#I’m just something and I can’t figure it out | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

dakusan · 2 days ago

Text

T h e L e t t e r C.

Tattoo Artist!Bang Chan x Reader | Ink-stained hands. Hoodie mornings. He marked you with his initial and fucked you like he meant forever

🔞synopsis: Tattoo Artist AU. One letter. One fucking letter. You sit on his counter in his hoodie, typing invoices, and Chan can’t stop staring — at your bare skin, at the way you’ve never let anyone touch you like that, at the way you’re about to let him mark you. His initial, on your ring finger. C. It’s supposed to be quick. Clean. Just a tattoo. But Chan’s a menace with veiny hands and a filthy mouth, and you’re his — his girl, his wife-to-be, his baby mama before either of you even realize it. Tattoo ink, sweat, messy kisses, and him whispering filth against your skin like he’s worshiping you. And later? Sunlight, pancakes and a velvet ring box.

💌a/n: WOW. WE FUCKING DID IT. The last fic of the Tattoo Artist AU is HERE, and holy shit, what a way to close it out. Yeah. I wrote this grinning like a menace the whole damn time. Thank you for riding this ink-stained, veiny-handed rollercoaster with me, you whores and sluts — you’ve been feral, loud, and absolutely unhinged in the BEST way, and I love you for it 💋. Chan’s fic had me extra soft and disgusting in love because he’s so domestic while still being THE filthiest man alive. So yeah, I hope you love this sticky-soft mess as much as I loved writing it. p.s. Reblog like your life depends on it, sluts🖤 p.p.s. Next stop: SQUID GAME AU because clearly I clearly can't stop. p.p.p.s. No, I’m not normal about this man and no, I won’t ever be. Thanks for asking.

⚠️ warnings: 18+ ONLY | MINORS DNI | Established relationship / long-term domestic filth | Tattoo scene (consensual, soft Chan being meticulous) | Oral (f. receiving), fingering, overstimulation | Protected? LMAO nope. Breeding kink. Creampie. Pregnancy. Wrap it up in real life whores | Praise, possessiveness, soft feral Chan energy | Counter sex (shop & kitchen), messy kisses, filthy dirty talk | Chan being clingy, soft, and lovesick to the point of feral | Proposal + pregnancy reveal (domestic fluff overload)

📌 Please read responsibly. Hydrate. Breathe. Thank your tattoo artist. Sit on his lap later.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » Be Together— BTOB « 0:58 ─〇───── 4:25 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

You’d known Bang Chan long before the words NO SAINT INK ever got painted across the front window.

Back then, it was just an idea — a rough sketch in one of his notebooks, coffee stains on the corner, his messy handwriting scrawled next to crude machine diagrams. He was still working out of a cramped backroom studio at the time, doing flash tattoos for cheap just to save enough for something bigger. He’d talk about it constantly, eyes lighting up in that way they always did when he believed in something too much to let it go.

"One day, I’ll have my own shop. Not just a shop — a family. A place people feel safe walking into. Somewhere that feels alive."

You’d smiled at him from across that coffee-stained notebook, already half in love with him then.

And somehow, you became part of it all before you even realized what was happening.

You weren’t a tattoo artist — you weren’t even in that world at first. You’d met through mutual friends, hit it off instantly, and before long you were the one keeping him company during late-night sketch sessions, organizing his invoices when he couldn’t figure out his own system, and ordering takeout when he forgot to eat.

Chan had this way of making you feel like you’d always belonged in his life. He’d tease you endlessly, call you his “unofficial business manager” even when you weren’t actually on his payroll. Somewhere between long nights spent helping him research licensing laws and drunken 2 AM confessions about your dreams, you’d fallen for him.

The first time he kissed you was on the shop floor of what would later become NO SAINT INK — back when it was still just an empty building with peeling paint and dust on the windows. You’d been sitting cross-legged on the bare floor, laughing about how ugly the place looked, and he’d just leaned in, kissed you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Guess we’ll make it pretty together, huh?" he’d said after, forehead pressed to yours.

The years after that were a blur of paint-stained clothes, takeout containers, and the kind of exhaustion that only comes from chasing a dream. You helped him sand down tables, choose paint colors, set up booking systems, and — maybe most importantly — keep his books balanced when the shop finally opened and started booming.

By the time he’d hired Jisung, Minho, Seungmin, and the rest of the crew, you were already his. Not just his girlfriend — you were the person who made this entire world possible for him.

He’d tell you that all the time.

"This place wouldn’t exist without you." "You’re the only reason I haven’t burned out." "You’re my home, you know that, right?"

And you believed him because you felt the same. You lived together now, shared a quiet little apartment above a bakery a few blocks away, and most nights ended with you curled against his chest while he sketched designs in bed.

The thing about Chan was that even after all these years, even after all the late nights and busy schedules, he still looked at you like he couldn’t believe you were real.

And yet... Despite living with one of the most talented tattoo artists in the city, you didn’t have a single piece of ink on you. Not one.

Everyone at NO SAINT INK teased you about it. Jisung had made it his personal mission to convince you to let him do a little flower on your ankle. Seungmin swore you were secretly afraid of needles. Minho had bet Chan a week of free lunches that you’d cave eventually.

But Chan?

Chan loved it.

"You’re perfect like this," he’d murmur sometimes, brushing his fingers over your bare skin. "Untouched. Mine to mark first, whenever you let me."

And you’d roll your eyes, laugh it off, because you weren’t avoiding tattoos out of fear — you just hadn’t found anything that felt right. You’d promised yourself that your first tattoo would be something that mattered. Something permanent, like a milestone in your life.

You didn’t know it yet, but tonight would be that milestone.

The shop was quiet now, just the low hum of the lights and the soft tapping of your fingers on your laptop keys. You were perched on the counter, cross-legged in one of Chan’s hoodies, glaring at the screen as you typed in numbers.

"Channie, do you seriously need to order this much black ink? You’re going through cartridges like water."

Chan, leaning against his workbench with his arms folded, just grinned at you — that soft, amused grin that made his dimple peek out.

"You know I’m still not over the fact you don’t have a single tattoo? My own girlfriend — living with me, dating me for years… and still pure. Untouched."

You glanced up, arching a brow. "Well, you never had the time to do it, Mr. Overbooked Shop Owner."

He tilted his head, smirk deepening. "Oh, I have time tonight. I want to be the first, baby. The only."

You closed the laptop, heart thumping for reasons you couldn’t quite explain.

And then you said it.

"Then… give me your initial. Right here."

You held up your left ring finger.

"C."

Chan froze. His eyes widened slightly, his playful grin faltering into something softer, almost stunned. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. "You’re gonna kill me, you know that? My initial, on your finger… you’re actually trying to ruin me, huh?"

You watched him carefully — the way his fingers flexed against his folded arms, the way his mouth opened just slightly like he wanted to say something but couldn’t.

"Chan?"

He blinked, snapped out of it, and his grin returned — softer now, almost shy around the edges. "You’re serious? You actually want my initial? On your finger?"

You shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal, though your heart was hammering against your ribs. "Why not? Seems fitting. You’re the one drowning in ink all day, anyway. Might as well leave your mark on me properly."

The look he gave you then? Wrecked.

"You have no idea what you just did to me, baby." He his hand came up to gently hold your wrist, thumb brushing your ring finger as if he was already tattooing it in his mind. You rolled your eyes and turned back to your laptop, typing a little too quickly to hide your own flustered grin. "Yeah, well, you can have your emotional breakdown later, Mr. Clingy. I need to finish these numbers before you overspend on needles again."

Chan didn’t move away. Of course he didn’t — he never did.

Instead, he dragged one of the rolling stools closer and sat right next to you, his knee bumping yours. He was always close, always touching — even now, he leaned his arm against your thigh as if the contact grounded him.

But his mind was clearly elsewhere.

You heard the soft rustle of paper, and when you glanced down, Chan had already grabbed a fresh sheet from his sketchpad.

"What are you doing?"

"Shhh," he murmured, already grabbing a nearby pencil. His brows furrowed in concentration, lips pressing together. "Cursive or block? Thin line? Micro script or thicker strokes? I want it to look perfect."

You snorted. "Chan, it’s literally just the letter C."

"Not just a letter," he shot back, not even looking up, pencil already gliding over the page. "It’s going on you. It’s… fuck, it’s going to be on your hand, angel. Everyone’s gonna see it. It has to be right."

You bit your lip to hide the smile pulling at your mouth, watching as his fingers moved quickly, sketching out variations of the letter like he was designing a whole damn mural.

You’d seen Chan sketch a million times before, but this was different — he was dialed in, hyper-focused.

Chan’s tattooing style had always been clean precision combined with emotional storytelling. Somehow he always made it perfect. His line work was razor-sharp, soft where it mattered and it was needed, even his boldest designs felt delicate. His specialty? Fine-line realism mixed with abstract accents. Imagine feathers that looked like that they could blow away in the wind, roses with petal tips melting into geometric shading, animal portraits with splashes of watercolor ink behind them. His signature touch? Hidden details only the person having the tattoo would notice. They could be tiny initials woven into a flower stem, microscopic constellations tucked into shading, and so on. They were always meaningful but discreet.

And right now, Chan was pouring all of that into a single letter.

"Your hand is small, so micro-script will suit you better. But if I make the serif too sharp, it’ll look harsh, and I don’t want harsh on you," he murmured half to himself, scratching out a version before starting again. "Cursive feels more… personal. But if I make it slanted too much, it might age weird. No, no, I’ll—"

"Chan."

"Hmm?"

"You’re overthinking a single letter."

"I’m tattooing my fucking initial on my girlfriend’s finger, babe. I’m allowed to overthink."

You laughed, shaking your head, but you didn’t stop him. Honestly? Watching him obsess over it like this made your chest ache in a way you couldn’t explain. Chan finally glanced up, brown eyes soft, voice dropping lower. "You trust me with this? Really?"

"I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t."

His jaw tightened for a moment, and he gave you a look that made your heart flip. "Okay, honey," he said quietly, thumb brushing your knee. "Let me mark you."

You watched him as he switched from the paper sketch to his iPad, pulling it closer with a determined little huff. His brows furrowed in concentration, his lower lip caught between his teeth as he dragged his Apple Pencil in smooth, decisive strokes.

It was ridiculous, how serious he looked — this was one letter, and yet he was treating it like he was designing a full back piece for a celebrity client.

"Stop staring," he muttered without looking up, voice soft, teasing.

"Can’t help it. You’re cute when you’re obsessing."

Chan’s ears flushed, but he didn’t break focus, swiping through brushes until he found the exact weight he wanted. "Not cute. Perfect. This has to be perfect."

"For a C."

"For my C," he corrected immediately, glancing up with that look that always made your stomach flip — the one that was soft and wrecked all at once, like he couldn’t believe you were real. You tried not to smile too much, leaning back slightly and pretending to focus on your laptop. But your fingers hovered over the keys instead of typing, watching as he tilted the screen toward you.

"Okay, look — final version. Clean cursive, micro-script, no harsh edges. Soft curves to match your hand. What do you think?"

The letter was delicate, elegant — a tiny looping C that looked like it had been written by hand just for you. Which, of course, it had.

"It’s perfect."

The corner of his mouth lifted, just slightly, but his eyes softened in that way they always did when you said something that got to him.

"Perfect on you, yeah," he murmured, hitting print before you could respond.

The little thermal printer by his workbench spat out the stencil sheet, and Chan moved, slipping it into his setup like he’d done a thousand times before — except this time, every motion felt slower, more deliberate, because it was you.

"Save your work, honey," he said suddenly, glancing at your still-open laptop.

"I—what? You’re really doing this right now?"

"You think I’m gonna let you change your mind? Not a chance." He grinned, soft but sure, already pulling on his black nitrile gloves. "Come on. Let me mark you before I lose my mind."

You couldn’t help laughing, shaking your head as you hit save and closed the laptop. The reality of it was starting to hit you now — you were about to let Bang Chan tattoo you.

Not just any tattoo — his initial. On your ring finger.

He offered you his hand like you were going somewhere far more serious than just across the shop. His palm was warm and he squeezed your fingers gently as he guided you toward the main studio room. The air in there was cooler and smelled like disinfectant and ink — Chan’s world, his kingdom.

He motioned for you to sit on the padded chair, pulling his rolling stool close. Of course he was close, always close, his knee brushing yours as he adjusted the footrest for you.

"Comfy?" he asked softly, his usual teasing tone replaced by something almost reverent.

"You’re acting like I’m about to get a whole sleeve."

"You’re letting me put my initial on your hand, angel. That’s bigger than a sleeve."

You rolled your eyes, but your chest felt warm in a way you couldn’t ignore.

Chan pressed the stencil gently to your ring finger, his thumb brushing the side of your hand as he smoothed it down. His touch lingered even after he peeled the paper away, leaving behind the faint purple outline of the letter.

He stared at it for a long moment, quiet, his gloved fingers tracing the air above it without touching.

"Looks good on you already," he whispered, mostly to himself before moving away to start preparing.

Chan snapped on a fresh pair of black gloves, the sound sharp in the quiet room. You watched him move through his setup with practiced precision — disinfecting the area, lining up his ink caps, adjusting the needle depth like muscle memory. He was in work mode now, but his eyes kept flicking back to your hand like he couldn’t believe this was real.

“Won’t take long,” he murmured, voice softer than usual. “But I want it clean. No rushing.” He glanced up at you, the corners of his eyes soft, before bending back to his work.

The machine buzzed to life, low and steady, and Chan adjusted his stool closer until his knee pressed against yours. He rested your hand gently in his gloved one, thumb brushing over your knuckles before he spoke again.

“Tell me if you need a break, okay? Even if it’s just for a second.”

“Chan, it’s one letter. I’ll survive.”

He smirked, head tilted, dimple flashing for half a second. “Doesn’t mean I won’t take care of you.”

And finally, he lowered the needle to your skin. The first sting made you inhale sharply, and immediately Chan glanced up, the machine pausing mid-line.

“Too much?”

You shook your head quickly. “No, keep going. Just… feels weird.”

His mouth quirked slightly, a soft, amused look flashing across his face before he focused again. His left hand steadied yours while his right moved with quick, sure motions — the way he always tattooed, precise but fluid. Watching him like this was different. You’d seen Chan tattoo other people countless times, but there was something about the way he worked on you — the way his thumb kept rubbing slow circles against your palm, how his eyes softened every time they darted up to check on you.

“You’re doing good, honey,” he said quietly over the hum of the machine. “Almost done with the outline.”

You couldn’t help smiling. “I told you I’d survive.”

Chan huffed a quiet laugh, leaning closer as he wiped the excess ink away. His gloved thumb lingered for a second longer than necessary before he dipped back into the cap.

Every line he pulled felt heavier than usual. Not because of difficulty — this was easy work for him — but because of what it meant.

You. His name. On your ring finger.

His mind kept flashing with thoughts he couldn’t say out loud:

My initial. On her hand. Forever. She’s really letting me do this. She’s mine. She’s really mine.

And worse — he kept thinking about the little velvet box hidden in his desk drawer at home, about how he’d been planning to propose soon anyway. Now? He had to actively fight the urge to pull the ring out tonight.

“Done,” Chan finally said after another careful wipe, voice quieter than usual. He switched off the machine and set it aside, holding your hand up gently like it was something fragile.

The tiny cursive C sat perfectly on the side of your ring finger — simple, clean, elegant.

You tilted your head, smiling softly. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” he echoed, still staring at it. He didn’t let go of your hand, his gloved fingers tracing just above the fresh ink, not daring to touch it yet. His throat worked as he swallowed.

“Chan,” you said with a laugh, “you’re staring at it like you just won an award.”

He looked up at you then, and his expression made your heart skip — soft, overwhelmed, a little wrecked.

“Feels like I did,” he said simply.

He finally peeled off his gloves, tossing them into the bin, but his hands were back on you immediately, holding your wrist like he needed to ground himself.

“Gonna clean it and wrap it,” he murmured, his voice dropping lower now. “Then… then I’m probably gonna kiss you stupid, just warning you.”

You laughed, cheeks warm. “You’re ridiculous.”

Chan’s grin turned into something softer, hungrier. “You just let me put my name on you, baby. You have no idea what that does to me.”

He reached for a clean pad of gauze, his hands moving with that same tattoo-artist precision — but his eyes never left yours. He dabbed gently at the ink, careful not to press too hard, and you could feel how soft his touch was, how deliberate.

“Does it hurt?” he asked quietly.

“Barely,” you said, smiling. “You’re good at this, you know.”

His mouth twitched into a small, crooked grin. “Better be. I’m not letting my first piece on you heal ugly.”

He set the gauze aside and grabbed the ointment, squeezing out the smallest amount before rubbing it across the fresh ink with slow, tender strokes. His fingers lingered, spreading the balm with feather-light movements, and for a moment, it didn’t feel like he was working — it felt like he was touching.

You tilted your head at him, amused. “You do this for all your clients, or am I getting special treatment?”

Chan didn’t even look up, his thumb brushing over your hand with an almost possessive weight. “No one else gets this soft. No one else gets me like this.”

When he finally wrapped the finger with clean film, he pressed a kiss to the bandaged spot before he could stop himself.

“There,” he murmured against your skin, his voice low and reverent. “My C. Looks right on you.”

You laughed softly, trying to tease the tension away. “Chan, it’s literally a letter. You’re acting like—”

But before you could finish, his hands were on your thighs, sliding up slowly as he stepped between your knees. His gaze locked on yours, darker now, his usual soft warmth edged with something else entirely.

“Like what?” he asked, voice dropping, rougher now.

You blinked up at him. “Like… like you’re losing your mind.”

He leaned closer, his forehead nearly touching yours, his hands gripping your waist now. “That’s because I am, honey. You don’t get it, do you?”

“Get what?”

His thumb brushed over the bandaged finger, lingering. “You just let me put my name on your ring finger. My initial. Forever. And you’re sitting here acting like it’s casual.”

You opened your mouth to say something, but Chan cut you off with a quiet, frustrated groan, his lips brushing your jaw as he spoke again.

“You’re mine, angel. Always were. But this? Fuck—this is proof. You marked yourself for me, and now I can’t stop thinking about how much I want to…”

He trailed off, pulling back just enough to look at you, his eyes blown wide and hungry.

“Want to what?” you asked, heart hammering.

“Worship you. Ruin you. Both,” he said, voice low and trembling slightly, like he was barely holding himself back. “Can I?”

You didn’t even get to answer properly — the second your hand slid up his chest in silent permission, Chan kissed you. Hard.

He grabbed your hips, pulling you forward on the padded chair until you were right against him, his hands gripping like he was terrified you’d slip away. His mouth moved against yours with the same obsessive precision he tattooed with — deep, focused, possessive.

When he finally pulled back for air, he pressed his forehead to yours, breathing hard. “You have no idea how bad I’ve wanted this. Years, angel. Years of staring at you in my hoodies, doing my books, taking care of me… and now you’re sitting here with my letter on your finger—fuck, you’re perfect.”

One of his hands slid under the hem of your hoodie, warm against your skin, his thumb brushing teasing circles on your waist. For a moment, he stared. Stared at you before suddenly, picking you up with ridiculous ease, sitting you back on the counter where you’d been earlier, his hands gripping your thighs possessively. His kisses turned messier, desperate, his mouth moving from your lips to your jaw to the spot below your ear that made you gasp.

“That’s it,” he murmured against your skin, his voice rough, his words spilling out in a low, feral growl. “Gonna make you feel how much I love you. Gonna make you remember this every time you look at that little C.” Chan’s hands were firm on your thighs as he stepped between them. His mouth was everywhere — hot, urgent kisses along your jaw, nips at your neck that made your breath hitch.

“Chan—” you gasped between kisses, trying to catch your breath as his hands slipped under your hoodie again, palms spreading over your waist. “Wait, what if Minho’s upstairs? He’s gonna hear us—”

Chan pulled back just enough to look at you, his grin crooked and sinful, his breath already rough. “Nope. He isn’t. He’s out with Jisung and Felix—fuck knows where, probably terrorizing someone at karaoke. We’re alone, angel. Completely alone.”

Your protest died in your throat when his fingers curled into the hem of your hoodie, tugging it upward.

“Then—Chan—”

“Then nothing,” he interrupted, voice low, almost a growl. “You’re mine tonight. All mine.”

And with that, he pulled the hoodie off in one smooth motion, tossing it carelessly to the side. His hands were immediately back on you, tracing the curve of your waist like he couldn’t decide whether to worship or devour you.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his eyes drinking you in. “Every time I see you like this, I wonder how I got this lucky. My girl. My everything.”

You opened your mouth to say something, but the words melted into a soft gasp when his lips found your collarbone, kissing down slowly, deliberately, as if he was marking you everywhere.

His hands roamed everywhere — palms sliding over your back, fingers squeezing your hips, his thumbs brushing circles on your thighs like he couldn’t stop touching you for even a second.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured against your skin, his breath hot where his mouth pressed against your neck.

“I’m not—”

“You are,” he cut in, smirking against your skin, his voice dropping lower. “You’re worked up just from me touching you.”

You tried to roll your eyes, but it came out more like a whimper when his hand slid higher, fingers brushing under the band of your bra.

“Chan,” you warned, though your tone was anything but serious.

“Yeah?” His grin was pure trouble as he finally slid the strap off your shoulder. “Something you need, honey?”

His fingers hooked into the waistband of your leggings, tugging teasingly.

“Gonna take these off,” he said, his voice low and rough, eyes flicking to yours for permission even as his hands moved. “Need to see you. Need to feel you.”

“Chan, we’re in the shop,” you tried again, though your body betrayed you by lifting just enough to help him pull them down.

“Exactly,” he murmured, leaning close enough that his lips brushed your ear. “Our shop. My walls. My counter. I’ve wanted you here since the day I opened this place, honey.”

You let out a shaky breath, and that was all he needed. He slid your leggings down, tossing them aside with the same careless ease he’d discarded your hoodie. Now you were perched on the counter in just your bra and panties, his hands everywhere — gripping your thighs, sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing over every inch of exposed skin.

Chan looked wrecked already, his breathing uneven, his eyes dark as he dragged them over you slowly. “God, you’re perfect.” he whispered, almost to himself.

Then, with one smooth motion, he hooked his fingers into your panties and tugged them down.

You gasped, heat rushing to your face as he slid them off your legs, tossing them to join the growing pile of your clothes on the floor. His hands came right back to you, spreading over your bare thighs like he was claiming you.

“Fuck,” Chan groaned under his breath, his eyes dragging down between your legs, lingering, his jaw tightening. “You’re already dripping for me.”

Your breath hitched, but before you could answer, his long, veiny fingers trailed upward slowly, teasing, skimming along the inside of your thigh without giving you what you wanted yet. Chan leaned in close, ips pressing hot kisses to the soft skin just below your hip.

Fingers finally sliding higher, brushing you lightly, and you gasped, your hips jerking instinctively. “Shh, baby,” Chan murmured, his free hand gripping your hip to hold you still. “Let me take care of you.”

Those hands — god, those hands. Large, warm, veiny, the same hands that just minutes ago held a tattoo machine with precision now moving over you with something close to worship.

One hand stayed firm on your hip, grounding you, while the other moved slowly, teasing, his long fingers sliding against your soaked folds. He groaned low, almost like he was in pain, when he felt how wet you were.

“Fuck, you’re so wet for me already,” he rasped, his thumb brushing gentle circles over your clit while his fingers teased lower, slipping just barely inside before retreating. “So good for me, angel. Always so good for me.”

Your head fell back slightly, a soft whimper slipping out, and Chan’s mouth curved into a wrecked grin against your thigh.

“That’s it,” he murmured, kissing higher, closer to where you needed him. “Give me more sounds, honey. I want to hear you.”

Two of his fingers finally slid into you, slow but sure, curling just right as his thumb pressed to your clit. You gasped, your hands gripping the edge of the counter, and Chan’s breath hitched at the way you clenched around him.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he groaned, his forehead dropping to your thigh as he moved his fingers faster, deeper. “You feel so perfect. So tight for me.”

Chan couldn’t stay away for long. His mouth moved from your thigh to your hip, kissing, nipping, his breath hot against your skin. Then he looked up at you, eyes blown and desperate.

“Wanna taste you,” he murmured, his fingers still moving inside you, his thumb circling slow, deliberate patterns on your clit. “Can I?”

You nodded breathlessly, and that was all he needed.

He pulled your hips closer to the edge of the counter, his fingers didn’t stop, but now his lips were on you — kissing your inner thighs first, soft, reverent kisses before finally leaning in to press his mouth against you. The first flick of his tongue made you moan, and Chan groaned against you, the sound vibrating where his mouth moved.

“God, you taste so good,” he rasped between licks, his pace quickening as he sucked lightly on your clit. “My perfect girl. All mine.”

His hands gripped your thighs tight, holding you in place as he devoured you, his fingers thrusting in time with his mouth. Every time you whimpered, his groans got louder, more desperate, like he was addicted to every sound you made.

“Gonna make you cum just like this,” he mumbled against you, his words hot and filthy. “Wanna feel you fall apart for me, baby. Come on, angel — give it to me.”

Chan's tongue sucked your clit into his mouth, groan vibrating against your cunt and the sound alone made your hips jerk, but he held you firmly in place. “Stay still, angel,” he rasped between licks, his voice wrecked already. “Lemme take care of you. Lemme… fuck—lemme have you.”

His fingers now curling up just right, just the way he knew you liked, just the way he knew your body would react. Finger-fucking you with a steady pace, wet obscene sounds filling the quiet room. His thumb occasionally pressing harder against your clit when his mouth pulled away for breath.

You gasped, your fingers gripping the edge of the counter, but Chan wasn’t letting you get away from him. His free hand slid to your hip, pushing you flat against the surface while he leaned in deeper, tongue flicking against your clit with increasing intensity.

“Ch-Chan—!”

He hummed in response, and the vibration sent another wave of pleasure through you. He didn’t slow down — if anything, the sound of your shaky voice made him more desperate. His fingers pumped faster now, hitting that spot inside you that made your back arch, his tongue swirling around your clit like he’d been studying you for this exact moment.

“God, listen to you,” he groaned against you, pulling back for a split second to look up at you. His face was flushed, his lips glistening, and his eyes — fuck, his eyes were wild. “Dripping all over my fingers, baby. You’re so wet for me. So perfect for me.”

Before you could respond, he dove back in, tongue and fingers working together in a messy, frantic rhythm. He finger-fucked you harder now, his knuckles brushing against you with every thrust, while his mouth sucked at your clit like he was addicted to you. Your moans grew louder, filling the studio, and Chan groaned at the sound.

“That’s it,” he mumbled into you, his words muffled but still clear enough to make your stomach flip. “Come on, baby… I know you’re close. Let me feel it. Let me feel you fall apart on my fingers, yeah?”

Your body tensed, pleasure coiling tighter and tighter with every thrust of his fingers, every flick of his tongue.

“Chan—oh my god, I—”

“Yeah, baby,” he groaned, his pace relentless, his thumb pressing harder as his fingers curled just right. “Give it to me. Cum for me. Wanna taste you, angel. Need it.”

And then you broke.

Your whole body shook, your hips jerking helplessly against his grip as you came, moaning his name. Chan didn’t stop — if anything, he doubled down, licking you through it, his fingers fucking you deeper, slower now, dragging out every last wave of your orgasm until you were trembling under him.

When you finally slumped against the counter, breathless, Chan pulled back just enough to look at you — his lips swollen, chin slick with you, his chest heaving.

“Fuck,” he breathed, licking his lips as if he couldn’t get enough. “You taste so fucking good. My perfect girl. My perfect everything.”

He kissed the inside of your thigh softly before standing up. And the look in his eyes made your heart stop. He was completely cunt-drunk, lips parted and panting, pupils blown so wide there was barely any brown left in them.

“Not done,” he said, voice low and rough as his hands slid to your waist. “You think I’m stopping after just that? Nah, baby.” His hands moved to his belt, fingers fumbling with it, moving too fast, almost shaky with how eager he was.

“Chan—”

“Can’t wait,” he cut you off, finally yanking the belt free and shoving his jeans and briefs down just enough to free himself. His thick cock sprang up, flushed and leaking, and he hissed under his breath as his hand wrapped around the base, giving himself one slow stroke as his eyes raked over you.

“Fuck, look at you,” he groaned, stepping between your legs again. His free hand slid to your thigh, spreading you open wider. “Sitting here all pretty for me, dripping, still tight from cumming on my fingers… you’re killing me, honey.”

Your breath hitched as he lined himself up, the head of his cock brushing against your soaked entrance.

“Chan, please—”

That was all it took.

With a low, broken groan, he pushed in, slow at first, stretching you open inch by inch. His head fell forward against your shoulder, his breath hot against your skin as he sank in deeper, bottoming out with one final thrust.

“Fuck,” he growled, his voice shaking as his hips pressed flush to yours. “You’re so tight, baby. So warm, squeezing me so fucking good. God, I’m never letting you go.”

Once he started moving, he couldn’t stop. His pace was quick from the start — deep, hungry thrusts that made the counter creak beneath you. Every push in had his cock dragging against your walls perfectly, every pull out slow enough to make you whimper before he slammed back in.

“That’s it, baby,” he panted against your mouth, his words broken between messy kisses. “Taking me so well. My perfect girl, all fucked out just for me. You feel so good—fuck, you feel made for me.”

You moaned against his lips, and Chan groaned back, swallowing every sound, his kisses messy and desperate. His tongue slid against yours sloppily, his teeth nipping your bottom lip before he kissed down your jaw.

Chan buried his face in your neck, sucking at the soft skin there, leaving open-mouthed kisses that turned into nips. “You’re gonna look so pretty tomorrow,” he murmured against your throat, his thrusts never faltering. “My marks all over you. Everyone’s gonna know who you belong to.”

He pulled back just enough to look at your chest, his gaze dropping, and then he dipped lower. “Fuck, I need these,” he groaned before his mouth latched onto your nipple, sucking hard. His tongue flicked over it, his teeth grazing lightly before he switched to the other, his free hand squeezing your breast as if he couldn’t get enough.

Your back arched into him, and Chan moaned against your skin, his thrusts growing even rougher.

“Yeah, that’s it, angel,” he growled, his mouth still on your chest. “You like that? Like when I fuck you like this? Fuck.”

His hips snapped into you harder now, faster, the wet sounds of him fucking you filling the room along with your broken moans. Chan was panting against your chest, his forehead resting between your breasts as he fucked into you.

You were moaning so loud at this rate, instinctively squeezing around his cock tighter, your pussy not wanting to let go, in fact dragging him in deeper.

“Shit, baby, do that again,” he groaned, pulling back to look at you, his hair falling into his eyes, his lips swollen and red. “Clench around me like that again, and I’m gonna lose it.”

You couldn’t help it — your body obeyed, and Chan swore under his breath, his pace growing relentless.

“God, you’re gonna make me cum so fast like this.” he panted, leaning forward to kiss you again, messy and desperate.

The room was filled with the sound of skin slapping against skin, wet and filthy, echoing off the walls of the studio. Chan was relentless now, his hips snapping into you with a pace that bordered on desperate, every thrust pushing you further into the counter, making it creak under the force.

Your body was melting, every muscle trembling, your head falling back as broken moans spilled from your lips. You couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe — you were completely cock-drunk, lost in him, in the way his thick length filled you so perfectly, stretching you just right.

“Look at you,” Chan panted, his forehead pressed against yours now, his eyes glassy, pupils blown. “All fucked out… taking me so good, honey.”

Your walls clenched around him again, and he swore, his hips stuttering for half a second before he picked up the pace, fucking you harder, deeper.

“God, you feel so good,” he groaned, his words spilling out like he couldn’t hold them back. “Tightest little pussy, just for me. Made for me, baby. You’re mine, all mine.”

You whimpered, grabbing at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as his thrusts grew even rougher.

“Chan—oh my god—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he growled, his lips crashing against yours in a messy, open-mouthed kiss before pulling back just enough to watch your face. His thrusts were brutal now, hips slamming into yours, wet sounds filling the air. “You’re gonna cum for me again, angel. Wanna feel you squeeze me, wanna feel you lose it on my cock.”

You tried to shake your head, gasping, “I can’t—” but your body betrayed you, already tightening, that coil snapping faster than you could stop it.

“Yes, you can, baby. Give it to me,” Chan ordered, his voice rough, commanding now. His thumb slid between you, rubbing your clit in fast, tight circles as he fucked you harder. “Cum for me, angel. Right now. Wanna feel you fall apart again.”

And then you did.

Your body arched, your vision went white, and you cried out his name, your orgasm slamming into you so hard it made your legs shake. You clenched down around him helplessly, milking his cock, and Chan lost it.

“FUCK,” he growled, his voice cracking, his pace faltering for just a second before he shoved in deep, groaning as your tightness squeezed him over and over. “That’s it, that’s my girl—god, you feel incredible when you cum on me.”

He didn’t slow down — if anything, feeling you come undone on him only made him more feral. He kept thrusting, deep and fast, riding you through it, his hips slapping against yours with every sharp movement.

You were gone — cock-drunk, trembling, babbling his name — and Chan was absolutely wrecked, panting against your neck, kissing and sucking at the damp skin there like he couldn’t get enough.

“Not done,” he groaned into your neck, his voice desperate, hips still pounding into you. “Not stopping till I fill you up, angel. Gonna cum so deep in you, fuck—don’t wanna pull out. Ever.”

You whimpered something incoherent, and Chan kissed your temple, his thrusts somehow even deeper now.

“That’s it, honey. One more. Be good for me, yeah? Give me one more before I cum. Can you do that for me?”

Chan’s pace was brutal now, his hips snapping against yours so hard the counter creaked with every thrust. Sweat dripped from his temple onto your chest as he buried himself in you over and over, his cock dragging against your walls perfectly, hitting that spot that made you see stars.

You were already trembling, your body overstimulated from your last orgasm, every nerve burning — but Chan wasn’t slowing down. “Ch-Chan, I—” Your words were broken, barely formed, nothing but gasps and whimpers spilling from your mouth.

“Yes, you are,” he growled, leaning closer, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath hot and ragged. “Gonna cum one more time for me, honey. Be good for me. Wanna feel you squeeze me again before I fill you up.”

His hand slid down between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit again, circling it in fast, precise motions that had you sobbing.

“Too much—”

“Shhh, baby.” he whispered, his lips brushing your jaw as he fucked you harder, deeper, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing through the shop.

Your back arched, nails digging into his shoulders as your body betrayed you again, tightening around him as the pleasure built up impossibly fast.

“That’s it, baby,” Chan panted, his eyes locked on yours, dark and wild. “Cum for me. Cum all over my cock. Wanna feel you milk me dry.”

Your orgasm hit hard, ripping through you like fire, your thighs shaking uncontrollably as you screamed his name.

“Chan—Chan, oh my god—Chan!”

You babbled it over and over, lost in the pleasure, tears pricking the corners of your eyes as your body convulsed around him. Chan groaned loudly, his own thrusts growing sloppy as you clenched tight around him, pulling him closer and closer to his own breaking point.

“Fuck, honey, that’s it,” he growled, his hips driving into you hard, desperate now. “You feel too good — gonna fill you up. Gonna cum so deep, fuck my cum into you until it sticks. Wanna keep you full of me, angel. All mine.”

Your name left his mouth in a groan as his pace stuttered, his thrusts becoming shorter, harder, until finally he slammed deep one last time, burying himself inside you completely.

“Fuck—”

His head fell to your shoulder as his body shuddered, his cock twitching as he spilled into you, hot and deep. His hips kept grinding against yours through it, slower now but still firm, like he was determined to push every drop into you.

“God, baby,” Chan panted against your neck, his voice shaking, almost broken. “So good. Took me so well. Full of me now, yeah? My perfect girl.”

He stayed buried in you, his hips rocking gently, slower now, more tender. His arms wrapped around you tightly, pulling you against his chest as he pressed soft kisses along your jaw, your neck, your shoulder.

You hummed weakly against him, completely gone, your brain pure mush as you slumped against his chest. Your body felt boneless, cock-drunk and warm, and Chan smiled against your cheek at how pliant you were in his arms.

“Accounting’s not getting done tonight,” you mumbled, your voice hoarse, slurred from exhaustion.

Chan chuckled, kissing your hairline. “Yeah, no shit, angel. You can barely sit up.”

He finally, carefully pulled out, groaning quietly at the sight of his cum spilling out of you. His hands immediately slid to your thighs, thumbs brushing over the marks his grip left behind.

“Stay still for me, baby,” he said gently, already reaching for the roll of paper towels and a clean cloth. “I’ll clean you up, okay? Just relax.”

He worked carefully as if you were made of glass. One hand held your hip steady while the other gently wiped between your legs, soft circles, his expression focused but tender. Every so often he’d pause to press a soft kiss to your knee, your inner thigh, or your bandaged ring finger like he couldn’t stop himself.

“You’re so perfect,” he murmured under his breath as he cleaned you. “Still dripping from me, still letting me take care of you. Love you so much.”

You were too far gone to reply properly, just humming again, your head resting against his shoulder. Chan’s smile softened at the sound, and he kissed your temple, whispering, “Mushy-brained, huh?”

“Mmm,” you mumbled, nodding weakly.

He laughed quietly, finishing up and tossing the used wipes into the bin before bringing over the clothes he discarded off of you and helping you back into your panties and hoodie.

“Come here,” Chan said softly, sliding an arm under your thighs and another around your back.

“Chan, I can walk,” you mumbled, though your legs felt like jelly.

“Nope,” he said, smirking as he easily lifted you off the counter. “You’re not walking anywhere. You’re mine to take care of tonight.”

He carried you bridal-style through the shop, nudging the studio door open with his foot before settling you gently onto the worn leather couch in his back office — the same couch you’d spent countless late nights on, working through shop invoices together.

He crouched in front of you, brushing your hair back from your face. “Water or juice, honey?”

“Water,” you whispered, and Chan pressed a soft kiss to your forehead before grabbing a bottle from the mini-fridge, uncapping it and handing it to you before sitting down. His other hand moving on your knee, thumb rubbing slow circles as if he still couldn’t stop touching you.

“Small sips, angel,” he said gently, watching you drink like you might spill it on yourself.

You gave him a tired look. “I’m not five, Chan.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he teased, grinning as he plucked the bottle back after you’d had a few sips. “You’re mushy-brained and wobbly. That’s basically toddler mode.”

You groaned and slumped against the couch, tugging his hoodie tighter around you. “This is your fault.”

“Mm, best fault I’ve ever had,” he said, his grin softening as he sat beside you. He pulled you into his lap again, his arms wrapping around you like a blanket. “You okay? Nothing hurts?”

“Just sore,” you mumbled against his chest.

“Good sore or bad sore?”

You smirked weakly. “Good sore. Very good sore.”

Chan chuckled, kissing the top of your head. “That’s my girl.”

You both stayed there, with Chan holding you close on that worn leather couch, softly kissing your hair every few minutes, and you? Mushy-brained and completely unaware of the fact that he almost ruined his own surprise by proposing right there and then.

TWO MONTHS LATER

The shop was quiet again, but for a very different reason this time.

You were sitting on that same back-office couch, curled up in one of Chan’s hoodies, thinking about the little white stick you had done that morning. Two faint pink lines.

Positive.

You’d taken it that morning, heart pounding so hard you thought it might burst, and you hadn’t stopped staring at it since.

The past few weeks suddenly made sense — the random waves of nausea, the constant exhaustion, the way your period never came even though you swore it was just stress. You’d been hoping it was stress. Well… maybe half-hoping, half… wondering.

Now you knew.

And you had absolutely no idea how to tell Chan.

You pulled your knees to your chest, groaning softly. “How the hell do I even say this? ‘Hey, by the way, you knocked me up the same night you tattooed me?’”

You chewed your lip, glancing at the bandaged ring finger where his little C had healed perfectly now, the tiny cursive letter smooth against your skin. Your stomach flipped thinking about it — his initial on your ring finger, and now his baby in your belly.

Chan was going to lose his mind. Not in a bad way — you knew he loved you more than anything — but… still. You wanted it to be special.

You considered just blurting it out. Or maybe buying one of those cheesy “#1 Dad” mugs and handing it to him. Or even putting a tiny onesie in one of his ink supply boxes and letting him find it himself.

But Chan deserved better than that.

You wanted to make it yours, something that meant something to the both of you.

Your brain kept spinning, debating whether to do it at home or here at the shop, when the studio door creaked open behind you.

“Babe?” Chan’s voice floated in, warm and familiar. “You hiding in here again? Everyone’s gone, you know. It’s just us.” He stepped in, hair slightly damp from his post-workout shower, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his forearms, revealing those veiny arms that made your brain short-circuit every time.

He smiled when he saw you, walking over and leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. “Hey, mushy-brain. You look tired. You okay?”

You forced a smile. “Just… a little tired. Long day.”

Chan crouched in front of you, tilting his head to study you. “You sure? You’ve been tired a lot lately. And you’ve been… I dunno, different.”

Your stomach flipped. “Different how?”

He shrugged, smiling softly. “Just… softer. Quieter. And you’ve been wearing my hoodies more than usual, which I love, but also—” He narrowed his eyes playfully. “You’re not sick, are you?”

You laughed nervously, your heart hammering. “No, not sick.”

“Hmm.” He searched your face for a long moment before leaning in and kissing your temple. “Okay. But if you are sick, I’m making you soup and not letting you do any more accounting for a week.”

“Noted,” you said, trying to keep your voice even.

You were going to tell him soon.... Very, very soon.

The smell of something warm and sweet drifted through the apartment before you were even awake. It was soft morning light filtering through the kitchen curtains, painting everything gold, and the faint hum of music playing low from Chan’s phone.

You blinked groggily, sitting up in bed, stretching under the duvet. The apartment above the bakery always smelled faintly of bread in the mornings, but today it was different — richer, heavier, like butter and sugar and… coffee.

Chan.

You padded out of the bedroom, still in one of his oversized t-shirts, hair messy, and found him in the kitchen.

He was barefoot, in gray sweatpants and a white T-shirt, muscles flexing as he whisked something in a bowl. His hair was sticking up in that I-woke-up-early-just-for-you way, and there was flour on his cheek.

He turned at the sound of your footsteps, and the soft smile he gave you was enough to make your chest ache.

“Morning honey,” he said, setting the whisk down. “Go sit, breakfast’s almost done.”

You raised a brow, leaning against the doorway. “You’re awake before me… cooking? Should I be worried?”

He laughed quietly, dimples flashing. “Nope. Just wanted to do something nice for you. Now sit before you burn your feet on the cold floor.”

You shook your head with a small smile but obeyed, slipping into your usual spot at the small table by the window. The sun hit just right there, warming your legs as you watched him move around the kitchen. You were completely unaware of why he was doing this, but one thing you were aware of sat heavy in your chest: you were telling him today.

Chan had spent weeks thinking about how to propose — fancy dinners, maybe the shop, maybe even flying you somewhere. But every plan felt too loud, too not you.

Because you? You weren’t someone he needed to impress with fireworks. You were his girl who sat on the shop counter doing accounting in his hoodies, who kissed his cheek while he worked, who let him mark you with his initial like it was the most natural thing in the world.

So this morning, he decided: domestic, quiet, soft. You, him, breakfast, and the sunlight. That was perfect. The ring box sat tucked in his pocket as he plated pancakes, his hands only shaking slightly when he set the table.

“Fancy,” you said as he placed a plate in front of you — pancakes stacked high, drizzled with syrup, fresh berries on the side. “What’s the occasion? Did you blow something up at the shop and you’re buttering me up before I find out?”

Chan sat across from you, grinning. “No explosions. Just wanted to spoil you.”

You narrowed your eyes playfully, cutting into the pancakes. “This better not be your way of bribing me into doing shop inventory later.”

Chan laughed, shaking his head. “Nope. No shop talk today. Just us.”

You smiled softly at that, taking a bite — and holy hell, they were good.

“Wow. Okay, maybe I should marry you just for these pancakes,” you teased without thinking.

Chan’s fork froze midair, his smile twitching into something softer, something that made your heart skip — but you were too focused on working up the courage to tell him to notice the way his hand brushed against the pocket of his sweatpants, where that little velvet box sat.

You set your fork down, suddenly nervous. “Chan?”

He looked up immediately, brown eyes soft. “Yeah?”

You bit your lip, your heart pounding so loud it almost drowned out your voice. “I… I need to tell you something.”

His brows furrowed slightly, concern flashing in his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, I just—” You exhaled, staring down at your plate for a moment before forcing yourself to meet his eyes.

“I’m pregnant.”

And the room went silent — except for the soft hum of morning music and Chan’s sharp inhale as the words sank in. His fork clattered against his plate as his mouth opened slightly, blinking at you in stunned silence for half a beat before a smile started pulling at his lips — slow, soft, and so wrecked.

“Are you…” His voice was almost a whisper, warm and trembling, as his hand slid across the table to grab yours. “Are you serious?”

You nodded, biting your lip, tears already pricking your eyes. “Yeah.”

For a second, Chan just stared at you, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, his eyes shining — and then he laughed, a quiet, breathless laugh, before standing and pulling you up with him. He hugged you tight, burying his face in your neck. “God, I love you so much,” he murmured against your skin, his voice breaking. “You’re having my baby. Our baby. Fuck, I can’t believe it.”

When he finally pulled back, his hands were still on your waist, his grin wide and teary.

“Baby,” he said, suddenly serious but smiling so big you could barely breathe. “I was gonna wait… do this all proper later… but screw it.”

Your brows furrowed, confused, until he reached into his pocket and pulled out the small velvet box.

Your breath caught. “Chan—”

“I was gonna do something fancy, but I don’t care anymore. You’re having my baby, you’re literally wearing my letter on your ring finger already, and I… fuck, I can’t wait another second.”

Chan didn't even drop to one knee, no, he just held you close to him, his eyes glued on your face as he opened the box to reveal a simple but stunning ring that caught the morning light perfectly.

“It's not crazy, it's not a fancy proposal. But... it's us. And I wanted it to be special and not artificial. So... will you marry me?”

Your breath caught, the world narrowing down to just him — his hopeful, teary eyes, the velvet box in his hand, the way his thumb rubbed nervously against your waist like he was trying to ground himself.

“Chan…”

You didn’t even let him finish panicking in his head. You nodded, tears welling up instantly. “Yes.”

His breath hitched, his smile breaking into something wrecked and overwhelming, his dimples deepening as he laughed — a soft, almost disbelieving sound. “Yes?”

“Yes,” you repeated, laughing through your tears, your hands coming up to cup his cheeks. “Of course yes, you idiot.”

He slipped the ring onto your finger with shaking hands, his thumbs brushing over it as if he couldn’t believe it was real. His eyes darted between your hand and your face, his grin softer now, almost shy.

“My fiancée,” he murmured, tasting the word like it was honey. “My future wife.” And then his lips crashed onto yours. It started soft — his lips brushing yours gently, his hands cradling your face like you might break. But it didn’t stay soft for long.

Because Chan never could stay soft when it came to you.

The kiss deepened quickly, turning hungry, desperate, his hands sliding from your cheeks to your waist, pulling you flush against him. You gasped into his mouth, and Chan groaned, taking the chance to slide his tongue against yours, the kiss turning messy and heated.

When you pulled back for air, breathless, Chan rested his forehead against yours, panting softly. “You’re gonna kill me, angel. Pregnant with my baby, wearing my ring, looking at me like that… fuck, I can’t keep my hands off you.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but Chan had already slid his hands lower, gripping your hips possessively. His lips moved to your jaw, kissing down to your neck, his teeth grazing your skin lightly.

“Chan—” you tried, but your voice came out more like a whimper, which only made him smirk against your throat.

“Say it again,” he murmured between kisses, his breath hot on your neck.

“Say what?”

“That you said yes.” His teeth grazed your pulse point now, sucking lightly. “Wanna hear it.”

You swallowed, your voice shaky. “I said yes.”

“Mm, my perfect girl,” Chan groaned, his hands sliding to the back of your thighs. “My fiancée. My baby mama. My everything.”

Before you could react, he scooped you up effortlessly, sitting you on the kitchen counter, just like he had at the shop weeks ago. His mouth trailed down your neck, his hands slipping under your t-shirt to spread over your stomach.

“You’re carrying our baby,” he whispered against your skin, his tone reverent and filthy all at once. “Full of me in every way now.”

Your breath hitched as his thumbs brushed slow circles over your lower belly. “Chan…”

He kissed your jaw, his grin wicked now. “Gonna have to be careful with you now, angel. But I still need you. Right here. Right now.”

His breath hitched as his lips trailed down to your collarbone, leaving soft kisses that slowly turned into open-mouthed licks and nips. You gasped softly when his hands pushed your t-shirt higher. “My baby mama,” he whispered, his voice breaking slightly. “My fiancée. My everything.”

Then his gaze flicked back up to you, dark and desperate. “Can I? Please, angel. Need to feel you. Need to be inside you.”

You nodded, breathless, and that was all the permission he needed.

Chan lifted that t-shirt all the way off, tossing it to the side before leaning in to kiss you again — slower this time, his hands cradling your face. His lips moved against yours with a tenderness that made your chest ache, but his body was trembling with restraint, every muscle tight.

You cupped his jaw, smiling softly into that kiss as you murmured. “I’m yours, Chan.”

His breath caught at those perfect breathy words, eyes softening for half a second before turning darker again. “Yeah, you are. Mine. All mine.”

Chan’s hands were on your thighs again, tugging at the waistband of your shorts. He slid them down slowly, almost teasingly, before tossing them aside. His big hands gripped your bare thighs, spreading you gently as he stepped closer.

“You’re already wet for me.” he groaned, his thumb brushing along your folds through your panties.

Your breath hitched, your hips twitching slightly under his touch. “Chan—”

“Shh, I’ve got you,” he whispered, kissing your knee before tugging your panties down in one smooth motion. He dropped to his knees between your legs, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your inner thighs.

“I should take my time,” he murmured against your skin, his breath hot. “Worship you properly. But I’m already so fucking hard for you. Can’t wait much longer.”

He stood again, tugging his sweatpants and briefs down just enough to free his thick cock. His hand wrapped around it, stroking once, twice, as he stared at you like you were the only thing that existed. “Gonna go slow,” he promised, leaning in to kiss you again, his voice soft but desperate. “Tell me if anything hurts, okay? I’ll stop.”

You nodded, and Chan lined himself up, guiding himself to your entrance. He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he groaned low in his chest.

Your walls clenched around him as he bottomed out, and Chan swore under his breath, his hips stuttering for a moment.

“Feel so good,” he whispered, kissing your neck. “So warm, so soft… made for me.”

Chan started moving, slow at first, careful, but the hunger in his eyes was impossible to hide. Every deep thrust had him groaning into your neck, his hands gripping your hips tight but gentle, as if he was holding himself back with everything he had.

“Taking me so good, angel,” he praised, his lips brushing your ear. “Even now, you’re perfect for me. You’re incredible.”

Your moans filled the kitchen, soft and breathy, and Chan kissed you again, swallowing them down, his tongue sliding against yours in a messy, hungry kiss.

The pace stayed slow but deep, each thrust hitting just right, making you gasp and cling to his shoulders. Chan groaned at the way you squeezed him, his forehead pressing to yours. “You’re killing me, honey,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Wanna fuck you hard, wanna ruin you, but… god.Just wanna take care of you. My everything.”

Chan’s restraint started to crack.

He was trying — god, he was trying — to keep it slow, to keep you safe, to worship you like you deserved. But the way you clenched around him, the way your soft whimpers filled the warm kitchen air, hair messy, ring glittering on your finger… it was undoing him.

“Fuck, baby.” he groaned against your neck, his thrusts growing deeper, heavier.

You gasped as his pace picked up, controlled but harder now, every deep thrust dragging against that spot that made your back arch.

“Chan—oh my god—”

“That’s it, honey,” he panted, his forehead pressed to yours, eyes dark and blown. “Say my name like that. My perfect fiancée, my perfect baby mama. God, you’re so fucking beautiful like this.”

One of his hands slid between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with practiced precision. He rubbed slow circles at first, matching his thrusts, but the second you gasped and clenched around him, his pace quickened, his thumb pressing harder.

“Yeah, that’s it, angel,” he groaned, his hips snapping into you deeper, controlled but harder now, his cock hitting perfectly with every thrust. “You’re so close, I can feel it. Come on, baby, cum for me. Wanna feel you cum on my cock.”

Your head fell back, your nails digging into his shoulders, and Chan buried his face in your neck, kissing, sucking, murmuring filthy praise against your skin.

“Such a good girl for me. Gonna make you cum so hard. Come on baby, cum on my cock.”

The combination of his deep thrusts and his relentless rubbing on your clit had you spiralling fast. Your moans grew louder, desperate, and Chan swore, his hips driving into you harder.

“That’s it,” he growled, his voice cracking. “Cum for me, angel. Milk my cock. Wanna feel you squeeze me dry. You can do it for me. Be good for me.”

You broke with a cry, your body tensing and shaking as your orgasm hit, your walls fluttering around him tight and hot.

“Fuck, that’s my girl,” Chan groaned, his thrusts faltering as you clenched around him, milking him exactly how he wanted. “So tight, so perfect, gonna make me cum, angel.”

Chan’s pace turned sloppy, desperate, his forehead pressed to yours as he fucked you through your orgasm. His thumb slowed on your clit, now just rubbing soft circles as he focused on burying himself deep inside you.

“Gonna fill you up, honey.” he panted, his voice wrecked.

One last deep thrust, and Chan groaned your name, his hips grinding into yours as he came, hot and deep. His body shuddered against you, his hands gripping your waist tight as he stayed buried, his cock twitching as he spilled every drop.

“I love you,” he murmured against your cheek, kissing it softly as his thrusts slowed to nothing. “You’re everything I’ve ever wanted.”

Chan stayed inside you, breathing hard, kissing your jaw, your neck, your temple, murmuring soft praises between each press of his lips.

“My girl.” kiss “My wife-to-be.” kiss “My baby mama.” kiss “My everything.” kiss, kiss, kiss

You were still trembling slightly, completely cock-drunk, and Chan smiled softly against your skin, kissing your forehead.

“Let me take care of you, honey,” he whispered, finally pulling out carefully, his hands already reaching for a towel. “Gonna clean you up, then hold you for the rest of the day. No more moving, just me, you, and our baby.”

You laughed softly, still breathless. “Our baby.”

Chan froze for half a second, looking at you with that same wrecked, lovesick grin as before. “God, I love you so much.” He didn't move right away, not for a few good minutes that is. Because even after pulling out, he stayed pressed against you, his arms wrapped tightly around your waist as if letting you go might make the moment disappear. His forehead rested against yours, his breathing finally slowing, but his thumbs kept brushing soft circles on your hips like he couldn’t stop touching you.

You shifted slightly, still perched on the counter, and he immediately murmured, “Don’t move, angel. Stay right here. Just let me hold you for a minute.”

You smiled softly, your fingers threading through his damp hair, pushing it back from his face. “You’re clingy.”

“I’m engaged to the love of my life who’s carrying my baby,” he shot back without missing a beat, his grin sleepy and lovesick. “You’re lucky I’m not duct-taping us together permanently.”

You laughed, leaning in to kiss him softly. He melted into it instantly, sighing against your lips, before resting his head back on your shoulder.

After a long moment of silence, you spoke up, your tone teasing.

“So… we’re gonna need a new place, huh?”

Chan blinked, pulling back just enough to look at you. “What?”

“Well,” you said, biting back a grin, “you wanna raise a baby and run a shop while we live in a tiny apartment above a bakery?”

He stared at you for a beat, then burst into a quiet laugh, kissing you again before resting his forehead to yours. “Guess I better start looking,” he murmured, smiling so big it made your chest ache. “Bigger kitchen, bigger bed… maybe a whole room just for baby stuff.”

“And a bigger table for all your breakfast experiments,” you teased.

“Damn right,” he said, kissing you again, softer this time. Chan then pulled back just slightly, his grin turning mischievous. “Actually, scratch the bigger table. I just need one strong enough to keep doing this.”

You raised a brow, laughing despite yourself. “Chan!”

“What?” he said innocently, kissing your cheek. “You’re the one who brought up moving. I’m just thinking about practical needs.”

You rolled your eyes, smacking his chest lightly. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love me for it,” he shot back immediately, dimples deepening as he kissed your nose.

You sighed, pretending to be exasperated even as you smiled. “Fine. Bigger kitchen, bigger bed… and a table strong enough for your practical needs.”

Chan laughed, hugging you tight. “That’s my fiancée. Already making the smart choices.”

“Mm-hmm,” you said, leaning your head against his shoulder. “Smartest choice I ever made was saying yes to you.”

Chan froze for a beat, then smiled so big you thought his face might split. “…God, you’re never getting rid of me now.”

“Wasn’t planning to,” you teased.

“Good,” he said, kissing you again — soft, warm, and still grinning against your lips.

🏷️ taglist: @cybergracie , @jupitermarss , @basicginn , @dhvnigvil , @emkvlixsx , @collin-thegreat , @somuchpanicverylittledisco , @emilyywhyy , @rainyjeno , @fawnoverdawn , @pixie-felix , @anniestay , @notmeneo , @lovslixx , @themoonlightfae , @heartwithoutaname , @yourghostneighbor , @princesskrystix , @drilles , @y2kur0mi , @mochi-space , @ivaviavi , @phelans-thoughts , @the-anon-reader , @beans4beans56 , @joyfulchaoslover , @channieismylove , @cherryoatchai , @unimportantweirdo , @seagulljk , @freckles-and-rage , @lonelydarknessblog , @girlsymptoms , @bookswillfindyouaway , @jasperlvskz , @geekymommakerry , @dazzlingjade , @alisonyus , @pluto-rose , @crazy4books1 , @b3autyist3rror

#stray kids #bang chan #skz #bang chan x reader #bang chan smut #stray kids smut #방찬 #tethered tuesday

801 notes · View notes

amore-memento · 1 day ago

Text

💔 I know people will hate me for this, but I can’t stay silent anymore

I just want to find at least one person who feels the same way I do.

Even if a hundred or a thousand people will hate me for it, I want that one single person who understands what kind of scar this MC left on me.

---

For a long time, I couldn't quite explain why I had such a deep dislike - no, a visceral rejection - of the MC of Love and Deepspace.

It wasn’t just that I found her annoying, rude, or bland - though many users defend her as "just a cute sweetheart," or "not that bad heroine".

No. I think I genuinely hate her.

And recently, after sitting with this feeling for months, I finally figured out why.

She is an empty shell.

A hollow, perfect otome heroine who had everything handed to her by default. She has:

- A loving older adoptive brother who would literally do anything for her because he had to watch her suffer as a child and ended up traumatized (while she conveniently forgot everything - how convenient, right?).

- A serious childhood friend who possibly had feelings for her but had to hide them to avoid hurting her with his evol - and of course she’s the only one who can make him smile again

- A literal husband from the future, who time-traveled just to save her (because even time itself is on this woman’s side).

- Not one but TWO ancient creatures (a mafia boss who created and controls an entire shadowy underworld mafia just to protect her, and a literal mermaid sea god whose soul is tied to hers across lifetimes) both of whom have loved her across lifetimes and would destroy the world for her!

The love interests? Fantastic.

They’re well-designed, emotionally rich, and full of potential. But the moment you add destiny threads, past life reincarnations, and mythic soulmate-level love, something breaks.

I stop feeling like I’m part of the story.

I don’t feel like the MC.

I don’t feel like I’m influencing or choosing anything.

I don’t feel... close.

It feels like I’m just watching someone else’s picture-perfect story - some unreasonably lucky girl - from behind a screen. And I have absolutely nothing to do with it.

I think what makes it worse is that Infoflds advertises this as otome game.

A dating sim for women.

Isn’t it supposed to fulfill the fantasy of being special?

Of being seen?

But all I felt after a few months of playing and watching her was:

MC is the center of the universe.

And I mean that literally.

From what I understand, the plot eventually reveals that she’s a kind of cosmic entity - a celestial being that gave birth to an entire advanced civilization on another planet. She’s the source of life itself.

Every powerful man or godlike creatures in this world exists and lives because of her.

Loves her. Worships her. Saves her.

Even the player feels like they’re supposed to worship her.

She’s the chosen one. The universe, the love interests, and the story all bend to her - and honestly? It felt like the game was screaming in my face:

"Look at her! Look at everything she has that you never will!"

Yes, I know the mythic destiny trope is just a lazy storytelling shortcut to justify why all the LIs fall so hard so fast.

But still… it hurts.

This game showed me something I didn’t expect:

That I’m a non-MC reader.

Just a side character. A background girl.

And that’s why I adore non-MC stories with a reader.

They mirror how I feel in real life - painfully, but in a cathartic beautiful way.

They say: yes, even if you’re beautiful, loyal, smart, kind - if you weren’t born the Chosen One, if you weren’t written into the myth - then you’ll never be her.

You’ll never be the one they cross time and space for.

You’ll never be the cosmic soulmate.

You’ll never be the MC.

And yes, maybe I’m just a jealous bitter bitch.

Maybe I just fell too hard for the guys and now feel like a miserable outsider.

Maybe I felt like I was being pushed out of a story that never included me to begin with.

But this post - this pain - is real.

If you’ve ever felt like the story wasn’t written for you,

If you’ve ever watched miss Hunter be worshipped and thought:

“Why not me?”

If you’ve ever craved a story where someone like you gets to be seen, wanted, and chosen:

You're not alone.

274 notes · View notes

emskryptonite · 3 days ago

Text

Favorite Reporter

a/n: i've had this idea for a few days now and figured i might as well just go ahead and put it out there! in my head this is david's clark, but the profile pic is tom's clark bc he's my fav, and either way it can be whichever version of him you want hahaha happy reading!! (also i swear I'll get my masterlists up soon!! I've just been busy) - Emmy ❤️

Summary: Clark Kent gets to interview a world-famous singer, but his questions reveal a bit more than fans thought they'd ever get.

Pairing(s): Clark Kent x famous!singer!fem!reader

Word Count: 1.2k

Content/Warnings: not much that i can think of, not proofread (who's surprised), fluffy, reader is described as feminine but only once or twice, people jumping to conclusions??, idk if i missed something lmk!!

Masterlist | Clark Kent/Superman Masterlist

“There’s the superstar,” the man says as he’s given the cue that the cameras are rolling. “Thank you for agreeing to do this interview. I know it’s a bit different from how the Planet usually does things.”

“Well, I think it’s a fun change. Besides, I’d do anything for my favorite journalist, Mr. Kent,” you reply.

“It’s hardly fair to pick favorites.” He gives you a schoolboy grin, one that’s all too irresistible.

“When other reporters start treating me as kindly as you, maybe then I’ll play fair.” You match his tone, giving him a sickly sweet smile in return. He really is your favorite, and you don’t see a point in lying about that.

“I’m gonna get right into things if that’s alright with you,” he changes the topic, raising a brow and trying his best to hide the blush creeping up his neck.

“Go right ahead, Mr. Kent.”

“I’d like to start with your latest album. If I recall correctly, there was quite the uproar as you were releasing the track titles. Was there not?”

“There was! I’ve been known for writing breakup songs for quite a while now, so when the track titles sounded like love songs, I think it weirded out the fans a bit. Some of them were freaking out, thinking I’d been tied down. Others were theorizing, swearing it was some kind of deep fake, plot twist situation.”

“So, what inspired the genre change, a new muse perhaps?” He leaned forward the slightest bit, narrowing his eyes. Saying he was interested to hear your answer would be an understatement, even if it is more for personal interest than reporting sake.

Failing to stifle a smile, you cross your legs, getting more comfortable in your seat. “Something like that. I guess I just wanted to prove I could do more than angsty breakups. I can do all of the sweet, mushy stuff, too, and I suppose there was a part of me that wanted to show the world that I’m capable of more.”

“Well, I think you’ve done just that. You accomplished a lot with the writing, but also with the feel of the album. Speaking of the writing, it feels different compared to past albums, aside from just the topic. Was there a change in technique or maybe some new inspiration, style-wise?” He takes a moment to push his glasses up his nose, and you can’t help but take notice of just how unfairly attractive it is.

“Yeah! I’ve always been inspired by the artists I grew up listening to, but I wanted this album to really stand out. So, I also took some inspiration from newer or younger artists. I mean, I’ve always admired Taylor Swift for her way with words, so I took the time and worked on my wording, tried to be more descriptive. Sabrina Carpenter is a newer artist that I’ve loved to watch grow, and it’s difficult not to admire how adorably scandalous she can be. I think that’s definitely prominent in one or two of the songs from the new album. So, yeah, in short, I’ve expanded my style in multiple ways, and there are plenty of artists I was inspired by!”

“Speaking of scandalous, I think you surprised a lot of fans with Track Seven. Was there something, or someone, in particular that inspired the mood shift?” His face is beet red, and it makes you grin like the Cheshire Cat.

“Yeah, I mean, honestly, with certain lines from some of my previous songs, I think people have kinda been waiting for a song like that from me for a while now. It’s probably not exactly what they expected either, but you know, everyone deserves to feel sexy every once in a while. At the end of the day, that’s what Track Seven is really about, innuendos aside.”

“Clearing his throat, he moves the interview along, “Well said. Now, I know you’re focus is most likely on this album, but I have to ask about any future plans you might have. Maybe a tour? Or, if we’re lucky enough, a sister album?”

“Well, unfortunately, there’s no sister album,” you both share a laugh, “but the idea of a tour has been tossed around. There are no official plans yet, but we’re certainly not against it.”

“Also concerning future projects, sort of, you have a music video premiering just a few hours after this interview will be posted. What can fans expect?”

“Ooh! I like this question! For starters, the video is the first single of the album, Track Eleven, and I really just wanted to make viewers feel how I felt while writing that song. So, I guess you could expect the whimsy, love-struck feel of the song to shine through.”

“I can’t wait to watch it, then,” he gives you another one of those boyish grins, and you can’t help but flush.

“I certainly hope you enjoy it, Mr. Kent.”

“I have no doubt that I will. Now, I’m sure you know I have more, uh, gossipy questions for you.”

“Hit me with your best shot.” You already know exactly what’s coming.

“With the topic of your album, people have been speculating about your love life even more than usual. On top of the album, I believe in a recent Instagram post of yours, there was a shiny ring on a pretty important finger. Is there any truth to these rumors, or are they nothing more than speculation?”

Again, you can’t fight the grin on your face, and subconsciously, your right hand moves to play with the ring that should be on your left ring finger. “No, their detective skills are quite on par with this one. Just about a month and a half ago, I got married.”

The reporter’s cheeks blaze once more. “Is there anything you’d like to share about him? He sounds pretty lucky to have landed someone like you.”

“I think I’m the lucky one, Mr. Kent,” you can’t hide the twinkle in your eyes. “He’s the most selfless and generous man I’ve ever met. I don’t know what I’d do without him.” You’re beaming, glowing even, and Clark wants to commit the sight to memory.

“Was the outing of your marriage pre-discussed, or is he getting thrown under the bus here?” He takes a teasing tone once more, his confidence returning a bit.

“Oh, I’m totally throwing him under the bus. Honestly, I didn’t think you’d ask about it. You’re usually one to stay away from tabloid gossip and fan rumors, Mr. Kent.”

“Color me curious,” he shrugs. The producer signals that your time is almost up from off-screen, so Clark begins to wrap things up, “Alright, well, our time is coming to an end, so I’ll go ahead with the last question if that’s alright with you.”

“Ask away.”

“With these on-camera interviews, the Daily Planet likes to give the interviewee a chance to become the interviewer. So, is there anything you’d like to ask me?”

You don’t hesitate. “Just once thing, Mr. Kent,” you start with a wicked grin, “How long is the Planet gonna let my husband interview me?”

“Well, I’d say until you stop giving him exclusive answers, Mrs. Kent, or until that camera stops rolling.”

“Like I said before, anything for my favorite reporter.”

Taglist: @heartsforjh @nic0-hischier @alexxavicry @cosmixstar

Join the Taglist ❤️

It can be quite scary to share your thoughts on someone's writing, but here is a way for you to do so completely anonymously!! Please take a moment to fill out this Feedback Form !! It helps so much more than you know!

Reblogs help as well!! If you feel comfortable with it and enjoyed this fic, please give it a quick reblog!

Thank you, my loves! MWAH ❤️

~ Emmy

#emmy's writing #clark kent x reader #clark kent #clark kent x you #clark kent imagine #superman #superman x reader #superman x you #superman imagine #superman fluff #clark kent fluff

261 notes · View notes

sereia4skz · 23 hours ago

Note

Hi!! Congrats on 2k followers! 🤩 I feel like I just followed you and you were just celebrating 1k. (Or maybe I just found that stuff first and followed then 😂)

Can I request a drabble or a one-shot of Changbin x f!reader? He starts feeling attracted to her but is so worried he may hurt her because of his strength, that he makes sure to never mention it. And maybe it gets so bad that he leaves the room/area if she is also there and just he can't ignore the urges, maybe even starts to actively avoid her. Until she corners him and (gently) demands why, thinking she accidentally did something to offend him and wants to fix whatever went wrong. And when she finally figures it out, she still offers to help relieve some of that tension 😏 you know, since she's there to help take care of them and all...

And maybe one of the others almost catches them just because Changbin is just so dang loud 😅

Thank you hon! And congratulations again!!

-⚡️anon (hopefully no one else has taken that emoji yet)

2k Followers Event | too much, too big?

pairing: changbin x fem!reader

synopsis: big, strong oni scared of hurting his princess with his affections

warnings: oni!changbin, soft smut, hurt/comfort, size kink, little voyeur (hyunjin)

event masterlist: #2kShootingStars

━━━━━━━━━━━━⋆｡°✩

AN: that emoji works heheh

━━━━━━━━━━━━⋆｡°✩

Changbin has stopped sitting beside you. You notice it slowly, like the ache after a bruise blooms. A shift in shadows. A lack of warmth at your shoulder when the nights grow cold.

He still laughs too loudly in the communal space. Still chops wood like it insulted him. Still gets sulky when Jeongin hides his favorite mug. But if you enter a den, he leaves it. If you ask him a question, he answers without looking up. If you catch his gaze, it drops to the floor. His hand never brushes yours anymore. His voice never dips into that private tone it used to save just for you.

At first you thought you’d imagined it. Now you think you made a mistake. Somehow.

He used to carve you little charms, clumsy and sweet, tucked under your tea cup or pillow, left by the door when you had hard days. You haven’t found one in weeks. It hurts more than it should. And it’s worse today.

You’re elbow-deep in the herb shed, re-shelving dried roots, when Changbin walks in with a crackle of heat and tension, and instantly goes still. You watch him. He watches the floor. And then, without a word, he turns and walks back out.

That’s it. You wipe your hands on your apron, march out after him, and catch him before he can vanish into the trees.

“Changbin.”

He stops. His shoulders rise with the breath he drags in, heavy and reluctant.

You catch up and step in front of him, planting yourself between him and his favorite escape path.

“What is going on?” you demand, more gentle than angry, but still firm. “Did I do something? Say something wrong? Did I cross a line I didn’t see?”

His eyes finally meet yours. They’re burning. Not angry but wild, like fire that’s fought too long against damp wood.

“No,” he says, too quickly. “No. You didn’t. You’re fine.”

“You’re avoiding me.”

He doesn’t argue. That almost hurts more.

“I miss you, Binnie,” you whisper.

He winces. Actually winces.

“I’m too much,” he mutters. “That’s the problem.”

Your breath catches.

He lifts a hand and runs it over his horns, frustrated, ashamed. “I’m trying not to be. I’m trying to keep a distance. That’s all.”

“Why?” Your voice cracks. “Because you think you’ll hurt me?”

“I know I will.”

His voice is low. Raw. “You don’t understand. Every time you smile at me, I can barely breathe. Every time you touch me, I think about touching back, and I don’t know how to be gentle enough. I can punch through trees. I split a mountain open. I’m-I’m not built for soft things.”

“You are,” you say instantly. “You are soft. You’re gentle, and warm, and-”

“You make me want too much,” he says, choking on it. “And I can’t. I won’t risk it. You deserve someone who doesn’t have to hold back every second they’re near you just to keep from ruining everything.”

You reach up, cup his face. His breath stutters. His cheeks burn.

“Then don’t hold back,” you murmur. “Or if you have to… let me help you.”

His eyes widen.

“I’m here to take care of all of you,” you say, leaning in. “All your aches. All your tension. Even the ones you don’t ask for help with.”

His chest heaves. “You don’t know what you’re offering.”

“I do,” you say. “And I want you.”

Something inside him snaps.

His hands, big, rough, trembling, catch your waist like you’re a lifeline, but he still hesitates.

You reach up, touching his jaw, and feel how tightly it’s clenched. “Binnie,” you whisper, “I’m not afraid of you.”

“You should be,” he breathes, but it’s not a threat, it’s a warning. A plea. He tries to step back.

You tug him closer. Your fingers trail down his arms, feeling the raw strength in them. His biceps jump beneath your touch. His hands twitch where they hover at your hips, like he doesn’t dare settle them there. But you guide him. Let him feel the way you arch into his grip, not away from it.

“You’ve never hurt me,” you say, softer now, lips brushing his. “Even when you wanted to.”

His breath stutters. His forehead drops to yours.

“I think about it too much,” he says, voice cracking. “How it would feel to have you under me. Wrapped around me. Crying because I’m too deep and you love it… Fuck, I think about it and I want to lose control,”

You’re already wet. You swallow and take his wrists, guiding his hands beneath your shirt. His fingers flex once, then still.

“Then lose it,” you murmur. “I’ll tell you if I want to stop. But I trust you.”

That’s what undoes him. He growls, low and guttural, and lifts you like you’re nothing, one arm under your thighs, the other tight around your back, and your spine presses into a tree as he mouths hungrily at your neck.

“Too soft,” he mutters between kisses. “Too small. You’re gonna break.”

“Then break me.”

His claws dig into the bark behind your head. “Fuck.”

Your clothes come off in pieces, pulled and pushed and peeled away with a desperation that makes your head spin. His eyes drink in every new inch of skin like it’s proof you’re real, and really his.

He sinks to his knees again, this time without hesitation, huge shoulders parting your legs as he hooks one over his shoulder. You gasp at the sudden exposure. He breathes in deep and shudders.

“So fucking sweet,” he whispers. “You smell like want.” Then he drags his tongue up your slit in one long, filthy lick and groans.

Your fingers fly to his hair, tangling instinctively, and his claws grip your thighs to keep you steady. Even with one arm under your ass, he’s holding you up like it takes no effort at all. His tongue is thick and hot and relentless, circling your clit, dipping inside, then back to your clit again until your thighs are trembling and your eyes roll.

“You’re dripping,” he growls, voice muffled. “Fucking soaking for me.”

You choke on a moan. “I- fuckyes, yes, Binnie,”

He groans again. His horns press against your inner thighs now, spreading you open for him. His mouth is wild. He’s wild.

And still, every time your breath stutters too hard, or your hips jerk too much, he pauses, looks up like he’s checking if you’re okay.

You grab his face, desperate. “More.”

His restraint snaps. He stands again, mouth and chin soaked, and slams his lips to yours. You taste yourself on his tongue. His hand shoves between your legs, fingers thick and hot, spreading your slick as he presses one inside, and God, he’s big.

Your gasp turns into a high whine. His brow furrows. “Too much?”

“No!” You grind against his hand. “Just.. more.”

He adds another. Your jaw drops. His fingers stretch you wide and he’s not even trying. His thumb brushes your clit and you jerk in his arms.

“Shit,” he whispers, watching your face. “You feel so fucking good, look at you. Taking my fingers like you were made for them.”

His voice drops to a growl, right against your ear. “Think you can take my cock?”

You whimper. “Want it, need it.”

He groans like it hurts. You only realize how long he’s been hard when he finally frees himself, thick, flushed, massive in his palm. He strokes once, then lines himself up, panting against your throat.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says again. “But I can’t wait anymore.”

You wrap your arms around his neck and whisper, “Then don’t wait.”

The stretch burns. He goes slow at first, inch by inch, burying his face in your neck and whimpering, the demon is whimpering, because you’re so tight, so hot, and trying so hard to take him.

“Fuck, fuck, you feel like heaven. Shit- Too much. Can’t stop-”

You’re sobbing by the time he bottoms out. Not from pain, not quite, but the overwhelming fullness. You’ve never felt like this before, so stretched, so completely owned by the weight and length of him.

“Tell me,” he pants, “tell me if it’s too much, I’ll pull out, I swear-”

Your voice is a wreck. “Don’t you dare.”

He makes a desperate, ruined sound, and fucks into you. The tree behind you shakes with every thrust. Your back scrapes bark, your moans turn ragged, and your legs are locked tight around his waist. He grinds deep, slow at first, then faster as your nails dig into his shoulders and you scream his name.

“Taking me so well,” he groans. “You’re so small, baby, look at you, stuffed full-”

Somewhere not far, closer than either of you realize, a low rustle of branches stills. Rooted behind a cluster of mossy ferns, the forest hears everything.

He doesn’t even mean to look, but he catches one glimpse through the trees. You. Writhing. Arms around Changbin’s neck. A flash of teeth and sweat and flushed skin. Changbin’s back flexed, hips moving.

Hyunjin yelps. Out loud. Then bolts.

His foot snaps a branch as he crashes through the undergrowth like a deer in mating season.

Back in the clearing, Changbin freezes mid-thrust.

“…Did you hear that?” he pants.

You blink, dazed. “Don't stop…” you whine.

He grins. “Not planning to,” before picking up his movement again.

He presses a hand to your belly, eyes wide. “I can feel myself inside you. Holy fuck!”

You sob. Your orgasm crashes hard, suddenly, and shattering. Your body clenches so tight around him that he gasps, stutters, then slams deep again and cums, loud, brutal, holding you as his hips stutter and pulse.

Even after, he doesn’t move for a long time. He keeps you close. Keeps whispering that you’re okay, that he’s sorry, that he loves the way you feel, the way you held him, the way you looked falling apart.

Your thighs ache. Your pussy pulses, wrecked and overfilled. And you feel safer than you ever have.

━━━━━━━━━━━━⋆｡°✩

taglist: @diekleinesuesse @tillaboo @felixsonlyrealwife @geni-627 @skz8riley @lezleeferguson-120 @pixie-felix @headfirstfortoro @alnex05 @baby-stay92 @encoredesires @androgynouscrownorbit @channiesluvrclub @my-neurodivergent-world @chims-dimple @bookswillfindyouaway @stellasays45 @angel-writes-skz-here @m-325 @0sunshinecryptid0 @beal-o @hug4helios @oksullen @rileylovescats @dreamyfelixx @yxna-bliss @turtledove824 @enhacolor @skzz0213 @hannahlue @purplelady85 @velvetmoonlght @inishij @bangchanspineapple @straykids4lifeee @peskybirdysya @gnabsss @zayn-210 @wolfhallows4 @katsukis1wife @sammhisphere @bangchanspineapple @sunfk88 @sillyseob @rougegenshin @yaorzu-blog @babigriin @tricky-ritz

#2kshootingstars #stray kids x reader #skz x reader #skz imagines #stray kids #changbin smut #seo changbin x reader #changbin x reader #changbin stray kids #seo changbin #stray kids au

212 notes · View notes

ackermanrage · 3 days ago

Note

ngl can i request a levi x fem!reader one shot smut where he’s the bottom lmao 😂 its his first time being intimate cuz i imagine being as busy as he is, he’s never really had time to think or do any of those things. and now that hes with reader hes having a hard time grappling with these dirty thoughts of her. so she teaches him where to make her feel good + they’re more so making love than just fucking?

idk what im doing but i hope you like it :)

Levi had never had time for things like this.

Desire wasn’t something he’d let himself feel. There were always more important things—missions, injuries, orders, blood on the floor and bodies to burn. Lust? It was just another weakness to scrub out of himself like a stain.

And then he met you.

And now—now he was plagued. Ravaged by thoughts of you. The slope of your neck, the little sigh you let out when you stretched, the way your fingers sometimes brushed his arm when you walked past. It wasn't just physical. You made him feel warm. You made him feel like there was time.

He wanted you in ways he didn’t understand.

And that terrified him.

You figured it out long before he said anything.

Levi was many things—disciplined, unreadable, precise. But around you, his armor cracked. You saw it in the way his hands trembled sometimes when they touched your hips. How his eyes lingered on your mouth but never your eyes when you kissed too long.

You didn’t rush him.

But one night, with the quiet of the barracks behind you and the moonlight painting silver on his cheekbone, he sat on the edge of your bed with fists clenched in his lap and said,

“I’ve never done this before.”

You tilted your head. “This?”

He nodded, like it shamed him. “Any of it. I never had time. Or space. Or anyone I trusted.”

You crossed to him and knelt between his knees. “You trust me now?”

His voice was barely above a whisper. “I think I always did.”

You leaned up and kissed him. “Then let me show you.”

He was quiet as you undressed him, letting you tug off his cravat, unbutton his shirt. His hands were shaking, so you covered them with your own.

“You’re allowed to want this,” you said softly.

He nodded, eyes darting to the floor. “I just don’t know what I’m doing.”

“You don’t have to. That’s my job tonight.”

He swallowed hard, voice breaking a little. “Okay.”

The first time your lips wrapped around his cock, Levi whimpered.

The sound caught even him off guard. He stared down at you, lips parted, a silent tremor in his chest like he was watching something sacred and terrifying at once.

You moved slowly, tenderly, making sure he felt everything. You wanted him to learn the way his own body could melt. And it did—his thighs tense under your hands, his brows knit, one hand gripping the bedsheet like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

“Shit,” he gasped. “I—fuck, I can’t—”

You let him slip free with a gentle pop and kissed his thigh.

“You don’t have to hold back, Levi,” you whispered. “Just feel. That’s all you have to do.”

You guided him inside you with steady hands, kissing him through the tremble in his breath.

His eyes were squeezed shut. “You’re so warm,” he murmured. “I didn’t know it could feel like this.”

You rocked your hips, slowly, letting him get used to it. His hands came to your waist, not guiding—just holding. Like he needed the weight of you to believe this was real.

“You feel good?” you asked.

He opened his eyes, looked up at you like you were something holy.

“You feel like everything I never let myself want.”

You moved together like something slow and sacred.

Levi was flushed, lips parted, gaze never leaving yours. Every time you rolled your hips, his brows furrowed like he was going to cry from the pleasure.

You took his hand and guided it between your legs, showing him where to touch, how to press.

“Here,” you whispered, curling his fingers just right. “This is where you make me feel good.”

He watched with wonder, hand stroking you the way you taught him, eyes wide as he felt your hips shudder.

“You’re close,” he breathed.

You smiled. “So are you.”

He came first.

With a moan that broke into a gasp, he buried his face in your neck, trembling beneath you. His arms wrapped tight around your waist like he was scared you’d vanish when it was over.

But you didn’t.

You stayed.

You kissed his temple. You rocked him through it. You let him breathe.

And when you came moments later, Levi stared at you like he was watching the sun rise for the first time.

Later, tangled in the sheets with your head on his chest and his fingers stroking lazy shapes into your back, he whispered,

“I never thought I’d get to have this.”

You kissed the underside of his jaw. “You do now.”

He nodded slowly, voice tight.

“I want to learn everything.”

You smiled.

“I’ll teach you.”

taglist: @lvstyangel @alebrasil0101 @creati-bunny @porcelain-soupspoon4 @r4td0lll @wedypopcytragedy @nxcxllxsevens @levkuna @glads-stuff @bnbaochauuu @maskedbunni @auriuswolve

©ackermanrage - please do not copy, translate, or plagiarize my work!

217 notes · View notes

thebubblesareevil · 2 days ago

Text

Danny’s core

I REALLY should be sleeping but instead I can’t stop thinking about an idea I had for Danny’s core.

So I’ve seen him have an ice core, I even have a headcannon that he has that because ice is a poor conductor but like…

Danny has a space obsession….

Danny is dead…

Danny has ice powers…

What’s something dead that’s found in space that also happens to be incredibly cold????

THATS RIGHT!!

Danny’s core is actual a black hole!!!

Additionally, what if a ghost core isn’t always solidified??? Like the ghost has the be weakened enough to reveal their core or they have to actively solidify it for it to be touched.

So imagine if you will that we have a vivisection fic and the ghosts are trying to save Danny, not just because they actually care about him, but also because they know that if Danny’s core solidifies it will consume everything around him and he’d never forgive himself.

Or for a dc x dp prompt the Justice league rushes to amity park because they have to figure out how a black hole is forming in Illinois!

Or even Danny getting summoned in his giant Erdrich space form and Darkseid or some other big bad challenges him and as a last resort or just to show that they never had a chance to begin with, he opens up his chest and theyre dragged into his core!

I really need to sleep. I’m probably not gonna.

I gotta get up for work in 2 hrs ��

Insomnia is a bitch.my cat is taunting me with her snores.

Adding this on because I forgot about Dan for a minute but it works for him too but not in the same way!!

I’ve seen a lot of fanart where he has a fire core/fire powers, well wouldn’t you know it, the material around a black hole is stupid levels of hot!!!

Kinda like you ripped out the central mass of the black hole and the material left behind attached itself to the nearest gravitational force! Such a Dan attaching himself to plasmius and forming an entirely new ghost but retaining bits of his original core!!

I shouldn’t ramble about ghosts and science when I’m this tired!!

#danny phantom #ghost king danny #dc x dp #brain vomit #insomnia my old foe #ghost cores #black holes #not sure if this has been done before #too tired to find out

189 notes · View notes

glossdebut · 2 days ago

Text

as you are | MYG ★ pt. 1

✧ PAIRING: rapper!yoongi x stripper!reader

✧ SUMMARY: It was supposed to be one night, one lap, one bag secured. But Min Yoongi doesn’t play like the others—he watches like he sees you, listens like he means it, and touches like he has no intention of letting go. But forever doesn’t come easy for you—and if falling for him means facing every part of yourself you swore you’d never let anyone touch? You’re going to have to figure out if it’s worth it.

✧ TAGS: smut, fluff, angst, agust d but make it ginger!yoongi, stripper!reader, MC’s dancer name is lilith, strip club meet cute but it’s not actually cute at all, MC calls yoongi superstar eight (8) times, yoongi is RRRRICH, MC is the queen of boundaries, yoongi is the king of communication, this is just the calm before the storm so enjoy it now while things are still light and fun and flirty

✧ WARNINGS: implied/referenced sexual harassment but it’s pretty light, recreational marijuana use, THREE (3) SMUT SCENES, this chapter is truthfully just a lot of suckin’ and fuckin’ but BEAR WITH ME i’m setting the stage! nsfw warnings under the cut (MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!)

✧ WORDCOUNT: 14.1k

✧ AUTHOR’S NOTE: welcome to part one of whatever the fuck this is lol. i was and remain possessed don’t look at me.

thank you claret @yoonmetogether, K @ktownshizzle, and april @ggukivrse for beta reading this baby! your feedback and severe thirst for this particular yoongi was much appreciated <3 and another big thank you to cherish @strwbyoons for making this beautiful header for me!!!

pls drop your feedback in the comments/reblogs or my inbox! i can’t wait to hear what everyone thinks!

✧ NSFW WARNINGS: lap dances (obviously), semi-public sex/sex in the workplace (strip club), dirty talk (par for the course for my yoongis but this MC gives it just as good lol), vaginal fingering, oral (m. & f. receiving), protected vaginal sex, yoongi has a huge cawk (canon), multiple orgasms, unprotected vaginal sex, pulling out, these two have me scaling my fucking walls fr

You smooth your hands down your thighs as you wait behind the curtain, watching the crowd with a lazy, practiced gaze. Same regulars. Same dead-eyed finance bros.

But tonight, tucked into the VIP corner like he owns the fucking building, sits someone very different.

Agust D. Min fucking Yoongi. In your club.

It’s not like you never get celebrities in here. They drift through sometimes—athletes, influencers, C-list actors. It happens enough that none of the girls get starstruck about it, more focused on fighting over who gets to work their booth and get the payout that comes with.

But this guy? He’s in a whole different fucking ballpark. Your best friend, Drea, literally has his picture hanging up in her dressing room locker. You see his face at the start of every one of your shifts.

Tonight, he looks a bit different from the photo you’re familiar with. His hair is shorter on the sides, not to mention a completely different color. You can’t tell exactly under the neon wash of the room—red, maybe? Orange?

But it’s definitely him, you’re sure of it.

“Holy shit,” you mumble under your breath, glancing at Drea where she leans against the velvet edge of the curtain beside you. Even if you weren’t convinced before, the way she’s staring at him confirms it.

She doesn’t look away, just bites at a manicured fingernail and hisses, “I know. I know. What the fuck.”

You snort. “You gonna go over there?”

You wouldn’t blame her, honestly. Getting to grind up on the man she obsesses over on the daily, and get paid for it? You may be up next on the stage, but you’ll let her fight for her shot if she wants him. You’re shocked he’s not being swarmed already. He must’ve just sat down.

Drea jerks her head around so fast you think she might’ve cracked something. “Are you insane? I’d have a heart attack. Like, a real one. On his lap. EMTs would have to drag my body off that man.”

You laugh and slide your fingers under the waistband of your outfit, making final adjustments. “Alright. Just making sure. Because he’s hot as hell in person, and I’ve got bills.”

She gives you a flat look. “Bitch, be my guest. Make him pay all of them.”

You peek back out. He’s relaxed in his seat, legs spread, drink in hand, all black outfit draped over him like sin. The friends he has with him are hyped, but he just watches the stage, quiet and unreadable, like he’s seen it all before. Maybe he has.

But he hasn’t seen you yet.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome to the stage—Lilith,” the DJ calls.

You step out into the light, hips swaying, and Min Yoongi’s gaze cuts to you like a blade through silk.

Your routine is good. You know it is.

Your pole work is solid, even if you keep it simple. Smooth transitions, clean lines. You don’t try to impress with flashy tricks—that’s Drea’s strong suit, and she kills it every time. You’re happy to leave the acrobatics to her. You know your strengths. You’ve got control, grace, a slow-burn kind of sex appeal that seems to work in your favor.

You start with a slow climb, letting your body stretch and curve around the chrome. One leg hooked, your torso arching back in a lazy bend. You dip into a spin, catching the light with the shimmer of your skin.

Then the beat drops, and so do you.

A graceful slide down into a split, heels carving clean lines against the stage before you curl in and roll to your knees. You transition to the floor like it’s liquid, like you’re melting for them.

Your floor work is really where you shine—when you’ve got your hands in your hair, body arching syrupy slow. You know how to make the room lean in.

And tonight, you’re dialed in.

Not performing for the room, though. Not really. You’ve got your target, thanks to Drea.

Yoongi’s still lounging in his seat, legs spread wide like he owns the fucking air around him. There’s a low amber glow from the table’s lamp, lighting up his face in soft shadow and sharp jawline. His friends are still loud—laughing, passing drinks, shouting over the music—but he’s quiet.

Because he’s watching you.

So, yeah. You make eye contact.

Not the flirty, sugary-sweet kind either. It’s heavier than that. Curious. Calculated. Like you’re sizing him up—what kind of man are you, really?

You drag your palm down your chest, slow and deliberate, and when you tilt your head toward him, his mouth moves—just the slightest curl, like he’s smiling at something only he knows.

The bass hums its final note, low and vibrating. You roll to your knees and rise with the beat’s last echo, flipping your hair back as you stand.

The bouncer on stage duty has been raking your tips in as your last song ended, scooping the bills into a bucket. He takes your hand to help you down from the stage, and you collect the money that’s been tucked under the straps of your outfit.

You stuff your earnings in your purse as the DJ announces the next dancer on deck. On a normal night, you’d head back to the dressing room before you work the floor. Sip some water, check your makeup, take a breather.

But you’ve got a narrow window before the next girl distracts Agust motherfucking D. So you move.

Confident steps, hips still swaying just enough to hold his gaze. And he is still looking—those heavy-lidded eyes tracking your approach like he knew you were coming for him.

Good.

You don’t ask permission. Just slide into his lap like you belong there, one arm hooking loosely around his neck as you settle in. His friends howl, someone whistles, and Yoongi lets out a low chuckle that vibrates through his chest.

“Damn,” he says lazily, his deep drawl smoothing over the syllable. “Didn’t even have time to miss you.”

You smile, close-lipped and sly. “Didn’t wanna risk you falling in love with the next girl before I got a chance.”

He huffs, sharp and amused, and tilts his head, letting his gaze roam down your body. Up close, he’s even better than you expected. Skin smooth, jaw sharp, chain glinting under the lights. He smells expensive.

You lean in, just a little. “So… tell me, superstar. Did you like my set?”

His lips part like he’s about to answer, but he doesn’t speak right away—just lets his eyes linger on your mouth, like he’s debating how honest he wants to be.

“Yeah. I liked it.” A pause. He drags his fingers up the curve of your thigh. “You’ve got good taste in music.”

“High praise coming from you.”

“Damn right it is,” he says with a smirk that’s smug as hell. “Thought I’d spend the night counting ceiling tiles in this place.”

“Oh, he’s a critic,” you tease, giggling easily. “Glad I didn’t bore you to death, then.”

Yoongi hums. “Not bored.” His eyes dip again. “Not even close.”

You recognize an opening when you hear one, so you take it.

“So,” you purr, dragging a nail lightly over the chain around his neck, “you want a private dance, baby? Or you just gonna keep letting your boys spend all the money while you sit here lookin’ pretty?”

“What if I like sitting here?” Yoongi asks. “You’re kinda nice like this.”

You arch a brow. “And I’m even nicer back there.”

That earns a soft laugh, and his fingers tap a slow rhythm against your thigh—thinking, teasing, stalling. He’s probably making you work for it. Doesn’t matter. You can play.

“You always this forward?” he finally asks, amused.

“Only when I know what I want,” you shoot back. “And right now? I wanna get you alone and show you what I can really do. You can sit back and look pretty there, too, if you want.”

He exhales a soft chuckle, head tilting, tongue tucked behind his teeth like he’s thinking about it—but his hand’s already on your waist, fingertips dipping just beneath the strap of your outfit.

His eyes flick up to yours, and that little smirk deepens like he’s finally decided.

Then, slow and deliberate, he slips two fingers under the strap of your bra and tucks a crisp bill against your skin—folded, thick, more than generous. His knuckles drag along the swell of your breast before he lets the strap snap back into place.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Fuck it. Let’s go.”

You don’t wait for him to change his mind.

You slip off his lap, holding a hand out to him like a dare. His friends hoot behind him, but Yoongi doesn’t react. He just slips his hand into yours, rising from his seat.

You lead him upstairs, past the curtains, down the narrow hall lit by red LEDs. You know the walk by heart—each bend, each creak in the floor—but it feels different with him behind you. Like you’re walking with a loaded gun tucked in your waistband.

The room’s small. There’s a velvet couch, a mirrored wall, a set-up for your music, a small table where you drop your purse. You motion him inside with a playful flick of your fingers.

“Sit back, superstar.”

He does. Spreads his legs like before. Leans into the couch like it’s a throne. You slide the door closed behind you and click on your playlist that he likes so much.

Time to earn it.

You step toward him slowly, eyes dragging up his body, and straddle him without settling your weight. Instead, you just hover, teasing a little before you get started.

“Okay,” you say, voice soft as your lips brush the shell of his ear, “so technically…”

You roll your hips in time with the music, just enough to make him feel the heat between you without giving him all of it.

“…you’re not allowed to touch.”

Yoongi hums, eyes dropping to your mouth like he’s weighing consequences. His hands stay planted to the couch. “That so?”

You nod. “House rules.”

He smirks. “What happens if I break ‘em?”

“Usually? I’d stop the dance and get one of the guys to throw you out.”

You let that hang in the air for a moment. Then you lean closer, nose brushing his cheek, lips near his jaw.

“But I like you,” you whisper, like you’re letting him in on a secret. “So maybe, maybe I’d be willing to bend the rules.”

Yoongi’s hands are still on the couch cushions, but his fingers twitch like they want to move. Like he’s just waiting for the green light.

You rock your hips a little lower, just enough contact to pull a soft breath from his lips.

“Just a little,” you murmur. “Just for you.”

His eyes flick up to yours, dark and hungry now, the tease burned off into something heavier. His voice is low when he speaks.

“How am I allowed to touch you, then?” he asks, tilting his head as his eyes rake over your moving form. “Where, baby?”

Your hands slide up his chest, nails dragging lightly over the collar of his shirt as you lean in, lips a breath from his.

“Nowhere’s off limits,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “Except my pussy.”

His tongue flicks over his bottom lip like he’s tasting your words. You lean closer, brushing your nose against his, eyes locked.

“But you gotta be gentle,” you add.

“Gentle,” he repeats, and you revel in the strain in his voice. “Yeah, I can do that.”

You lower yourself fully onto his lap now, bare skin against denim, and his hands finally rise to touch. His palms are warm and slow as they settle on your hips, thumbs dragging little circles over your skin.

You shiver, just slightly. You weren’t lying. You do like him.

Your own hands find his hair, because you want to feel how soft it is. It’s a coppery orange, you note, the color visible this close. And it is soft, silky and thick under your fingers as you ease his head back, just a little, guiding his eyes to yours. You roll your hips against him, teasing, slow grind right along the length of his thigh.

Then, surprising you, he grabs a handful of your ass.

You giggle—honest, breathy, caught off guard by the confidence. By the fact that of course that’s where he went first.

“Oh,” you purr, playful, “is that what you like? Should I tell the world that Agust D is an ass man?”

Yoongi’s mouth curves, but he doesn’t answer. Just tightens his grip, pulling you closer so you’re pressed flush against him.

His hands leave your skin for a moment, but before you can question it, you feel him slip a few crisp bills into the strap of your panties, right where your hip curves. You don’t look down to count—don’t need to. It’s thick. He’s not stingy.

You roll your hips in a slow circle, drag your hands down his chest, and lean in close.

“Damn, superstar… that’s real generous of you.” Your voice drips gratitude, sultry and teasing all at once. “Not gonna lie, I’m feelin’ real appreciated right now.”

You let your lips brush just below his jaw, featherlight, like a thank-you without saying it twice. Then you pull back and give him a wicked grin.

“And I haven’t even pulled out the good stuff yet.”

Yoongi exhales something between a laugh and a groan, head tipping back against the couch. You lean back slightly, just enough to shift his attention, give him a better view.

And then, cheeky little smile still in place, you tug the top of your outfit down. No ceremony, no big tease. Just peel it off and let your tits bounce free, soft and full and right in his face.

“Damn,” he breathes, sitting up a little straighter.

You cup them in your hands, press them together, giving him a perfect view. Then you pout, dramatic and teasing.

“They were feeling left out,” you explain.

Yoongi’s gaze is glued to your chest now, jaw slack, the smirk he’s been wearing all night replaced by something darker. Hungrier.

You slide your thumbs over your nipples, arching a little, letting out a soft sigh just to fuck with him. “You wanna fix that?”

His hands slide up from your waist to your ribs, warm and steady, and then higher. He doesn’t grab—he cups, firm but gentle, squeezing just enough to make your breath hitch. His thumbs brush over your nipples, mimicking the way you touched yourself, slow circles that tighten your spine and draw a soft, surprised moan from your throat.

The sound slips out before you can stop it—real this time, not for show—and it stuns you enough to look down and see the tension in his face.

Yoongi pulls back, jaw tight. “Nah,” he mutters, eyes still locked on your chest. “You’re dangerous.”

He’s got his hands on your waist again, still keeping it respectful. And you, now that you’re a few bills richer and sitting in the lap of one of the hottest men you’ve ever seen?

Yeah, you wanna push his buttons a little more.

Your hands slide up your own body, over your waist, up to your chest, and you press your tits together before leaning forward, bringing them right to his face.

Close enough to graze his cheek. Close enough for him to breathe you in.

“Yeah,” you whisper, lips brushing the edge of his ear. “You’re even finer up close, you know that?”

His eyes flick up to meet yours, but you don’t let him answer. You just smile and roll your hips against him again, making sure he feels everything through your panties.

“Sexy as fuck,” you continue, fingertips sliding into his hair. “Like… so fine it’s fuckin’ me up.”

You lean in closer, letting your chest press against his now as you grind slow and deep on his lap.

“You got me wet, superstar,” you sigh. “Soaked my fuckin’ panties and you haven’t even touched me for real.”

Yoongi swears under his breath as the crossfade on your playlist transitions into the next song.

Normally, this is where you’d end things. You’ve already given him more than any other guy you bring back here.

Instead, you’re still moving, tits brushing his chest, the heavy bass vibrating your skin—but your mind is somewhere else now.

Because his hands are perfect—big, warm, respectful but firm. And he’s looking at you like he wants to ruin you.

You’re supposed to keep the boundary. You set the boundary. No touching your pussy. It’s not just a club rule, although it is—it’s your rule. Keeps things clean. Keeps you in control. Some girls you work with break it. You don’t judge, but you’ve never personally felt tempted.

But this? This man?

Min fucking Yoongi. Agust D in the flesh. With that voice, those hands, that face, that money. You’re wet as hell in his lap and he hasn’t even done anything but watch you and feel you up a little. You’ve never had a client who’s gotten your stomach this tight and your panties this sticky.

You could be out on the floor, making more money. You’ve already gotten more out of him than you expected. But how many of those guys look at you like this?

You’re conflicted. And it shows—just for a second. The roll of your hips slows, your breath hitches, your eyes wander over his face.

He notices. Of course he does.

He tilts his head, almost smug. “Thinkin’ about breaking your rule?”

You bite your lip. His hand slides down and in, close enough to feel the heat between your thighs but not crossing that invisible line. Not yet.

Yoongi leans in. Closer. His voice is low, rough velvet against your throat.

“You want me to tell you?” he murmurs. “What I’d do if you let me?”

You swallow hard, nod just once. He smirks, slow and lethal.

“I’d start slow,” he says, fingers brushing higher along the inside of your thigh. “Take my time. Feel how wet you are through your panties first.”

You shiver. He keeps talking, voice darker now.

“Push them to the side, real gentle… so I can slide my fingers in. Just one first. Feel how tight you are. Then two.” He looks up, eyes locked with yours. “You’d let me, right?”

You breathe out a soft, desperate “yeah.”

His lips ghost along your jaw. “I’d fuck you with my fingers ‘til your legs start shaking. Make you cum on my hand and then taste it, right in front of you. Bet you’d taste so sweet.”

Your whole body tenses, thighs tightening around his.

“And if you’re real good,” he adds, thumb stroking dangerously close now, “I’d let you sit on my cock.”

You shake your head, slow. Barely a motion.

“Can’t fuck me,” you say, almost mournfully. “Not in here.”

Yoongi doesn’t argue. Doesn’t push.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Didn’t think you’d let me.”

His hand slides higher anyway, stopping just short of the crotch of your panties, and your hips stutter against his. Your breath catches.

“But everything else?”

You don’t answer at first. Because fuck.

You’re still straddling him in this dim little room that smells like money and sweat and sex. Still half-naked with your tits out and your panties soaked, pulse racing like someone just flipped the switch on your whole body.

And the way he’s looking at you? Like he wants to be the reason you break your own rules.

The fucking nerve.

You finally breathe, “The rest sounds… real fuckin’ good.”

Yoongi grins.

Your pulse is hammering, louder than the bass leaking through the speaker, louder than anything in your head except one fact: This is so against the rules.

But you know how not to get caught. You know where the cameras are on this floor—and more importantly, where they aren’t.

Private rooms are private, but that doesn’t mean that someone from management won’t peek their head in to check. You know how to angle your body and keep everything looking clean, just in case someone checks up on you.

You’ve seen the other girls do it—slipping into a VIP room and coming out twenty minutes later with their lipgloss wrecked and a full rent payment stuffed into their purse.

You don’t judge. Never have. This job? You do what you need to.

And right now, what you need is this—Yoongi’s hands on you, his voice in your ear, that low, filthy tone making goosebumps raise on your skin.

You shift forward, rolling your hips again like this is still just a dance, but slower now. You’re grinding right against his thigh, hiding the heat of it behind slow, practiced movements. The kind that wouldn’t raise eyebrows if someone glanced in.

His fingers ghost along the waistband of your panties, and he looks up at your face.

“You sure?” he asks, voice so low you feel it more than hear it. “Don’t wanna get you in trouble.”

“Yeah, just—“ Your hand slips behind his neck, tugging him closer. “Just keep your hands low, keep your voice quiet, and don’t make me moan too loud, okay?”

Yoongi’s responding laugh is soft, almost reverent. “Shit,” he says. “You’re perfect.”

His fingers dip just beneath the edge of your panties. You brace yourself against his shoulders, head tilted back, breath catching in your throat as he slides one finger inside—slow, careful, like he’s savoring every second. He curses under his breath, low and harsh, like the wet heat of you just knocked the air out of his lungs.

“Fuck,” he mutters, voice tight against your skin, “you feel fuckin’ unreal.”

You bite your lip, try to keep the whimper in, but it slips out anyway, soft and broken, right against his ear.

His finger curls inside you, then a second joins it, and your hips rock down without thinking, chasing the stretch, the pressure. His thumb brushes over your clit, slow, maddening, and your whole body jolts.

Yoongi’s jaw clenches. You can feel it. He’s trying to play it cool, but you know better.

Because his breath is ragged now, and his eyes keep flicking down to where his hand disappears between your thighs, and he’s gripping your waist like he’s holding himself back from something he really wants.

“What,” you whisper, teasing still even with the way he’s wrecking you, “wanna fuck me that bad?”

“Yeah,” he breathes, thumb circling harder now, “you have no fuckin’ idea.”

He’s imagining it. Shit, you are, too.

You wrapped around his cock. Squeezing him like this. Moaning his name while he fucks you into the velvet, into the walls, into next week.

You whimper at the thought, biting your lip to muffle the sound, clutching his shoulders as your thighs start to tremble around his lap. “Yoongi—fuck—”

“Yeah?” he rasps, thrusting his fingers slow and deep. “That feel good, baby? This what you needed?”

You nod helplessly, gasping into the crook of his neck as his fingers drag along your walls, wet and dirty and so fucking good.

Yoongi’s fingers pump into your soaked cunt with a rhythm that’s practiced, confident in how they curl just right, hitting exactly where you need him to. Your hips jerk, grinding yourself into his hand like you’re chasing something.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he murmurs, blown pupils staring up at you. “Ride my fingers. Fuck yourself on ’em.”

You can’t make a sound. You can’t—not here, not with the thin walls and the bouncers pacing the floor just outside. So when it hits you, fast and sharp, you bury your face into his neck and hold on.

Your breath catches, your body locks up, and you grab his shirt like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded. Fist curled in the fabric, knuckles white, trembling against his chest.

He groans when he feels it—how tight you squeeze around his fingers, how your whole body shudders on his lap, how your breath starts coming out in ragged little gasps right against his skin.

“Shh,” he coos, almost sweet, his free hand stroking your back while he keeps working you through it. “There you go, baby. That’s it. Quiet for me.”

You nod, forehead still pressed to his throat, trying to breathe, trying not to shake too hard. But you’re panting, warm exhales fanning over his collarbone, lips parted in a silent moan as you ride the last of it out.

Your hips twitch once more, then go still.

You finally loosen your grip on his shirt, just enough to lift your head. Your cheeks are flushed, your lashes damp, and Yoongi’s watching you like he’s trying to burn the image into his memory.

Then, just like he promised, he slips his fingers out of you, brings them to his mouth, and sucks.

He goes slow, deliberate, eyes locked on yours while his tongue curls around the taste of you. The sound you let out is somewhere between a moan and a laugh, fucked-out and disbelieving. You press your hand to his chest, shaking your head like you’re scolding him, but there’s no heat in it.

“You’re so mean,” you scoff.

Yoongi just smirks, fingers slipping from his mouth with a soft pop. “Didn’t want it to go to waste.”

You giggle and drag your nails lightly down his chest.

“Well,” you murmur, voice low and sweet and still dripping with heat, “I wanna do something for you now.”

Your palm flattens against his abs, sliding down slow until your nails are teasing over his belt.

“You’ve been real good to me, you know. Real generous,” you say, meeting his eyes. “Let me return the favor.”

Yoongi’s head tilts, lazy and amused. “Oh yeah?” he says. “What’re you gonna do, baby?”

You smirk as your fingers toy with the buckle of his belt.

“Whatever you want,” you say sweetly, dragging it out slow, “except fuck you.”

You kiss the corner of his mouth. “I told you. No fucking in here.”

He hums, but he’s clearly not mad about the boundary—especially not with the way you’re unfastening the belt like a promise.

“I can be good,” you say, grinning as you pop the button on his jeans. “Can be real good.”

Your fingers slide down the front of his briefs, finding him already hard, thick and heavy in your hand. You bite your lip and glance up at him, eyes gleaming.

“But I think I really want to suck your cock, superstar,” you say. “If you want.”

“Yeah?” he rasps, voice thick with disbelief.

You nod, sinking down to your knees between his legs like you were meant to be there, like the private room exists for this and nothing else.

“Only if you want,” you repeat, lashes fluttering.

Yoongi exhales a curse, spreading his knees a little wider, eyes fixed on you like he’s trying to memorize this second.

“Fuck yeah, I want,” he says. “But I don’t wanna get you busted for anything. If there’s a chance we’ll get caught—”

“We won’t,” you interrupt. You’re really only half-sure that that’s true, but you honestly don’t give a fuck anymore. “It’s okay, baby. Relax.”

He’s not really in a position to turn you down, hard as he is, so he just nods and watches as your hand slips under his waistband.

You get your hand around him, finally, and—fuck.

Yeah. Yeah, he’s big. Thick, hot, heavy against your palm, and you don’t even have him fully out yet. You glance up, eyes wide and playful, lips parted in a breathless little laugh.

“Oh, damn,” you say, stroking slow just to feel the weight of him. “You were gonna let me sit on this?”

You lean in and lick a slow stripe up the length of him, from base to tip, just to feel the way his thighs tighten under you. Then you wrap your lips around the head, sucking softly, letting your tongue swirl and tease.

“Fuuuck,” he hisses, hips twitching up toward your mouth. “You’re gonna fuckin’ kill me.”

You hum around him, taking him deeper inch by inch, your spit already dripping down your chin, down your hand as you stroke what you can’t fit yet. You look up at him while you do it and Yoongi groans, head tipping back against the couch, one hand buried in your hair without even thinking.

You hollow your cheeks and suck harder, start bobbing your head, ignoring the ache in your jaw as you let him hit the back of your throat just a little.

“God, you look so fuckin’ good with my dick in your mouth,” he groans, voice raw.

You’re moving faster now, eyes fluttering shut, throat relaxing as you take him deeper, your tongue pressed flat against the underside of his shaft. Your hands are braced on his thighs, nails digging in, and you can tell that every moan, every little gag, is driving him closer to the edge.

“Shit—fuck, baby,” he gasps, hips stuttering up into your mouth now, not even trying to stop himself. “You’re gonna make me—”

His hand tightens in your hair. The other clamps down on the back of your head, and then he curses, holding you there.

No warning. Just thick, desperate need and that helpless, broken sound he makes as he cums, cock pulsing deep in your throat.

“Fuuuck—goddamn,” he groans, thighs tensing under your hands.

You swallow around him, choking just a little as he keeps you down. You take it—every drop, every twitch of his hips—until his grip loosens and he finally lets you breathe.

You pull back slow, mouth slick, eyes glassy, spit and cum on your chin. You lick your lips, wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, and Yoongi stares at you like he just found religion in the back room of a strip club.

“You,” he pants, eyes still wild, “are fuckin’ insane.”

You smirk, breath still a little unsteady. “Mmhmm,” you hum. “You’re welcome.”

Then you plant a hand on his thigh and push yourself up from the floor like nothing just happened, like your knees don’t sting and your jaw doesn’t ache and your pussy isn’t still fluttering for more. You smooth your hands over your hair, fluff it back into place, tug your top up and adjust your panties.

Yoongi’s eyes don’t leave you.

Not when you fix your straps. Not when you adjust your heels. Not even when you lean in to straighten his shirt, smooth out the crease where your fist had tugged it tight against your orgasm.

He grasps your wrist then, holding it in place on his chest.

“I wanna see you.”

You glance up, playful at first. “You’re looking at me right now.”

But his expression’s different now. Serious.

“Somewhere you’re not working,” he says. “Somewhere I’m not pulling cash outta my wallet just to talk to you.”

You study him—this half-fucked, unfairly handsome rapper with his cock still wet and his eyes on you like he doesn’t even realize the club is crawling with plenty of other girls who would break their necks for his attention.

You chew your bottom lip for a beat, weighing it. This wasn’t supposed to be more than a good night. A very good night. But now he’s asking to step outside the fantasy, and suddenly it feels a whole lot less like a game.

You reach for the phone in his hand and glance at him with a raised brow. “You gonna actually text me, or just collect numbers for sport?”

He chuckles, soft and a little smug. “I don’t play like that.”

Still… you type it in carefully. Hand it back over slowly. Like if you give it too fast, it’ll mean something bigger than just digits on a screen.

He takes the phone like it’s precious. Glances at the number, then at you. “This real?”

You nod, tentative. “Don’t make me regret it.”

Yoongi tucks the phone away and smiles—small, but warm. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

★ ★ ★

You don’t really expect him to follow through.

Guys say shit all the time in the club when your tits are in their face—I’ll call you, I’ll take care of you, you’re different, baby. Whatever. You’ve heard it all. Most of them vanish by the end of your shift and leave nothing to remember them by but a cheap tip.

But Yoongi? He texts you the next day.

And he doesn’t ask you to “hang out.” Doesn’t say come over. He asks if you’re free for dinner. Real dinner. At a spot so swanky you had to look up the dress code, and then borrow a dress from Drea that hugs your ass just right.

He picks you up in a sleek black car with tinted windows and a driver, because of course he has a driver. He’s chill about it, though. No entourage this time, no cameras, just him in a leather jacket and rings on his fingers, looking like a damn magazine spread.

You knew he wasn’t broke. The chains, the labels on his clothes, the way he paid for his private dance five times over—that all told you Yoongi had money.

But dinner? Dinner tells you Yoongi has money.

He doesn’t take you somewhere he can avoid being seen with you, no hole-in-the-wall spot that only he knows about. No, this man takes you to a place where the maître d’ greets him by name and the sommelier basically bows when he walks in.

Yoongi orders like it’s nothing. Full bottles of wine. Every course. Seafood flown in that morning. Shit that doesn’t even have prices listed.

The waiter pours wine you can’t pronounce. You pretend to read the menu, but you’re too busy watching him.

“You tryna impress me?” you ask, playful.

Yoongi smirks, swirling his wine. “Is it working?”

You raise a brow. “You’re probably going to drop enough on this dinner to pay off my car.”

He shrugs. “You’re worth it.”

Damn. He makes you want to cause problems.

You’ve been wet since he picked you up, to be fair.

Now, sitting across from him at this bougie table, you’ve got your ankles crossed tight, thighs pressed together, trying to act normal while your panties are already clinging to you like a second skin.

He doesn’t even need to touch you. He just exists. And somehow that’s enough to make your whole body hum with the kind of energy that makes you wanna do something stupid, like crawl under the fucking table.

And maybe he knows it. Maybe he sees it in the way you’re squirming just slightly in your seat, the way your eyes keep dropping to his mouth and his hands mid-conversation. He’s been talking about music, about the album he’s working on and the artists he’s been collaborating with throughout the process, and you should care. You’re trying to care.

But your mind’s stuck on a loop: ride his face, ride his face, ride his face.

You sip your wine. Cross your legs the other way.

“You’re quiet,” he says, watching you closely now.

You smile, lips against your glass. “I’m trying to behave,” you murmur.

Yoongi’s lips quirk. “Why the fuck would I want you to behave?”

“This is a pretty fancy place,” you say, shrugging like that isn’t the understatement of the fucking century. “I’d hate to get kicked out before dessert.”

“Damn,” he teases, eyes glinting. “Was it something I said?”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t pretend like you’re not doing a whole thing.”

“Oh, I am,” he admits with a grin, no bullshit. “Glad to see it’s working, though.”

You could be in real fucking trouble with this man, you realize.

Not because he’s rich. Not because he’s famous. Not even because he’s got fingers that still make your thighs twitch when you think about them.

It’s the way he looks at you. Like he’s paying attention and waiting to see what you’ll do next. It gets under your fucking skin.

So, you re-route. Better to make it clear now, right? Before you give in to what you want?

“You know I don’t do boyfriends, right?”

Yoongi looks up, calm as ever, but says nothing.

You exhale, powering through your speech. “Not with the job I’ve got. Not with the hours. Not with the way men start acting weird when they realize I let strangers touch my tits five nights a week.”

“I’m down to fuck,” you add, looking him over. “Like… very down.” He huffs a laugh at that, and you keep going. “And I’m down to hang out, too. Grab food. Talk shit. Get off.”

Your expression softens, just a little. “But I’m not gonna fall in love.”

Yoongi sets his drink down thoughtfully. Then he leans forward, arms resting on the table.

“Okay,” he says simply. “You don’t do boyfriends.”

You nod.

“Good thing I’m not asking to be one.”

Your stomach flips.

He tilts his head at you. “Let’s just keep doing what we’re doing, yeah?”

“Okay,” you say, a little surprised by how easy that was. But whatever.

You swirl the last of your wine in the glass, watching it catch the light—because you’re thinking real carefully about how to say this next part.

Because yeah, you’re probably about to fuck him tonight. As soon as possible, if you have any say—and god knows you can be real persuasive.

But you’re not trying to be one of the many girls in his phone getting that “you up?” text at three in the morning just because he’s bored and between studio sessions.

You may not want him to be your boyfriend, but you sure as hell don’t want him fucking anyone else, either.

“Just so we’re clear…” you start again, “if we fuck tonight—and I’m pretty sure we’re gonna—”

Yoongi lifts a brow, smirking around the rim of his glass. “You think so?”

You don’t even blink. “I was just being polite. I know so.”

His eyes flash with amusement and he leans back a little, letting you speak.

“But,” you continue, voice low and measured, “if we fuck tonight, and decide you wanna keep doing this… I need you to clear the roster.”

He opens his mouth, probably to deny it, but you hold up a hand.

“I know you’ve got hoes,” you say, giving him a pointed look. “You’re Agust D. I’m sure it comes with the territory.”

“I’m not trying to lock you down or anything like that,” you continue. “I told you, I don’t do love, I don’t do boyfriends.” You pause, lips twitching into a smile. “But I also don’t share dick.”

Yoongi studies you like you’re the most fascinating thing he’s come across in weeks.

“Okay,” he says, voice even.

You blink. “Okay?”

“You want it exclusive? It’s exclusive.”

This whole thing feels way too fucking easy. You raise an eyebrow. “Just like that?”

Yoongi shrugs. “Feels like I’d be stupid as fuck to turn it down.”

You hum, pleased. “You would be,” you agree.

You lean back in the booth, legs still crossed, managing somehow to look real damn composed for someone whose panties have been soaked for over an hour.

You give him a slow once-over.

“So…” you say, voice low and sweet, “you gonna bring me to your place, or not?”

Yoongi glances at you, lip twitching, eyes gleaming like he loves how direct you are.

You lean in, fingers tracing the edge of your glass.

“‘Cause I’ve been wet since you picked me up, and if you don’t do something about it soon, I’m gonna start thinking you’re all talk.”

That gets a reaction—a soft curse under his breath and an amused shake of his shoulders.

“You wanna go now?”

You don’t answer right away. Just take a slow sip from your drink, eyes never leaving his. Then you set the glass down with a quiet clink and tilt your head.

“I mean… Unless you’ve got something better to do than fuck the hottest girl in the room who also happens to be very, very ready for you.”

Yoongi lets out a low laugh, shaking his head like he can’t believe his luck. He slides a hand into his pocket, tossing down enough cash to cover both your drinks and then some.

“Come on,” he says, already standing. “I’ll call the car.”

★ ★ ★

As soon as his front door clicks shut behind you, you’re on him.

No waiting, no bullshit ‘want something to drink?’ You don’t need a damn tour. You didn’t come here to admire his crown molding.

You press him back against the nearest wall, hands already under his jacket, mouth on his neck. His keys hit the floor. So does your clutch. You’re too far gone to care about any of it.

“Fuck the tour,” you mutter against his skin, already tugging at his shirt. “I don’t care where the kitchen is. I care about your bed. Or your couch. Or the floor. Surprise me.”

Yoongi groans, deep and ragged, grabbing your waist as he walks you backwards down the hall, struggling the whole time with the way you’ve latched onto him. He’s stumbling, laughing, trying to steer, but you’re not making it easy on him.

“Shit,” he pants, “you been waiting on this, huh?”

You nod, breathless, giving him a reprieve only to pull your dress over your head and toss it. “You’re lucky I didn’t climb into your lap at dinner.”

He curses again, spinning you toward the bedroom. You unhook your bra as he pushes the door open with one hand, dragging you in with the other.

You move to peel your panties down as soon as your back hits the bed, breath coming hard, legs spread just enough to tease.

You’re so ready for him to climb over you and finally fuck you like you’ve been aching for all night.

Instead, he drops to his knees at the edge of the bed.

You blink, sitting up on your elbows. “Wait—”

He grabs your thighs and yanks you forward so you’re on your back again and your ass is nearly hanging off the mattress, legs draped over his shoulders. He looks up at you from between your thighs.

“Nah. I’m tasting this pussy first.”

You let out a breathless little laugh, already fidgeting in his grip. “You serious?”

“Dead serious,” he mutters, pressing a kiss to the inside of your thigh, just above the knee. “You think I’m not gonna find out how good you taste before I fuck you stupid?”

You pout, half playful and half desperate. “I wanted dick.”

“And you’ll get it,” he promises, kissing higher. “But first…”

His tongue slides flat against your slit, slow and obscene, and your head drops back onto the mattress with a gasp.

Okay—fuck.

If it feels like that? Yeah, never mind what you said. You can wait.

Yoongi’s tongue delves deep like he’s starved for it. Your hips jerk off the bed as his tongue fucks into you, dragging wet and hot through your folds before he pulls back just to slurp—loud and messy, mouth open like he wants you to hear it.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, one hand flying to his hair, the other fisting the sheets as your thighs threaten to clamp around his head. “Yoongi—fuck, what the fuck—”

His nose grinds right against your clit when his tongue plunges back in, and your back arches, mouth falling open but no sound coming out.

He moans into your pussy—moans—like you taste better than anything he’s ever had, and the vibration ricochets through you like lightning. You squirm, thighs flexing and hips lifting against your will.

He pulls back just long enough to mutter, “Keep runnin’ from it and I’ll hold you down.” The way your cunt clenches around nothing in response is obscene.

And then he’s right back in, tongue fucking you deep again, wet and messy. His lips close around your clit, and you fucking wail as he sucks it into his mouth with a slow, intentional pull.

Your whole body locks up—back arching off the bed, thighs squeezing around his head as your fingers claw at copper strands and pull hard.

“Yoongi—fuck—”

Yoongi doesn’t stop. His mouth is relentless instead, tongue flicking and flattening and swirling around that sensitive, soaked bundle of nerves like he knows exactly how close you are.

You’re panting, shaking, voice wrecked as you gasp, “Don’t stop—don’t fucking stop—”

He sucks harder, and you break.

Your body practically curls in on itself as your orgasm crashes through you with full force. You cry out, hips bucking, your grip on his hair so tight you almost feel bad—almost—but he just groans into your pussy like he lives for this, like this is the payoff he was chasing all night.

You don’t come down easy. You ride it—legs trembling, breath ragged, whole body flushed and fucked-out before he finally pulls back. His chin is glistening, lips swollen, and his eyes are impossibly dark with what can only be pride.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, smirking like the devil himself.

You’re still gasping, chest rising and falling like you just ran a damn marathon. You swallow hard, forcing yourself up on your elbows again to look at him with wide eyes.

“Holy shit, Yoongi,” you breathe, and he chuckles.

Yoongi leans in, presses a kiss to your inner thigh, then trails his fingers up your stomach, over your chest, shifting until he’s hovering above you, face just inches from yours.

“You ain’t seen shit yet,” he murmurs, and you believe him.

You reach for him, palm sliding up the back of his neck, pulling him in for a kiss. It’s messy and open-mouthed, full of heat and hunger as you taste yourself on his lips.

He groans into it, hips rolling down like instinct, and you gasp when you feel the thick weight of him press against your entrance.

Yoongi feels your body tense beneath him at the contact, and he pauses immediately.

He pulls back, just enough to meet your eyes. “You good?”

You nod, flushed, still trying to catch your breath. “Yeah. Just—”

“Got it.” He’s already reaching for the nightstand. “Condom.”

You could kiss him for that. No eyeroll. No groan. No ‘do we need to?’ None of that. Just smooth, focused, one-handed while he tears the foil open with his teeth and rolls it down his thick, aching cock like a man on a mission.

You’re still breathing heavy when he looks down at you again, his smirk softening.

“You ready now, baby?” he asks, and you nod.

You watch him line himself up, one hand pressing your thigh into the mattress, the other guiding his cock.

Fuck, even in the haze of post-orgasm bliss, you remember exactly what it felt like to take him in your mouth. Your jaw still aches from it.

You draw in a shaky breath, eyes flicking down to where he presses at your entrance.

“Yoongi,” you say, voice low and a little unsteady, “you gotta go slow.��

He pauses immediately, eyes snapping to yours. “Too much?”

You shake your head. “Not too much. Just… a lot.”

A small smile tugs at his lips. He leans down and kisses you once, soft and reassuring, and says, “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll take care of you.”

And then he starts to push in, slow just like you asked, stretching you inch by inch.

Your breath hitches from burning and bliss in equal measure, and your fingers dig into his back as he fills you up, deeper, deeper, until you feel completely full.

“Fuck,” you gasp, voice trembling. “You’re so fuckin’—stupid big.”

Yoongi grits his teeth, visibly trying to hold still, trying not to fuck you hard right out the gate even though your pussy’s gripping him like it needs him.

“You’re doing so fucking good,” he pants. “Just breathe.”

You do.

And when he bottoms out and your hips finally meet, you both just stay there for a second, clinging to each other while your body adjusts to every thick inch of him. You’re so full it feels like your body doesn’t know where to put him, every nerve ending lit up and screaming, and he hasn’t even moved yet.

You breathe through it with a tight grip on his shoulders, legs wrapped around his waist, your body slowly relaxing around him as that deep stretch shifts from too much to just right.

“Okay,” you whisper, voice still shaky, but with an undercurrent of need now. You shift beneath him, gasping softly at the friction. “Okay. You can move.”

Yoongi doesn’t hesitate.

He draws back slow before his hips roll deeper than you thought possible, like he wants you to feel every inch. It feels like his cock is going to fucking ruin you.

“Fuck,” you groan, toes curling, “Yoongi—fuck, it’s so good.”

He groans too, head dipping to your shoulder, lips dragging along your skin like he’s trying to ground himself.

“You feel unreal,” he mutters, hips still moving slow. “So fuckin’ tight, baby. So wet.”

Your nails dig into his back and he loves it—you can feel it in the way he thrusts a little harder, but it’s still not enough.

“Go ahead, superstar,” you goad shakily. “Fuck me.”

The second you say it, something clicks. Like the leash snaps.

Yoongi pulls back and drives into you with a force that sends you up the fucking bed. Your moan comes out high and wrecked, and he grins against your mouth, proud, cocky, like he knew you could take it—just needed you to ask.

He grabs your legs and folds you. Just fucking folds you in half like you weigh nothing, like you were meant to be taken this way. Ankles over his shoulders, knees pressed damn near to your ears, your back arched off the bed with your pussy spread open and soaked, fluttering around his cock like it’s starving.

“You feel that?” he grits out between thrusts, sweat dripping off his brow, his jaw clenched hard. “Feel how deep I am, baby?”

You nod—desperately, wildly—tears brimming because it’s so much, it’s too much, and you’re not sure if you’re sobbing or moaning or both.

“You’re fuckin’ soaked,” he pants, fucking you harder now, the head of his cock pounding right into that sweet, devastating spot that makes your legs shake over his shoulders. “This pussy’s tryna keep me.”

You can’t even speak. You just nod, whimpering, clawing harder at his back, your whole body jolting with every snap of his hips.

He’s strong. Controlled. The bed creaks under you, the headboard thudding against the wall, your body moving with his as he pounds into you, sweat slicking where your skin meets his.

When he feels your walls start to flutter wildly around him, his hand slips between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with devastating accuracy.

“Cum for me again,” he grits out against your ear. “Wanna feel you squeeze my cock, c’mon.”

You can’t keep quiet this time.

Your moans spill out wild and raw against your will, loud, echoing off the walls, too far gone to care if his neighbors hear. Your body locks up beneath his, stars bursting behind your eyes as you clench around his cock so tight you pull a broken, filthy groan out of him.

“Shit, baby,” Yoongi growls, hips stuttering as your pussy grips him like a fucking vice. “You’re gonna—fuck—milk me dry.”

And then you feel it—his thrusts get sloppy, faster, his abs tightening against yours. His jaw clenches as he fights it, trying and failing to hold on just a second longer.

He growls, “fuckfuckfuck,” through clenched teeth, hips snapping forward one last time as his cock pulses and he spills inside the condom, muscles trembling from the effort of keeping himself upright.

You gaze up at him, dazed and overstimulated, and all you can think is holy shit, he’s so fucking sexy like this.

Copper strands plastered to his damp forehead, veins in his arms popping. His back flexes beneath your hands as he rides it out, cock still twitching inside you while he groans into the crook of your neck.

You stroke his hair, his back, let your fingers wander over every trembling inch of him while he catches his breath, still inside you, still twitching.

Eventually, he shifts enough to kiss your jaw, your collarbone, the top of your breast. His lips linger on your skin like a thank you he’s too fucked-out to speak out loud.

Then, with one last deep exhale, he eases out of you carefully.

You watch, dazed, as he disappears to the bathroom with a lazy slap to your thigh and returns moments later, tossing the condom in the trash before flopping down beside you.

Minutes later, you’re still sprawled across Yoongi’s sheets, bare but not exactly modest, his comforter tangled around your knees. He’s beside you, propped against his headboard, sweat still drying on his chest, cigarette resting between his fingers.

He takes a drag, slow and lazy, then passes it to you. You hold it between your lips. Inhale, exhale.

“So…” you start, smoke curling around you.

You stretch to flick ash into the tray beside the bed, then glance over at him.

“Are you gonna keep my number? Or was this a one-time thing?”

“I think I’d be a fucking idiot to lose your number,” he says, “and let pussy like that slip through my fingers when you’re offering a sequel.”

You blink. “Wow. Poetry.”

He shrugs. “I’m a lyricist.”

You roll your eyes and pass him the cigarette, but Yoongi catches your wrist instead. You watch, eyes wide, as he pulls your hand up and presses a kiss to your knuckles, soft and slow. Then he lets go, takes a drag, and exhales like the question’s already settled.

“I’m keeping it,” he says simply.

Your chest tightens as you pull your hand away.

“Just don’t fall in love,” you remind him, voice playful like you’re teasing him—but there’s a real warning tucked in there. A necessary one, maybe.

His brow lifts. “I remember.”

You nod, eyes on the ceiling. “I just don’t really have the job for that.”

He’s quiet for a moment, but he doesn’t look offended. Just... considering, maybe.

“Then I’ll keep it casual,” he says finally, shrugging.

“I’m just saying,” you murmur, “it’d be a damn shame if I had to stop stripping to protect some guy’s feelings.”

Yoongi hums low in his throat.

You glance at him. “I’m good at it.”

“Yeah,” he says, looking at you dead on. “You are.”

You scoff, disbelieving. This all seems too fucking easy still.

“I saw you work that room like you owned the place,” he continues. “Watched you read me in two minutes flat and make me think I was in control. I told you. You’re dangerous.”

You smirk, but there’s something warm curling under your ribs. Something a little scary.

He reaches out, brushes your hair off your cheek, thumb tracing your jaw. “I’m not gonna ask you to stop.”

“You sure?” you ask. “That line gets blurry fast when you start fucking the fantasy.”

Yoongi shrugs again. “You don’t owe me anything just because I made you cum.”

Honestly, that might be the hottest fucking thing he’s said all night.

You smile, slow and sharp. “Good. ’Cause I like making money.”

“Good. ’Cause I like watching you make it.”

Nope. That’s the hottest thing. Definitely.

You let out a quiet laugh, more breath than sound, and lie back against the pillows, arm draped across your stomach.

“Can’t blame me for wanting to make it clear,” you say. “Most guys don’t feel that way.”

Yoongi takes another drag, then taps ash into the tray, nodding slow.

“Yeah,” he says. “I know.”

He shifts onto his side, propping his head up on his free hand as he looks at you.

“I’ve seen it,” he adds. “Act like they’re cool with it until it’s their girl on the pole.”

You hum in agreement, lips flattening into a line. It’s a story you know all too well.

Yoongi’s quiet for a second, and you watch as he stubs out the cigarette.

“I like it,” he says. “That you’re good at what you do. I know what it’s like to have something like that and have people try to take it away from you because it doesn’t fit into their idea of what you should do with your life.”

Your eyes search his face, and for once, he doesn’t smirk. Just meets your gaze like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“So yeah,” he adds, softer now, “can’t blame you for laying it out. I’d do the same.”

“Thanks,” you murmur.

You stay like that for a while, tangled together. But eventually, you realize you should probably go home.

You swing your legs off the bed, spine stretching as you stand. You slide your panties up your legs—slowly, because you know he’s watching—and then your dress, still wrinkled and clinging faintly of sweat and sex.

Yoongi’s still propped against the headboard, shirtless, hair a mess, watching you like he doesn’t know if he wants to hand you your heels or pull you back in.

You smooth your dress down over your hips, grab your clutch, and turn to him with a smile.

“You’re calling me a car, right?” you ask, breezy as fuck.

Yoongi nods. “It’s already downstairs.”

Of course it is. He’s that kind of man.

You walk back over to the edge of the bed, lean down, press a kiss to the corner of his mouth—not sweet, not sappy. Just a reminder.

“Thanks for dinner,” you say. “And… everything else.”

He chuckles, eyes dropping briefly to your thighs. “You sure you don’t want breakfast?”

“Don’t tempt me,” you say with a grin, already stepping back. “I like to leave you wanting more.”

You reach his bedroom door before you turn again, hand on the frame, hips cocked just right.

“I’m looking forward to next time,” you offer.

“Yeah?”

You nod, lips curved. “And you should come back to the club sometime.”

He tilts his head. “Thought we were past that.”

“You are,” you say, smirking. “But I still gotta make rent.”

He laughs, and you keep going.

“Come through, tip heavy. Give me something fun to do.” You let your voice drop a little, just enough to feel like a secret. “I dance better when you’re watching.”

He just shakes his head, biting back a grin. “Fucking dangerous.”

“Bye, superstar,” you sing-song, flashing him one last smile before slipping out the door.

★ ★ ★

You don’t see him every night. You’re both busy people. But whenever you’re both free, you’re together.

Sometimes he texts you after a studio session, voice hoarse from rapping for hours. You’ll find him slouched on his couch in sweats, smelling like weed and the remnants of his cologne, questioning why the fuck he does what he does for a living.

Sometimes you hit him first after a long shift, after too many guys who tried to grab what they didn’t pay for, after too many bills counted under shitty fluorescent lights.

He comes to the club—not often, but every once in a while. He keeps it lowkey, takes the VIP booth in the corner, tips like money’s allergic to his wallet, and watches you like no one else is in the damn room.

Most nights, though, you go to him after you clock out. Exhausted or keyed up, with glitter still stuck to the inside of your thighs either way. You bring takeout. He brings hands. Mouth. Dick. A tongue that could be declared illegal in some countries.

It’s fun. The sex is insane, and he’s surprisingly easy to talk to at three in the morning with your head on his chest and his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your lower back.

You make it very clear you’re still working. Still dancing. Still stacking bills.

And he makes it very clear he’s not trying to take that from you.

One particularly bad night, you spend your whole shift counting the minutes until you can leave and go to his place. And when you do show up, you don’t even make it past his entryway.

You kick the door shut behind you, drop your bag by the wall, and grab him by the collar before he even has a chance to say anything. Your lips crash against his hard, your nails digging into his skin like they’re reclaiming something that felt stripped away hours ago by some stranger’s drunk hands.

Yoongi doesn’t complain. He doesn’t ask what’s got you messed up like this. He just fucks you on the floor, exactly the way you ask, makes you cum twice before he even gets you on his cock. It helps a little.

But it’s not quite enough. Not to fully unravel the tight coil of irritation that’s been knotting up within you since you clocked in. Not tonight.

Yoongi clocks it immediately, the way you stay quiet after, the way your breathing stays uneven. Not in that dazed, well-fucked way, but in a something-is-still-wrong way.

So he gets up from the floor without a word and hauls you to the couch, ignoring your protests at being relocated against your will. Grabs the little tray off his coffee table, flicks on the overhead in the kitchen, and starts to roll.

“Brute,” you grumble, adjusting your clothes so you’re fully covered again. Yoongi ignores you.

“Rough night?” he asks instead, not looking up, thumbs working the paper like muscle memory.

You huff. “You know the kind.”

Yoongi nods. Licks the edge of the paper, seals it shut.

“Hands?” he asks. Did someone grab you.

“Mhm. Motherfucker got bounced. It happens, but…” You look down at your lap. “Still fuckin’ annoying.”

He strikes the lighter, flame catching, and the first inhale is deep. Steady. He exhales before he speaks.

“People suck.”

You crack a tired smile. “Yeah.”

He walks back over and hands you the joint, then settles beside you with an ashtray in his lap, close enough that your thighs touch. You lean back, letting your head fall against the cushion as you draw in the smoke.

You hold it longer than usual before you exhale. Like if you keep it in long enough, maybe it’ll burn the night out of your lungs.

Yoongi’s hand finds your bare thigh, and you lean into him on instinct, sinking deeper into the couch with a sigh.

After a minute, he asks, “You eaten?”

You hum, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “It’s almost three in the morning.”

“So?” he shrugs. “There’s stuff open. I can get something delivered.”

“I don’t wanna put you out,” you mumble, smushing your cheek against his shoulder.

“Nah, it’s no big deal.” He smirks at you. “I already fucked you. Only seems right to feed you while I’m at it.”

That pulls a laugh out of you—an actual laugh, not the overly fake kind you’ve been pulling at the club all night.

“You’re a real gentleman, Min Yoongi,” you tease.

“Damn right,” he says, pulling out his phone. “What’re you feeling?”

You watch him scroll through the delivery app for a moment, surveying your options. You could probably eat anything right now, honestly. But when his screen lands on a noodle place nearby, your stomach answers for you with a low, traitorous growl.

“That,” you mutter, rubbing your stomach like you’re trying to shut it up. “Noodles.”

He grins, already scrolling through the menu. “Say less.”

And just like that, the coil unwinds a little more.

By the time the food shows up, you’re both high as fuck. Like, melted into the couch cushions high, your legs tossed over his lap while he focuses way too hard on picking something to put on the TV.

The doorbell rings to announce the arrival of your food, and Yoongi extricates himself from the plushness of the couch with immense effort, rubbing one eye as he pads barefoot to the door.

It feels like decades have passed when he finally comes back with the bag, although it’s probably been less than a minute. He drops it on the coffee table, peeks inside, and freezes.

“What the fuck is this?” he asks when the smell hits him, wrinkling his nose.

You make grabby hands, grinning. “My dinner.”

“This is your dinner?” He pulls out the container and sniffs it, recoiling instantly. “Did you order the spiciest shit on the menu?”

“I like flavor,” you shrug, grabbing a pair of disposable chopsticks from the bag.

Yoongi narrows his eyes, watching you like you’re a live science experiment. “You’re not gonna have tastebuds by the time you’re done, you know.”

You pop the lid, fix him with a look, and dig in like you haven’t eaten in days.

Yoongi just shakes his head, grabbing his own order and leaning back on the couch. “This is the kind of shit that would make me break up with someone.”

“You can’t break up with me,” you say around a mouthful, eyes already watering. “We’re not even dating.”

“Yeah, and thank fuck,” he mutters, pointing at your noodles with his chopsticks. “That shit’s gross.”

“You’re such a hater,” you snort.

“No, I just have taste. There’s a difference.”

“Mm, sure.”

The next few minutes pass in companionable silence. The TV volume is low in the background, your legs draped over his lap now while you shovel spicy noodles into your mouth.

You’re halfway through the container, sniffling dramatically between bites, and Yoongi side-eyes the fuck out of you.

“You seriously like this?” he asks, nudging your knee with his.

“Mmhmm,” you hum, lips tingling. “Burns so good.”

He stares at you for a second. “Let me try it.”

You grin, hold out a loaded bite with your chopsticks. “You sure? Might knock that precious palate of yours out of commission.”

“Gimme the fuckin’ noodles,” he mumbles, leaning in.

He takes the bite—all of it—and you watch as his eyes instantly widen with regret.

“Oh, what the fuck.” He coughs once, fumbling for his water as he chokes down the bite. “What is wrong with you? This is not food.”

You’re laughing so hard your stomach hurts. “You’re such a pussy!”

“Yeah, well,” he starts, taking a long swallow of his drink, “if wanting my stomach lining to remain intact makes me a pussy, okay.”

You slurp another bite, smug. “Keep talking shit. You’re still gonna want head later.”

“You come near my dick with that nuclear warhead mouth and I’m kicking you out.”

You smirk. “Bet you won’t.”

He huffs, loading up his chopsticks with a big bite of his own noodles. “Yeah,” he says. “You’re probably right.”

And just like that, your night is just… better.

It’s starting to scare the shit out of you, honestly. How easy this is. How natural it feels to answer when Yoongi calls. To let him pull you into his lap on the couch without thinking. To fuck him stupid one night and wake up with his arm around your waist the next.

You keep waiting for the part where it goes sideways. Where the mask slips. Where the thing—whatever it is—crawls out from under the bed and ruins everything.

There’s always a thing. No one’s actually this chill. No one’s this okay with what you do. No man just sits in the club with a drink and a smirk and watches his girl make rent off other guys’ fantasies without something simmering underneath.

So after a few weeks, you start getting... antsy.

Not cold. Not mean. Just a little more careful. A little more guarded. You don’t spend the night as much. You stop texting first. You don’t kiss him quite as easily outside of sex anymore.

He notices. Of course he does. He’s quiet about it, but the look in his eyes changes sometimes—soft confusion flickering behind the usual smirk, like he’s trying to figure out what he’s done wrong.

You’re trying to figure that out, too.

You lie awake next to him one night, your head on his chest, his hand resting on your hip, and all you can think is:

What’s his thing?

What’s the moment that tips this? What’s the ex? The lie? The betrayal? The dealbreaker? The part where he says something just a little too condescending about your job? The day you find out he’s been talking to someone else on the side because he decided he wasn’t okay with keeping things exclusive after all?

You don’t know.

You’re bracing for the drop, muscles tight, heart locked up, just waiting. Because if there’s one thing you’ve learned in your line of work, it’s this:

No one hands you something this good without expecting to take something back.

★ ★ ★

Yoongi doesn’t say shit for a while.

He just lets you play it cool, lets you keep pulling away inch by inch like he doesn’t notice. Like he’s not watching every sidestep, every half-second delay in your replies, every night you leave his bed when you used to stay without even thinking.

But you know better. He’s not stupid. He’s quiet. There’s a difference.

So one night, after sex that’s slow and hot and a little more intimate than you meant to let it be, you’re slipping your clothes back on instead of staying curled up with him on the couch.

“You’re waiting for me to fuck up,” he says, cutting through the silence.

You freeze.

He’s propped up on one elbow, hair a mess, mouth still swollen from your kiss, and his eyes are on you like he’s already halfway pissed.

“You think I haven’t noticed?” he continues. “You’re treating this like a countdown. Like you’ve got the stopwatch running until I do something to prove you right.”

You don’t answer.

He exhales through his nose, jaw flexing. “What do you think it’s gonna be, huh? You think I’m gonna call you a whore one day? Act brand new about the job? You think I’ve got another girl on the side? Think I’m lying to you? What is it?”

You look at the floor. Then up at him. And for once, you don’t mask it with sarcasm. You just say it plain.

“I don’t know yet.”

That quiets him, if only for a moment. So you keep going.

“I’m just waiting to find out,” you admit. “Whatever your thing is. Everybody’s got one. There’s always another fucking shoe waiting to drop.”

Yoongi stares at you for a long moment, something hard flickering behind his eyes.

“And what if I don’t? Have one?”

You blink.

“What if there’s no shoe, baby?” he continues. “What if I’m not gonna hurt you? What then?”

You stare at him for a second. Then you laugh—sharp and defensive, opening your mouth on instinct.

“Okay. You gonna analyze me now?” you ask, voice tight. “What, that part of the package deal? Fuck me, feed me, crack me open like a psychology textbook?”

“Didn’t say that,” Yoongi says, calm as ever.

“Yeah, but you’re acting like it.” You shift, straightening up a little. Your tone turns flat. “You don’t know shit about me, Yoongi. Just because you’ve been inside me doesn’t mean you’ve got me figured out.”

His jaw tenses at that, but he doesn’t rise to the bait. He just watches you quietly, like he’s letting you get it out.

You cross your arms. “I told you what this was from the jump. You said you were cool with that.”

“I still am.”

Your eyes narrow. “Then why the fuck are we having this conversation?”

Yoongi pulls back. You stare at him like you’re waiting, annoyed and impatient.

“I’m not trying to trap you. Or fix you. Or psychoanalyze you. I’m just calling it how it looks from where I’m sitting.”

He runs a hand through his hair and exhales slow.

“You say you’re not looking for anything serious, cool,” he says after a moment. “But you’re in my bed three nights a week. You fall asleep on me. You let me see you on your bad nights, not just your good ones. I’m not asking you to explain it. I just don’t want you to keep flinching every time I’m decent to you.”

You feel small as soon as the words hit you. The defensive heat drains out of you in an instant, shame blooming in its place instead.

You climb into his lap slow and careful, like you’re not sure he’ll let you—but he does. His hands come up automatically, settling on your hips like it’s second nature now. You curl into him, arms around his shoulders, forehead pressed to his temple.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

Yoongi exhales, steady. Doesn’t say anything yet. Just keeps his hands on you.

You nudge your nose against his, soft. “I’m not trying to make you feel like you’re doing something wrong. I’m just…” You trail off, your mouth brushing the edge of his jaw. “I don’t know. I’m used to things going bad.”

He nods, just once.

You pull back enough to look him in the eyes.

“I am having fun with you,” you say quietly. “And I wanna keep having fun with you. That’s all.”

Yoongi searches your face like he’s reading you in real time, like he’s choosing not to say the thousand things he might be thinking.

Instead, he just says, “okay.”

Your fingers trail idly over the chain around his neck. You focus on the feel of cool metal against warm skin, something solid to touch while your thoughts start slipping into dangerous territory.

He smells like soap and smoke and whatever expensive shit he dabbed on his pulse points before you got here, and his hands are still on your hips like they’re meant to be there. Like he wants them to be.

Too easy. Too easy.

So you twist the chain once around your finger and ask the question that’s been weighing on you.

“You’re still cool with this, right?”

Yoongi doesn’t move, doesn’t answer right away. You press on.

“Casual. Just fucking. Hanging out sometimes. You’re not, like… waiting on me to change my mind, are you?”

He exhales and leans his head back to look at you properly.

“No.”

You brace yourself, waiting for the ‘but’ that never comes.

“I’m not waiting on you,” he says instead. “I’m just here. If it changes, it changes. If it doesn’t, I’m still good.”

Your breath catches a little. It sounds like he’s telling the truth. You hope he is.

No pressure. No guilt trip. Just a man who likes what you’ve got going, and isn’t trying to pull more out of you than you’re ready to give. That’s all you’ve wanted from him, from the beginning.

Your fingers toy with his chain again, just for something to do with your hands.

“Okay… Good,” you murmur, leaning in to brush your nose against his. “’Cause I like this.”

Yoongi doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, but his eyes flutter slightly at the touch.

“I like kissing you,” you admit, voice soft, lips grazing his as you speak. “Like fucking you.”

You smile then, slow and crooked, thumb dragging along the line of his jaw.

“You’re unfairly good at both, by the way.”

That makes him chuckle. He opens his eyes and leans close so his mouth is brushing yours again.

“Unfairly good, huh?”

You hum, pretending to think. “Mmm. Maybe disgustingly good.”

He grins, gums showing. “You gonna complain about it?”

“Not unless you stop.”

“Not planning to.”

He kisses you then, for real this time. Just like always, it’s so fucking good.

Slow but deep, just enough tongue, just enough pressure, the tip of his nose brushing your cheek as he tilts his head.

Your thighs begin to shift restlessly in his lap, heat blooming fast between them. The low throb builds there again, just from the way his lips move, how he tastes, how he groans into your mouth when your fingers tug gently on his chain.

You pull back just enough to speak.

“Shit.” Your forehead presses against his. “When you kiss me like that…”

You roll your hips against him, slow and deliberate, making sure he feels it.

“…it gets me so wet,” you breathe.

Yoongi swears under his breath, and his hands slide gently down your back, over the curve of your ass.

“Yeah?” he mutters, voice thick. “Say it again.”

You grin against his mouth, teasing, turned on, dangerously close to giving in all over again.

“I’m so fucking wet for you, Yoongi.”

Yoongi hums low in his throat, all smug and satisfied. His hands squeeze the soft flesh of your ass, pulling you tighter against the hard length of him beneath his sweats.

“Better not let it go to waste, then,” he murmurs, teeth grazing your bottom lip just enough to make you gasp.

He shifts beneath you, grinding up just a little, making sure you feel every inch of him through the fabric separating you.

You whimper, and Yoongi grins against your skin like he’s fucking thriving off it.

“C’mon, baby,” he whispers. “Let’s make good use of it.”

Yoongi leans back against the couch, eyes locked on yours, dragging his sweats down just enough to free his cock, thick and already hard, the head flushed and slick. It bounces against his stomach, and your mouth waters without meaning to.

You don’t wait. Don’t need to, you’ve learned. Yoongi offers himself freely to you, whenever you need him.

You shove your panties to the side, still straddling him, your soaked folds already pressed to the head of his cock as you line yourself up with shaking hands.

“Go slow,” he grits out, voice rough, eyes hooded as he grips your hips. “Fuck, you’re so wet…”

You just nod, jaw slack, heart pounding as you sink down on him inch by inch.

The stretch is filthy. Perfect. Every inch dragging along your walls, making you tremble, breath catching as you bottom out.

“Fuck, Yoongi—fuck—”

“Shit,” he groans, eyes fluttering closed as your pussy grips him tight. “Every time…”

You go slow because he asked you to.

Because his voice, low and strained, told you to. Because his hands on your hips aren’t dragging you down, they’re guiding, like he wants to feel every second of you taking him in.

And because this is new territory.

No condom. No barrier. Just wet skin, heat, and the heavy weight of his cock stretching you full, with nothing between you.

And holy fuck, it’s different.

You feel everything like this. Every throb, every twitch, every slick drag of him against your walls as you start to move. Slow grinds, shallow thrusts, the kind that make your whole body shudder with how intimate it is.

Your mouth falls open, but no sound comes out at first—just a broken breath, because you can’t quite believe how good it feels.

“Fuck,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “Feel good, baby?”

You nod, barely able to answer, rolling your hips slow and steady, the slick sounds between you obscene.

“Yeah. Feels…” You trail off, moaning as he shifts deeper inside you.

Yoongi catches your mouth with his, swallowing the sound, kissing you deep and slow. Just like the way your bodies are sliding together.

After a moment he groans, head falling back against the couch, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swears under his breath.

Then he laughs, like it actually hurts him, how good you feel.

“Shit—” He looks down at where you’re grinding on him, hands tightening on your hips. “I’m probably gonna cum quick like this.”

You smirk, breathless, already clenching around him just to fuck with him.

He winces, laughs again. “No, like—I’m serious. You feel too fucking good. Way too good like this.”

You giggle into his mouth, lips brushing his, still slow as hell as you move on him.

“I should probably pull out,” he mumbles, more to himself than you, voice strained.

Your hips keep rolling, slick and full and so goddamn deep, and you can tell he’s getting close already. Really close. His jaw’s tight, knuckles white where he grips you hard enough to bruise, breath ragged as hell.

And then—

“Fuck,” Yoongi groans, eyes squeezing shut like he’s at war with himself. “I can’t. I’m gonna cum.”

Before you can tease, before you can protest, he lifts you off his cock. You whimper at the loss instantly, lips pulling into a needy pout.

“Shhh,” he soothes. “I got you.”

You try to grind back down but he doesn’t let you. He ignores the desperate whine that slips out of your mouth, the way your hips twitch in search of him, and instead, he slides two fingers between your folds.

And fuck, they slip in so easily.

You moan, head falling back as he curls them just right, thumb rubbing your clit in tight, perfect circles.

“Miss my dick, huh?” he pants. You nod desperately and he mouths against your neck in response, teeth dragging along your skin as his fingers work your insides. “You’ll get it. But you’re gonna cum first.”

You want to protest, want to tell him you were right there with him—but then he hits that spot just right, and all that leaves your mouth is a strangled gasp.

“Oh my god, Yoongi—”

Your legs tremble around him, hands clutching his shoulders, and his voice is in your ear again.

“C’mon, baby,” he rasps. “Let go.”

It crashes over you before you can even brace for it—his fingers still fucking into you, his voice all low praise and quiet filth, his thumb rolling your clit with learned pressure.

Your whole body tenses, thighs shaking, toes curling, and then you cum hard, clinging to him like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

“Fuck!”

He groans, forehead pressed to your shoulder, hips already twitching like he can’t stand waiting anymore.

“Shit,” he pants. “Fuck, come here—come here—”

Before you’ve even fully come down, he pulls his fingers from you and lines himself up again, your pussy still pulsing and soaked, aching for him.

And then he’s back inside, sliding in with one smooth, deep thrust that has both of you gasping.

You’re still trembling, still fluttering around him, and he swears under his breath like he’s already too close.

It’s not gonna take long—can’t take long—not with how tight and wet you still are, how you’re squeezing around him like your body’s begging to keep him.

Yoongi’s cursing under his breath, fucking into you harder now, pace messy and urgent, sweat beading on his forehead as he rolls his bottom lip between his teeth.

You’re still gasping through aftershocks, eyes squeezed shut and nails digging into his shoulders as he fucks into you from below. You feel him throb inside you, and your eyes fly open.

“Baby— I’m gonna—”

He pulls out with a sharp, guttural groan, his veiny hand flying to his cock. He strokes himself once, twice—and then he’s cumming hard, hot and thick across his stomach and your thighs, his head tipped back, every muscle in his body going tight and then lax right in front of you.

“Damn,” you pant, voice wrecked, “look at you, superstar.”

Fuck, he’s so hot.

You don’t even think about it.

You just lean in and kiss him hard. Greedy. Open-mouthed and messy and full of whatever the hell just cracked open between your ribs.

He doesn’t hesitate. Just kisses you back like your mouth is oxygen. You moan into it, fingers threading into his hair again, tugging just because you can.

“That,” you whisper against his lips, “was so fucking sexy.”

Yoongi huffs, thumb brushing your waist like he’s still coming down. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, knocking your forehead against his gently. “You make me sick, honestly.”

He snorts. “Sure.”

You sigh, head dropping to his shoulder as your heart rate finally starts to right itself.

“I should go home,” you breathe, though you make no move to leave.

Yoongi hums knowingly and presses a kiss to your temple. “You could.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, forcing in a shaky breath.

“But I’m probably not gonna,” you admit.

“Didn’t think so,” he says, and the smug tone makes you smack his shoulder without any real heat.

“Don’t get cocky,” you grumble.

“I’m not.” He pauses, then smirks. “Okay, maybe a little.”

You roll your eyes and settle deeper into the couch, your legs tangled with his, his heartbeat steady beneath your cheek.

There’s a quiet that stretches between you. It’s comfortable now, in a way it hasn’t been since you got too in your head.

“Don’t overthink it,” Yoongi says, breaking the silence. “Just roll with it.”

You don’t answer right away.

But eventually, you nod.

“Okay.”

✧ shoot me a reply or an ask if you enjoyed this part! feedback is always appreciated <3 join my taglist if you want to be tagged in future fics!

askbox ★ ao3 ★ anonymous feedback box

✧ TAGLIST:

@kkaetnipjeon @ktownshizzle @joonary @ggukivrse @strwbyoons

@sunreads @futuristicenemychaos @tea4sykes @sugainmybowl @wobblewobble822

@this-most-assuredly-counts @ohnothisnameisalreadytaken @sugafun @whoa-jo @amarawayne

@kimsaerom @bangtangsworld @jimingirl95 @jadestonedaeho7 @notsevenwithyou

@perfctlyunstable @yoonmetogether @kpophosblog @nnybtitts08

@itsmina29 @sophia--915 @jeanjacketjesus @kiki-zb @velvetskize

@gelijar @livi101ful @annyeongbitch7 @pitchblack0309 @goldietigers294

@hopegdbbggloss @kam9404 @jajabro @parapiop7 @mar-lo-pap

@tarahardcore @butterymin @svnbangtansworld @rainnamu @auroradamned

@mintedagustd @angellekookie

249 notes · View notes

deadpanjisung · 22 hours ago

Text

̆̈ ♡ friends, lovers or nothing ♡ ̆̈

pairing: mullet!bangchan x afab!stylist!reader

genre: friends to lovers, smut

MDNI!!!! please have your age in your bio

wc: 3.0k

warnings: y/n is used, mutual pining, mentions of alcohol and drinking, long-haired bangchan <333, touchy chan, kinda possessive chan, oral sex (m! receiving), fingering, car sex, public-ish sex (with nobody around), unpr0tected sex, cre4mpie.

a/n: the title is based on a john m4yer song but I kinda h8 him, so it’s rlly not based on the song btw! again, not rlly proofread. i tried to make this short but im a yapper :(

thanks for reading <3

“I can’t believe I actually grew it out.” Chris said, examining his figure in the mirror in front of him. His hands played with his own hair, longer than anticipated. His hair grew without him noticing —most days he would have it up in a ponytail or covered by headwear of any sorts.

“You’ll officially keep it long, then?” You asked, staring at your friend curiously as he tousled his hair.

“What do you think? Should I?”

“I like it.” You answered, reaching to run your fingers through his new luscious locks. “It’s gotten healthier, too.”

“Really?” A rhetorical question. You removed your hand from his head as he ran his own fingers through his hair to validate your statement. “Hm. I guess so.”

“I think you look great like this.” You stated, looking at him through the mirror. “I just cut the ends a bit. And, please, do not dye it for a while. I want to see if it can reach its full potential.” Chris scoffed at that comment, knowing well that he didn’t always have a say on whether or not he’d dye it for a comeback.

“I’ll try.”

“If they give you shit, send them to me. I can fight.” You joked. He chuckled.

“I’m probably a better shot than you, if we’re being honest.”

“I have shears, though. I’m basically Edward Scissorhands.”

“Touché.”

“So, am I still invited to the release party on Friday?” You asked Chris, who was still styling his hair in front of the mirror.

“Of course you are.” He replied.

“Don’t you think it’s kind of… funny that you’re bringing your hairstylist as your plus one?” You asked. Chris placed his hands on each side of his hips and rolled his eyes at you.

“Did you forget the years of friendship we’ve had?” He asked. “You’re not just my hairstylist. Plus, it’s great that we get to celebrate Itzy’s new EP here instead of being on tour or busy or whatever.”

“Okay, ‘m just making sure that you don’t regret it.”

“I won’t. Do you want me to pick you up?”

“Yeah.”

Chris was always busy, working on something… he never had time for leisure or for dates, visits to his family, long-term relationships, nothing like that. He barely made space to take care of his basic needs. He had been like that since you met him when you worked for JYPE as a hairdresser. You started there as an intern and took a temporary position for a few months, which turned into a few years. It hadn’t been long since you opened your own salon. You were still familiar with the current talent. But you didn’t really keep in contact with anyone except Chris and the occasional text or visit from Hyunjin and Jeongin, who asked for hair-related consultation often.

It didn’t shock you too much when Chris sent an apology text that he’d been running late at the studio and that Jeongin would pick you up instead. You were slightly disappointed at Chris overworking himself (again!) but definitely not surprised.

Jeongin picked you up earlier than you anticipated.

“Hi noona. Have you been well?” He asked, as you sat down in his car, pulling down the mirror to continue doing your makeup.

“I have! How have you been?”

“Tired. Hungry. Bloated. A little bit of everything.” He replied, a light blush appeared on his face.

“Your hair looks cute like this.” You commented. Jeongin blushed.

“Thank you. I think I’m liking it natural for now.”

“Good, you should all stop bleaching it so often if you don’t want a baldracha soon.” You teased; he laughed. “Thanks for picking me up, by the way.”

“You’re always welcome, noona.”

Jeongin pulled up at the company’s venue and left his car in the valet parking. You, who had considered taking your own car and meeting Chris there, were endlessly thankful that you didn’t; just because you wouldn’t have to park. When you arrived at the venue, someone took your attendance as Chris’s plus one that instead arrived with Jeongin.

You greeted your past clients and coworkers with excited and emotional hugs, holding small talk with all of them, even with JYP himself.

“Y/N!” Yeji almost screamed when she saw you, instantly taking you into her embrace. Jeongin congratulated her and squeezed your arm to let you know that he’d be with his members. “I’m so happy to finally see you again!”

“You are too! Congratulations on the album as well. I’ve been playing ever since it came out!” You said, she blushed at that.

“Where’s Chris? I thought you’d be coming with him… not Jeongin?” She asked. “Did you know that I asked him for your address to send you an invite and he said that you were his plus one? Rude, right? I didn’t want you to think that we didn’t want you here!”

“I did not know that.” You chuckled, confused but, again, not too surprised. “I would never think that you didn’t want me here, though. I’d be salty if that were true.” She laughed.

“Ah! I miss you, unnie.” She spoke. “My new stylist is great, but I miss talking to you.”

“Feel free to text me whenever.” You offered. “Hyunjin and Jeongin text me, like, once a day to ask about shampoo and styling cream.” She giggled, still holding you in her embrace. You felt reminiscent; not missing the workplace environment in itself but you did miss your clients. Especially those with whom you had worked closely with, like Itzy and Stray Kids.

You turned around when you felt a hand on the small of your back. You smelled his perfume before actually seeing him. Looking back, Chris, Changbin and Jisung stood around you and Yeji. They expressed their commendations to Yeji before shifting their attention to you. Yeji thanked them and gave you one last squeeze before leaving you.

“Noona!” Jisung sang as he gave you a hug. Changbin followed suit.

It had been months since you had last seen them. They both looked (and felt) more muscular. You almost blushed at their embraces. Then you turned your attention to Chris frowning at him. Jisung and Changbin waved at you, leaving you alone with Chris, catching the vibe.

“I know, I know! I’m sorry!” He said, before you could speak up. You deadpanned. “I couldn’t leave just yet! I was going to let you know with a bit more time, but Jeongin offered to pick you up.” You just stared at him, slowly blinking. “Will you keep guilt-tripping me or are you going to enjoy this? I could’ve brought Hannah.”

“I don’t know. A certain member of Itzy told me that I was invited anyways, so you could’ve brought your sister instead.” You smirked, Chris’s face turned crimson immediately. “So yeah. I could’ve been here on my own accord!”

“Okay, you got me there. I wanted to pick you up because I have something that I wanted to show you…” He muttered. “But whatever, it’ll be too late to go now. I wasn’t even supposed to go to work today.” You rolled your eyes.

“Or you could’ve been honest and invited me out independently.” You countered, making him blush again.

“I’m kind of dumb. I didn’t think you’d want to hang out with me if you saw me last week.”

“Chris, I love hanging out with you. You don’t really need an excuse for that.” You added, softly, taking a hold of his arm. “Let’s go. Your children quite literally look so lost and miserable without you. They work with everyone here, why are they standing in the corner huddling like penguins?” Chris laughed.

“I’m really sorry, Y/N. I promise it won’t happen again.” He said, you deadpanned once again. “Okay, I’ll let you know with anticipation, if it’s going to happen.” You stared at him. “I won’t lie about your invitation to events.” You said nothing, he sighed. “And I’ll give Yeji your address…”

“Apology accepted! Let’s get shitfaced!”

You excitedly greeted Felix, Hyunjin, Seungmin and Minho. You had seen more of Jeongin and Hyunjin as they visited you at the salon sometimes. And you did know what Jisung and Changbin were generally up to because they were always with Chris. But the other members and their current personal endeavors were a mystery to you. You listened as Felix talked about how the tour would start soon. Seungmin was taking piano lessons from Jeongin. Jisung had been writing song for a new group. Changbin’s family bought a golf cart and had to return it. Minho told you about his latest fishing trip and how it ended early because Jisung couldn’t handle living without air-conditioning.

Not that you paid too much attention to their conversations. You couldn’t pay attention when with every passing drink, Chris’s arm shifted a little lower on your body. It started with his arm around your shoulders, then on your upper back, lowered down to your waist and now his arm was draped lazily around your hips. It almost seemed unintentional.

You could feel the heat of his body next to yours. His hold on you nearly seemed… possessive. As if he wanted to let everyone know that you were there with him. Him… not anyone else, despite being surrounded by men and arriving with a different guy. A few drinks in and the alcohol’s buzz made you feel like dancing. You were taken by surprise when Hyunjin asked you to dance with him, even with Chris’s grip on you.

You agreed, of course.

You couldn’t remember which track was playing, you just knew that dancing was top priority. Especially when you had Hyunjin, an acclaimed dancer, on your arm. His hands found their way to yours, interlocking your fingers. He twirled you around, laughing at the childish dance for a not-so-childish song. You didn’t care and neither did he or anyone else. Instead, people joined you and Hyunjin (always a natural trendsetter). The song changed to a slower beat, a deeper tone.

Suddenly, you felt the same warm arm around you, dragging your attention away from Hyunjin who kept dancing alone. Chris’s strong hands held your waist, pulling you closer to him. You wrapped your arms around his neck. You were so close that his drunken breath ghosted against you. Your heart nearly skipped beats due to the close proximity between you. You swung your hips lazily to the song, not being able to register anything aside from Chris.

“You look beautiful, by the way.” He said in a low, deep voice. “I would’ve loved to have arrived with you. For everyone to see us… getting here… together. The way it should’ve happened.”

“Chris.” You warned him, knowing that he could regret saying something stupid.

“I know…” He paused. “But I don’t care.”

“You’re drunk.”

“I’m tipsy at most, not even that.” He countered. “I meant what I said. I wish we had come together. I should have risked it all.”

“Why don’t you, then?” You teased; he blinked at you in disbelief. You weren’t sure if he was bluffing or not. “Risk it all…” Chris clenched his jaw.

“Babe, you’re joking, right?” He asked less dazed, more serious, “don’t play me like that.” You nodded in response, inching closer to his ear and whispered

“I’d risk it all… if it’s for you.”

Chris took no time in grabbing your arm, pulling you away from your dancing friends, who stared at you confounded —not that you noticed or even cared about that. Not when Chris seemed so needy. You had blurred the lines of your friendship many times… a drunk confession here, a stoned kiss there. But you weren’t sure where Chris actually stood in terms of you —not until Yeji said that he was adamant about you being his plus one… or him wanting to arrive with you on his arm. And you would risk it all for him. That was the truth of the matter, you hoped that he’d mean those words as well; that it wasn’t just another tipsy confession that would be ignored the next day.

You said a very, very quick and superficial goodbye to the members of Itzy and the Stray Kids who weren’t on the dance floor, still held by Chris’s grasp… on your hand now. Using the excuse that you were tipsy and not feeling well. Which was a blatant lie, you felt sober once Chris’s hands were on your body. By the looks of it… and the intentionality of his actions, he wasn’t even tipsy either.

He didn’t say anything to you; you arrived at the parking lot. Chris never cared for valet parking, instead he searched for his car, parked in a dark corner of the lot, and unlocked it with his beeper. Your heart raced when he opened the passenger door for you. Once inside, he slammed his lips on yours… not giving you or himself no time to regret it. This kiss was different from the others. It felt more desperate and hungrier and real. It felt like a kiss you weren’t going to conveniently forget the next morning. His lips tasted faintly like lychee soju and cocoa whiskey, yours were locked on his… your lipstick transferring to a smudge on his face. His hands were on your face and yours tangled in his luscious locks.

You kissed him hard and slow and sexy for that seemed like an eternity. The familiar warmth of his hands roamed your entire body as the kiss grew needier and hungrier with each passing moment. And you couldn’t help but focus on the feeling of your arousal soaking your panties. Especially when one of Chris’s hands had been sitting on your inner thigh, grabbing at it, inching closer to your center.

“Fuck, Y/N...” Chris moaned out, breaking the kiss. “Want to get out of here?”

“We could…or…we could take it to the backseat?” You offered. Chris nodded frantically. You crawled from the passenger seat to the backseat as Chris placed the sunshade on his windshield for a better —false sense of privacy. You started undressing, desperate to finally feel Chris’s body on yours. You took off your heels, then your panties. Then, Chris joined you in the back, desperately attempting to take his shirt off, discarding it in the front seat.

“C’mon, baby.” Chris said, patting his lap for you to straddle him.

His black slacks did miracles to conceal his growing bulge because you didn’t notice it until you were sitting on top of it. You could feel his sharp erection poke at your entrance through the flimsy fabric of your underwear. The unexpected friction made you let out an involuntary moan. Chris’s hands found your hips, helping you grind against him until it became too much. His head was thrown back, eyes closed, lips parted in such a delicious manner that you would’ve loved to take a picture. To save that moment forever in a physical sense. You halted your movements, lowering yourself onto your knees in the small space between the back and front seat. Chris looked at you, confused.

Your hands found the button of Chris’s pants; he looked at you with dazed stars in his eyes and helped you lower down his pants and underwear. His cock sprung up, girthy and hard against his stomach. You wasted no time in taking him into his mouth. Chris’s hands wasted no time in tangling his hands into your hair, which, in return, made you moan.

“Baby, that feels…heavenly.” He groaned as he accidentally bucked his hips upwards. Your nose met the coarse hair on his pubic bone. His hands pushed your head, making you deepthroat him further. “Sorry, baby. S-sorry. It just feels so good.” He released his grip on your hair, but you kept him deep in your mouth. Chris moaned at that feeling. “Shit, baby. I’m going to cum if you don’t…”

You released his cock with a pop of your mouth. Your saliva coating his dick, pubes and the corners of your mouth.

“Come ride me, baby.” He said, breathless… grinning with satisfaction.

You were now bare in front of him, teasing his erection with your folds, grinding against it. He threw his head back every time his tip prodded your entrance. Then, you took him in… all at once. It was painfully pleasurable. But you still made a mental note to not take him without prep again. The stretch was still delicious. Chris took his time in adjusting to the feeling of your walls clenching around him. But, you were desperate. His hands tried to ground you on his dick, you started moving. Chris moaned at your unexpectedly fast pace. His tip kissed the deepest crevices of your cervix as his hands caressed your ass. They groped and grabbed at it every time you moved on his dick.

His hand snaked between your bodies to find your clit, rubbing sultry circles around it. The pleasure made you feel surprisingly on edge. You kept bouncing on Chris’s dick, desperate for release… more specifically, his release inside of you. You didn’t have to say that you wanted it. Chris knew.

“You want me to cum, baby?” He asked, breathless. You nodded frantically, speeding your movements. Chris thrusted upwards, meeting you in the middle. Until he pumped you full of him with a curse; warm, deep and delicious cum flooded your insides.

Chris slipped out of you after he caught his breath. He asked you to sit down where he was sitting just moments before. He observed his cum dripping out of you, licking his lips. Ultimately deciding to use his fingers to bring you to your release. Two fingers on one hand worked on pushing his release deeper into your counter, while the fingers on his other hand rubbed wet circles on your clit. The sight itself could make you cum if you weren’t already about to. Your climax found you quickly, you saw white stars everywhere as you clenched around his fingers; helping his cum reach deeper than he ever thought it would. Chris pressed a kiss to your soaked cunt and slid your panties on.

“Not that I care if you drip on my car…” He justified. “I just like seeing you full…” He chuckled lightly, unserious. Chris leaned to kiss you in a reassuring way.

“So, what are we now?” You teased. “Friends, lovers or nothing?”

“I don’t think I’ll be able to go back to being friends.” He replied, chest rising and falling. “And I could never bear to be ‘nothing’ to you.”

“So, lovers it is?”

“If you want to, of course.”

You do.

Of course.

☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・

219 notes · View notes

amorienomore · 2 days ago

Text

𝜗𝜚˚⋆ “i think i'm going to head home” prank

an: i keep seeing this trend on tiktok and it’s just so cute to me!!! anywho enjoyyy

——————

satoru gojo

“i think i’m gonna head home now,” you mumble, standing up mid-snuggle. gojo, who’s got a hand half-down the popcorn bowl and a blanket draped over both your legs, doesn’t even look at you. “so you hate me?” he asks, pink lips pouting. “what? no,” you say, brushing off stray popcorn from your legs. “it’s just getting late and i should probably go.” he finally turns to look at you—slowly, like he’s in a dramatic movie and he squints, blue eyes piercing into you. “home is where i am, baby,” he says, deadpan. “did you forget that?” when you keep walking, he gasps like he’s been shot, rolls off the couch, and crawls dramatically after you. “don’t go,” he whines. “i’ll cry—no sob. i’ll be insufferable. i’ll send you like 83 voice memos in the middle of the night just to say i miss you.” you snort and admit it was a prank, and he immediately perks up. “knew it,” he grins, latching onto your waist and pulling you back down to his couch with him. “you love me too much to leave like that.”

suguru geto

you curl out of his arms gently, whispering, “i think i’m going to go home now.” he blinks, half-asleep and warm in the dim light. “...home? i thought you were sleeping over?” you shrug, heading to grab your coat. he sits up slowly, brows furrowing. “did i miss something? you seemed fine five minutes ago.” you mumble something vague and head for the door. he’s quiet. doesn’t argue. just follows, grabbing his keys. “okay,” he says softly. “do you need me to take you home?” your heart cracks a little—he sounds genuinely sad. you pause. turn back. “wait, suguru—i was just messing with you. it’s a prank.” he blinks. then smiles, relieved and a little amused. “that’s evil. i was halfway through an internal monologue.” he tosses his keys and wraps his arms around you from behind, pulling you back to bed.

kento nanami

you grab your purse and slide your coat on slowly. “kenny, i think i’m going to head home.” nanami looks up from the stovetop. he blinks once. “i thought you were staying the night,” he says quietly. you shrug, avoiding eye contact. “i changed my mind.” he doesn’t say anything at first. just sets the spatula down and walks over, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “okay...did i do something to upset you?” you shake your head. he nods once, the smallest movement. “if you’re leaving, i’ll walk you out.” his hand sliding on your waist. you can’t take it anymore—“baby, it’s a prank. i was kidding.” his jaw unclenches. he exhales through his nose, pulling you back into his arms with one arm around your waist, the other lifting your chin to look at him. he kisses your forehead and murmurs, “cruel. cruel little joke.”

toji fushiguro

“think i’m gonna go home,” you say, sliding your phone into your pocket. toji blinks up from where he’s scrolling on the couch. “what?” “gonna head out,” you repeat casually. he squints at you. “you’re not even wearing shoes.” you shrug. he watches you walk toward the door, frowning now. “...the fuck happened between five minutes ago and now? we were just talking about dinner.” you keep walking. he stands up. “wait, wait—what did i do?” you laugh and turn around. “it’s a prank, babe. i wasn’t really leaving.” he stares at you for a second. then exhales and throws himself onto the couch like you’ve aged him ten years. “you’re lucky you’re cute,” he mumbles into a pillow. “i was already trying to figure out which one of your friends i gotta call to win you back.” going back to scrolling on his phone.

ryomen sukuna

you stretch a little after dinner, yawning dramatically as you stand. “alright… i think i’m gonna go home.” he doesn’t even look up. just scoffs. “this is your home.” you blink. “no, like—my actual place. i think i’ll sleep there tonight.” he finally lifts his head, eyes analyzing you. “why?” you shrug. “no reason.” he stares at you for a long, silent moment. “...go ahead then,” he says, leaning back like he doesn’t care. “don’t bother coming back.” using his hand to shoo you away. you stifle a laugh. “okay, let me grab my bag.,” you tease, reaching for it. “make sure you take that dumb stuffed animal you left in my bed too.” you crack. “okay wait—sukuna, it’s a prank. i wasn’t really leaving.” “you think i didn’t know that? your heartbeat spiked the second you got up.” he smirks. “next time, prank someone stupid.”

choso

“i think i’m gonna go home,” you murmur sleepily, sitting up from where your head rested against his chest. choso’s entire body tenses beneath you. he doesn’t speak right away. just slowly looks down at you like a kicked puppy. “...home?” his voice is so soft it breaks your heart a little. you nod solemnly, trying not to smile. “yeah, i should get going.” he watches you stand up, lower lip twitching. “but… i just made you tea,” he whispers, like that’s reason enough to stay forever. when you keep walking, he rises too, confused and a little panicked. “wait—did I forget to do something? do you not feel safe? is the bed too warm?” you burst out laughing and turn back to him. “baby, it’s a prank—i was joking!” he looks so relieved he immediately drops back onto the couch, arms spread wide like he’s melting. “...don’t do that to me,” he mumbles, holding your body a bit tighter this time.

hiromi higuruma

it happens when you’re both halfway through folding laundry together, sitting knee to knee on the floor, his playlist low in the background. he’s just handed you one of his sweaters when you say it. “i think i’m gonna go home after this.” he doesn’t respond right away. just keeps folding, but slower now. more mechanical. “...are you sure?” his voice is calm, almost too even. you nod. “yeah. i don’t know. just feels like i should.” he finishes the last shirt and sets it down, fingers lingering on the fabric. “you didn’t say anything earlier. did something change?” you shake your head, lips pressed together. he nods once. stands. gathers the folded clothes and starts placing them in drawers without saying a word. but you can feel the spiral happening in real time—see the way he starts overthinking each movement. did he talk too much during dinner? was he too blunt? did he not kiss you like you wanted? was he too quiet again? when he finally turns back, his expression is carefully blank, but there’s a shadow behind his eyes. “do you want me to walk you out?” you exhale. “hiromi…” he blinks. “yes?” “it’s a prank. i was just messing with you.” ... he exhales quietly, rubbing his forehead like he’s just been let out of a courtroom sentence. “you—” he stops, then laughs once—soft and a little pained. “you nearly gave me a heart attack.” his arms wrap around your waist, pulling you flush against him as he rests his chin on your shoulder. “don’t joke about leaving like that,” he murmurs. “not when i just started getting used to reaching for you in the mornings.”

220 notes · View notes

7-wonders · 2 days ago

Text

Workplace Injuries (and other hazards of working with Johanna Constantine)

Morpheus/Dream of the Endless x gender-neutral!reader

Summary: When you're concussed by a demon while on a job with Johanna Constantine, Morpheus takes it upon himself to care for you. The only problem? Concussion protocol dictates that the King of Dreams can't let you fall asleep right away.

Word count: 3.5k

A note from the author: I know that concussion protocols have been updated in the past few years and that best practice isn't to keep people awake for a certain time anymore, but the plot was just too fun to not write. Please forgive me for the inaccuracy!

(There's technically a work related to this that goes into a bit more of reader and Jo's dynamic but the reader in that is explicitly female, so it's really not required reading but it's here if you want it!)

It feels so good to be inspired to write for Morpheus once more, and to have the dramatic fics as well as the funny/goofy ones. I sincerely hope you enjoy; likes, comments, reblogs, and asks make me smile and are much appreciated!

“Right, here we go, easy does it.” Johanna Constantine shuts the car door behind you and slings one of your arms over her shoulders.

“Please slow down, Jo,” you beg as she starts to drag you along. “I’m going to throw up again.”

“We’re moving at a snail’s pace, babe. I physically can’t go any slower!”

Relying on people does not come easily to you. It’s hard to relinquish control, to admit that you need somebody to help you. Unfortunately, there’s no denying that today, you need help. You just wish it wasn’t so embarrassing as needing somebody to help you walk from the car to your front door.

While it certainly wasn’t a career path you had ever envisioned for yourself, you like to think that you’ve gotten pretty good at the whole “part-time occultist assistant” thing lately! After having first been put into contact with one Johanna Constantine due to her needing someone with your abilities as a medium, you found out that you worked very well together. So well, in fact, that she had started calling you every time she ran across trouble summoning or speaking to spirits (which was frequently, since she was not gifted in that particular area). Not that you minded. No, the work was honestly fun, and you enjoyed Jo’s presence—she joked now that you had forced her to be your friend against her will; a claim that you wouldn’t deny.

Today, you were meeting in an abandoned pub that was at least 600 years old, if not older (you had your reservations about doing this kind of stuff during the day, but it was kind of astounding how little people paid attention to their surroundings and to the things they didn’t believe to be real). There was a grassroots campaign to restore the pub and reopen it, but something kept thwarting even the most basic start of restoration efforts. The man leading the crusade contacted Jo to try to figure out what was haunting the pub, and to remove it if possible. Since it was unknown what entity it was, she brought you along in case it was the spirit of some long-dead patron who hadn’t figured out how to move on to whatever their afterlife was supposed to be.

It was decidedly not a spirit, as you found out when it broke the containment circle, morphed into some nasty horror of a demon, and threw you into a pile of crates like you were a ragdoll.

Being that Johanna’s an accomplished occultist, there are a few healing spells and charms that can be used to patch up bruises and minor injuries. She absolutely will not fuck around with anything bigger than that, though, trusting doctors, medicine, and science over any of the magic that she possesses. So when you came to (you had been out for five minutes, apparently), she decided it was straight to A&E for you.

You attempted to plead your case almost immediately after Jo had made up her mind. Hospitals are not your favorite place in the world—you might even say it’s one of your least favorite—and you would love to stay out of them at all costs. Plus, it was just a bump on the head. Everyone deals with those!

“I’m fine!” you insisted as Johanna hauled your limp body out of the pub with strength reminiscent of those mothers who were able to lift cars off of their babies.

“It’s nothing to worry about!” you assured her when the harsh light of day made your head throb in an agony that had you dizzy and falling to your knees.

“Seriously, I just need to sleep it off,” you claimed after ordering resident getaway driver Chas to pull over and barely leaning far enough out of the car before throwing up from too much happening at once.

Okay, so perhaps the trip was warranted.

Two hours of waiting and tests and one concussion diagnosis later, you were set free from the dreaded hospital and finally on your way home (with Chas taking turns much slower this time, thankfully). Just getting from point A to point B, though, was proving to be an odyssey. You’re still little more than dead weight, leaning heavily on Jo to keep you upright while you stumble through the insurmountable task of putting one foot in front of the other. It’s extremely slow-going, and you’re really glad the only witness to this is Chas, for whom this is a completely normal day.

When you finally make it to the front door, Johanna starts feeling her coat with her free hand. “Keys, where did I put your keys?”

“Saw you slip them into your inside jacket pocket,” you mumble, forcing yourself to breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth in an attempt to ward off nausea.

Reaching into said pocket, she grins at you upon seeing that you’re correct. “Ah, look at you! No memory loss or anything. You’re golden.”

“I don’t feel golden.”

Indeed, you’re pretty sure you don’t look golden either. You’re wearing a massive pair of sunglasses that Jo had hidden in her purse (you can only guess what type of undercover work she’s done wearing these) to keep out any of the brutal sun. There are probably still wood chips on your clothes from being thrown into crates, and, if it weren’t for being held up, you’re almost certain you’d be sideways on the ground.

Some people compare having a concussion to being drunk. At this point, you think you’d rather take feeling shitty after too many drinks over the hit that’s sent your body haywire.

“Don’t worry, we’ll get you into bed, and in a couple of days you’ll be back to normal.” She pauses. “Well, your particular brand of normal.”

Johanna unlocks your front door and ushers you inside—

—right into the arms of Morpheus, who has, it seems, been waiting in your entryway for who knows how long. You stumble into his chest, and his grip around you tightens possessively as Johanna curses under her breath.

“What happened?” He’s absolutely furious, but your brain is still too foggy to clock things that aren’t obvious. Instead, you take off the sunglasses to stare at him in disbelief before turning to Johanna.

“How did you call him?” you ask. “He doesn’t have a phone.”

Morpheus looks visibly confused and on the verge of having a conniption. The air is charged with tension, and there’s only one person in the room level enough to diffuse it. To you, Jo says, “Don’t need a phone when you know how to summon his magic raven.”

She then turns to Morpheus with an explanation. “You, Dreamlord, are looking at a concussion, courtesy of a very sneaky, very annoying demon who has already been banished back to Hell.”

“You should see the other guy,” you joke.

Jo rolls her eyes. “Happy to see your sense of humor’s still intact.”

“A…concussion,” Morpheus says slowly, as though testing the word out. It makes sense that he’s unfamiliar with this, both because he doesn’t ever deal with normal, human injuries and because he was trapped in a giant glass ball before brain injuries were really understood and studied.

“Aye,” Johanna confirms. “A hard bump on the head that jolts your brain a wee bit.”

Morpheus goes silent instead of beginning an expected volley of questioning, his form going slightly fuzzy and transparent around the edges as he stares ahead.

“Why am I watching him dissociate right now?” Johanna stage-whispers. “It’s creepy as hell.”

You’ve seen this before, and thus share none of her discomfort. “He’s back in the Dreaming, using the collective human unconsciousness to figure out what a concussion is. Give him a second.”

As expected, it only takes him a couple more moments to come back to himself in the Waking, eyes that were once filled with rage now concerned as he holds you at arms’ length as though to study you.

“You suffered a traumatic brain injury?” he asks.

“A mild traumatic brain injury, thank you very much,” you point out. Though you had stopped seeing double shortly after leaving the hospital, the minor physical exertion has brought that symptom back in force. Morpheus doubles in front of you, and you blink furiously in the hopes that he goes back to being one person-shaped being.

“Debatable,” Johanna murmurs, having had a front-row seat to see that it was definitely verging closer to moderate than it was mild.

“That does not make me feel better in the slightest,” Morpheus says.

The painkillers that the nurse gave you at the hospital (over-the-counter meds, just administered by a professional instead of your own hand) are quickly beginning to wear off and make the full brunt of your injury known. Through gritted teeth, you say, “While I’d love to stand in my living room and chat all day, it feels like somebody is hammering my skull from the inside out, and I’d like to go lie down.”

Indeed, you can barely keep your eyes open right now, the pain so intense that you have to work to remember a language that normally comes so naturally to you. The ground under you has also started to betray you once more, swaying dangerously as though you’re on a boat. Your grip tightens on Morpheus’s coat and his bicep, actions that do not go unnoticed by the Endless.

Jo makes a small noise of sympathy. “Of course, love, let’s get you to—”

Morpheus stops her. “Thank you for your help, but I will assume care now.”

“Will you now? Since you’re so experienced at caring for mortal injuries.” She sounds entirely unimpressed and instead asks you, “You remember what the doctor said?”

You shake your head before grimacing at the sharp reminder of why moving your head at all is not a good idea currently. “Was too busy trying to think something beyond ‘ow,’ so I left the listening to you.”

“Smart. You need to stay awake for the first eight hours after your concussion to make sure you don’t get a brain bleed or anything else that can make you slip into a coma. Right now, you have about,” Johanna checks her watch, “four hours before you can sleep. After that? Rest, rest, and more rest. Don’t look at your electronics, don’t do any reading, nothing that requires too much brain power. Here’s the list that A&E gave us. Doc wrote down a pain med schedule, too.”

She hands Morpheus the paper she’s been holding, and he takes it as though it’s a foreign object.

“Look at me,” she commands, probably the only person on Earth who could speak to a being such as Morpheus like this without any noticeable fear. “I am mainly talking to you here, because this one is concussed and therefore unable to follow care directions. You need to follow these to the letter, do you hear me?”

Morpheus glowers, and you can hear the lights beginning to flicker as his anger surges the electricity. “Yes, Johanna Constantine, contrary to your belief, I am more than able to provide aid.”

She stops, realizing that she’s come off a little too harshly. “I’m sorry, okay? It’s just…it’s my fault. I’m the one who thought I was dealing with a spirit, and if I had just done some more research, I—”

“You know better than almost anyone that demons are crafty and cunning. No matter how much and how often you train, you are still mortal,” Morpheus reminds her. “It would be impossible for you to see through the tricks of every single demon. So no, it is not your fault.”

Johanna looks…oddly touched at Morpheus’s assurance. “Not what I was expecting from you, but I appreciate it all the same.”

“That was really nice of you, Morpheus.” You smile at him even though the action causes you pain. “Now, can somebody please help me to my bedroom? I’m not sure I could find it in my current condition.”

Morpheus is flustered by your and Johanna’s reactions to his unexpected kindness and quickly puts one of your arms around him in the hopes that everybody will forget and move past it. Johanna takes your other side, and together the two get you to your bedroom without you passing out or throwing up.

“Sorry, it’s kind of messy in here,” you apologize as you’re settled onto your bed, Jo arranging the pillows until she deems you comfortable. Morpheus seems poised to just stand by your bed and watch you, so you pull on him until he gets the message and sits next to you.

She laughs. “Pssh, you’ve seen my place. You look like a neat freak compared to me.”

Jo searches in the pockets of her coat again until she finds the bottle of painkillers the hospital had given her, sets them down on your nightstand, and then disappears into the hallway. When she reappears, she holds yet another bottle of painkillers and a glass of water, presumably procured from your kitchen.

“Here, the drugs you have are different from the ones A&E gave you, so you can have a dose now.” Jo shakes out two of the pills into your waiting hand and hands you the water so that you can take them.

“Thank you for all your help,” you say to her, settling into Morpheus’s hold now that he’s magicked his coat and boots away so that he can fully lie with you.

“Eh, what are friends for?” She turns her eyes to Morpheus. “Do you know how to use a phone?”

“Enough to get by.” The way he says it, though, makes it sound like he’s simply seen a phone a couple of times and thus thinks that he would be able to figure out if needed.

Still, Johanna is appeased with that answer. “Good. Text me if you need my help with anything.”

“We shall manage.”

She smiles at you and waves. “Ta, darling. Get to feeling better.”

Then she’s gone, leaving you in Morpheus’s care. While you’re happy to close your eyes finally in blissful silence, your beloved quickly realizes that he has no clue what caring for somebody with a concussion is like.

“Have the…drugs had any effect on you yet?” he asks, using the term that Jo gave them.

You hum. “Not yet, but I only just took them. Give it a few minutes, and then my headache should hopefully go from ‘agonizing’ to just plain ‘painful.’”

“Did you—”

“Sweetheart,” you cut him off, “I love you so much, but I need you to be quiet right now. Agonizing headache, remember?”

“Ah.” Peeling your eyes open is worth it when you see his embarrassed flush. “My apologies, dearest.”

Finally, quiet. Sometimes (often), when you find yourself trying to rest, it’s nearly impossible to shut your brain off. Especially since you started solving supernatural cases with a renowned occultist and dating a billions-of-years-old anthropomorphic personification, you’ve had a lot on your mind. Now that it hurts too much to even think, you find that, for once, there are no pressing questions or problems on your mind to keep you from resting. Huh, maybe you should get concussed more often.

As the adrenaline of the afternoon begins to wear off, you feel fatigued down to your bones. Not only did you get blindsided by a demon, but you also had to swallow your fear and sit in a hospital for hours. Even without the injury, that would constitute a very busy day. But in your current predicament, and resting in the arms of your love, it’s easy simply to let yourself drift off.

Above you, Morpheus straightens in alarm as he feels you begin to slip into unconsciousness. Johanna said that you were not to sleep, but does he really go against his function and keep someone from reaching his realm? He would never forgive himself if something terrible were to happen to you as a result of his inaction, though, so he begrudgingly shakes your shoulder and uses a touch of his power to turn you away from the Dreaming.

“Mmm,” you grumble, eyes landing on Morpheus and glaring at him. “Why do you hate me?”

“You must not fall asleep, beloved, not for a few hours.”

“But, like, what are the odds of something actually happening to me if I sleep before I’m supposed to?”

“Whatever they are, they are odds that I am not willing to take. I would not be able to live with myself if something were to happen to you.”

It’s sweet, of course, that he’s so worried about you. But right now, the only thing keeping you from snapping at him and demanding he leave so you can sleep is the fact. “Ugh, fine, I won’t sleep. I’m never letting a demon throw me into a wall again.”

“Which demon did this to you?”

“I don’t know, I wasn’t conscious when Jo banished it back to Hell.” You don’t need to look at him to know that there surely must be storm clouds gathering in the Dreaming, so you decide to keep talking in the hopes that it calms him. “We were called in on a job for an old pub that hasn’t been able to be restored due to repeated instances of paranormal activity. After doing some research, I truly thought that it was a spirit. So did Jo.”

“As I said earlier, demons can fool even the most experienced of occultists. The line of work that you have found yourself in can be dangerous, though you are lucky to have not experienced such danger until now.”

“I know it’s dangerous. But knowing that there are spirits out there who are lost, spirits that can cross over if I can just find them? I’m happy to risk getting injured.”

“You do what you can to help those my sister cannot. I find that quite admirable.” Smiling slightly at Morpheus doesn’t hurt like it did earlier, and he picks up on it easily. “Are you feeling less pain?”

“Yes, the meds finally kicked in. Still hurts, but I can handle having a small conversation. Now, I just have to wait until I can finally sleep.”

“Shall I read to you to keep you awake?” Morpheus asks, hand already in the air as he prepares to summon a book from the Dreaming.

“No. Your voice is very soothing, so I would definitely fall asleep.”

After thinking for a moment of what might help you stay awake while also being enough of a non-activity that you’re not at risk of aggravating your concussion more, you voice-activate your phone and ask it to turn on your newest podcast obsession. Morpheus startles upon hearing your phone answer back to you before starting to play, and you snicker under your breath. Oh, the joys of dating a being so woefully behind on learning about modern technology.

Even with the podcast being a topic you’re interested in, you still find yourself dozing off multiple times, Morpheus waking you when you get too close to his realm every time. When you’re not injured, you’ll have to thank him for doing what must feel entirely wrong and keeping you from dreaming. Just when you’re starting to wonder if you need to break the electronics ban and check the clock on your phone, it begins vibrating and playing an alarm. Johanna, bless her, must have set an alarm on your phone without you knowing.

“Can you turn that off, please?” you ask Morpheus, who studies your phone screen intently before hesitantly hitting the ‘stop’ button. “Thank you.”

“What does that mean?” he asks.

“That I can finally go to sleep.” You’re so tired at this point that you doubt you’ll need Morpheus’s help finding sleep, though you wouldn’t be surprised if he still tries. “Am I still going to have a concussion in the Dreaming?” you wonder.

Morpheus thinks for a moment. “I must confess that I am not sure. You are one of the only mortals who has ever visited the Dreaming proper, and probably the only one who has spent a significant amount of time there. Even if you are, I shall ensure that you are as comfortable as possible.”

“Y’know, you’re a pretty good nurse,” you whisper, leaning back against him and already feeling consciousness slip from you.

“That is a relief, considering I do not know what I am doing,” he admits.

A puff of air leaves you, the most laugh-like sound you can manage at present. “You know enough to have made sure I wouldn’t die in my sleep, so thank you.”

He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “Today is not the day that my sister takes your hand, nor is that any day soon. Rest now, and I shall see you soon.”

You think that you manage to mutter something that sounds close to ‘I love you’ before you pass out, but the only person who knows for certain is Morpheus.

(Morpheus, who remains frustratingly tight-lipped when it turns out that you don’t still have a concussion in the Dreaming and thus immediately try to figure out if anything you said or did would be considered embarrassing by your non-addled self.)

#the sandman #dream of the endless #morpheus #morpheus x reader #dream of the endless x reader #dream of the endless imagine #morpheus imagine #did I switch between Jo and Johanna too much? Mayhaps #but that’s a problem for future Claire

210 notes · View notes