#but I really really wanted to do a marathon

[clownprincesshq]

PROLOGUE: THE BITE

"You've got the costume. You've got the power. You're Spider-Woman. Act like it." 🕷🕸️

Main!Mark Grayson x Spider-Woman! Reader

warnings: SMUT, violence, passing out, blood,

w/c: 8.9k

a/n: okay so i was planning to post the kryptonian fic first, but after looking over it again… yeah. it needs a little love before it’s ready. it’s super long, super heavy, and honestly gonna be a bit draining to get through right away. i do still plan to post it, i just wanna make sure i have the energy to really do it justice. so in the meantime, i’m gonna give you the mark x spiderwoman!reader fic instead :) it’s way more chill, still emotional and fun, and honestly feels like a good breather between heavier projects. the kryptonian fic is still coming just after i rest my brain a little <3 thank you for being so patient with me!!

You feel it before your eyes even open, the sweet brush of a breath at your neck, the warmth of another body drawn close against yours like he never wanted to let go, and the creak of Mark’s mattress underneath the both of you as he moves slightly. Morning light streams through the curtains in languid golden slats, cutting across the dorm room and putting everything in a calm of gentle, tranquil hue. You’re still buried in slumber, locked between a dream and the weight of a boy's arm slung around your waist.

You don’t need to turn around to know who it is. The big chest against your back, the familiar warmth, the way his fingers quiver slightly as if even in repose they’re attempting to cling onto something precious, him. Mark Grayson.

You let your eyes flicker open and then quickly squint at the ceiling. Your throat’s dry, your hair's certainly a mess, and you’re still wearing his shirt, oversized and soft, smelling faintly like his detergent plus something else that you’re too weary to define but know is just him.

You stayed over. You really stayed over. You hadn’t intended to, precisely. But one thing turned into another, cheesy sci-fi marathons, sarcastic commentary, a slow drift into each other’s arms, and suddenly you were dozing off against his shoulder while William grabbed a hoodie and vanished off to Rick’s dorm for the night with an exaggerated wink and an even worse “you kids behave.”

You'd rolled your eyes. Mark had just blushed.

Now his arm’s still over you like he never quite received the memo that the movie finished and morning came.

He breathes in deep, leisurely, and you feel his chest rise behind you.

“Morning,” he mumbles, voice low and tired.

You can’t help it, you smile. “You always open with poetry?”

“Only for special occasions,” he says into your hair. He shifts a bit closer. “Like waking up next to you.”

You slide onto your back, turning to face him, propped up on your elbow. His eyes are still half-lidded, but they’re already fixed on you, azure and velvety and full of something that makes your breath catch in your throat. He looks like he doesn’t want to be anywhere else. Like you’re it.

Your voice comes out softer than you meant. “Thought you had class this morning?”

He moans, full-bodied and theatrical, and collapses backward like a man shot. “Ughhh. Don’t remind me.”

“Responsibility calls, Grayson.”

“So does your mouth,” he mumbles under his breath, smirking.

You freeze.

Then snort, because what the hell. “Excuse me?!”

“I meant-!” He’s laughing now, genuine and brilliant, and it’s so disarming that your heart flutters with it. “I meant I wanted to kiss you again and now I’ve ruined it forever.”

You press his shoulder, but your palm lingers. “Yeah, well, that’s what you get for flirting before caffeine.”

He observes you for a second. That languid smile turns into something else, quieter, more earnest.

Then, without a word, he leans forward and kisses you.

No jokes, no buildup this time, just lips on lips, unhurried and sure, his fingertips stroking your jaw. You kiss him back, smooth and steady, like there’s no urgency. Like this morning might stretch out forever if you let it.

But then his hand moves, down your side, landing at your waist, and something changes in the way he kisses you. His mouth widens gently, deepening it, and your breath catches. His other hand tangles in your hair, not tugging, but there, holding you to him like he’s worried you’ll drift off again.

Your body responds before your intellect does. You press closer, one leg slipping over his, fingers digging into his shirt like you need anything to grasp onto. His grasp on your waist tightens just little in reaction.

He kisses you like he’s wanted to all night. Maybe longer.

You break the kiss to breathe, forehead crushed to his, and try to make a joke, but all that comes out is, “God.”

Mark smiles, eyes flitting across your face. “Yeah. That’s about where I’m at too.”

You chuckle, breathless and trembling, and kiss him again.

And again.

And again, until you’re half on top of him and the sheets are a jumble and none of you remember what time it is or where you’re meant to be.

His fingers glide under the hem of the shirt you stole, brushing bare skin. Your breath catches, part nervousness, half something else you don’t have the words for yet. Your heart is hammering in your chest, loud and dramatic THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.

Mark pauses. Looks at you.

You nod, just once.

And he kisses you like he’s been holding back.

He draws you in with both hands, lips ravenous now, his tongue stroking yours, and it’s messier, hotter, his body pushed tight to yours. You feel the weight of him between your legs, the hardness he’s not bothering to disguise anymore. Your body responds instinctively, hips pressing against him, lips opening wider, hands going beneath his shirt now, across his back, his sides.

You don’t know what you’re doing. Not really. But you know you want this. Want him. Every inch of him, every gasp and tremble, every secret thought behind those watchful brown eyes.

You don’t know that he’s a superhero. That he’s lifted buildings, fought monsters, saved lives while keeping all of this secret from you. You just know that he’s Mark, and right now, he’s kissing you like the world outside the dorm doesn’t exist.

And you’re kissing him back like you’ve never believed in anything more.

You melt under him, unable to resist that low groan he lets out when your tongue meets his. It’s a soft morning kiss, warm and thick with the drowsy heat of sleep, but there’s something more under it. A current humming beneath his skin.

“God, you’re cute when you wake up,” he whispers, voice rough like gravel, and you roll your eyes but you blush. Of course you do. You always do.

“I look like Seance Dog after that dumpster fight,” you mumble, pulling the sheet up to your nose. But his hand’s already slipping lower, fingers gliding over your stomach, your pajama pants thin and already doing nothing to hide how warm you are underneath.

His thumb strokes your skin just under the waistband. Testing. Teasing. You twitch, not out of resistance, but anticipation.

“Shut up,” he grins. “You look like you. That’s the best part.”

And then his hand moves lower.

You gasp, breath hitching as his fingers slip past the fabric, finding heat, slickness, the subtle throb of your body waking up faster than your mind can process. He watches your face as he touches you, eyes narrowing just slightly, lips parted. He’s focused. Not cocky. Not groping or rushing. No, Mark is intent. Studying you like he’s discovering a part of you for the first time. Like each inch of you is a secret he wants to learn by touch.

“You’re already this wet?” he breathes, voice barely above a whisper, more wonder than tease. “Fuck.”

Your cheeks burn. Your thighs press tighter around his hand but you don’t stop him. You couldn’t if you tried. He slides two fingers along your folds, slow and deliberate, making you bite your lip to stop from moaning out loud.

“Mark…” you whisper. Not a protest. Not a plea. Just his name, breathy and unsure, because it’s all new. This is new. Not the kissing. Not the cuddling. Not the way he looks at you like you’re made of starlight and lightning. But this, his fingers in your pants, his mouth against your cheek as he murmurs, “It’s okay. I got you.”

Your hips twitch, grinding down just slightly against his hand without thinking. He catches that. Smiles. And moves his fingers lower, circling your clit with the softest, slowest motion that makes your toes curl under the sheets.

He leans closer. You can feel the heat of his breath against your ear. “Can I make you feel good?” he asks it like a promise, not a question. “Can I keep going?”

Your breath is shaky, heart slamming against your ribs, and your body answers before your brain can. Your hips roll forward, pressing harder into his hand, chasing that friction, that pleasure just out of reach.

He kisses your neck, and then he moves again, fingers slick with you now, pushing inside, slow, gentle, coaxing your body open as he watches your expression shift. Surprise, heat, need. Your hand flies to his shoulder, fingers digging into the muscle as his thumb brushes your clit again and again with each thrust of his fingers.

“You feel so fucking good,” he whispers, low and rough and raw.

You moan. This time you can’t help it.

And still, you don’t know.

You don’t know that Mark Grayson isn’t just the too-cute, weirdly poetic guy who treats you like you matter in ways no one ever has. You don’t know he’s stronger than steel, faster than light. That the fingers inside you have punched holes through spaceships.

All you know is this, his mouth, his breath, his touch, and the sound of your own voice breaking around his name as his fingers fuck you deeper, curling just right, finding that spot that makes you tremble all the way down to your toes.

You’re trying to be cool about it. You really are.

But your head’s thrown back against the pillow, your eyes fluttering half-shut, and your whole body’s betraying you, hips twitching, stomach flexing, legs trembling under the slow, obscene rhythm of Mark’s fingers still buried inside you. Every time he curls them just right, that electric jolt lights up your spine and short-circuits every dumb, stammering comeback you were trying to form. You're stifling moans with your knuckles, eyes wide, staring up at the ceiling like it might explain what the hell is happening to your life.

Because holy shit. This is happening.

Mark Grayson, dorky, sweet, absurdly hot Mark who somehow fell into your orbit and never left, he’s got his fingers inside you and he’s not acting like it’s a game. He’s looking at you like it matters. Like he’s memorizing every twitch, every breath, every broken sound that slips from your lips. His brow furrows when you gasp, and he shifts his hand just slightly, hunting for that same reaction again. He finds it.

“Yeah,” he whispers, half-smiling. “Right there. That’s it.”

You nod furiously, too breathless to form actual words, one hand tangled in the sheets, the other gripping his bicep like it’s the only thing tethering you to Earth. He’s strong, stronger than he should be. His muscles don’t bulge obnoxiously, but you can feel the power under your palm, the way his arm doesn’t give an inch even when you clutch at him in desperation.

“God, Mark-” you choke out, biting your lip hard as he thrusts his fingers deeper again. “I-shit…I haven’t-”

He pauses, lips brushing your temple, voice a low, reverent hush. “Hey. You okay?”

Your laugh breaks halfway into a moan, shaky and high-pitched. “Yeah. Just. You’re really good at this, and I’ve… not exactly had a lot of practice. You know. In real life. Not with anybody but you.”

Mark’s eyebrows lift. His fingers don’t stop moving, but he slows them, lets you breathe a second. “You mean like, what, just crushes? Or…”

You snort. “I mean I’ve kissed my own hand more times than actual people. And one of those kisses ended with braces involved and both of us bleeding.”

That makes him grin. Like, wide. Like you just told him the greatest thing he’s ever heard. “Jesus. You’re adorable.”

“I’m mortified.”

“You’re hot as hell.” His voice dips again, right against your neck. “And you’re clenching around my fingers, so either you’re secretly a world-class actor or you’re really into this.”

“I’m trying to play it cool,” you whisper, which would be a lot more convincing if your thighs weren’t shaking.

He chuckles softly, kissing your neck. “You’re doing so bad at that.”

You squirm, trying to glare at him, but he hooks his fingers just so and your head jerks back with a whimper you couldn’t stop if you wanted to. He moans into your skin, the sound of him loving every reaction you give him, it’s shameless, filthy, real.

“Mark,” you breathe, voice catching. “If you keep doing that, I’m gonna…I’m gonna-”

“I want you to,” he whispers, his fingers moving faster now, rhythm steady, confident. “You should see how good you look right now. You’re so fucking perfect like this.”

Your whole body coils tight, tension winding through your core, and suddenly you’re right there, teetering, begging for that final push. You grip his arm like a lifeline, gasping out ragged little half-sobs as he brings you closer.

Your orgasm hits like a jolt, like falling out of your body. Your back arches, thighs squeezing his hand, breath punched from your lungs as you cry out, no filter, no shame, no idea what sound just ripped out of you because everything else has gone static-white and trembling and so goddamn wet. You ride it out on instinct, hips jerking, eyes squeezed shut, Mark holding you through it, murmuring your name, pressing kisses to your shoulder, your cheek, your temple.

When you finally collapse back to the bed, your whole body boneless and blinking through the afterglow, he slowly eases his hand out of your pants, fingers slick and glistening. He stares at them a second, then looks at you.

“Can I be honest?” he says, licking his bottom lip.

You nod, still dazed. “Please don’t say something dumb. I’m too weak to handle it.”

“I’ve imagined that a lot,” he says, voice low and warm and serious. “But I never imagined it would feel this good to actually touch you again like this. Like... fuck. That was incredible.”

You want to say something witty. You want to make a joke, be cool, shrug it off like you’re not melting into his sheets. But all you manage is a breathy, “Y-you too,” and a dumb, blissed-out smile that makes him lean down and kiss it off your lips.

What you don’t know, what still hasn’t hit you, is how much he’s holding back. How careful he’s being. How strong he actually is. You don’t know that the same hands that just made you cum so hard you forgot your own name are the same hands of Invincible.

And he won’t tell you. Not yet.

Not while you’re still glowing in the aftermath, tangled in his arms, whispering against his jawline that he’s not allowed to disappear in the morning.

You're lying there with your cheek pressed against Mark's chest, still trying to come back down to Earth, and not metaphorically. Your heart’s drumming like you sprinted up ten flights of stairs, your legs feel like spaghetti, and your thighs still twitch every now and then with aftershocks. You’ve never felt that before, not from another person. Not even close.

And now?

Now there’s a low, needy tension humming in the air. But this time, it’s him.

You feel it under your fingertips, the way Mark’s chest rises just a little too fast, the tight coil in his abs, the slight tremor in the hand resting near your waist. You glance up at him, your breath still catching in your throat a little, and his eyes are already on you. Big, blue, vulnerable. His lashes are unfairly long for someone so stupidly good-looking. He blinks once, then offers you a crooked smile that’s trying way too hard to be casual.

“You okay?” you whisper, letting your hand drift across his chest, drawing nonsense lines with your fingers.

He swallows. Hard.

“I’m great,” he says, and he is, technically, but his voice is rough and low and not nearly as confident as it usually is. He’s squirming just the tiniest bit under your touch, his cock pressing up through the thin fabric of his boxers, already hard and straining.

It’s your turn to smirk.

“Yeah?” you ask, your hand sliding lower, fingertips teasing the waistband of his boxers now. “You look kinda like you’re suffering.”

That makes him exhale through his nose, almost a laugh. Almost. But he bites his lip and nods, his voice dipping into something softer, more needy.

“I mean… yeah,” he admits. “A little. But like… the good kind of suffering?”

You raise a brow. “So if I just… did nothing right now…”

He groans, half a whimper, half a plea. “That would be evil.”

You laugh quietly. Your hand dips beneath the waistband.

His breath catches instantly. You feel it, heat, stiffness, that pulse of tension that tells you just how badly he’s been holding back. You take your time, drawing his cock out slowly, letting your fingers curl around the thick, velvety length. He’s hot to the touch. Hard, but twitching, his hips subtly shifting up toward your hand without him even realizing he’s doing it.

You glance up at him again and his head’s tipped back against the pillow, his lips parted, eyes fluttering. He looks wrecked already and you’ve barely touched him.

“Jesus, Mark,” you whisper, marveling at how sensitive he is. “You’re, uh… really worked up, huh?”

He lets out a breathless laugh that breaks halfway into a moan when you stroke him once, slow and steady.

“You just made me watch you lose your mind from my fingers,” he groans. “Of course I’m worked up. You were…” He grits his teeth, his voice trailing into a hiss as you squeeze around the base and drag your hand up again. “You were fucking perfect.”

You bite your lip. That rush of heat shoots right back through you but this time, it’s paired with this weird little swell of power in your chest. He’s always been the calm one. The capable one. The guy who looks like he was born with good lighting. And now?

Now he’s melting under your touch. Whining quietly as you stroke him again, a little faster now, thumb teasing along the sensitive tip just to watch him flinch and gasp.

“F-fuck,” he pants, one hand grabbing the sheets like he’s trying not to fall apart. “You’re… really good at this.”

You snort. “I watched a lot of porn and imagined doing this never in real life. So, thanks for that.”

He laughs, even as his breath hitches again, hips twitching into your hand. “Well, your imagination deserves an award.”

You keep stroking him, slow at first, building rhythm, curling your fingers just enough at the top to make his thighs flex. His cock pulses in your grip, pre-cum slicking the head as you twist your wrist on the upstroke, and he moans loud. He doesn’t even try to muffle it.

His other hand slips up, gently curling around your wrist, not to stop you, but just to feel you. To anchor himself. His fingers tremble.

“You’re so fucking soft,” he murmurs, eyes opening to look at you. “And your hand fuck, it feels too good. I’m not gonna last.”

That makes your stomach do a somersault.

“Oh? Gonna come for me already?”

He bites his lip hard. Nods. His voice is practically a whimper now. “Please.”

The way he says it, please, makes your legs clamp together instinctively. You pump him harder, faster now, hand slick and confident and soaked in the kind of desperation he’s wearing all over his face. His abs tighten. His moans are ragged, drawn out, high in his throat like he’s trying not to cry out your name.

You lean in, whispering hot against his ear, “Come for me, Mark.”

And he does.

His whole body locks up under you, shoulders flexing, thighs trembling, cock jerking in your fist as he spills over your fingers with a strangled, guttural fuck that makes you ache. Hot ropes of cum splatter across his abs, thick and sticky, as he pants through the aftershocks, clinging to you like he’s unraveling.

You don’t stop stroking until he whines, an actual whine, and grabs your wrist gently to stop you, his body twitching from overstimulation.

His hair’s a mess. His cheeks are flushed. His lips are red and bitten and absolutely begging to be kissed.

So you do.

And he kisses you back like you’re the last thing holding him together.

You barely pull your hand back before Mark’s grabbing at you again, shaky fingers on your waist, his breath still uneven, his chest still rising and falling like he’s just run a mile. You expect him to flop back, wrecked and dazed and maybe ready to nap like a normal person, but instead, he’s crawling on top of you like a man possessed. Eyes glassy. Lips parted. Cock still hard and twitching between you like it didn’t just unload itself across his abs.

“Wait, seriously?” you breathe, not quite laughing, but stunned, looking down where his cock presses hot and slick against your lower stomach. “Mark, I just jerked you off, aren’t you supposed to be done for the day?”

“I don’t know,” he mutters, leaning down to kiss you, slow, desperate, heat pulsing through every inch of him. “I should be. I’m trying to be.”

You blink. “Trying?”

“I can’t stop thinking about you.” He nuzzles into your neck, lips brushing your pulse point, voice breaking into something raw. “The sounds you made. The way you looked when you came. The way you touched me. I’m still hard. I can’t stop.”

Your mouth goes dry.

And then he grinds down.

It’s clumsy at first, he’s just pressing against you, bare skin to skin, your pajama pants still clinging to your hips. But the slide of his cock along your pelvis, still slick from your hand, still pulsing with leftover heat, is enough to make you gasp. Your thighs twitch, your fingers dig into his back, and he groans right into your collarbone.

“Mark-” you whisper, not because you want him to stop, but because you don’t know what to do with all of this. No one’s ever wanted you like this. Not with that kind of hunger. Not with need written all over their face.

He doesn’t answer at first. He just keeps moving, hips rolling, cock grinding against the seam of your pants, his whole body shivering like the friction alone is dragging him closer to the edge again. His head dips low, lips pressing wetly to your throat, your jaw, your cheek.

“I can’t get enough of you,” he pants. “You’re driving me crazy.”

“You just came,” you whisper, half in awe. “You came, and you’re already-”

“Look at me,” he grits out, and you do.

His eyes are wild. Not unhinged, just lit with something sharp and aching and deep. His cock is trapped between your bodies, sliding along the damp, clinging fabric of your pants, every motion dragging the head right against your clit. You suck in a breath. It’s not even inside, and it feels too good.

“I’ve never wanted someone like this,” he breathes, hips jerking harder now. “You don’t know what you do to me. You act like everything’s normal, like you don’t see it, but you’re, fuck, you’re killing me.”

Your hips buck without thinking, grinding back up against him, and he moans, loud, open, filthy. He thrusts again, and again, pace stuttering, desperate. You feel how hard he is. How hot he is. Your body starts pulsing all over again, heat building low and slow in your stomach, every friction drag of his cock against your clothed cunt sending sparks through your spine.

Your fingers slide up into his hair, dragging through sweat-damp hair, pulling him down for another kiss that’s all teeth and breath and messy tongue. His body presses you into the mattress, thighs braced around yours, grinding harder now, faster, using your soft body to relieve the ache in him.

You whimper into his mouth. “Mark, fuck, if you keep doing that-”

“I want you to feel it,” he growls against your lips. “I wanna make you come again like this, just like this. Let me.”

You nod. Your hips move with his now, both of you locked into it, your hands on his back, pulling him into you, guiding him, feeling every twitch and throb of him through the soaked fabric between you. The way he moans, ragged and helpless, when your thigh clamps between his legs?

It sounds like he’s breaking.

He buries his face in your neck, breath catching, voice muffled but full of that same pleading edge. “Fuck, baby, you feel so good, don’t stop, don’t stop-”

Neither of you do.

He should go.

You both know it. The sunlight’s too sharp now, cutting in from the window across his back. His phone buzzed once, twice, maybe more. Somewhere in the pile of clothes on the floor, there’s a vibrating little rectangle full of frantic reminders and missed alarms. First period, second period, probably a text from Amber asking if he got the notes from Stats.

And you?

You’re still under him. Warm. Soft. Wide-eyed and flushed, hair mussed against his pillow, lips swollen from too many kisses, your pajama pants shoved halfway down your thighs like you got caught mid-strip and never finished. You’re biting your lip in that way that makes it look like you’re trying to pretend you’re not turned on out of your mind.

Mark grinds down again, slow, deliberate. His cock slides through the wet heat pressed between your thighs, and your hips jerk, a gasp bursting from your mouth like you weren’t ready for it even now. “Mark-” your voice catches, breathy and nervous and wrecked. “You’re gonna be late.”

His mouth curls against your neck. “I am late.”

He doesn’t stop moving. He can’t. The tension in his muscles is unbearable now, coiled up with that same aching energy from earlier, only worse. Raw. Insistent. He needs more. Needs you.

“You gonna stop me?” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

Your fingers flex against his back. You should. You should. That would be the reasonable thing to do. Let him go. Keep pretending this is something you can laugh off, something casual, like he didn’t just look at you like you hung the fucking moon.

But you’re not reasonable.

And your body’s already answering for you, hips bucking up again, thighs spreading wider, that greedy little pulse between your legs begging for more. For him.

Mark pulls back just enough to look at you, his hand cupping your jaw. His eyes search your face. His voice goes quiet, trembling at the edges. “I wanna be inside you.”

He says it like a confession. Like it matters.

“Yeah?” you whisper, heartbeat ricocheting through your ribs.

“Yeah,” he says, nodding. “I don’t wanna stop. Not now. I wanna feel all of you.”

You swallow, hard. “You know I-…”

“I know.” He kisses you, slow and aching. “I’ll go slow. I’ll take care of you. We don’t have to rush.”

You blink up at him. “You’re literally skipping class for this.”

He laughs softly, cock twitching against you, still grinding slow and messy between your folds. “I already missed class. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.”

Your stomach flips. Your nerves tense. But you nod.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Okay.”

Mark kisses you again, deeper this time. His hand slips down, tugging at your waistband until you lift your hips and let him peel your pajama pants off completely. You shiver when the cool air hits you, but he’s already there, sliding between your thighs, spreading you open with reverent, trembling fingers.

“God, you’re perfect,” he mutters, voice ragged.

Then he wraps his hand around his cock, lines himself up, and pauses, his eyes locked on yours.

“You good?” he asks. “You sure?”

You nod. “I want this. I want you.”

He pushes in slow.

Your breath hitches, sharp and high, as you stretch around him, inch by inch. It’s always more than you expect, thicker, deeper, intimate in a way that makes your whole body tense up with anticipation. But he moves gently, carefully, kissing your cheek, your jaw, whispering your name like a prayer with every inch he sinks into you.

“Shit,” he groans. “You feel so good. So fucking tight.”

Your nails dig into his back. You can barely speak. He bottoms out with a slow, careful thrust, hips pressing against yours, and the fullness makes your head spin.

You’ve never felt anything like it.

He holds still, letting you adjust, just breathing with you, forehead resting against yours. “Tell me when,” he murmurs.

You swallow, tremble, then whisper, “Now.”

He starts to move.

Each stroke is slow at first, rhythmic, measured, his hips rocking into you with that perfect drag that makes you gasp and writhe beneath him. The sensation is overwhelming. Pleasure rolls through you in waves, and the way he looks at you, like you’re his whole world, is almost too much to take.

Your legs wrap around his waist. He groans into your neck, fucking you deeper now, his pace picking up as your body adjusts, as your moans shift from startled to needy.

“God, you’re so warm,” he pants. “So wet, fuck gripping me so tight-”

You’re clinging to him now, your fingers locked behind his neck, pulling him closer with every thrust. You can feel him everywhere. The wet slap of skin, the creak of the mattress, the heat building low and fast in your core.

He thrusts harder, kissing you between moans, tongue sliding against yours. “You’re doing so good. Taking me so good. I’m not gonna last, I’m not gonna fucking last-”

You cry out when he hits just the right spot, your body arching into him, legs shaking.

“Mark! Mark, I’m gonna-!”

He grabs your thigh, thrusting harder now, desperate, hips snapping into you, chasing that last edge as you clamp down around him and come apart underneath him. Your orgasm slams through you like a tidal wave, your body locking up, mouth open in a silent scream.

Mark follows you seconds later, hips jerking, cock pulsing deep inside you as he spills himself with a broken, desperate moan. His whole body shudders on top of you, and for a second, neither of you can breathe.

Silence.

Then his forehead falls to your shoulder. You both laugh, breathless and wrecked.

“Class is so fucking overrated,” he mutters.

You don’t disagree.

You’re both a mess.

And not the sexy, movie-mess where your hair falls in soft waves and the sheets magically cover just enough skin to be tasteful. No, your legs are twitching, your inner thighs are slick, your hair’s plastered to your forehead, and you’re pretty sure one of the pillows exploded somewhere behind you. Your body’s buzzing, your brain’s static, and lying on top of you is Mark Grayson, shirtless, flushed, completely out of breath and looking like he just survived a natural disaster.

“Okay,” he pants, voice muffled against your collarbone, “so that might’ve been… a little excessive.”

You laugh, weak and stunned. “A little?”

He lifts his head and gives you this look, half proud, half guilty, his cheeks still bright red. “You’re not mad at me, though, right?”

“I can’t feel my legs,” you say.

“Okay, but like… in a good way?”

You don’t answer. You just grab his face and kiss him.

Because yeah, it was a lot. He didn’t just fuck you once and call it a day. He went down on you until you came so hard you forgot your name, then got on top of you like he was starving, thrust into you until you were clinging to him, came inside you, then stayed hard and kept going. And again. And again. Every time you whispered, “Okay, I’m done,” he kissed your neck and begged, “Just once more. I swear. Then I’ll stop.”

He never stopped.

“You’re a menace,” you murmur against his lips. “You don’t need to prove anything, you know. I already like you.”

Mark snorts and drops his forehead to your shoulder. “I’m not trying to prove anything. I just, every time I touch you, I want more. I think I’m weird. This feels illegal.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling like an idiot. Your body aches, sore and deliciously used, your thighs still sticky with him. “You’re not broken. You’re just obsessed.”

“Uh, yeah,” he says, lifting his head again and motioning vaguely to your naked body. “Have you seen you?”

You go to swat him, but he grabs your wrist, kisses your palm, and says, a little more serious, “It’s not just that. I’m not, God, I’m not good at this stuff. I mess up. I get in my head. But with you…”

His voice dips.

“Every time we do this, it feels real. Not just like sex. Like I’m with the person I’m supposed to be with.”

Your chest tightens. That little insecure voice in the back of your head tries to mutter something about how you’ve never done any of this before him. How he’s dated, had sex, lived, and you’re still playing catch-up. But he never makes you feel behind. He looks at you like you’re the most natural thing in the world. Like all his experience means nothing compared to this.

“You’re not what I expected,” you whisper.

Mark raises an eyebrow. “Uh… good unexpected or wow, she’s lowering her standards unexpected?”

You smack his shoulder. He grins. “I just mean,” you say, softer now, “I didn’t think anyone could make me feel like this. Like my body’s not weird. Like I’m… wanted.”

“Hey,” he says, more serious now. “Wanted is an understatement. I’m obsessed. I think about you when driving. Do you know how hard it is to stay on the roadwhen you’re picturing someone naked?”

You laugh. He kisses your cheek. Then your jaw. Then lower. Lower still.

“Mark-”

“I know, I know. But I swear,” he murmurs against your skin, “I’m not trying to wear you out.”

“You already did.”

“Cool. Then I’m just doing a victory lap.”

You groan, but when he nudges your legs apart again, fingers brushing over your overstimulated heat, you shiver. Because yeah, you’re sore. You’re exhausted. But with Mark, even after everything… you still want more.

And the look in his eyes?

He’s right there with you.

You’re still entwined in Mark’s arms when your phone begins vibrating on the nightstand.

At first, you don’t move. You’re curled into him, his chest warm against your face, his heartbeat steady and anchoring. His fingers are still sketching languid, absentminded shapes into the curve of your spine, and the weight of his arm over your back feels too lovely to give up just yet. The morning light slips through the slats in delicate stripes over his skin, and you think, maybe, if you stay motionless long enough, time will forgive you for skipping out on your obligations.

But the buzzing doesn’t stop.

Mark grumbles something incoherent, his grasp tightening like he’s already expecting you sliding away. You sigh, planting a short kiss to his jaw before stretching, awkwardly, to retrieve your phone. You anticipate it to be a text. Maybe a reminder from the University or a spam notice seeking to sell you anti-virus software.

It’s not.

It’s Uncle Ben.

Shit.

You swipe to answer and roll slightly to the side, cradling the phone between your ear and shoulder as Mark nuzzles into the crook of your neck like a drowsy cat that refuses to be leave from his favorite area.

“Hey,” you say, voice hoarse with sleep. “Sorry, I meant to call you last night. I… uh… slept at a friend’s place.”

Mark snorts at that, cocky as hell, and you instantly stab your elbow into his side. He yelps, gently, still smiling. Jerk.

“Mm-hmm.” Ben’s voice is suspicious, but he doesn’t press. “You said you’d be back by dinner, kid. Everything alright?”

“Yeah, yeah,” you murmur, bowing your head to hide Mark’s grin. “Everything’s fine. I just lost track of time. We were… studying.”

Ben doesn’t answer straight away. You envision the grimace he’s wearing, a mixture of frustration and that soft disappointment that usually makes your stomach twist a bit. “Well,” he replies finally, “if you’re gonna be out all night, the least you could do is shoot me a text so I don’t think you’ve been kidnapped.”

Guilt seeps in. You get up carefully, untangling yourself from Mark, who gives out a grunt of complaint, sinking back dramatically into the mattress. “Sorry,” you mumble, pulling a hand through your hair. “That’s on me. Won’t happen again.”

“You’re lucky I like your voice too much to be upset at you,” Ben says, softer now. “Anyway, I just wanted to check in, and remind you, you’ve got that internship thing today. At the lab?”

You blink. Hard.

And suddenly your heart drops into your gut.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, struggling upright. “That’s today?!”

Mark sits up, startled. “What’s wrong?”

You clap a palm to your forehead, terror surging up. “I’m late. I’m so late. We took an trip to the Midtown campus spider genetics lab this morning. I was scheduled to see my professor half an hour ago!”

Ben chuckles, though it’s tinged with pity. “Thought you might’ve forgotten. It’s okay. Just get dressed and book it. I’m proud of you, kid. You’ve got this.”

“Thanks,” you murmur, already moving around the room attempting to find your jeans. “I’ll call you later, okay?”

“Looking forward to it.”

You hang up and virtually toss your phone into your backpack. Mark is eyeing you, one brow arched and the blanket pooled low around his waist, naked chest on full view. He seems like he’s ready to taunt you, something sarcastic, probably, but your terrified flailing gives him pause.

“Spider lab?” he says, amused.

You shoot him a glance while tugging your shirt over your head. “Yes, spider lab. I’m a biochem major, remember? We’re investigating gene splicing in arachnids this month. It’s a major thing. There are really people that got waitlisted for this opportunity.”

Mark lifts his legs off the bed, stretching. “Wait. So you’re telling me you’re gonna be in a room full of spiders?”

“Yes,” you deadpan, shoving your feet into your shoes. “Real spiders. Radioactive spiders. Possibly genetically engineered nightmare fuel.”

“…Cool.”

You roll your eyes. “I swear to god, Mark, if I end up with extra limbs-”

“You’ll still be the hottest eight-legged nerd I’ve ever met.”

You sigh, grabbing your luggage and hitting his arm on your way out the door. “You’re the worst.”

“You love me.”

Unfortunately, he’s right. You do.

You halt at the door, heart still beating but for a different cause now. He’s standing there, all sleepy-eyed and naked, a gentle grin pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“Text me when you get there,” he adds, coming closer. His voice is lower now, the amusement dissolving into something more honest. “Just so I know you’re okay.”

You nod, eyes softening. “I will.”

He leans in to kiss you, quick and warm, the type that stays just a little too long for someone who’s apparently in a rush.

You depart with your heart racing and your hair still unkempt from bed. And as you hurry down the hall with your lanyard bouncing and your lab coat packed into your bag, you can’t help thinking…

If something does happen with those spiders today, at least you’ve already acquired a superhero-sized infatuation to match.

You're halfway down the street before you realize you’re wearing one of Mark’s shirts.

It’s not subtle, either. It’s the worn burgundy shirt with the little rip under the neck and a mysterious spot on the sleeve that he maintains “adds character.” It’s entirely too huge on you, submerging your frame, sleeves bunched around your elbows like they’re trying to eat your hands. It smells like his detergent. Like him. And honestly, if you weren’t already late for a very science-y, very formal lab trip, you might've turned back just to kiss him again.

But you don’t have time to be nostalgic.

You're power-walking to the train station like your future depended on it because, really, it sort of does, and mumbling under your breath the entire way. You're going over your professor’s talking points in your brain, trying to remember if you were meant to bring safety goggles (you were), and hoping to any benevolent deity out there that you don’t turn there with morning-after hair and a hickey on your neck. You should’ve looked in a mirror. You knew Mark was going be handsy last night. You knew better. And yet.

Typical.

You’re panting by the time you make it to the lab building, exactly thirty-six minutes late. You sneak in through the back entrance, squeezing behind a janitor cart and nearly tripping over your own shoelaces in the process. You can hear the group discussing already. A cacophony of overlapping voices, the occasional “Whoa!” and “Cool!” and one very distinct cry that sounds like it came from Gwen, the girl who thinks all bugs should be nuked from orbit.

You glide through the doors of the viewing room as discreetly as possible.

And quickly regret not combing your hair.

Dr. Octavious doesn’t halt his lecture when he spots you, thank god, but he does raise an eyebrow when you sneak into place at the back of the group. He’s standing in front of a giant containment glass, gesturing toward a line of tanks filled with… yes. Spiders. Big ones. Some of them blazing. A handful of them twitching abnormally, like their actions are half a second ahead of their own thinking.

“Glad you could join us,” he adds without looking, jotting something on a clipboard. “I trust your morning was… educational.”

You blink. Your face warms up. Does he know?

"Uh, yeah,” you respond hurriedly, voice quivering midway through the word. “Definitely. Learned a lot. Big supporter of education. Love it.”

A few kids peek your way. One of them, Flash, the irritating sophomore who usually asks too many questions, leans over and snickers, “You smell like boy.”

You elbow him. Hard.

Still, as the presentation proceeds and Dr. Octavious goes off about CRISPR gene-editing and venom adaptability, you feel your pulse finally starting to relax. You’re in your element again. Scientific jargon dance comfortably in your brain, and you’re genuinely understanding it, retaining stuff. Which is sort of astounding considering how severely Mark messed with your head last night.

The tour passes through a set of reinforced passageways equipped with climate-controlled viewing tanks. Spiders. Everywhere. Massive ones, little ones, neon-striped ones. Some twitch. Others sit terrifyingly motionless. Each tank has a computerized interface with data items running across the screen, things like venom production, regeneration rates, genetic recombination markers.

Your nerd brain is trying to take it all in, but your emotional brain is still fixated on the fact that you woke up with Mark’s arm slung around your waist and his voice mumbling something sweet and drowsy into your hair.

Focus.

You scoot closer to the rear of the gathering as Dr. Octavious motions to a glass tank with a big, long-legged animal poised on a lattice of synthetic webbing.

“This specimen,” he explains, “has undergone four successful protein modifications in the past six months. What you observe in the shimmer of its exoskeleton is a composite reflective compound produced from octopus chromatophores. The objective is adaptive camouflage.”

The spider moves. Just barely.

You feel your throat constrict.

It’s not that you’re terrified of spiders. You’ve dissected them, analyzed their muscular tissue under microscopes. You’re a biochem major. You live for these things. But something about this one unsettles you.

You gaze sideways at the security panel on the wall. Nothing out of the usual. Still, you can’t ignore the sense that it’s watching you.

You adjust your weight and take a step back, banging against a cabinet.

“Relax,” Gwen says behind you. “It’s not gonna leap out and snatch you. Probably.”

You give her a bland expression and say, “Thanks, really comforting.”

As the group continues on, Dr. Octavious taps his pen against a clipboard. “Keep up. We’ll be headed to the live demonstration lab next. And no one touches anything. I don’t care if you think you’re the next Marie Curie.”

You follow after the others, attempting to absorb the information, nod at the correct times, and take mental notes you’ll type down later when your hands stop trembling.

You’re thankful the tour is fairly quiet, just the gentle shuffle of lab coats, the low hum of ventilation systems, and the odd scribbling of a pen on paper.

And below it all, you still feel the ghost of Mark’s kisses at the back of your neck from this morning.

Your cheeks flush. You focus harder on the notes. You convince yourself this is OK. You’re focused. You’re a serious student.

…Even if you did stroll into a world-class spider genetics center wearing your boyfriend’s shirt, thirty minutes late, with his aroma still clinging to your skin.

Totally fine. Normal. You’ve got this. Probably.

“This is one of our more recently altered specimens,” he says, gesturing toward the main tank in the center of the room. “We’re observing the behavior of arachnids after selective protein editing. What you’re looking at here is a hybrid strain, manipulated for visual camouflage, venom production, and web complexity.”

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, notepad tucked under your arm. The spider within the tank is enormous. Not horror-movie large, but near enough to make your skin crawl. It’s practically black, but when the light strikes it, there’s this flicker of deep red beneath its surface, like something molten, fighting to come out.

You push yourself to seem interested. You are interested, you swear, you didn’t spend your whole childhood buried in scientific textbooks only to zone out on your first actual tour but your body is exhausted, your brain is still playing catch-up, and your fingers keep brushing against the hem of Mark’s shirt under your coat like a nervous tic.

You slide a bit to the side as Dr. Octavious urges everyone to divide into pairs for the log review section. Most of the students spring into formation like they’ve been rehearsing since preschool. You hover awkwardly until Gwen offers you a courteous nod and tilts her iPad toward you. You smile, grateful, awkward, and walk up next her.

“We’re supposed to compare mutation cycles and gene log timestamps,” she continues, immediately loading up the file index. “Want to take the second sample?”

You nod. “Sure. Sounds… fun.”

She’s not really listening.

While she swipes through the logs, you inch a bit closer to the enclosure, drawn in despite yourself. The spider has moved. It’s up at the top corner of the glass now, motionless and properly positioned, legs extending in that weird, methodical way that makes you feel like it’s waiting for something.

You gaze.

It glances back.

And then, barely a blink, it’s not in the tank anymore.

You frown, leaning in. No one else appears to notice. Gwen is still talking to herself, while the rest of the group is split about the room in pairs, concentrated on the data.

You straighten up slightly, a shiver prickling down your neck.

And suddenly you feel it.

A sting, sharp and abrupt, right beneath the edge of your collar.

“Ah-” You flinch, swatting at your neck instinctively. Your fingertips capture something little and quick, barely a flash of motion as whatever-it-was slips to the ground and skitters behind a neighboring cabinet before you can get a clear look.

You peek around, pulse ticking up a little.

No one noticed. Gwen still scrolling. Octavious is chatting to a pair of pupils near the front of the class. The lab hums with fluorescent light and gentle chatter and the low static of air vents like nothing occurred at all.

You rub at your neck.

It doesn’t actually hurt. More of a pinch. Like a mosquito bite. It’s already disappearing.

Still, you drop your hand and catch a little speck of blood on your fingertip.

You wipe it on your coat before anyone can see.

Probably nothing.

You rejoin Gwen, eyes glancing back to the enclosure which, you now realize, does in fact still have a spider within it. Sitting very still.

Was it always there?

You swallow, nod like everything is okay, and mutter something about switching samples.

“Yeah,” Gwen answers, barely looking up. “Hey, did you see the mutation tags on specimen E-7? The CRISPR splice isn’t holding. They’re going to have to re-sequence.”

You mutter a half-agreeable tone and try to shake the tightness out of your shoulders.

It’s fine. You’re fine. Probably just an electric shock. Or dust. Or…

Whatever. You're overthinking it. You always do.

So you push your tongue to the inside of your cheek, scrawl something that loosely resembles a note into your diary, and try your best to stay focused.

You’ve got thirty more minutes of this tour.

You’re going to appear professional.

You’re going to act normal.

You’re going to ignore the odd heat still pulsating weakly at the base of your neck.

Because clearly, everything’s fine.

The bus trip home is difficult.

Not because of the route, you’ve traveled it a hundred times before, but because every time the brakes screech or someone coughs too loud, it seems like it’s reverberating within your head. Your head is hammering in this deep, full-body way, like the bones behind your eyes are vibrating. You chalk it up to skipping breakfast and the whole sprinting-across-campus-in-a-lab-coat thing. Plus, your neck still kind of hurts where that spider bit you, or… whatever that was. You keep telling yourself it’s nothing. It has to be nothing.

You tap your fingers on your thigh, trying to focus on anything but the pressure mounting in your skull.

The spider didn’t even leave a mark. Just a small dot of dried blood you wiped away, and that was it. No rash. No swelling. No allergic reaction. You didn’t faint or puke or turn into a creature from a late ‘90s sci-fi reboot, so that’s gotta be a victory, right?

Still. You feel odd. Like your limbs don’t entirely belong to you.

The city slides past outside the window, cars, bright lights, the classic rise of red-brick buildings giving way to the more residential things as you get closer to your stop. You close your eyes and lean your forehead on the glass. The chill feels good.

Too good.

When the bus pulls to a stop, you almost miss it.

You stagger down the steps, murmuring a tired “thanks” to the driver before hitting the sidewalk. Your legs feel unsteady. Your stomach lurches unpleasantly. You grab the straps of your backpack and draw in a breath of chilly evening air, hoping it helps.

It doesn’t.

By the time you reach the front door, you're sweating.

Uncle Ben unlocks it before you can even knock. “There you are,” he says, standing aside to let you enter. “Was starting to think you ditched me again for your mystery friend.”

You manage a feeble grin. “No ditching. Just… long day.”

He squints at you, his countenance softening. “You alright, kiddo?”

“Yeah.” It comes out too fast. You try again, quietly. “Just tired.”

You slip off your shoes and hang your bag by the entrance. Your coat gets tossed over the railing as you walk for the stairs. You can feel his gaze on your back the whole way up.

“Dinner’ll be ready in an hour,” he calls. “You want me to wake you if you sleep?”

“I’ll set an alarm,” you murmur, one hand holding the banister like the wood is the only thing keeping you standing.

You don’t make it to the alarm.

The second you enter into your room, something in your body gives out.

You manage to close the door behind you. That’s it.

You rip off Mark’s shirt in sluggish, awkward strokes and hurl it onto the side of the bed, too sweaty and nauseated to care where it goes. Every muscle in your body feels like you just got smashed by a city bus. You wobble toward the bed, clutch the mattress, and drop yourself down like your limbs are made of wet paper.

You don’t even change out of your clothes. You just cuddle up on top of the blanket and put your cheek to the soft pillow, eyes clamping tight as your head spins.

It’s not simply weariness.

It’s wrong.

Your skin is scorching, yet you're shivering too. Your fingertips feel like they’re buzzing. You hold them against your chest, attempting to anchor yourself, but it simply makes you feel more disoriented.

Your breath starts coming in shallow gasps. You can’t tell if it’s worry or fever or something else completely. The room tilts. You strain your eyelids tighter.

You think about yelling out for Ben.

You don’t.

You don’t want to worry him. You don’t want to explain that you might’ve gotten bitten by something in a government-funded gene lab and are now having the worst flu symptoms of your life.

You’ll just rest.

It’s probably just the day catching up with you. You’ve pushed yourself too hard before. Finals week had you running on energy drinks and vending machine trail mix, and you got through that. You’ll get through this.

Just a nap.

Just a little rest.

The last thing you detect before everything slips away is the quiet hum in your ears becoming louder, like static, or maybe your heartbeat. It fills your whole mind, and then

Black.

[nightmarishwaltz]

Stray Kids - What they would be like as boyfriends [HC]

Hey everyone! This was not requested, but I wanted to do something small in-between my Lee Know x y/n fic!

Requests are open! Also, I have an AO3 that these are also being posted on, so if anyone wanted to check that out - here it is!

Bangchan

Constantly checks in on you, even when he’s busy—"Have you eaten?" is his love language.

Holds your hand in a way that makes you feel like nothing in the world could go wrong.

Late-night music sessions where he plays you demos no one else has heard yet—you’re his safe space and muse.

Soft hugs where he wraps his arms around you like he’s trying to shield you from the world.

Lowkey jealous, but never controlling—he just reallycherishes you.

Writes little notes and tucks them into your book bag or hoodie pocket.

Will always let you fall asleep on his chest, no matter how tired he is.

Probably created a “Y/N” playlist he listens to when he misses you.

Encourages your dreams like a life coach—but softer and full of heart.

Makes you feel so seen. You’re not just loved—you’re understood.

Lee Know

Pretends he’s not affectionate, then melts when you kiss his cheek.

Will roast you with love—his teasing is actually his version of flirting.

Cooks for you without asking, always acting like it’s “just because he was hungry too.”

Loves when you help him care for his cats—wants you to become part of his little world.

Secretly plans future trips with you (even if he acts aloof about it).

Will hold your pinky in public like a secret little “I love you.”

Says he doesn’t do PDA, but pulls you close when you’re cold.

You’ll catch him staring at you when you’re focused on something—his love is quiet but intense.

Sends you unflattering selfies to make you laugh, then immediately follows up with a soft voice memo telling you he misses you.

Doesn’t say "I love you" every day—but when he does, it's everything.

Changbin

Holds your hand like it’s a lifeline—firm, warm, and constant.

Is so proud of you. Always hyping you up to friends, staff, and even strangers.

Tries to act tough but is the softest when you're in his arms.

Loves couple workouts or encouraging you to be healthy—"You're strong, but I wanna make you stronger."

Gets a bit pouty when he misses you but softens the second you touch him.

Loves quality time—karaoke nights, movie marathons, doing skincare together.

Will write your name in hearts in his journal and deny it if you ever catch him.

Always has your favorite snacks with him—like it’s second nature.

Wants to protect your peace and be someone you can lean on without fear.

Makes you feel like you’re his whole world.

Hyunjin

Expresses love through art: he draws you, paints memories, writes you little love haikus.

Holds you like you’re made of stardust—gentle but full of meaning.

Always takes you to museums, gardens, or rooftops—he wants to experience beauty with you.

Loves to dress you up in his clothes and photograph you in golden light.

Gets flustered when you compliment him, but absolutely lives for your attention.

Cries during emotional movies and cuddles you like he never wants to let go.

Always notices the small things—your favorite flower, how your eyes light up when you talk.

Likes quiet mornings together: tea, soft music, sleepy forehead kisses.

When he says “I love you,” it sounds like poetry wrapped in velvet.

You become his muse—but also his anchor. You ground him.

Han

Makes you laugh until you cry—he's your personal comedian and safe space.

Gets flustered super easily but always tries to act confident.

Loves when you play with his hair—it instantly calms him down.

Will randomly blurt out, “You’re so cute, I can’t handle it,” mid-conversation.

Writes little raps about you that are both adorable and slightly embarrassing.

Always suggests spontaneous dates—midnight walks, stargazing, random café visits.

Clings to you like a koala when he’s sleepy.

Gets really proud when he makes you happy—your smile means everything.

Gives you his hoodies and watches you swim in them with heart eyes.

Makes even the boring days feel magical just by being himself.

Felix

Smiles like you’re his entire world—because you are.

Morning cuddles? Non-negotiable. He needs them.

Bakes for you all the time, and always remembers your favorites.

Sends you “thinking of you” selfies with soft captions and sun emojis.

Wears matching bracelets or rings to feel close even when you’re apart.

Speaks to you in that deep voice when he’s sleepy—heart. destroyed.

Praises you constantly and genuinely—"You’re so beautiful. I mean it."

Loves gentle touches—tracing your knuckles, brushing your hair out of your face.

Gets emotional sometimes because he feels everything so deeply.

His love is pure, unconditional, and healing. Being with him feels like a warm, golden morning.

Seungmin

Will tease you all day, then tuck you into bed like a literal angel.

Doesn’t say “I love you” often—but proves it in everything he does.

Always remembers the little things—how you take your coffee, what days you’re stressed.

Offers logical advice but never makes you feel dumb for feeling emotional.

His hugs are rare but devastatingly comforting.

Reads beside you in silence, sometimes brushing your pinky with his.

Sends you memes at 3 a.m. with the driest captions possible.

Walks on the road-side of the street without even thinking.

Gives you a hard time about small things, but is always the first to protect you.

Loving Seungmin is quiet, steady, and eternal—he’s your harbor.

Jeongin

A little shy at first, but once he trusts you, he’s all cuddles and laughter.

Blushes easily, especially when you’re affectionate in public.

Holds your hand a little too tight at first, then softens into it like it’s home.

Always asks if you’re okay—he’s very emotionally attentive.

Wants to learn everything about you—your fears, your dreams, your favorite childhood snack.

Loves cozy hangouts: playing games, snacking, cuddling under too many blankets.

Gets super proud when he does something that makes you laugh or smile.

Texts you “I miss you” and immediately regrets it… then texts “never mind” (but means it).

Calls you randomly just to hear your voice.

His love is like a spring bloom—soft, new, full of promise and sunshine.

[coffeefleecy]

Winner Takes All

Pairing: Caleb X MC X Zayne

Summary: You've made it a ritual to have Caleb and Zayne at your place to keep your friendship thriving with movie marathons and game nights. The struggles of growing up and becoming adults unfortunately include the possibility that you can't see each other very often and Caleb is away so much that he begins to feel the distance. Contempt breeds competition and Zayne is Caleb's number one rival.

Warnings: blowjobs, cunninlingus, afab reader, second person pov

Game nights at your place with Caleb and Zayne are some of your favorites. It’s not often that you get to see them both in the same place, especially since the three of you have gotten older. Zayne’s been busy with the hospital and Caleb with the fleet. You partially feel like they tolerate each other’s company to be around you with how they act around each other, but you appreciate them casting whatever reservations they have aside for you. The problem? They’re both insanely competitive; Caleb in an all-encompassing, braggadocious way and Zayne in a calculating, nonchalant way.

Caleb’s selected some territory conquering game that involves a bit more thought than you have in the tank and more game pieces than you have the patience for. You’re also not entirely sure you understand the rules due to Caleb’s insistence at reading through the manual before the actual gameplay that causes your eyes to glaze over. Caleb and Zayne can take information in regardless of the method, but you require a more hands-on approach that doesn’t involve reciting the intricacies of a 20 page manual.

All of that culminates in a recipe for disaster and the fact that Zayne is a bit kinder to you than Caleb does you know favors. You’re not even halfway through the game when problems begin to arise and Caleb catches Zayne whispering the next optimal move in your direction.

“You’re not supposed to be fraternizing with the enemy,” Caleb spits at Zayne, who simply returns his vitriol with a lightless, unamused stare.

“I don’t have the faintest clue as to what you’re talking about,” Zayne says evenly, averting his gaze to the mess of cards on the table. 

Caleb’s eyes shift to you, gaze as possessive and unwavering as his evol to the point that you can feel it.

“Caleb, don’t be mean,” You complain, putting your game cards face down to cross your arms over your chest.

“I don’t remember the rules saying that,” Zayne pinches the bridge of his nose. “Besides, I’m not really sure why we’re feeling the need to make a competition out of something as trivial as this.”

Caleb scoffs.

“Don’t bullshit me, Doogie Howser, you know you go easy on her, don’t you?”

“I don’t see why that’s a problem,” You retort and turn to Zayne to mutter, “Thanks, by the way.”

“Whatever,” Caleb rolls his eyes and starts packing his pieces away, ignoring your protests. “I just think it’s a little lame that you guys do this whenever I pick the game.”

Caleb’s been getting progressively more upset by little things when the three of you gather. You suspect it has something to do with the fact that Zayne is nearly an every day fixture in your life; a constant that Caleb can’t be because his work takes him away. It’s not exactly something that anyone can point out without an awkward conversation or an argument, so you simply let it be, but the tension has been at a steady incline and currently rests at a point that you highly suspect might be the peak.

“You’re being unreasonable,” Zayne points out. “I was just helping her out when she was confused. The rules aren’t beginner friendly and I’m sure you know that.”

“Then why did I waste half an hour going through them before we even started?” Caleb counters, shoving his game pieces forward with a huff.

“Caleb, you know that I can’t catch on quickly like you two do,” You reason with an exasperated sigh. “I want to play, you know I want to play. I’m excited for this game - I just needed a little bit of help. Really, this is supposed to be fun.”

A fleeting look of hurt flashes across Caleb’s face before he immediately masks it.

“Okay, then if no one’s having fun, let’s just do something else. Or call it, I guess it doesn’t matter.”

“Caleb –”

“It’s fine, pipsqueak,” He offers you a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes and leans forward to place a hand on yours. “I’m kind of being a jerk and I get that. I want to have fun, so let’s just do something more fun.”

You regret the comment you made about the fun level and bite your lip, glancing from Caleb to Zayne, who’s examining his fingernails with a distracted interest. You turn back to Caleb and turn your palm right side up to slip your fingers through his, the gesture causing him to close his eyes and take a deep breath.

“Hey, I think we’re all tired this week. Getting this together was a headache as it is with your schedules and you both know how much I love that you make this work for me, right?”

Caleb’s eyes open and you can see a soft resignation in them when he squeezes your hand back.

“I know, pipsqueak - let’s just clean this up and watch a movie or somethin’,” He releases your hand to start gathering all of the pieces. “You gonna help me clean this up, Doctor Strange or are you just gonna stare?”

“Zayne, is that okay with you?” You offer the chance for input that Caleb snatched away. 

“If that’s what you want, then I’m content with it,” Zayne rises from his chair to help Caleb. “Why don’t you go and make yourself comfortable on the couch?”

“No, I can help -”

“Go sit down, pipsqueak. Pick out whatever you want to watch. The doctor and I will take care of this.”

Despite the gnawing, nagging feeling that they’ll tear each other apart if you’re not in their presence, something in their voices indicates that you should leave it to them. You give them a nod before heading to your spare closet to grab some extra blankets to try to make things as comfortable as possible and make your way to the couch.

You’ve landed on an old sci-fi film with horrible CGI that you know Caleb and Zayne will both get a kick out of. There isn’t much commotion happening on their end despite your worries that they won’t be able to get along without you present and soon enough, you hear them finishing up. 

“You want something to snack on, pipsqueak?” Caleb calls from the kitchen. 

“I noticed you have popcorn,” Zayne supplies. “Is that something you’re interested in?”

“Actually that sounds good,” You answer, fidgeting with the remote while you wait. “You want me to come in there and make it?”

In lieu of a response, you hear the beeps of your microwave followed by the gentle sounds of popping kernels in the distance. You have the sneaking suspicion that they planned on making popcorn regardless of your response. Caleb emerges from the kitchen a few minutes later balancing one of your larger bowls he’s dumped the popcorn into and a few sodas. Zayne follows behind, paper towels in hand. 

“Wow,” You remark wryly. “Your efficiency as a team is unbeatable.”

You don’t miss the slight sneer on Caleb’s face as he sets the bowl down on your coffee table. 

“Oh, good choice,” Zayne is completely oblivious to Caleb’s expression, his attention focused on your television. “This is a classic.”

“You’ve seen it?” You pout as you accept the soda Caleb’s handing to you.

“Yes, but I’m perfectly fine watching it again,” Zayne says easily, turning some of the lights off in the room before taking a seat next to you on your right.

“What about you, Caleb?”

Caleb’s gaze lingers on your face before he reluctantly looks to the screen to observe the title.

“Oh, Eternity Battles – you’ve seen this too, pipsqueak. We watched this a long time ago together,” Caleb remarks, throwing that last bit in Zayne’s direction, which goes unnoticed by your bespectacled friend.

“Must have forgotten,” You grab a handful of popcorn and shove it in your mouth. “Do we want to pick something else?”

“No,” Caleb and Zayne both say at the same time and meet each other’s sheepish gazes.

“This is fine,” Zayne assures you.

Caleb takes his seat next to you on your left, taking care to make sure that he’s as close to you as he can be without touching you. 

“Just hit play, pipsqueak.” ____________________________________________________________

You’re barely a quarter of the way into the movie when you realize that neither Caleb or Zayne are paying particularly close attention. Caleb’s fingers twitch at his side, dangerously close to your thigh like he wants to touch you. Zayne’s eyes are trained on Caleb’s hands, his brows knit together in a kind of concentration you’ve only seen when he’s nose-deep in his medical textbooks. 

“Caleb,” You murmur, reaching out to tap his hand with your index finger. “You okay?”

“Yeah, ‘m fine,” He replies with an uneven, somewhat shaky voice. 

“If you wanted to head out, neither of us would be upset with you,” Zayne speaks up, voice uncharacteristically heavy. “We can finish the movie another time and she and I can find something else to watch.”

“No,” Caleb snaps his head to face Zayne and fixes him with a withering stare. “I just said I was fine.”

“Um - am I missing something? Are you guys okay?” Your voice cuts through the tension and they both avert their gazes.

Caleb rests his hand on your thigh; a gesture meant to convey comfort but swimming in unspoken intention. You swallow the lump in your throat, but don’t move.

“It’s fine,” Caleb tries to say casually, but the instability in his tone gives him away.

“No, it’s not fine. Come on, you’ve been on edge every single time we all hang out together. Did something happen between the two of you? Did I do something?”

You’re looking at Caleb, but Zayne rests his palm on your other thigh, commanding your attention. Zayne’s fingers dig into your skin and he squeezes, his clean-cut nails gently biting into the flesh.

“No, there’s no problem,” Zayne promises you. “Caleb just doesn’t like the idea of us being together alone very much - right, Caleb?”

The confrontation that lurks beneath the surface of Zayne’s thinly veiled jab shocks you. Despite the growing strain between the two of them that you’ve noticed in the past year or so of your gatherings, you’ve never heard either of them come right out in front of it. To your shock, Zayne doesn’t stop there.

“You mentioned that in the kitchen, didn’t you? You’re not very fond of the fact that I spend more time with her than you do, are you?”

“Zayne -”

“Shut the fuck up,” Caleb snaps, pulling your thigh closer to his lap possessively. “I didn’t say that.”

Zayne tilts his head to the side in an inquisitive way that feels calculating.

“Not in so many words,” Zayne acquiesces. “Perhaps I embellished. I could tell her what you actually said, if you’d like.”

“You really are a snake, aren’t you?” Caleb bites back. “You’re really gonna tattle on me? Fuck you.”

“Woah,” You cover Caleb’s hand on your thigh with both of your own. “What is the problem? Everything was fine an hour ago!”

“He’s upset that I get to spend more time with you than he does,” Zayne supplies dryly, unable to mask the contempt in his usually cool voice. “So he’s acting like a child.”

“Caleb,” You say softly. “Tell me what’s going on. You’ve been acting like this for a while now - if something’s bothering you, you can tell me.”

Caleb looks distressed, at war with himself as he debates on whether or not he actually wants to say anything. Something in him shatters and the words come tumbling out in a clumsy stampede.

“Fuck - fine! I just miss you, okay? I - I don’t get to be around much like I used to and it’s not a great feeling. You spend so much time with him that even when we do hang out, you’re paying attention to him.”

Your heart wrenches at his words coupled with the hurt expression on his face. He looks like a kicked puppy, dejected and embarrassed as the tips of his ears turn as red as his cheeks. You lift your right hand to his cheek and stroke the soft skin there delicately, desperately trying to soothe his worries.

“I miss you, too, Caleb. I care about both of you equally, okay? I know you don’t like each other’s company much, but the fact that you both make it happen for me when I want to see you both means the world to me -”

“Oh, it’s no bother to me one way or the other,” Zayne interjects, though the spritz of venom in the words say otherwise. “I couldn’t care less whether he’s here or not.”

You turn to Zayne to give him a look, but Caleb grabs your chin with his free hand, clutching it between his index finger and thumb to jerk your attention back to him.

“Look at me,” Caleb murmurs, his voice just a decibel away from a growl. “Don’t look at him.”

“Caleb, if you can’t-”

“Please,” He begs. “Please just look at me.”

You soften with his pleas, the desperation and neediness making you feel dizzy in a way that you can’t put your finger on.

“I just miss you - so, so fucking much. I’m sorry I’m not good at conveying that, but I just want you to know you can rely on me and that I’ll always be there and the fact that we can’t see each other as much hurts me, pipsqueak. It really does.”

“Caleb - ah!” You squeak as you feel Zayne’s arm curl around your waist, tugging you closer to him. 

“You can rely on me, too,” Zayne murmurs, his large hand flattening and splaying possessively across your stomach. “He doesn’t care about you any more than I do.”

“Yeah, or any fucking less either,” Caleb seethes, grip still tight on your jaw so your attention is fixed on him, then asks desperately, “Pipsqueak, you love me, right?”

“O-of course, I do - I - I love you more than anything, Caleb what are you -”

“How do you love me? How do you see me? Because I can’t stand you looking at me like some kind of older brother figure or friend anymore. Pipsqueak, I - I love you, okay? I love you so much it hurts to be apart from you and it’s getting harder to ignore it.”

“I - of course I don’t th-think of you that way, but -”

“Please, can I kiss you? Please, just - just let me kiss you.” 

Caleb doesn’t care how pathetic he sounds when he begs and sheds all of his reservations in a a hard, heavy exoskeleton to bare his soul to you. There is no shame or embarrassment in the way that he cares for you; loves you so loudly and proudly that begging is his second nature. He used to beg to cook for you when you were too tired to do it yourself and beg to make your life easier with acts of service; a love language that Caleb has taken to the extreme and then some and more so since you’ve been apart more.

“Caleb, I - I want to, but Zayne is -”

Caleb cuts you off, suctioning the words out of your mouth and brain entirely as he slots his lips against yours, desperate and probing when his tongue probes the seam of your lips. Your acceptance and spoken desire is all the permission he needs as the hunger eats away at his restraint and threatens to consume him. He releases his grip on your chin, slipping his hand into your hair to root his fingers in the tendrils, anchoring your face to his own as he kisses the breath out of you to rob you of words completely.

“Zayne is right here,” Zayne finishes your thought, tugging you away from Caleb to face him, lips swollen and slick with a mixture of yours and Caleb’s saliva. “And I’m tired of standing in the shadows because it’s easier.”

“What do you -”

“I’m here. You let him kiss you, so will you grant me the same honor or is that a line you won’t cross with me?” He asks gently, delicately trailing his hand up from your waist to your shoulder, his touch feather-light and intense all at the same time.

“Go ahead,” Caleb challenges, taunting. “Why don’t you give Specs his first kiss?”

Zayne rolls his eyes, his carefully constructed mask cracking like plaster under Caleb’s barbed insult. You turn back to Caleb who’s observing you with interest and the slightest tinge of envy. He moves back as if he’s waiting for you, nodding his head in a way that screams an unspoken, “Well, go ahead.”

“Is this okay?” Zayne asks gently, lifting his hand from your shoulder to cup your jaw. “Don’t force yourself.”

You deem a verbal response unnecessary and close the distance between you and Zayne and delicately press your lips to his. Zayne’s lips are pleasantly cold and soft against your own, soothing in an unexpected way that challenges his rigid demeanor. You know Zayne to be kindhearted with so much lurking beneath the surface that others don’t see, so the loving way in which he kisses you back is pleasant, but not something you’re unprepared for.

“So sweet,” Zayne says against your lips before parting them with his tongue, tilting his head to get better access with a motion that gives you the inkling that this isn’t his first kiss.

“How do I taste, Doctor?” Caleb goads, though the insult is less malicious and teeming with genuine curiosity.

Zayne’s patience with Caleb has been saint-like over the past few months and he’s usually able to let things roll off of him, his silence ricocheting back at Caleb that cuts deeper than any verbal response. Despite the fact that Zayne is the portrait of nonchalance and composure, getting to finally taste your lips like he’s been itching to for years awakens a voracity in him that far outweighs his penchant for peace-keeping. With a strength that surprises you, Zayne leans back to pull you into his lap, adjusting himself so he’s lying back on a couch cushion and you’re straddling his hips. 

“Tell me to stop,” Zayne manages between pants, breathy and sweet. “I think you and I both underestimate the realms that my control stretches to.”

“Don’t want to,” You whisper, the puffs of your breath hitting Zayne’s lips and making him shudder beneath you. “Kiss me like you want to, Zayne.”

Something in the way you say his name is Zayne’s undoing, eyelids fluttering shut as he inhales sharply and grip tightening on you with a craving that transcends his ability to convey. Caleb’s resolve is an eroding mountain; crumbling little by little in sediment sharp enough to inflict pain in intensifying doses over time – Zayne’s is the swift and sudden avalanche cascading down in massive chunks in a devastating destruction that wounds all at once.

Zayne’s fingers slip into your hair, cradling your skull to pull you as close as physically possible to him. Your teeth clash together clumsily, a mishap that Zayne ignores entirely to pry your lips apart. His tongue massages your own, wet and urgent like he’s afraid you’ll disappear at any moment and he’s running out of time. You vaguely register the nearly imperceptible moans that course from the back of Zayne’s throat to snuff out in your mouth, the barrier of your tongue keeping them from carrying. 

“You were never good at sharing, were you?” Caleb’s hoarse voice comes from behind you, yanking you from the trance of Zayne’s cool, comforting lips. 

There’s barely any time for you to turn to him, because Caleb’s arms wrap around you from behind, strong and all-encompassing. Caleb presses his body to yours, his front molded to your back to make you look at Zayne.

The sight of Zayne makes your breath hitch. Your intelligent and soft-spoken friend is splayed across your couch, legs haphazardly spread with one draped over the edge, too tall to fit. Zayne’s hair is mussed, sticking up in tufts that scream to be pulled at and his glasses are askew. It’s not often you get to see Zayne in his casual attire due to his job and the necessity for professionalism outweighing comfort, so you always appreciate when he dresses down to see you. He’s opted for a navy blue shirt with long sleeves that fits, but stretches over his chest snugly and accentuates his muscular but lean frame. Denim is a rarity for Zayne and somehow he’s decided to grace you with the presence of it, but the type of fabric is the furthest thing from your mind as your line of sight wanders between his legs to the bulging just beneath the zipper.

“Looks like you got Doctor worked up,” Caleb murmurs into your ear before nipping it gently. “Does that make you feel good about yourself, hm?”

“C-Caleb, I -”

“When you say stop, this stops,” Caleb assures you, reading you before you can make sense of what you’re feeling. “Do you want to stop?”

“No,” You breathe. “Is - Is that bad?”

Caleb snorts like you’ve just asked the dumbest question ever and presses his lips against your neck, hands wandering over the thin fabric of your Hunter’s Association tee shirt. Zayne’s gaze is unwavering, pinpointing every movement and every kiss Caleb gives you, laser focused on the other man’s lips. Caleb’s hands explore the expanse of your stomach before moving up to your chest to hesitate, hovering over your breasts.

“Touch me,” You encourage him.

You know that Caleb can read your physical cues better than you can explain to him, but he never does anything without asking or without consulting you first. You sense that he can feel the heat radiating off of your skin even through your clothes, but he needs that push; the consent and your permission to allow him to touch you in ways that he’s been dreaming of for years. Caleb cups your breasts through your shirt, sighing between open-mouthed kisses against your throat. 

You’re refraining from making the noises you want to out of fear of the shame that’ll come with it and good, reliable Caleb seems determined to get you to break. Caleb slips one of his hands down to the hem of your shirt and underneath it, the contact of his warm skin against yours making you shudder. With his other hand, Caleb tucks his fingers underneath your jaw and tugs slightly to get you to look back at him only for him to capture your lips in a ravenous kiss that’s more tongue than lips and more feeling than precision. Caleb is sloppy the way he claims your mouth; eager and wet like he can’t wait for your fluids to coalesce. You used to hate the way he ate and drank; slurping popsicles in the Summer until he was a sticky mess and guzzling water so messily that more ended up cascading down his neck in rivulets than down his throat. Now, you can’t get enough of his enthusiasm. You’re unable to control the whimpers he draws from you with his lips and his wandering hand that’s slipping beneath the cup of your bra to tweak one of your nipples between his forefinger and thumb. You can feel his body trembling and you’re almost flattered until you realize he’s snickering against your lips.

“Wh-What’s so funny?” You demand after cutting off the kiss, lips covered in his saliva like the owner of an over-eager puppy.

“Nothin’, just think Doc’s getting a little jealous,” Caleb raises his voice and lightly jerks his head in Zayne’s direction. 

You turn your head away from Caleb to look over at Zayne and squeak at the sight that greets you. Zayne, your sweet, doting Zayne is a panting Salvador Dali painting of a man as he melts into your couch with his eyes trained on you and Caleb, palm grinding against the front of his jeans in controlled, slow rolls. 

“Look, pipsqueak,” Caleb jeers. “Look how worked up you make him. Make us.”

Caleb punctuates his words by rolling his hips into you from behind, forcing you to feel how hard you’ve made him. He pinches your nipple, wrenching a sharp gasp from the back of your throat, keeping up the steady grind of his hips against your ass. 

“You like knowing that you can do this to us, don’t you?” Caleb accuses, lifting his free hand from your face to trail it down your stomach and then to your inner thighs, parting them so Zayne has a view of your underwear through the leg hole of your shorts. “Look at how pathetic he looks –”

Zayne’s concentration wavers, throat working to swallow the thick lump present there as he watches Caleb spread your legs. 

“Tell her how pretty she looks, Doc.”

“Stunning,” Zayne remarks, surprising you that he dignified Caleb with a response.

“Tell her how stunning,” Caleb presses, palming your breast with one hand while trailing his other to the center of your shorts. “I’ve seen the way you look at her for over a fucking decade but she doesn’t seem to be that observant.”

The implications of Caleb’s words send shivers down your spine and when you look into Zayne’s eyes, you doubt he’s embellishing. 

“Beautiful,” Zayne continues, closing his eyes as he touches himself through his jeans. “So beautiful - every last part of you. Every breath, every laugh, down to every molecule and atom encoded in your makeup, you are ethereal.”

Caleb dips his fingertips beneath the waistband of your shorts, hesitating before your waistband.

“This okay, pipsqueak?”

You lean into his touch, back wedged against his front, hoping he’ll accept that as an answer.

“Gotta tell me,” He insists. “Need your words.”

“So embarrassing,” You whine. “Please, Caleb.”

Caleb slips his fingers into your panties to find them soaked through, creating a slip that makes it easy for him to glide against you.

“Maybe we aren’t the only ones that are wrecked, huh?” Caleb teases, dipping the tip of his index finger into your soaked entrance to fuck you shallowly with it. “Fuck, you’re wet.”

“How wet?” Zayne demands, voice hoarse and strained. 

Caleb chuckles and the vibrations his laughter creates are pleasant against your skin. He slips his finger in deeper, the length of his finger enough to already reach a depth that you’ve never been able to explore on your own.

“Soaked, slick and tight,” Caleb groans, abandoning your breast to tug your shorts and panties down your legs without having to stop touching you. “Want a thorough exam?”

Zayne growls in frustration, rough enough to make you question whether or not you were hearing things. He tugs his jeans down his thighs to make himself more comfortable and grants you with the sight of the thick outline of his cock through his briefs before shucking the jeans off completely to lean over you, obscuring his lower half from your vision. Zayne pulls the offending fabric off of your body entirely, finishing Caleb’s job for him in Zayne’s urgency to see all of you by taking one last look with his glasses before setting those aside, too.

“Do you want him to touch you, sweetheart?” Caleb coos, noting how tense you get when Zayne flattens his hands on either of your thighs and props himself up on his elbows to settle between your legs.

“Y-yes, please, Zayne - ” You babble and nod your head aggressively, worried your verbal consent won’t make them work fast enough on its own.

You whimper at the loss of Caleb’s finger when he slips it out of you, but don’t have to miss the feeling for too long because Zayne fills that void immediately by stretching you out with two of his fingers. 

“Fuck,” Zayne loses even more of his composure and swears, the word harsh and foreign to your ears despite the organic way he hisses it. “Soaked.”

Zayne scissors his fingers inside of you and the professional, even-tempered man you’ve known your entire life dissipates entirely, fragments of him chipping off and floating away with every thrust of fingers and cry he robs of you. Zayne’s face is so close to your heat that his breath spreads in hot puffs across your skin.

“Think she needs more,” Caleb muses, eyes glued to Zayne’s fingers thrusting in and out of you. “Why don’t you lap her up and let me know what she tastes like?”

Zayne ignores Caleb but shifts his gaze from your cunt to you, eyes lidded with desire and face as red as when he has a drop of alcohol, intoxicated by your scent and the way you feel clenching around his digits.

“May I?” He asks raggedly. 

“Wh-What?”

“Taste you,” Zayne murmurs. “Will you let me?”

“You don’t h-have to,” You stammer, instinctively covering his hands with yours, the nerves getting the best of you when the reality of how close he is to you sinks in. 

Zayne pulls his fingers out of you, observing the long strand of arousal that connects his digits with your entrance with calculated interest. He lifts himself up and raises his fingers to Caleb’s face, pressing them against his lips. A beat passes and with almost no hesitation, you hear Caleb sucking Zayne’s fingers into his mouth and groaning at the taste.

“Fuck ‘s good,” Caleb slurs, slightly muffled with the presence of Zayne’s fingers. “You’re gonna love it.”

A string of saliva stretches between Caleb’s mouth and Zayne’s hand as he pulls his fingers out and you don’t see Caleb’s tongue chasing the taste, darting out to follow.

“Listen to Caleb,” Zayne hums, lowering himself between your legs yet again, his face centimeters from your center. “Don’t tell me what I don’t have to do – I’m perfectly capable of making those decisions for myself. Won’t you be a good girl and tell me what you want?”

He enunciates, breath fanning across your cunt in a way that has you quivering. He pushes your hands away and parts your lips with the tip of his index finger to nudge you open, leaning forward so that his lips hover above your clit.

“Will you let me have a taste directly from the source?” Zayne’s framing of the question is polite, but something dangerous lurks beneath the surface of that fixed tone.

“Wanna see you break, pipsqueak,” Caleb murmurs into your ear, rubbing the tops of your thighs gently to soothe your nerves. “Let us see how pretty you look when you’re feeling good – make him put that mouth to better use.”

You close your eyes and nod with a quiet yes and you’re rewarded instantly.

Zayne opens you up completely with his fingers, spreading your lips so he can get the perfect view of every part as he studies you intensely. He flattens his tongue against your entrance and drags it up the expanse of you to your clit to suck the bud into his mouth. He swirls the tip of his tongue against you and groans when he tastes the fresh surge of arousal leaking out of you. Your eyes widen when you open them out of curiosity to see Zayne’s fluttering, rolling into the back of his head as he tastes you thoroughly.

“Good?” Caleb prompts, his own uneven breathing betraying the control he’s trying his hardest to maintain.

“Delicious,” Zayne corrects hoarsely, pressing his fingers to your entrance while his tongue toys with your clit and moving his left hand against your thigh to anchor himself for some semblance of stability.

“You like it when he touches you there, huh?” Caleb murmurs into your ear, stroking your hair back sweetly. “Tell me how good he’s making you feel.”

It’s all too much - the feeling of Zayne’s fingers slipping into you to work together with his tongue, the non-stop teasing from Caleb’s lips - you feel like you’re overheating. Zayne soothes you by gently tracing delicate, nondescript patterns into your thigh with his free hand, the sweet motion  starkly contrasted by his fingers pistoning in and out of you.

“That wasn’t a rhetorical question, pipsqueak,” Caleb’s voice is shuddery, low and commanding. 

“I c-can’t,” You breathe out, unable to string together more than a couple of words. “Feels - It feels good.”

“Good? That’s not very nice, now, pipsqueak! Here Poindexter MD is putting those anatomy classes to good use and you can’t even let him know how he’s doing to thank him properly? Don’t tell me - he’s not doing a very good job?”

Zayne’s free fingertips dig into the meat of your thigh as he crushes his tongue over you, sweeping and greedy to collect every last drop of your arousal. You’re trembling so much, your poor excuse for a couch is protesting beneath you, groaning alongside the slew of other sounds that serve to overstimulate you in the form of Caleb’s filthy words and Zayne making out with your cunt.

“Wh-where did you learn to talk like that,” You demand in a thinly veiled attempt to distract Caleb from teasing you further. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know? Be a good girl and use those words for us, huh? Tell Zayne well he’s doing for you or he’ll stop.”

He wouldn’t, would he? Caleb is bluffing. Zayne would never listen to him over you.

“Zayne,” You whine.

You feel Zayne’s movements decelerate as he pulls his fingers out of you completely and presses a light kiss to your swollen clit. He looks up at you from between your legs, face flushed with exertion and arousal and lips dripping with your essence. 

“Well? Is it satisfactory or not?”

“Wh-What?”

Zayne lifts the fingers that were just inside of you to his lips to smear your arousal all over them before swiping his tongue out to taste the rest of you. He cocks his head to the side, his eyes uncharacteristically darkened with the intoxication of your taste and scent.

“Won’t you be a good girl like Caleb said? Tell me how I’m doing - tell me what you want.”

The sight of his fucked out expression and sound of that very un-Zayne-like vocabulary has you flinging your arms over your face, the attention on you proving to be too overwhelming. Caleb doesn’t waste one second and grips your wrists to pry them away from your face, clicking his tongue in disappointment as he restrains you to force you to look at Zayne.

“You heard him, pipsqueak,” Caleb presses. “How do his fingers feel inside of you? You gonna be good for him and give us both something to taste?”

“Please,” Your voice is hoarse as you beg. “Please - don’t stop - I don’t know wh-what I want I just know that I want you to keep going.”

“You want me to take care of you?” Zayne asks, holding your gaze when you meet his. “Or would you prefer I stop?”

“No!” You cry out, embarrassed at how panicked you sound.

You can feel Caleb shaking with laughter behind you.

“Well, if you aren’t going to tell me,” Zayne trails off.

“We’ll stop.” Caleb finishes for him, and you hate that now of all times they decide to be in sync with each other.

Zayne looks at you expectantly, no sign of continuing in his stillness or stare. 

“What about you?” You whine, flustered with all of the attention. “Wanna make you both feel good, too.”

Zayne smirks.

“Caleb, flip her over.”

Huh?

Caleb must be able to read Zayne’s mind because before you can protest, he’s maneuvering you in his arms like a rag doll, flipping you so you’re chest to chest and facing him. Caleb gently moves you down his body so your face is level with his stomach and trails one hand down your spine to the small of your back. Caleb presses, indicating for you to arch your back and you choke on a gasp as Zayne aids him by steadying you with both hands on your bare ass.

“If you really need to find something to do while he eats you out you can touch me,” Caleb maunders, taking your hands in his to press against the bulge in his sweats. “Feel how hard I am for you?”

“I -”

You’re cut off by Zayne’s mouth and his tongue probing inside of you, his hands digging into your asscheeks to keep you still. The movement has you falling forward, unable to keep yourself upright and scrambling for purchase in Caleb’s sweats.

“Come on, sweetheart, don’t tell me you can’t focus on more than one thing at a time?” Caleb teases, the sweetness in his voice juxtaposing the fire in those violet eyes. “Here, I’ll help you.”

While you’re subjected to onslaught of wet, precise torture under the pleasure of Zayne’s tongue, Caleb slips his hand into his sweats. He lifts his hips to jerkily tug the waistband down and grips himself through his boxers when he’s freed himself from the cotton.

“Just like this, y-yeah?” He instructs, taking one of your hands in his free one to press it against him, eyes rolling back at the feeling of your hand finally touching him through the thin material. “Nice and slow, just like that, baby.”

You muster every bit of focus you’re capable of and allow Caleb to show you what he likes, biting your lip to stop the moans that threaten to spill out when Zayne slips a third finger inside of you from behind. The way your hips are angled gives Zayne more room and more depth, his fingers hitting a spot inside of you that you’ve never felt before. 

“C-Caleb, c-can’t,” You whimper with a warning as you feel yourself clench around Zayne’s fingers. 

“Are you gonna come for us, sweetheart?” Caleb lifts his hand from his cock to your cheek, soothing you with gentle strokes as Zayne fucks you with his fingers, the pressure and intensity forcing you further into Caleb’s lap. 

“I - I don’t -” You babble, unable to string together more than a few words as Zayne curls his fingers, figuratively and literally eating them out of you. “F-Feels so good.”

Caleb reaches up with his other hand to cup your jaw, steadying your head so he can drag his other fingertips across your cheek to your mouth and presses down on your bottom lip with his index finger. You part your lips for him, granting him access to shove his finger inside and push it against your tongue.

You curl your tongue around Caleb’s finger, thankful for the distraction and the stability in Caleb’s strong hands. It’s not surprising to you that Zayne is able to take you apart within mere minutes of getting the feel of you, but you’re unprepared for the tidal wave of your orgasm when he alternates his tongue with his fingers, pulling them out of you to rub your swollen, exposed clit. 

Caleb’s fingers slip from your mouth as you release the suction, lips falling open as a sharp, broken moan painfully claws its way out of your throat. Zayne doesn’t relent, tongue milking you for everything you’re worth, his dexterous fingers rubbing you through the waves with a cruel precision that brings you to the brink of overstimulation. It isn’t until you’re trembling so much that your legs can no longer hold you up when Zayne pulls away, a mixture of your arousal and his saliva dripping from his lips and jaws. 

“That’s it, atta girl,” Caleb tries to say coolly, though when you look up at him, his eyes are glazed over. “Damn, I gotta hand it to you, doc. She’s fucking shaking.” 

“I can feel that from here just fine,” Zayne drawls, wiping your residue from his face with his fingers before taking them into his mouth to take every last drop you’ve given him.

“Think she can give us another one?” Caleb wonders.

“Switch with me and I’m sure we can put that theory to the test,” Zayne moves from behind you to stand and surreptitiously adjusts himself through his boxers. 

Caleb presses a sweet kiss to your forehead before jumping at the opportunity, making sure you’re steady enough on your own before moving to the other side of the couch. 

“This your first time doing any of this, pipsqueak?” Caleb asks casually, but a hint of anxiety plagues the question, like he’s afraid of what you’ll have to say.

Caleb takes a hold of your hips from behind to carefully flip you over to your back, taking extra measures to not be too rough with you after the intense orgasm Zayne gave you.

“F-fingers, no -” You don’t miss the way Caleb’s expression darkens before continuing. “Th-The other thing, yes.”

“So no oral sex,” Zayne says bluntly, letting his jeans sag beneath his hips. “What about regular sex?”

“A c-couple times,” You admit shyly, tearing your gaze away from Caleb’s as a sneer curls at his lips. “Just a guy I dated for a few months my first year of college.”

“I don’t need to know who,” Zayne kneels on the floor so he’s face to face with you and lightly kisses your lips. “I just need to know what you’re comfortable with and what your boundaries are. Right, Caleb?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Caleb grumbles, clearly fighting the demons ripping at his patience. “We’ll make you forget all about him. You gonna let us fuck you, pipsqueak? You trust us?”

You nod and despite your insecurities, you’ve never felt so safe with a man before. The two men you’ve known for the majority of your life have your best interests and safety in mind and you can feel it in the way they touch you; like they’ve been given the secret roadmap to know what makes you sing for them. Zayne cups your face in his hands and kisses you sweetly, letting you adjust to the new positions and allowing you to taste the tang of yourself on his tongue.

Caleb makes quick work of his sweats, his underwear following in rapid succession. You notice the shirt he’s wearing -  the annoying white one with the unnecessary buckles - and you realize you need to see all of him. 

“Take it off,” You blurt. “Hate that stupid shirt.”

Caleb barks out a laugh and fulfills your request, his brief agitation from before melting away.  You’ve seen Caleb shirtless more times than you can count and it’s affected you before, but with the new frame of context with him between your legs it practically sends you spiraling. 

“Hate my shirt or just want to see me fully naked, pervert?” He scoffs good-naturedly, spreading your legs.

He takes his neglected cock in his hand and strokes it from base to tip, squeezing his eyes shut and shuddering. You can’t even answer him because you’re staring, open-mouthed and eyes wide as you take in the sight of him. 

“You - what the hell, Caleb?”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart, it’ll fit,” Caleb answers your unspoken question, tapping it against your pubic mound. “Fuck, Zayne - condom?”

Though you find it kind of funny that Caleb only chooses to address Zayne by his given name when he needs something, it’s hard to laugh when you realize he’ll be inside of you. Zayne kisses your cheek before getting up to disappear into the kitchen where his bag is and returns within moments holding a strip of condoms.

“W-We don’t need that many!” You panic, counting eight of them. 

“We’ll see,” Zayne says dryly, giving no indication as to whether or not he’s joking, but Caleb laughs. 

Zayne grips the corner and tears the condom packet from the perforated edges to toss to Caleb, who nods his thanks and tears the packet to put it on, but you notice he lays the rest on the floor next to the couch instead of returning them to his bag. You don’t have enough time to worry if he really does plan on going through all of them when he takes your face in his hands and forces you to look at him.

“Eyes on me, darling, okay? I want you to keep looking at me,” Zayne orders gently with a soft dominance that lets you know he’s in control no matter how kindly he’s treating you.

Caleb spreads your pussy apart with his fingertips and guides the head of his cock to your entrance, a deep, animalistic groan coming from deep in his chest as he feels you for the first time. He nudges his cock inside of you, slow and steady, letting you acclimatize to his considerable size. 

“Fuck, feels so good,” He groans throatily. “So good to us, making it all wet and easy for me.”

He pushes in a couple more inches, again letting you acclimatize to the intrusion while Zayne commands your gaze.

“That’s it, darling, just keep looking at me,” Zayne pairs his words with a knowing, sympathetic nod. “Good girl, you’re doing so well.”

When Caleb bottoms out inside of you, the pressure is so intense that you can practically feel him in the back of your throat. He’s so deep that it almost hurts, but Zayne’s taken extra care to make sure you don’t feel the stretch as badly as you would have without the preparation. You flex your hips, wincing at the intrusion. Caleb is as perceptive during sex as he is in every other facet of his life, especially when it comes to you, so he bites down on his lip to keep himself grounded and stills.

“Look at that, he’s all the way inside of you,” Zayne marvels before slotting his lips against yours.

Zayne sucks your tongue into his mouth, stroking your cheeks with his thumbs and Caleb flattens a hand on your abdomen like he’s trying to measure how much of you he’s taking up. The pressure of his hand is delicious and you whimper into Zayne’s mouth, unable to keep up with his kisses. 

“Gonna move, yeah?” Caleb grunts.

“Yes,” You breathe against Zayne’s lips, your mind yanked in a million different directions.

The drag of Caleb’s cock against your walls as he pulls out is delicious, intense and overbearing in all of the best ways like Caleb is in general. He withdraws until just the head of his cock rests inside of you and trembles, shaking his head to bring himself back to Earth so he doesn’t get lost in the feeling of you.

“You don’t have to do anything, okay? Let us take care of you,” Zayne mutters, trailing his lips from yours to the column of your throat.

“Lift your hips for me, baby,” Caleb instructs, slipping his hands underneath your ass as you obey. “That’s it, good girl.”

Caleb offers you a moment to adjust, his pleasure taking a backseat to your comfort. 

“Gonna fuck you, okay? Is that okay with you, sweetheart?”

“Y-yes, please,” Your voice is strained, throat raw from the exhaustion of being fully serviced by the two people who mean the most in the world to you. “Need to feel you, Caleb.”

The way you say his name breaks any barrier of restraint and Caleb surges forward, filling you up all of the way as he chokes on your name. You love the nicknames both of the men have for you, but hearing your name gasped so reverently from Caleb’s lips while he buries himself inside of you causes something to sting in your eyes. Salty, warm tears brim at the ducts, threatening to spill as Caleb sets a ruthless pace. Zayne wipes them away with his thumbs, murmuring sweet praises of how good you’re being for them against your throat, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses against your flesh.

“Caleb!” You cry out as he thrusts into you, cock hitting a spot so deep it’s like it knocks the wind out of you. 

Your head falls back, slack in Zayne’s hands until he corrects you, tightening his grip on your jaw.

“I said keep your eyes on me,” He warns. “Keep your eyes on me or I’ll have Caleb stop. You don’t want that do you?”

“No!” You panic, tears flowing freely as you babble. “No, no, don’t stop, please - almost - almost there.”

“Are you going to come for us again?” Zayne asks, lifting one of his hands to smooth your hair away from your sweaty, tear-stained face. 

“I don’t - I don’t know,” You answer truthfully, head empty with the way Caleb’s fucking you senseless. 

Zayne leans forward to pry your lips open with his tongue, swallowing your cries. He pulls back to stand up, briefly releasing his grasp on your face. He tugs his jeans and underwear down to his knees and takes his cock in his hand. Zayne is long and curved, a prominent vein throbbing down the expanse of his dick. He’s kept himself neatly trimmed and groomed meticulously, not a stray hair or blemish marring the skin around it. 

“Open,” He insists. “Okay?”

You don’t have much experience with giving head – your last ending disastrously with your ex boyfriend’s cum ending up in your eyes - but it’s the last thing on your mind as your mouth waters at the sight of Zayne. You part your lips for him and he hums, guiding his cock to your lips with one hand and returning the other to your jaw to stabilize you. You take his head in your mouth and experimentally swirl your tongue around the tip, slightly ashamed that you’re loving how much they’re filling you.

“Fuck, I’m not going to last,” Caleb growls. “I can feel her fucking clenching around me.”

Your mouth falls slack when Caleb slams into you, a fresh wave of tears leaking from your eyes as the pleasure pricks gooseflesh all over your skin. Zayne takes the opportunity to feed you more of his cock, releasing his grip on it to grab your hand and place it on what you can’t fit in your mouth.

“Does his cock feel good inside of you?” Zayne inquires with a mean edge, clearly not expecting you to be able to answer. “‘Do you like being a good girl for us?”

Caleb slips one of his hands out from under your ass to lift it to his mouth and spit in his palm. He spreads the saliva between your legs, making sure to cover all of you. He pinches your clit between his thumb and index finger and presses, revelling in the way you convulse around him. Your lips part in a scream that Zayne’s cock muffles and more of him slips in, triggering your gag reflex. You choke around him, spit dripping out of the sides of your mouth as your eyes water. 

Zayne pulls out entirely and kneels to face you and covers your lips with his. He takes himself in his hand, stroking and squeezing in the rough way he’s accustomed to when he’s alone and murmurs sweet apologies into your mouth.

“So sorry, so good for me,” He gasps, your kisses devolving into sloppy licks, all tongue with no intention to do anything but feel. “You’re such a good girl for me - for us.”

“Fuck!” Caleb swears, the last thread of his dwindling restraint snapping and fraying like old rope. “Gonna come, g-gonna come,”

The combination of Caleb’s assault on your clit with Zayne’s sweet praises has you spasming until you go completely still, eyes widening in the shock of an orgasm so intense that you can’t move. Caleb doesn’t stop his fingers as he fucks you through the swells and torrents, your name the only thing on his lips when he spills into the condom. 

“Our good girl, behaving so well for us,” Zayne barely manages between rough pants as he spills into his hand. “So good for us.”

Caleb pulls out of you, his frame shaking with exertion and the shockwaves of bliss, and clumsily pulls back to collapse into the couch. Zayne rests his sweaty forehead against yours, his seemingly endless supply of composure tapped as he pants roughly. 

“Z-Zayne what about -” You worry.

“Don’t worry about me darling,” Zayne assures you shakily and winces as he discreetly wipes his hand on his jeans. “Lay back for me. Caleb?”

“What?” Caleb groans. 

“Let’s go run her a bath,” Zayne instructs. “I’ll give you a moment to collect yourself.”

“Yeah, fuck, I’m getting up - we’ll come get you in a second, sweetheart.”

Zayne stands, his movements abnormally slow and clumsy. He leans forward to kiss your sticky forehead and disappears into the bathroom. Caleb follows suit, even more clumsy and gives you a kiss on the cheek. A few moments later, you hear the sound of your bathtub faucet running and the faint sounds of Caleb admonishing Zayne for not using enough hot water. You smile to yourself, exhausted beyond belief, and let yourself relax until your best friends come to get you.

[leriexoxo]

Just Another Work Trip

Coworker! Changbin x Fem Reader

Tags: work husband, hotel room, honeymoon suite, alcohol, teasing, size kink, oral (m,f receiving), unprotected sex, cum swallowing, fingering, smut, squirting.

Word Count: 7k

Summary: It was supposed to be a simple work trip—until a hotel mishap landed them in the honeymoon suite with complimentary wine and only one bed. Now she’s in a robe, asking him questions no sober co-worker should, and he’s showing her exactly what those hands can do. “Strictly professional” goes out the window the moment he pulls her onto his lap.

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It started like every other work trip: you and Changbin sitting side by side at the airport gate, bleary-eyed, under-caffeinated, and already bickering over the window seat.

“You sat by the window last time,” you’d argued, cradling the sad excuse for coffee from the airport kiosk in your hands.

He’d scoffed. “That was a thirty-minute flight. This one’s four hours.”

“Exactly. And I want to sleep.”

“So do I.”

You’d stared each other down for a full five seconds before he let out the most dramatic sigh imaginable and said, “Fine. Rock, paper, scissors.”

You’d won.

He’d sulked for most of the flight, arms crossed, hoodie up, headphones in. Every time you so much as adjusted your blanket, he’d shot you a theatrical side-eye, like you’d stolen his birthright instead of just the window seat.

Typical. Completely and utterly typical.

You and Changbin had somehow morphed from casual coworkers into a chaotic work-marriage no one at the office dared question. You got placed on all the same projects, shared the same relentless travel schedule, and had grown unreasonably good at finishing each other’s sentences and snacks. And yeah, maybe there was a little too much banter, a little too much comfort—but it was harmless. Easy. Familiar.

This trip was supposed to be just another notch on your shared itinerary—three days in a new city, back-to-back meetings, and one brutally long conference presentation. The company had handled the booking: flights, hotel, transportation. All you had to do was show up and try not to strangle each other before day three.

But the universe had other plans.

“There must be a mistake,” you’d said when the front desk clerk handed you one key card instead of two.

The clerk had looked genuinely apologetic. “I’m really sorry. There was an overbooking with our standard rooms. The only available one is a double occupancy—two beds, same room.”

You’d glanced at Changbin.

He’d just shrugged. “Not a big deal. We’ve shared worse.”

He wasn’t wrong. That time you both passed out in the same hotel armchair after a midnight movie marathon haunted your spine for days. So you’d agreed. Took the key. Went up. Unpacked. Brushed it off.

Until it started raining.

Not just a drizzle—a storm. Angry, dramatic, cinematic. Lightning cracked across the sky, thunder rolling in deep waves. And then, of course, came the leak.

Right above Changbin’s bed.

“Is that…?” he’d asked, frowning up at the slow, rhythmic drip-drip-drip landing dead center on his pillow.

You’d just groaned. “Oh, come on.”

Ten minutes later, you were both back at the front desk, windblown and damp, with matching scowls. The clerk, to their credit, looked genuinely mortified and offered you an upgrade on the spot.

“The honeymoon suite,” they’d said. “It’s the only available room we have tonight. At no extra charge.”

You hadn’t even hesitated. Just nodded, grabbed the new key, and marched back to the elevator, two complimentary glasses of wine clinking in your hand while Changbin dragged your bags behind you.

“You think they’ll have better pillows?” he’d muttered, side-eyeing the golden panel on the elevator wall as you ascended.

“If there’s a leak in this one,” you’d deadpanned, “we’re getting on the next flight home.”

The elevator dinged.

The hallway was soft-lit and velvet-carpeted. Somewhere, from speakers you couldn’t see, romantic piano music drifted through the air.

“This feels fancy,” you’d muttered.

“This feels suspicious,” Changbin had countered, holding up the room key like it might bite him.

You slid the card into the lock. You barely registered the soft click of the key card before Changbin pushed open the hotel room door, dragging both your suitcases behind him like the absolute mule he always insisted on being.

“Okay, new room, no leak, no mildew, no funky smells—” he started, glancing back at you with a grin, until his voice cut off.

You walked in behind him.

And froze.

There was a towel swan on the bed.

Two towel swans, actually. Nuzzling. Beaks forming a heart.

Rose petals were scattered across the king-sized mattress like a florist had a breakdown. The lights were dimmed. There was a chilled bottle of champagne waiting in an ice bucket on the side table. A card in gold script read “Congratulations on your forever!”

You and Changbin looked at each other.

Silence.

Then he blinked. “Did we… just get married?”

You snorted. “I feel like I should at least get a kiss first.”

He stared at you for a beat. “I’d settle for a thank-you. I did carry your bag.”

“Oh my God.” You threw your purse on the velvet bench at the foot of the bed and collapsed onto the edge dramatically. “They really gave us the honeymoon suite.”

Changbin was still standing there, staring at the bed like it might explode.

“You think it’s too late to ask for separate rooms?”

You glanced at the wall where a MASSIVE hot tub sat right in the open, complete with rose petals floating in the water.

“…Yes.”

Another beat. Then he exhaled hard through his nose and set the luggage down.

“Well. At least there’s wine.”

You eyed the champagne. “And bubbles.”

He raised a brow. “If you think I’m sharing a bathtub with you—”

“Relax, Binnie. I wouldn’t subject you to that much of my bare skin.”

He snorted. “Please. I’ve seen worse.”

You froze. “You have?”

He smirked. “Yeah. The time you accidentally FaceTimed me while shaving your legs with your camera flipped.”

You gasped. “You SWORE you didn’t look!”

He just laughed and flopped onto the bed next to you.

You threw a pillow at him. It missed. He was still laughing.

And god—despite the heart-shaped pillows and mildly alarming amount of romance, it still felt easy. It was still you and Changbin.

Just you two.

Like always.

But… maybe not for much longer.

—

The room was ridiculous.

That was your first thought as you wandered in fully, suitcase forgotten just inside the doorway. Golden light poured from hidden fixtures, casting a warm glow over the white marble floors and the enormous bed—plush, pristine, and obnoxiously heart-shaped. Seriously. A heart-shaped bed.

Changbin wheeled the bags in behind you and stopped dead. “They weren’t kidding.”

“Nope.” You turned in a slow circle, eyes skating over every absurd romantic detail—rose petals on the bed, champagne on ice, a bathroom the size of your apartment with a jacuzzi tub that looked like it came from a music video. “We’re living someone else’s honeymoon.”

“Do you think we’re allowed to eat the chocolate swans?” he asked, already making a beeline for the tray beside the champagne.

You raised an eyebrow. “Do you ever not lead with food?”

He popped one into his mouth before answering. “You’re welcome to be mad about it, but it’s the only way I know how to cope with emotional distress.”

You snorted and dropped onto the velvet loveseat by the window, kicking off your shoes. “Is that what this is? Emotional distress?”

“Uh, yeah?” He gestured to the bed with dramatic flair. “I’m sharing a honeymoon suite with my work wife. You think that’s not psychologically damaging?”

“I’m your work wife now?” You looked over at him, biting back a smile.

“Don’t act surprised. Everyone knows it. I’ve seen the way people look at us when we bicker on Zoom.”

“They look at you with pity.”

He threw a pillow at you. It missed and thudded softly onto the floor.

You didn’t pick it up.

Instead, you reached for the envelope on the nightstand—handwritten, sealed in gold. You cracked it open and read aloud, doing your best overly breathy romantic voice: “Welcome, lovers. May your stay be filled with intimacy and bliss.”

You and Changbin locked eyes for a beat.

Then burst out laughing.

“Should we write them a thank you card?” you managed between wheezes. “Tell them you snore like a chainsaw and I steal all the blankets?”

“You’re not stealing my blankets,” he said, already tugging one corner of the duvet onto his side like he was marking territory.

You grabbed a pillow and lobbed it at him in return.

He caught it with one hand.

“Truce?” he asked.

You held out a pinky.

He linked his with yours.

And just like that, it was easy again.

⸻

Later, after you’d both settled in—bags unpacked, room-service menu discarded, and the novelty of the ridiculousness dulled to a low, comfortable hum—you found yourself standing in front of the mirrored bathroom, wrapped in the hotel’s soft white robe, hair still damp from your shower.

When you walked out, he was already lounging on the bed, robe on, one arm thrown behind his head like this was a normal Tuesday night and not a total departure from reality.

He looked at you and grinned. “You clean up alright.”

You rolled your eyes. “You look like a skincare commercial.”

“I am the skincare commercial.”

You padded barefoot across the plush rug and slid onto the other side of the bed, careful not to touch but not exactly far either.

Between you sat the half-empty bottle of the complimentary wine and two crystal glasses, condensation beading down the sides.

Changbin handed you yours without looking. His thumb brushed your fingers as you took it.

You didn’t mention it.

“Cheers,” he said softly, lifting his glass.

“To what?”

He shrugged. “Surviving the leak. The free chocolate. Not murdering each other. Take your pick.”

You clinked your glass to his. “To the best fake honeymoon ever.”

The wine was sweeter than you expected. Rich and smooth, settling warm in your chest. Silence stretched between you, not awkward, not tense—just full.

You turned your head, finding him watching you in that lazy, amused way he always did when he wasn’t thinking too hard about it. Except… maybe he was thinking. You couldn’t tell.

“So,” he said eventually, voice low and thoughtful. “If this were a real honeymoon, what do you think we’d be doing right now?”

You raised a brow. “That’s a dangerous question.”

“Is it?”

You took a slow sip, giving yourself a moment. “Well. Statistically? Probably fighting about what side of the bed we want. Or deciding which spa package to book. Or…”

“Or?”

“Or…” You glanced down at your glass, swirling the wine gently. “Or doing exactly this, I guess. Drinking wine in robes. Pretending we’re not thinking weird thoughts.”

The words had slipped out before you’d really processed them. You half expected him to laugh it off or make a joke.

But he didn’t.

He just watched you for a moment longer, head tilted, like you were suddenly a question he hadn’t realized he wanted to answer.

You cleared your throat, suddenly too warm. “I mean. Not weird weird. Just—like—hypothetical weird. You know what I mean.”

“Do I?” he asked, voice dipping into something softer, something unreadable.

You dared a glance his way. He was still leaning back, still relaxed—but his eyes had changed. Darker. Curious.

The robe slipped slightly off one of his shoulders. Not on purpose. Not seductive. Just real.

And that was somehow worse.

Your voice felt quieter now when you spoke. “How much wine have you had?”

He looked at his glass. “Not enough.”

The wine had mellowed into a comforting buzz in your veins. You’d stretched your legs across the bed somewhere between the second glass and your last laugh, robe slipping just enough to bare your calf. Changbin was still beside you, close but not too close—legs crossed, head tilted lazily against the headboard, the neck of his robe loosened in a casual, effortless way that made it hard not to glance twice.

He looked… peaceful.

And a little too good.

You weren’t used to that. Not this version of him. This wasn’t at work Changbin, cracking jokes to ease the pressure. This wasn’t on a panel Changbin, charming and sharp and annoyingly put together.

This was something softer.

Something real.

“So,” he said, voice smooth and unhurried. “Can I ask you something?”

You glanced at him over your glass. “Is this the part where you confess a deep, dark secret and ruin the friendship forever?”

“Not yet,” he teased, then shifted a little to face you better. “What’s the worst date you’ve ever been on?”

You blinked. “Wow, we’re just going there, huh?”

“It’s a honeymoon suite,” he said with a shrug. “Feels wrong to talk about quarterly projections.”

You huffed a laugh and tilted your head, thinking. “Okay. There was this one guy who took me to a jazz bar and then spent the entire night telling me how women don’t really like jazz.”

Changbin winced. “Oof.”

“And then he made me split the bill because, and I quote, ‘chivalry is dead, but feminism isn’t.’”

“Double oof.”

You laughed, swirling your wine. “Your turn.”

“Worst date?”

“Mmhmm.”

He took a slow sip. “There was a girl who brought her ex-boyfriend to our first date.”

You stared. “Like… in spirit?”

“No. Physically. In the flesh. Said she needed me to see why I should be better than him.”

You burst out laughing. “You’re lying.”

“I wish I was.”

Your wine almost came out your nose.

He looked smug.

“You ask one now,” he said, eyes twinkling. “Make it good.”

You turned toward him, mirroring his posture without realizing. “Okay. Be honest—how many people have you actually been in love with?”

That stopped him.

His mouth tugged into a thoughtful little line as he leaned his head back against the wall. “One. Maybe. I think.”

“You think?”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I think I loved the idea more than the person. But at the time… it felt real.”

You nodded, gaze dropping to your glass. “I know what you mean.”

He looked at you again, carefully. “How about you?”

You bit your lip. “One. Definitely. And it wrecked me.”

Silence hummed for a moment. Not heavy. Just present.

“Okay,” he said, exhaling, “we’re getting too real. I need something spicy.”

You laughed. “Oh, now you want spicy?”

He grinned. “What’s the most inappropriate thought you’ve ever had in a professional setting?”

You nearly choked. “You can’t ask me that!”

“I just did.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Fine. There was one time—don’t judge me—I zoned out in a meeting and started imagining what our boss would look like tied up in duct tape.”

Changbin lost it. “WHAT?!”

“It wasn’t sexual!” you said, laughing so hard your stomach hurt. “I was bored and I had intrusive thoughts!”

He was wheezing beside you, his whole body shaking with it. “That’s the best thing I’ve ever heard.”

You bumped your foot against his leg. “Okay, your turn. Juicy. No backing out.”

He gave you a slow, deliberate look. “Alright. Be honest. Have you ever thought about hooking up with a coworker?”

The room suddenly felt warmer.

You blinked once. Twice. “Define thought about.”

His lips twitched. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

You took a sip of your wine to dodge the question, but your smile gave you away.

He laughed again, soft and low. Then leaned in just a little, not enough to be invasive—just enough to feel it. “Want to tell me who?”

You raised a brow. “That’s not how this game works.”

“Then ask me something equally dangerous.”

You thought for a second, your voice dropping a note. “Have you ever fantasized about someone you shouldn’t?”

His answer didn’t come immediately.

His gaze flicked to yours. And held.

“Yes,” he said. Quiet. Honest. No smile.

Your heart skipped, just once.

You were both still smiling—but it wasn’t the same smile as before. There was something else beneath it now. Something new.

And neither of you had touched yet.

You swirled what was left in your glass, eyes drifting to the long fingers wrapped around his. You’d seen those hands type like a madman during crunch time, juggle a phone and a coffee and still manage to open doors for you without missing a beat. Efficient. Reliable. Strong.

But tonight—bare, relaxed, just resting on his thigh—they looked different.

They looked like trouble.

“You keep staring,” he murmured, breaking the silence. There was no tease in his voice this time. Just quiet observation.

You blinked, caught. “Sorry,” you said, though you didn’t look away.

He didn’t move either. Didn’t hide them. Just let you look.

Blame it on the wine. Blame it on the robe. Blame it on the goddamn honeymoon suite and the way his thigh flexed every time he shifted.

You tipped your head slightly, swirling your wine again. “Can I ask you something I wouldn’t normally ask?”

He raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “That’s what we’ve been doing, isn’t it?”

You bit the inside of your cheek, then let the words slip, soft but deliberate.

“What else do you use your hands for, Changbin?”

The room went still.

His eyes didn’t leave yours. He didn’t laugh it off. Didn’t brush it aside. Just let the question hang in the charged air between you.

A slow smirk curled at the corner of his mouth, not smug—curious.

“Is that a real question?” he asked, voice just a little deeper now. “Or are you fishing?”

You shrugged, playing coy. “Maybe I’m just trying to see if you’ll answer.”

He looked down at his hand, then flexed his fingers like he was considering their résumé. “I guess it depends,” he said, tone still light but eyes heavy. “Do you want the PG version or the one that might ruin our work relationship forever?”

You felt your breath catch. Just for a second.

Then you smiled—something slow and unhurried. “I think you already know which one I want.”

He studied you like you’d just shifted into someone he hadn’t met before. Not in a bad way. In a what else have I been missing? way.

But still, he didn’t move. Didn’t close the space. His voice stayed calm, cool.

“You sure you’re ready for that answer?”

“Are you?” you asked back, matching his energy perfectly.

Another beat of silence stretched—this one taut.

And then, finally, he leaned back against the headboard again, robe falling open just a little more at the chest. “Maybe you’ll have to ask again when the bottle’s empty.”

A challenge.

A dare.

And it tasted better than the wine.

It was him who poured the next glass. He didn’t ask. Just reached over and filled yours before topping off his own, eyes flicking up to meet yours while he did it. You watched the dark red swirl in his glass as he leaned back again, lips already parted like he was waiting for your next move.

“Your turn,” he said, voice like warm velvet. “You asked about my hands. I get to ask about your mouth.”

You raised an eyebrow, smile tugging at your lips. “That wasn’t the rule.”

“It is now.”

You let your teeth graze your bottom lip, then sat up straighter, tugging your robe just a little tighter—like it could hold in all the heat threatening to spill over.

“Well,” you started slowly, tipping your glass toward your lips, “My mouth… talks too much.”

He nodded, playing along. “I’ve noticed.”

“It gets me into trouble.”

“I believe that.”

You paused, gaze sliding down his chest and back up again. “And sometimes, when the moment’s right, it makes very bad decisions.”

There it was again—that flicker of something dark in his eyes. His knuckles brushed his jaw as he stared at you, thumb dragging lightly across his bottom lip.

“Define ‘bad,’” he said.

You pretended to think. “Kissing someone I’m not supposed to.”

“Who says you’re not supposed to?”

You cocked your head. “I don’t kiss my coworkers.”

“Not even your work husband?”

You laughed—light and quick, like the sound could make the tension less thick. It didn’t.

“I especially don’t kiss my work husband.”

He let the silence settle again. Let it stretch, let it breathe.

“Shame,” he finally murmured, so quiet you barely heard it over your own pulse. “I’ve always wondered.”

Your throat went dry. The wine wasn’t helping anymore. You set your glass down, fingers lingering on the stem.

“My turn,” you whispered.

His eyes snapped to yours.

“What else do you think my mouth could do?”

You asked it sweetly. Too sweetly.

He didn’t answer right away.

But when he did, it came in a slow exhale. “Don’t ask me that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I might tell you.”

And you knew—you knew—if you asked again, this night wouldn’t end the way it was supposed to.

But wasn’t that the point?

⸻

The bottle was nearly empty now—just enough for one more glass, but neither of you reached for it. It wasn’t the wine anymore. It was him. The way he leaned, one elbow hooked over the back of the couch, robe falling open just enough to tease the curve of his chest, the ripple of muscle along his arm. You kept pretending you weren’t looking. He wasn’t pretending anymore.

“I’ve got another one,” he said, voice lower now, like he was scared the walls might hear. “You ever think about someone at work when you’re… alone?”

You blinked slowly, a breath catching in your throat.

He gave you that smile—that one. Lazy and slow, like he knew exactly what he was doing.

“You don’t have to answer. But I think I already know.”

You stared at him, lips parted, chest rising and falling a little too fast. The robe was sliding from your shoulder and you let it, warmth blooming beneath his gaze when his eyes dropped—slow, like he was memorizing the skin there.

“What gave me away?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t speak for a moment, just looked at you like you were the answer to a question he wasn’t supposed to ask.

“You talk about me like I’m a safe space,” he said. “But you look at me like you’re dying to be unsafe.”

Oh.

You didn’t have a comeback for that.

Instead, you let the silence hold, the tension hum and twist and pull tighter between you, wrapping around your neck like silk.

“Your turn,” he added, voice now a rasp.

You wet your lips, eyes locked to the soft plush of his mouth, your thoughts nowhere innocent.

“Do you ever…” You hesitated. “Touch yourself to the thought of someone you shouldn’t?”

His jaw flexed. His hand shifted on his thigh—big hand, strong, veins trailing up thick forearms like a map of your current obsession.

“Yeah,” he said, eyes never leaving yours. “Once or twice.”

“Just once or twice?”

He grinned. “More if I’m being honest.”

You swallowed hard. “Someone from work?”

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t have to.

Your thighs clenched under your robe. You shifted just slightly, trying to ignore the ache building there. You shouldn’t be asking this. Shouldn’t be feeling this. But God, you were. Every look, every word, every pause between them—it was dragging you deeper.

“I like your hands,” you said softly. “They’re big.”

His eyebrow ticked up. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “Bet they’re good at a lot of things.”

He leaned forward slowly, elbows on his knees, the space between you closing like a whisper. The scent of wine and hotel soap and something him filled your head.

“You have no idea.”

Your breath hitched. “Then tell me.”

He didn’t.

Instead, he reached out—slow, deliberate—and tucked your robe back over your shoulder, fingertips grazing your collarbone like he was giving you a warning.

Or a promise.

The touch barely lasted a second. But your skin burned for minutes after.

He didn’t answer you with words.

Just leaned back on the couch, his eyes locked to yours, like he was reading your pulse through your throat. You were holding your breath, thighs clenching beneath the soft fabric of your robe, fingers twitching where they rested on the cushion between you.

“I can show you,” he murmured, voice low, deliberate.

Then he reached out—big, sure hands gripping just under your knees—and pulled.

You gasped as your body slid toward him, robe parting with the motion, baring the soft skin of your thighs, your breath catching as you ended up half in his lap, one leg thrown over his. His hand settled there, fingers splayed wide against your thigh. The heat of his touch seared into your skin, slow and possessive, like he was claiming the right to touch you just because you let him.

You were still holding your robe closed at your chest, but the loose tie was slipping, barely hanging on.

“Changbin…”

His hand moved higher, fingers gliding up your thigh beneath the robe, until he was brushing where your inner thighs met, close enough to feel the heat of you through the thin fabric of your panties. Your hips bucked, just slightly, just enough for him to notice.

“I knew you were soft,” he whispered, mouth close enough to your ear to make your skin shiver. “But I didn’t think you’d let me feel you like this.”

You tilted your head, lips parting. “Would you stop if I said no?”

His other hand found your waist, pulling you flush against him, and fuck, he was hard. So hard it almost scared you.

Almost.

“No,” he said, rough and honest.

And then his fingers slid further, pushing past the edge of your panties, slow, slow, until they dipped between your folds. You were wet—ridiculously so—and the groan that ripped from his throat made your whole body tremble.

“Shit,” he muttered. “You’re soaked.”

You clutched at his shoulder, nails digging into thick muscle. “You did that.”

“I know.” He looked smug. Devastating.

Then his fingers moved—two of them rubbing slow circles right over your clit, while his other hand kept you anchored in his lap like he was never letting you go. Your robe fell further open, your chest heaving, your mind slipping.

It should’ve been impossible to feel so exposed and so safe at the same time.

But that was the problem with Changbin—he was always your soft place to land.

Until now.

Now he was the one making you fall.

—

You should have stopped him.

You should have at least said something—drawn a line, made a joke, laughed off the tension and blamed the wine. But his fingers were already moving between your legs like he belonged there, like he’d been waiting for this longer than he was willing to admit.

And maybe… so had you.

You opened your eyes—when did they even close?—and found him already watching you, gaze pinned to your face like he was memorizing every twitch, every gasp, every shiver.

“Keep looking at me,” he murmured, voice thick and dark, like it curled out from the pit of his chest. “I wanna see what it does to you.”

You did.

You couldn’t look away, not with the way his fingers slipped down—deeper—before pressing up inside you with careful, measured pressure. You clenched around them immediately, a choked sound escaping your lips as your hips rolled down into his palm.

“Fuck,” you whispered, hands gripping the robe at your chest, holding it closed like that could protect you from the way he was pulling you apart.

“You’re not hiding anything from me,” he said, dragging his thumb right across your clit as he pumped his fingers inside you. “Not anymore.”

Your mouth dropped open, a moan barely catching in your throat. He didn’t speed up. He didn’t need to. Every movement was precise, deliberate, deep—like he was learning you, claiming you, devouring you with nothing but his hand and that look in his eyes.

The robe slipped from one shoulder, the tie loosening completely. You felt it fall open, heat licking up your chest as your breasts bared to the warm air between you.

Changbin looked down.

Then back up at your face.

“You’re beautiful,” he said.

The softness in his voice broke you. The wave of pleasure hit harder, thighs trembling as you ground helplessly against his palm. You gasped, full-body shuddering, your legs twitching as you came undone under his hands—his perfect, thick, merciless hands.

He didn’t stop right away. He let you ride it out, watched every second of it like it was the only thing he ever wanted to see.

And then, finally, when you collapsed forward against his chest, panting, dizzy, heart racing—he held you there. One big hand resting on your back, the other sliding out from between your legs, slow and slick with you.

You lifted your head.

He brought his fingers to his mouth.

And sucked them clean.

You moaned, helplessly, mouth falling open as your entire body lit up again.

“I think you were about to tell me what else that mouth can do,” he said, lips wet, voice low and dangerous.

You bit your lip, dizzy and brave and aching for more. “If I show you, you better not hold back.”

His eyes flared.

“Then get on your knees.”

You didn’t move right away.

You stayed right there in his lap, your bare chest brushing his robe, your breath mingling with his—cheeks flushed, lips parted, his fingers still glistening where he’d tasted you. His command hung in the air like thick smoke. Get on your knees.

But you weren’t done taking control.

So instead, you cupped his jaw with both hands and pulled him into you.

The first kiss wasn’t soft. It wasn’t shy or slow or hesitant. It was hungry—all tongue and teeth and gasping mouths, the kind of kiss that knocked the breath from both of you. His hands gripped your waist hard, pulling you down tighter against the bulge pressing thick and hot beneath his loosened robe.

He groaned into your mouth.

“You’ve been holding that in, huh?” you whispered, brushing your nose against his, lips swollen from the heat.

“So have you,” he growled, and kissed you again—slower this time, like he was savoring it, like he never wanted to stop.

But you did.

Because now it was your turn.

You pulled away with a smirk, slipping off his lap and lowering yourself onto your knees between his legs. The robe around his waist had already parted just enough to tempt you, revealing his thighs—thick and muscular, tanned and gorgeous—and the heavy shape of his cock beneath the last thin layer of fabric.

Your fingers traced along his legs first. Just to feel. Just to watch him twitch and tense as your nails dragged along muscle and skin.

Then your hands went to his robe.

You parted it slowly.

And there he was—thick, heavy, flushed, and fully hard, resting against his stomach like he was built to be worshipped.

Your mouth watered.

“Oh my God, Changbin…”

He smirked, cocky and breathless, one hand curled into the edge of the couch, the other sliding through your hair.

“You gonna keep staring?” he said, voice rough. “Or are you gonna show me what else your mouth can do?”

You looked up at him through your lashes.

And leaned in.

The first kiss was to the base—soft and slow. Then your tongue dragged up the side of him, long and wet and filthy, until your lips wrapped around the head and you gave him just a taste of what was to come.

He moaned—loud, guttural, wrecked—as his hips bucked up and his fingers tightened in your hair, the other gripping the edge of the couch like he was trying to stay tethered to this plane of reality. You hollowed your cheeks and took more of him, your lips stretched wide around his cock, the wet sounds echoing obscenely off the marble and glass of the suite.

“Fuck,” he groaned, thighs trembling under your palms. “You’re gonna make me come—”

You looked up at him with a glint in your eye, slow and teasing as your tongue flicked over the swollen head.

He growled.

“Shit—shit, babe, stop—fuck, I’m gonna—”

But you didn’t stop.

You bobbed your head, taking him deeper, hands stroking what your mouth couldn’t reach, until his voice cracked into a moan that was so wrecked, so desperate, it made your thighs clench in response.

And then he broke.

With a low, dangerous groan, he yanked you off of him—your lips wet and swollen, breath coming in short gasps—and pulled you up onto your feet.

“You’re trying to kill me,” he muttered, voice rough, pupils blown.

You opened your mouth to tease him again, but he spun you around before you could speak.

His hands slid under your robe, parting the fabric, exposing the bare curve of your ass.

“Changbin—” you gasped, but your voice hitched when he bent you forward over the back of the couch, your cheek pressed to the soft fabric, your breath catching.

“Been dying to know what you feel like,” he muttered, his chest pressing to your back, cock hard against your thigh. “You want this?”

“Y-Yeah,” you breathed, already aching for him.

“Good,” he whispered. “Because I’m done playing nice.”

He dragged the thick head of his cock along your soaked folds—teasing, even now—but his hands gripped your hips like a man on the edge.

And then, in one deep, slow thrust—

He filled you.

You gasped—moaned—arching back into him as he bottomed out, thick and perfect and so deep it left you trembling.

“Oh my God, Changbin—”

“That’s it,” he groaned, voice low and primal. “Feel me, babe. Take every inch.”

And then he moved—slow at first, letting you adjust, dragging almost all the way out before slamming back in, each thrust harder than the last. You clung to the couch, the sound of skin meeting skin, of your moans tangled with his, echoing loud in the suite.

“Could’ve fucked you in that damn robe,” he growled, his hand slipping around to toy with your clit, “but you wanted to get on your knees and ruin me first, huh?”

You tried to answer, but all that came out was a whimper—broken, breathless, begging for more.

And baby?

He gave it to you.

Your moans were unraveling now—high, helpless, and shameless—as Changbin’s thrusts rocked you forward, your robe long forgotten, his cock stretching you wide from behind. He was relentless, chest heaving, sweat beading at his temple, muscles flexing as he pistoned his hips into you.

But then he paused—deep inside you, breath ragged—and his hands slipped lower, gripping your thighs.

You barely had time to catch your breath before he lifted you like you weighed nothing, muscles straining deliciously under your gaze as he carried you to the bed. You clutched at his shoulders, drunk on him, on the raw strength of him.

He laid you down gently—like you were precious—before dragging your legs apart, kneeling between them, cock glistening with your slick.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “So fucking pretty. Open. Dripping. All for me.”

He didn’t wait.

He plunged back in with a growl—slow, deep, delicious—his gaze locked to yours like he wanted to watch every flicker of pleasure cross your face.

You cried out, hands flying to his arms, nails digging into thick, corded muscle as he started to fuck you again, steady and purposeful, hips grinding into yours like he owned your body.

“Taking me so well,” he breathed, one hand trailing up your stomach to squeeze your tits, thumb rolling over your nipple as his other arm slipped under your waist to hold you steady. “You were made for this—for me.”

You whimpered, back arching, the coil in your belly tightening.

“Bet you’ve thought about this,” he murmured, lips brushing your jaw. “About what these hands could do to you. About how good I’d fuck you.”

You whimpered a “yes,” eyes glassy.

He smirked—dark, devastating—and slammed into you harder.

“Say it,” he growled. “Say what this cock does to you.”

“It—It ruins me,” you gasped. “Changbin, fuck—you’re ruining me.”

“That’s right,” he whispered, burying his face in your neck. “Look at you. Moaning under me, tits bouncing, eyes rolling back. Just a desperate little thing who loves getting split open by her fucking work husband.”

You cried out—louder now—hips lifting to meet every thrust, dizzy with the stretch, the heat, the filth in his voice.

He reached between you again, fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight, dirty circles as he fucked you into the mattress.

“Come on, baby,” he rasped. “Wanna feel you come around my cock. Wanna watch you fall apart while I’m buried so fucking deep inside you.”

You were close—so close—knees trembling, the pleasure crashing over you in waves. And still, he didn’t let up.

“Please, Changbin—fuck—don’t stop—don’t ever stop,” you gasped, legs trembling around his hips, your voice cracked and soaked in desperation.

And god, the way he looked at you—like you were his favorite sin—his most addicting addiction. His fingers rubbed faster, his hips rolled deeper, until your entire body was locking up beneath him.

“Yeah?” he rasped, dark eyes drinking in every twitch and whimper. “You wanna come for me? Make a mess all over my cock, baby? Do it—come on. Be my filthy little girl.”

That was it.

Your orgasm hit you like a tidal wave—sharp and consuming—ripping through your body in shuddering waves. You screamed his name as your body seized and your vision blurred, hips jerking up uncontrollably—

—and then it happened.

Your muscles clenched and released and the gush of liquid burst free, soaking his cock, his thighs, the sheets. You tried to stifle the cry of embarrassment, but Changbin froze, cock twitching inside you as his jaw dropped.

“Fuck—fuck,” he hissed, pulling out to watch your release drip down your thighs. “You just fucking squirted for me?”

You whimpered, face flushed, barely able to catch your breath.

“Holy shit,” he growled, eyes wild now. “You’re insane—you’re fucking perfect.”

And then he was on you again, kissing you hard, tasting your whimpers, before pulling back with a ragged breath and gripping your jaw.

“Open that pretty mouth,” he ordered, voice thick with lust. “Let me finish in that sweet fucking mouth of yours.”

You obeyed, lips parting, tongue out—and he groaned, cock twitching at the sight of you so willing, so ruined and ready to be filled.

He knelt over you, pumping his cock fast and desperate, eyes locked to your face.

“Look at you—fuck—mouth open, tits bouncing, all wrecked and dripping for me. Gonna shoot it all down your throat, baby. Gonna fill you up like you deserve—ah, fuck—”

And then he came.

Hard.

Thick, hot spurts painting your tongue, your lips, some hitting your cheek as he moaned your name like a prayer. You swallowed it down greedily, humming as his body shook from the force of it, hand still in your hair.

When he finally stopped, chest heaving, he looked down at you—licking his release off your lips—and let out a low, devastated sound.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, collapsing beside you. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

⸻

You didn’t even realize how quiet the room had gotten until the only sound left was your heartbeat, still pounding in your ears. Your body felt like it was floating, boneless and warm, draped across tangled sheets and a man who had just made you forget your name.

Changbin.

His arms were already around you, strong and solid, like they’d always known how to hold you after wrecking you that good. His fingertips traced lazy shapes across your spine, dragging goosebumps over your skin with every stroke.

“You okay?” he murmured against your forehead, voice thick with exhaustion and a tenderness that made your chest ache.

“Mmm,” you hummed, barely able to lift your head, “I think you broke me.”

He chuckled, deep and raspy, and kissed your temple. “Nah. You’re unbreakable, remember?”

You smiled softly, letting your fingers trail along his chest—slick with sweat, firm with muscle. The kind of body that should be framed in a museum. Or worshipped. Which, you did. Very well, if the dazed look in his eyes was anything to go by.

He shifted, pulling the covers over you both, then tucked you closer like he couldn’t stand to have even an inch of you too far. His hand rubbed your hip, soothing and possessive.

Then came his voice—quiet, laced with affection and mischief.

“Normally…” he began, brushing a kiss to your hairline, “I’d take you out on a date first before fucking you into a mattress.”

You laughed softly, nuzzling into his chest.

“But,” he continued, smiling now, “I guess we can reverse the order… There’s that place you mentioned earlier—the popular restaurant with the fancy drinks and overpriced desserts?”

Your breath caught, warmth blooming in your chest. You lifted your head, eyes meeting his.

“Are you asking me out?”

He smirked, thumb grazing your bottom lip. “I’m saying tomorrow night, I’m gonna show up like a gentleman. Pull out your chair, get you dessert, and pretend I didn’t already have you on your knees in a hotel suite.”

You grinned, heart pounding for an entirely new reason now. “Smooth.”

“I try.” He kissed you again, slower this time. Softer. Sweeter. Like he was sealing a promise.

And in that moment, wrapped up in hotel sheets and each other, you both knew—this wasn’t just a work trip anymore.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors note: so i watched the YouTube video with Changbin and the noona from 2nd gen and there was just something about the way changbin was laidback and holding a conversation that got me thinking ❤️

I hope you enjoyed this, many of you dont like to read Binnie but i promise his fics are hot! So dont forget to like, comment (love those) and reblog!!! I’ll drop the link to my masterlist below☀️🐷🐰

Masterlist

[piroulinewafers]

ik this isnt exactly a request but can you write more for caleb with submissive reader? the fic was so sweet and you wrote the dynamic so well! 🥹

𝐚/𝐧: thank you anon for giving me a reason to post the other draft i wrote for the subby reader ask yesterday ;; i really appreciate ur kind words waaa ;;

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭: caleb x fem! subby reader 𝐜𝐰: smut + overstimulation. 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐬: open.

the bedroom was thick with the scent of warmth and closeness— a blend of summer heat, soft fabric, and the unmistakable trace of skin against skin. the windows were cracked open just ajar, but no breeze came through, only the faint hum of cicadas drifting in front the outside world. the air felt heavy, not suffocating, but close— like it was holding it’s breath.

their sheets were tangled at the foot of the bed, forgotten, and clothes lay scattered across the floor in a trail of quiet affection as soft moans and grunts echoed in the room, spilling outside into the air.

caleb gazed down at her flushed face, hair splayed out messily on the pillow as she lay there, completely spent and overstimulated from their marathon of lovemaking. 

he could see the glazed look in her eyes, the way her skin glistened with a sheen of sweat. the room was filled with the musky scent of their coupling, air thick and heavy with the weight of their passion, and yet all he could think about was her. 

the colonel gazed down at where his hips met hers, feeling the way her soft, warm flesh yield to his hardness. he could feel every inch of her velvety walls fluttering and clenching around him helplessly, still sensitive and overstimulated from the countless orgasms he’d given her. the sensation was exquisite, but he knew she was too far gone to truly appreciate it anymore. 

he had yet to find his own release, cock still rock hard and throbbing inside of her.  normally, he would have revealed in the feeling of being buried deep within her heat, savouring the way her body gripped him like a vice. 

but not now, not with her like this. he could feel the way she twitched and trembled with every slight movement, her breathy whimpers and moans no longer sounds of pleasure, but of overstimulation and growing discomfort. 

caleb gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to start moving again, to chase his own release. he knew it would be easy to just let go, to use her willing, pliant body for his own gratification. and he knew damn well she wouldn’t fight it too.

but he couldn’t. he wouldn’t. not when every finer of her being was screaming at her to stop, even if she was too stubborn to say the words out loud. 

he gripped her hips firmly, holding her still as he fought the instinct to thrust. “shh, just breathe, baby,” he coaxed, his voice strained with the effort of restraining himself. “you don’t have to do anythin’ else. i know you’re real sensitive, i know you’re tired. let’s just rest like this for a bit, m’kay?” 

she looked utterly debauched, thoroughly used, and yet still she tried to arch up into him, her body instinctively craving more even if her mind screamed for rest.

“no, caleb, please,” she whimpered, her voice hoarse and ragged. “you haven’t… you haven’t cum yet. i can take it, one more round, please? i wanna make you feel good, s-so good,” 

he could see the determination in her eyes, even as they were glazed over and unfocused. she was trying to so hard to please him, to be the perfect lover, that she was ignoring the clear signs of her own exhaustion and overstimulation. it was admirable, in a way, but also deeply concerning. 

didn’t she know that he would always love her, regardless? he didn’t need to ejaculate for her to be a good partner, she was already perfect just the way she was and he didn’t want anything to change.

he could feel her trying to clench around him, her body instinctively tightening, as if to urge him on. but he had himself still, refusing to give in to the temptation. he cknew her body couldn’t take it, knew that any more stimulation would only lead to pain and discomfort. 

she was too submissive, practically a doormat in bed. he saw the way he eyes would flicker with hesitancy or confusion before she blindly nodded and agreed to everything he offered or ask with a pretty smile on her face. 

“listen to yourself, baby,” he said softly, his thumb brushing over her kiss-swollen lips. “hear how ragged your breathin' is, how hoarse your voice is? you’ve given me everythin' already, more than enough to satisfy me ‘nd then some.”

he brushed her hair back from her face almost tenderly, thumb brushing over her cheekbone. he could feel the heat radiating off of her skin, could see the way her chest heaved with each laboured breath. she was utterly spent, completely at her limit and the knowledge that she would still let him use her even now humbled and awed him. 

“such a good girl,” he murmured. “so perfect 'nd selfless, always putting me first. but i need you to listen to your body, alright? you can’t keep going like this, not when you’re this sensitive.”

he leaned down to press a kiss to her forehead, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment as he breathed in the scent of her skin, his free hand rubbing soothing circles into the skin of her sides. a huff left him at her lack of response, almost like she was childishly ignoring him as if though that would change his thoughts. 

“you love me, right?”

“mhm…”

caleb smiled, sighing softly. “then you’ll listen to me, okay? you’ve got to listen to that pretty body of yours.” 

with that, he carefully pulled out of her, hissing softly as her over-sensitive walls clenched around him involuntarily, his tip an angry red and leaking pre.

carefully, he gathered her up into his arms, rolling them both onto their sides so he could spoon her from behind, tugging the blankets over their warm bodies and tucking her close to his chest. his arm wrapped around her waist possessively, holding her against him as he nuzzled into her hair. 

“there, that’s it,” he coaxed softly, feeling her slowly start to relax into his embrace. “just rest now, baby. you have to stop pushin' yourself like that just for my sake, okay?” 

she offered a sleepy nod, a clumsy, tired agreement.

“promise me, then. or i’ll think about it all night long and i won’t get a wink of sleep.”

she scrunched her nose at his words, pouting and letting out a soft huff. “i promise…”

finally, he let himself smile, gently brushing a few damp strands of hair from her forehead. the room was warm with the scent of grass and summer sweat, but her presence made everything feel calm— like golden hour after a long day.

her breathing started to slow, synching with his, her weight melting into his chest. caleb pressed a kiss to the crown of her head.

“atta girl,” he murmured. “sleep well, ‘ll be right here. always.” 

and with her tucked safely in his arms, the quiet hum of night settled in— peaceful and still. 

[docholligay]

The Doc Holligay 24 Hour Montana Marathon for Charity!

Every so often, I like to do something that really pushes the boundaries of my body and mind. Why? I don't know, something to do between birth and death. I like knowing that I am the master of myself.

But, in truth that's a little self-serving, and while being self-serving sometimes is okay, it's always better to find a way to turn it to help others.

So I thought: What if I worked for 24 hours straight? Did not sleep, did not stop except to like, pee? What if I did that to try and raise money for charity? God knows there's plenty of places that need it.

Enter in a yearly thing: Yellowstone Valley Gives, a local fundraising drive.

So, May 1st, from 11 am Mountain time, to May 2nd, 11 am Mountain time, I am going to be here. I am going to be doing a wide peppering of things--streams, asks, blogs, chats, all kinds of things and I am open to suggestion. I will be getting a schedule out pretty soon, and next Wednesday I will have full details on how you can sponsor a chunk of time, or change the channel, but also just support the very idea of what I'm doing!

Here's a list of four charities I am working for! I am looking to raise 500 dollars for each, but I would love to blow them out of the water.

Montana Free Press: MFP is an independent online nonprofit newsroom that does some of the best, most honest reporting in Montana. They are funded by readers like me! And donors like you!

Family Service: You've heard me talk about them before, a fantastic organization that helps people get their lives back. They help with job training, meals, a place to sleep, childcare, clothing, all kinds of things. They also, unlike some organizations, serve everyone: As I've helped there I've met both gay and Muslim families, at the very least.

Northern Plains Resource Council: If there's one organization I'm going to have to talk you into, it's probably this one. NPRC is dedicated to Montana's traditional agricultural way of life WAIT WAIT GET THE FUCK BACK HERE. This organization is about protecting the climate of the high plains and building bridges between farmers and ranchers and climate activists, who often struggle to understand each other despite having common goals. I worked with these folks for a long time as basically like, an interpreter between the two worlds. It does SO MUCH good work to protect a part of the country that is IMPORTANT, and VALUABLE, and that I feel a lot of passion for, but isn't as charismatic for most people as a fucking. Mountain.

Head Start: I think most of you are familiar with Head Start wrought large and this is specifically for our local chapter. If you aren't, Head Start is an organization that provides preschool for lower-income families. This includes nutrition programs, early screening, and other things to help kids get on an even footing. This is on the chopping block under the Trump regime (I guess technically everything on this list is in trouble, but this gets a ton of federal funding currently) and I want to help it out!

I may throw in a couple small bonus organizations for things that are very personal to me but I understand are not a major pull for people right now--if everything wasn't blowing up I would probably be raising for these--like Friends of the Boothill Cemetery and the local parks department.

Anyhow, I hope to see you there! Watch me descend into madness slowly, and even a buck is a buck! All four of these organizations are very important, and worth the money, I promise you!

[sindar-princeling]

my friend and I have been trying to catch a lotr marathon in cinemas since like summer 2021 or maybe a bit later but anyway the first time we couldn't go because they organised it when as far as I remember we were on vacation. the second time we couldn't go because it was the day we were flying to london to see david tennant in a play. now the third time they chose a day when we're at a beloved event we attend year after year. so I said fuck it we're having a marathon at home and so tomorrow I'm gonna be crying for 12 hours straight while watching extended editions like god intended

[carpe-mamilia]

Ghosts’ Larry Rickard Explains Why They Chose the Captain’s First Name

Photo: Monumental,Guido Mandozzi

It couldn’t be a joke. That was one rule laid down by the Ghosts creators when it came to choosing a first name for Willbond’s character. Until series five, the WWII ghost had been known only as The Captain – a mystery seized upon by fans of the show.

“It was the question we got asked more than anything. His name,” actor and writer Larry Rickard tells Den of Geek. “Once we got to series three, you could see that we were deliberately cutting away and deliberately avoiding it. We were fuelling the fire because we knew at some point we’d tell them.”

In “Carpe Diem”, the episode written by Rickard and Ben Willbond that finally reveals The Captain’s death story, they did tell us. After years of guessing, clue-spotting and debate, Ghosts revealed that The Captain’s first name is James. At the same time, we also learned that James’ colleague Lieutenant Havers’ first name was Anthony.

The ordinariness of those two names, says Rickard, is the point.

“The only thing we were really clear about is that we didn’t want one of those names that only exists in tellyland. It shouldn’t be ‘Cormoran’ or ‘Endeavour’. They should just be some men’s names and they’re important to them. The point was that they were everyday.”

Choosing first names for The Captain and Havers was a long process not unlike naming a baby, Rickard agrees. “It almost comes down to looking at the faces of the characters and saying, what’s right?”

“We talked for ages. For a long time I kept thinking ‘Duncan and James’, and then I was like ah no! That would have turned it into a gag and been awful!” Inescapably in the minds of a certain generation, Duncan James is a member of noughties boyband Blue. “Maybe with Anthony I was thinking of Anthony Costa!” Rickard says in mock horror, referencing another member of the band.

Lieutenant Havers wasn’t just The Captain’s second in command while stationed at Button House; he was also the man James loved. Because homosexuality was criminalised in England during James’ lifetime, he was forced to hide his feelings for Anthony from society, and to some extent even from himself.

In “Carpe Diem”, the ghosts (mistakenly) prepare for the last day of their afterlives, prompting The Captain to finally tell his story. Though not explicit about his sexual identity, the others understand and accept what he tells them – and led by Lady Button, all agree that he’s a brave man.

Getting the balance right of what The Captain does and doesn’t say was key to the episode. “It wasn’t just a personal choice of his to go ‘I’m going to remain in the closet’,” explains Rickard. “There wasn’t an option there to explore the things that either of them felt. That couldn’t be done back then – there are so many stories which have come out since the War about the dangers of doing that.

“We wanted to tell his personal story but also try to ensure that there was a level at which you understood why they couldn’t be open, that even in this moment where he’s finally telling the other ghosts his story, he never comes out and says it overtly because that would be too much for him as a character from that time.

“He says enough for them to know, and enough for him to feel unburdened but it’s in the fact that they’re using their first names which militarily they would never have done, and in the literal passing of the baton”.

The baton is a bonus reveal when fans learned that The Captain’s military stick wasn’t a memento of his career, but of Havers. As James suffers a fatal heart attack during a VE day celebration at Button House, Anthony rushes to his side and the stick passes from one to the other as they share a moment of tragic understanding.

“From really early on, we had the idea that anything you’re holding [when you die] stays with you. So it wasn’t just your clothes you were wearing, we had the stuff with Thomas’ letter reappearing in his pocket and so on. And the assumption being that it was something The Captain couldn’t put down, it felt so nice to be able to say it was something he didn’t want to put down.”

Rickard lists “Carpe Diem”, co-written with Ben Willbond, among his series five highlights. He’s pleased with the end result, praises Willbond’s performance, and loved being on set to see Button House dressed for the 1940s. He’s particularly pleased that a checklist of moments they wanted to land with the audience all managed to be included. “Normally something’s fallen by the wayside just because of the way TV’s made, it’s always imperfect or it’s slightly rushed, but it feels like it’s all there.”

Rickard and Willbond also knew by this point in the show’s lifetime, that they could trust Ghosts fans to pick up on small details. “Nothing is missed,” he says. “Early on, you’re always thinking, is that going to get across? But once we got to series five, there are little tiny things within corners of shots and you know that’s going to be spotted. Particularly in that very short exchange between Havers and the Captain. We worried less about the minutiae of it because you go, that’s going to be rewound and rewatched, nothing will be missed.”

The team were also grateful they’d resisted the temptation to tell The Captain’s story sooner. “We’d talked about it every series since series two, whether or not now was the time, but because he’s such a hard and starchy character in a lot of ways you needed the time to understand his softer side I think before you had that final honest beat from him.”

“What a ridiculously normal name to have so much weight put on it for five years,” laughs Rickard fondly. “Good old James.”

From Den of Geek

[sketchinfun]

I've begun my running journey recently, and I've been having a fun time! Slowly improving my endurance with each run, and I'm trying my best to be more consistent. So far my longest runs have still been 10ks, but I want to slowly increase my distance. I'm still very very slow and mainly do a lot of run/walk interval running, but I've been enjoying the process.

[whatudottu]

That moment when your combined power of dyslexia and Engrish lead you to love! Or well technically they both went in blind dating so they already had some expectation to fall for each other lmao-!

This is inspired by the time I kept saying lenopan instead of loboan for my oc to which I just ended up making him a lenopan loboan hybrid, these just so happen to be his parents :P

they're not currently important enough to have a name but a very far future sequel below let me introduce to you the lead singer of Thing/s Jed recounting this tale to keyboardist manic pixie nightmare sparkle dog cat girl citrakayah Rixie who's thinking that Jed is a puppy made of sludge-

[commsroom]

If Eiffel regains his memory what do you think is something he wants to do once he gets back to earth? (In other words, what would be a nice day for Eiffel as planned by himself?) Best of luck with your plane ride, I hope it goes smoothly for you!!

you know, that's a tough question, because i think there are two things that are simultaneously true about eiffel:

"a nice day for eiffel" and "planning" are not concepts that coexist

he loves to be the Guy with the Plan. he doesn't like organizing, he doesn't like it when he has to do something, he especially doesn't like schedules, but he enjoys coming up with a Crazy Idea.

also keep in mind that (excluding the booze) the things he misses most about earth are: cigarettes, pizza, sex, blackjack, porn, monster trucks, video on demand.

if he planned a nice day just for himself, i think that would be a day without any obligations: he sleeps in as late as he wants to, already has leftover pizza in the fridge he can eat cold for breakfast, lounges around in his underwear watching tv until he gets bored, and then maybe goes out and drives around until he finds something to do. but it has to be spontaneous.

if his plans include other people, there are some situations where i feel he could get carried away: a surprise birthday party, or a big date/anniversary, or if he gets to see his daughter again, he'd pull out all the stops for that. and then, because he's eiffel, he'd run into a million complications he didn't expect. but, also because he's eiffel, he's really good at thinking on his feet, rolling with the punches, and making something out of it anyway. that's something i like about him.

[syncopatedid]

The last episode of Orb: On the movements of the Earth got me yelling "WHAT" like three times out loud but what does this all meaaaaaaaaaaan?????? I must admit the final end did petter out softly rather than on a high, but it was expected in that we all kind of sensed there was no way the show could possibly outpeak Nowak's arc. The epilogue tied up the remaining loose end that's followed us for the entirety of the show, but we're now left with more questions that we have no answers for, and that irony/running theme is most certainly not lost on me. Well played, show, well played.

[thepoisonroom]

that post that's like "learning social skills helps with social anxiety" applies to dating also btw

[lyledraws]

"Why are we here?" and "Liam captures Vector"

Double feature for the Zebra Herd! Don't worry, I didn't forget about Zera; he's getting a fully rendered piece to himself soon.

(Castoff Fanart Marathon #10: Zebra Herd)

[theguardiananatak]

With all the doom and gloom news of the state of Bungie and the future of Destiny, I found myself sitting in orbit listening to the Deep Stone Lullaby and letting the music wash over me. I’m just… Tired.

These games and this universe and this community have been one of my only sources of joy and belonging for the past ten years and now…

I really don’t know where we’re going from here, Guardians. Or rather, I think I might know, but I really hope I’m wrong.

[the-mononoke-facade]

Another point to Oni Kusu maybe being Ri Kusu, this insistence on "this is the way things are going to go/did go and I'm going to badger you with it until you capitulate" feels right out of Noppera-Bou