothes where only he can feel it — I know he won’t forget.

And fuck, neither will I.