annovaz

[annovaz]

THE SUNOO ONE???

hello, it’s me again the anon who requested the “taking off the condom” thingy. first of all, why did you write it like that? I don’t like it… I LOVE IT. you are seriously talented so I am back with another ‘gonna blow your mind’ request.

so the guys wanting their girl to sit on their face for the first time? 👉🏻👈🏻

SO FREAKY 🫠

hey anon, come to the front cause we fighting!! you had me at the first half, not gonna lie but i'm so glad you enjoyed it. it means alot. thank you for your request and i hope you'll enjoy this as well

𐙚 ENHYPEN sit on my face

Jungwon

Jungwon stood against the glass, his face softening as he turned to you. "Can't sleep?" he murmured. You shook your head, drawn closer towards him. He stepped forward. His gaze dropped, intense and unwavering, tracing your body beneath your sleep shirt.

Then, quietly, almost a whisper against your neck as he pulled you flush against him, his hand sliding down to cup your ass: "Need you closer. Want to taste every inch... right now. Sit on my face. Please."

He guided you back towards the bed, his eyes never leaving yours, promising worship and ruin as he lay down, pulling you over him until your trembling thighs framed his hungry mouth.

Heeseung

Heeseung turned to you, eyes gleaming in the light. "Couldn't focus tonight," he stated. "All I could think about was having you." His hand slid higher under your skirt, finding you already wet through your panties.

A smile touched his lips as he felt you jerk against his touch. "Need to fix that," he murmured. He unclipped his seatbelt and reclined his seat back with a smooth motion. His gaze locked onto yours, utterly commanding and dark with promise.

"Take these off," he ordered softly, nodding towards your underwear. "And sit on my face. I'm not waiting another minute." The authority in his tone left no doubt; this was happening.

Jay

Leaning against his sleek marble bar in nothing but silk pajama pants, his gaze was on you. He took a slow sip of whiskey, the ice clinking. "Come here," he said. When you stood before him, he set the glass down. His fingers traced your hipbone through your thin dress, sending sparks across your skin.

"You look good enough to eat," he stated. His eyes held yours captive. "I've thought about this... about having you just like this." One hand slid around to grip your ass firmly, pulling you forward until the warmth of his breath ghosted over your face.

His other hand traced a path up your inner thigh, pushing the hem higher. "Need you on my tongue. Now. Sit on my face," he said, leaving no room for hesitation as he leaned back.

Jake

Jake pinned you, his broad frame caging you in. "Got you all to myself finally," he grinned. He kissed you hard, one hand already hiking up your skirt to squeeze your ass. He broke the kiss, resting his forehead against yours.

"Been driving me crazy all day," he murmured, his thumb brushing daringly close to your clothed pussy. "Need to taste it." He dropped to his knees before you could react, strong hands gripping your thighs. Looking up at you with those sparkling eyes.

"Come on, angel," he coaxed. "Sit that pretty pussy right here on my mouth." The sudden command mixed with his charming smile was devastatingly erotic.

Sunghoon

Sunghoon pulled you onto his lap on the sofa, nuzzling your neck. "Missed you," he breathed. His fingers traced lazy patterns on your thigh through your leggings. Slowly, his touch grew bolder, slipping beneath the waistband to tease the sensitive skin of your lower belly.

He pulled back slightly, his beautiful face flushed, eyes wide, burning with sudden intensity. "I... I want to make you feel good," he whispered, his voice catching. "Want to feel you... all of you." His blush deepened, spreading down his neck as he looked up at you through his lashes.

"Can I...?" He swallowed hard, his hands tightening on your hips. "Please. Sit on my face? Let me show you?" He guided you to straddle his shoulders on the soft cushions.

Sunoo

Sunoo leaned in close. "You look tense," he murmured. Before you could answer, his hand slipped boldly beneath your oversized t-shirt, fingertips skimming the waistband of your shorts.

"Need help relaxing?" His other hand braced against the counter beside you, caging you in. He tilted his head. "I have an idea," he whispered "Something… direct." His hand slid lower, cupping you firmly between your legs through the fabric, making you gasp.

"Yeah?" he teased, applying pressure. "Want my mouth? Properly?" He nipped your earlobe. "Then sit on my face. Right here. Right now."

Ni-ki

Ni-ki's strong arms snaked around your waist, pulling you back against his frame. You felt the insistent press of his erection against your lower back through the thin fabric of his sweatpants. He buried his face in your neck, breathing deeply. "Baby," he murmured. His hands slid down to grip your hips tightly.

He turned you on the stool to face him. Towering over you. His thumb traced your lower lip, then trailed slowly down your throat, over the swell of your breast, stopping just above where your nightdress dipped between your legs.

He leaned down until his lips hovered a breath away from yours. "Want you," he breathed, the words hot against your skin. "Want you screaming into my mouth." His gaze dropped pointedly to your lap, then back up, blazing with primal need. "Sit on my face," he demanded, voice rough and low. "Now."

[annovaz]

Can I pls request for Ni-Ki being a total boob guy. Like he would be obsessed. They would start cuddling on the couch, his face in her chest, then boom more happens 🤭

Loveeee ur writing btw

hey anon, thank you for the request, i hope you'll enjoy this, i surely did. i'm so happy you like my writing, that means a lot

𐙚 ENHYPEN NIKI sucking your tits

Niki’s head was a comforting weight on your chest, nestled just below your collarbone, his breathing slow. His arm was draped loosely over your waist, fingers occasionally flexing absently against your hip. It was peaceful.

You ran your fingers through his soft hair, the strands slipping like silk between your knuckles. A contented sigh escaped him. He shifted slightly, turning his face more fully into your chest, his nose brushing the swell of your breast through the cotton. You hummed, enjoying the closeness.

Then, his lips moved. Not a kiss, not yet. Just a slow press against the curve of your breast. Your fingers stilled in his hair. His breath hitched. Your nipples hardened instantly, a tight peak pressing against the shirt against his cheek. He felt it. You knew he did because he went very still for a heartbeat.

Then, slowly, he turned his head. His lips found the stiffened peak through the shirt. He pressed his open mouth against it. A soft sound, barely a whimper, escaped your lips. Your hand tightened slightly on his shoulder.

Encouraged, or perhaps just surrendering to his own need, Niki closed his lips around the fabric-covered bud. He suckled gently. The pull was light but it sent a jolt straight down your spine to your clit.

Your hips jerked against the couch cushions. His arm around your waist tightened, pulling you closer. He sucked again, firmer this time.

"Off," he mumbled against your breast. His hand tugged impatiently at the hem of your shirt. "Need it off."

You lifted your arms, helping him peel the damp shirt over your head, tossing it aside. The cool air hit your skin, making your nipples tighten even more, standing out hard against your breasts. Niki’s gaze locked onto them. He buried his face between them for a moment, nuzzling the soft skin, breathing you in. Then his mouth closed over your right nipple.

He sucked hard, pulling the stiff peak deep into his mouth, his tongue swirling around it. You gasped, arching your back off the couch, pushing your breast further into his demanding mouth. "Niki… oh god…" you breathed, your fingers tangling fiercely in his hair, holding him there.

He growled before switched breasts, sucking the other nipple with the same intensity. You could hear the soft, sucking sounds, feel the scrape of his teeth just grazing the sensitive areola. Every pull of his mouth sent fresh shocks through you.

Then, he bit down. Not hard, not enough to hurt, but a sudden, sharp pressure of teeth right on the very tip of your nipple. You cried out, a sharp sound torn from your throat, your whole body jolting. The sensation made your inner muscles clench hard on nothing. He held the bite for a second, his dark eyes meeting yours before releasing and soothing the spot with his tongue.

He did it again on the other side, biting down gently on the swollen peak, then laving it with his tongue. The push-pull, the sting and the soothe, drove you wild. You were panting now, writhing slightly under his mouth and his arm still locked around your waist. Your free hand slid down your own belly, under the waistband of your shorts, seeking the aching heat between your legs. You found yourself soaked, your fingers sliding easily through slick folds.

Niki saw the movement. He lifted his head just enough, your nipple slipping wetly from his mouth, a string of saliva connecting his lips to the hard peak. He watched your hand move under your shorts, his gaze heavy-lidded.

A low sound rumbled in his chest. He didn't stop you. Instead, he lowered his mouth again, this time taking both your nipple and a generous amount of soft breast flesh into the heat of his mouth, sucking hard as his teeth grazed the tender skin, while his eyes stayed locked on yours, watching you touch yourself because of what he was doing to your breasts.

[annovaz]

i think i came in MY pants wtf

🤤🤤loser sub!jake 🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤

信息 ܃ loser sub!jakw 🤤

smut. ✿ sub!jake loser!jake cumming untouched use of ‘pathetic’ jake is just crazy down bad..

he’s already hard.

you haven’t even touched him properly—just called him out on his cocky attitude while leaning too close, one finger tracing his jaw while he looked away like it didn’t affect him. but his breath caught, his legs pressed together. he still didn’t say a word.

“what happened to all that confidence, jake?” you murmur, eyes dark and gleaming. “i thought i wasn’t that hot.”

he scoffs, but it’s weak. it sounds more like a whimper than a laugh. “you’re not,” he says, but his voice cracks halfway through, and you can see blush painting his ears. “you’re—i’m just—“

“oh?” your hand moves down his neck, dragging slow across his chest before reaching his abdomen, until your hand brushes against the bulge in his pants. he gasps. bites his lip like thst’ll stop the noise. “you’re just…?” your fingers press in.

he bucks his hips so fast you don’t even have time to tease him about it. the pressure barely lasts a second before he’s rutting against your hand like he can’t help it, like it’s instinct—needy and sharp.

and then he freezes.

his hands grab your wrists, but not to stop you—to steady himself. to ground him, maybe, because he’s trembling. moaning so softly it’s barely there, but it is there, echoing between you as his body jerks once, twice—and he cums in his pants.

just like that.

he looks wrecked. cheeks flushed, lashed wet, chest rising and falling shakily as if you’ve just sucked the air out of him. and all you did was touch him. barely. he can’t even look at you. won’t. his fingers twitch uselessly where they sat on your wrist.

“…wow,” you say, breathless with laughter. “that’s it? didn’t even have to get you naked, baby?”

“shut up,” he whines, voice small and hoarse. his head dips forward, face burning. “just—don’t look at me.”

but you do. you tilt his chin up and make him meet your eyes—glassy and embarrassed and already starting to fill with tears.

“i said don’t—“

“say it,” you whisper, smiling wide. “say what you are.”

his mouth opens. closes. trembles. and then, just loud enough to hear:

“…your pathetic little bitch.”

he doesn’t even need to be told to get on his knees. he’s already sinking.

[annovaz]

HIII here’s my idea

You let Jake hit raw for the first time except he’s lowkey a loser and he genuinely doesn’t know how to act and he’s blushing a little while acting kind of shy as if your legs aren’t on his shoulders and he’s not the one pounding into you

hey anon, another jake core spotted... the way i had so much fun with this, it might just be one of my favorite works actually. thank you for the request

𐙚 ENHYPEN JAKE raw sex

Jake hovered near your bed, shifting his weight from foot to foot, his cheeks flushed a deep, adorable pink that clashed wildly with the situation. He’d mumbled something about a condom, fingers fumbling nervously with the wrapper, before you’d stopped him with a hand on his wrist.

"No," you’d said, your voice surprisingly steady. "Like this. Raw." His eyes had gone wide, swallowing hard. "You sure?" he’d stammered, the condom packet crumpling uselessly in his sweating palm. You’d just pulled him down onto the narrow mattress by his t-shirt, answering him with your mouth.

Now, minutes later, your bare legs were hooked over his shoulders, his thick cock buried deep inside you. The stretch was intense, the feeling of him right there, unprotected.

He was pounding into you, each hard thrust making your body jolt up the mattress. Yet, his expression… it was pure, flustered confusion.

"Oh god," he choked out on a particularly deep drive, his eyes squeezed shut for a second before snapping open. He looked down at where your bodies joined, where his cock was pushing into your pussy, then back up at your face.

His blush deepened, spreading down his neck. "Is… is it… okay?" he stammered. "Am I… does it feel…?" He couldn't even finish the question, trailing off into another helpless groan as his cock throbbed inside you, betraying just how much he was feeling it.

You moaned, arching up to meet his next thrust. "Feels so good, Jake," you breathed. He gasped, his hips stuttering. "Fuck! Yeah?" His voice cracked, high and tight with wonder. He was staring now, transfixed by the sight of himself sinking into you again and again.

He adjusted his grip on your thighs, his thumbs pressing into the soft skin behind your knees. "You’re so… soft," he mumbled, almost to himself, then flinched as if realizing how dumb it sounded while he was actively fucking you raw. He ducked his head, burying his face briefly against your calf. "Sorry," came his muffled voice, vibrating against your skin. "Just… you feel amazing." He lifted his head, meeting your eyes again, looking utterly earnest and completely out of his depth, even as his hips snapped forward, driving himself deep. "Like… really amazing."

The absurdity of it sent a fresh wave of wetness gushing around him. He felt it immediately. "Oh shit," he whispered, awe replacing some of the shyness in his eyes for a moment. "You’re so wet… for me?" The question was hopeful.

"Yes," you gasped, reaching down to touch yourself. Your fingers found your swollen clit. "Because you feel so fucking big inside me like this. All raw." You circled your clit fast.

His eyes followed your hand, glued to the movement. He licked his lips, looking mesmerized and utterly lost. "Big?" he repeated dumbly, a fresh wave of crimson washing over his face. He seemed stunned that he could cause that reaction. He was panting now, short, sharp breaths. "I’m… I’m gonna…" He couldn’t say it, biting his lip hard.

"Do it," you urged, rubbing faster. "Come inside me. Fill me up raw." The words were filthy, deliberate.

His eyes squeezed shut, his brow furrowed in intense concentration mixed with embarrassment. "Okay," he breathed out, sounding almost apologetic. "Okay, fuck…" And then he was coming, hard and sudden. His body locked up over yours. He gasped your name like a prayer. Even lost in his own climax, he looked flustered.

He stayed buried deep inside you for long moments afterwards. Slowly, shakily, he opened his eyes. He looked down at where he was still joined to you, at the mess he’d made leaking out around the base of his softening cock. "Oh," he whispered, the pink in his cheeks deepening impossibly further. "Wow." He looked back up at you, shyness warring. "That was… I mean… did you…?" He trailed off again, unable to articulate it, still panting, still pinned deep inside you by your legs over his shoulders.

[annovaz]

meow

oo I love ur won ab riding is there a part 2 🙈

omg i had it already written, so you have a perfect mind mwah mwah💕💕

part 2 of ab riding

ᡣ𐭩 pairing: y. jungwon x fem! reader

ᡣ𐭩 genre: smut

ᡣ𐭩 tw: unprotected sex (wrap it), cowgirl position, handjob, orgasm denial

jungwon's breath hitches the second your weight slides down his body, the heat of you sinking closer. you drag your hands down his arms as you move, slow and deliberate, and then rest them on his hips. he’s trembling.

your thighs settle between his, and you let your lips press against the line of his stomach, tasting your own slick.

“you came on me and didn’t even touch me” he whispers. voice trembling.

you look up at him.

“you liked it,” you murmur.

he nods instantly, so eager. “loved it. i love when you use me. i love when you ride me like that. i just— i can’t take much more, please, please”

you hook your fingers into the waistband of his boxers, and he goes silent.

his hips twitch once, then still. obedient, waiting.

you drag them down slowly, inch by inch, watching the way his cock springs free. he’s hard. flushed, leaking, twitching at nothing. your mouth waters a little just looking at him.

he groans like he’s in pain. “baby, please. please touch me. it hurts, i—”

you trail your fingers down his thighs first. then up. avoiding where he wants you. dragging it out.

“look at you,” you whisper. “you’re shaking.”

“because of you,” he breathes. “because you’re perfect, and mean, and i’m— fuck— i’m gonna lose it”

you finally wrap one hand around him, gently. just a light stroke, from base to tip, and his whole body arches.

“fuuuuck”

you press your other hand flat to his hip to keep him still. “shh. be good. you wanted this, right?”

“yes,” he chokes out. “yes, yes, yes. thank you, thank you”

you pump him slow, barely squeezing, your thumb teasing over the tip where he’s already dripping. he’s falling apart under your touch, whining, panting, hips trying to thrust up, but you’re still controlling every second of it.

“i’m gonna cum,” he gasps. “already— i can’t. oh my god, please, can i? please?”

you pause.

his whole body stills under your hand, desperate eyes locked on yours.

“not yet,” you whisper, sweet and cruel.

your hand pulls away after a few slow strokes, and he lets out a breathless, strangled noise, like his body doesn’t know what to do with itself. his thighs twitch. his cock jerks helplessly in the space between you.

“you’re cruel,” he whispers. voice shaking. “so fucking cruel.”

you smile, sweet and unbothered.

“you love it.”

he nods immediately. “i do. i do, i just need— please, baby, i need to feel you. need to be inside, i’m gonna go insane”

and you move.

slowly, deliberately, you crawl back up over his body— eyes on his the whole time— and straddle his hips again. his cock presses up against your soaked panties now, throbbing right beneath the mess you made earlier.

he groans.

“fuck, you’re still wet.” he chokes. “i can feel it. i can feel it through your panties. please, please sit on me, i need you”

you rock your hips once, dragging yourself against him, and he moans like he’s already coming. his eyes squeeze shut, head tipping back, hands clenching the sheets now that you’ve let them go.

he looks down, eyes wide, already trembling. “you’re gonna ride me like that?” he asks, barely a whisper. “with your panties still on?”

you nod, slow, and lower yourself just enough to let him slip in.

he gasps— no, whimpers— hips jerking up before you slam them back down with your hand.

“stay still,” you murmur. “let me take my time.”

“oh my god,” he breathes, voice breaking. “you feel— fuck, you feel so good”

you sink down further, inch by inch, until he’s buried inside you, throbbing and shaking and trying so hard to be good.

his hands clutch the sheets. his lips are parted, eyes glassy

you start to move.

slow, grinding rolls of your hips. ruined panties dragged over him with every shift, wet and clinging and filthy. you ride him like that, lazy and cruel and soft, and he loses himself immediately.

“i’m not gonna last,” he gasps. “i’m not. i’m gonna cum so fast, baby, you feel too good, please, please, tell me when— tell me when i can—”

you lean down, your lips brushing his jaw.

“not yet”

he cries.

and you keep moving.

- lulu

requests open!!

[annovaz]

so kewt

i lob you (๑ ˃̵ᴗ˂̵) ♡

pairing: kim sunoo x reader

genre: strangers to lovers, smau/fake texts, romance, fluff, tennis player!sunoo x tennis player!reader, sports au, college au

warnings: profanity, friendly banter and teasing, mentions of balls and jokes about balls lmao. kissing, 18+ ignore typos if any lol

synopsis: the shy boy in your university's boy's tennis team seems to be shy around everyone but you.

**in tennis, a "lob" is hitting the ball towards your opponent in a high trajectory in hopes of landing the ball deep onto their side of the court, aiming for behind your opponent**

sports series mlist

ᡣ•.•𐭩♡ @pagemiah @jiiyen @jnysaln @xh01bri @rairaiblog @laurradoesloveu @manaah02 @zorange13 @firstclassjaylee @kristynaaah @17ericas @heeseung64 @leipforggy @s1rawb3rry @ddeonuswife @orxngebloods @xylatox @saccharinezennie @izzyy-stuff @yooonjnng @lookingforsnacks

@sumzysworld @ningningiloveumarryme @soobundle1009 @i-peachesandstrawberries @i-am-not-dal @mey-archive @ikeu05 @eczlipse @seyoungiesleeps

copyright 2025 - present © hoonieyun all rights reserved all writing here is fiction & not in any association with characters mentioned. if you enjoyed reading this please consider reblogging and following <3

hoonieyun notes: starting to branch out and write for maknae line more often!! i know i've released a lot of jungwon but trust me i've got some ideas for sunoo and riki. i hope you guys enjoy this installment for the sports smau series!!! just one more left with riki and again, thank you to @yeonmuse for encouraging me to do this, i can't say thank you enough <3

[annovaz]

blonde enhypen just hits different

[annovaz]

SANA ☆ "THIS IS FOR" M/V

[annovaz]

TOKYO DRIFT — nsh.r

⋆˙⟡ SYNOPSIS: You’re new to the underground scene. No one expects much from you—until you leave one of the top racers in your dust. Nishimura Riki isn’t just pissed. He’s obsessed. Who the hell are you? Why do you drive like you’ve got nothing to lose? And why the fuck does he like it?

FEAT. racer!niki x f!reader

⋆˙⟡ GENRE: illegal street racing au, suggestive, angst, jealousy, obsession, possession, steamy tension, a lot of making out

⋆˙⟡ THEMES: rivals w benefits (?) to lovers, he’s cocky, reckless, a legend in the circuit you’re his biggest rival… and maybe his biggest weakness. cars, danger, late night drives, stolen kisses, almost-deaths and a slow, inevitable descent into need

No one knows your name.

Not yet.

You pull into the abandoned lot just after midnight, music low, engine purring like it’s daring someone to test it. The scene’s already packed—smoke curling into the humid summer air, bodies moving around sleek chrome and matte black hoods, engines humming with that familiar, dangerous rhythm.

Eyes follow you as you step out.

Too pretty to be taken seriously. Too quiet to be a threat.

Perfect.

You lean against your car, crossing your arms, and wait.

The circuit’s king doesn’t arrive until twenty minutes later.

You know who he is the second he shows up.

Black ‘99 Skyline. Low-slung. Fast. Loud.

When it cuts into the lot, the entire scene shifts. Guys straighten. Girls flip their hair. Someone whispers, “That’s Riki.”

And then he steps out. Casual. Careless.

Leather jacket sliding off one shoulder. Black tank hugging his lean frame. Jaw sharp, lip curled like he already owns the place.

He glances around.

And then—

His eyes land on you.

Slow blink. Head tilt. The faintest smirk.

You don’t look away.

Neither does he.

“You new?” he asks, stepping up to you like he’s checking out the latest toy in the lot.

You shrug. “Something like that.”

His eyes drop to your car—sleek, tuned, not flashy, but fast. You can see it in his expression.

He’s curious.

But more than that?

He’s irritated.

He hates not knowing.

“I’m Riki,” he says. “Most people here lose to me.”

“Most people suck,” you reply, sweetly.

His brows raise. A low laugh leaves his throat.

And then—he steps closer, so close you smell the faint smoke and citrus on his jacket. “You any good?”

“I’m better.”

Fifteen minutes later, you’re lined up at the start.

You in your car. Him in his. The track’s a short sprint—one of the tighter setups, pure chaos in the curves.

He rolls his window down, glancing over at you with a lazy grin.

“Try not to cry when I leave you in the dust, sweetheart.”

You flash a smile right back. “You gonna kiss me if I win?”

He blinks.

You wink.

And then the light flashes green.

You eat the track alive.

He’s fast. Sure. Slippery in the turns. Clean with the shift.

But you’re sharper.

More ruthless.

You cut him off in the second drift and don’t look back.

When you cross the finish line, there’s a beat of stunned silence.

Then the crowd erupts.

Some guys laugh. Others shout. Money changes hands. And Riki?

Riki parks, cuts his engine, steps out slow.

He’s not smiling anymore.

You wait by your car, calm, heart still thudding from the rush.

He stops in front of you, jaw tight. “That was luck.”

“Nope,” you say. “That was skill. Try again sometime.”

For a second, it feels like he might say something cruel. Might spit something cocky, bitter, venomous.

But instead—

He grabs your waist and kisses you.

Hot. Rough. Dangerous.

One hand still gripping his helmet, the other dragging you forward, mouths crashing, teeth clashing, lips bruising like he hates that he wants this. Like he’s punishing you for being better.

You’re breathless when he pulls back, eyes dazed.

He leans in, voice low.

“Let’s see how long you last in my world, princess.”

Then he’s gone. Smoke trailing behind his boots as he disappears into the crowd.

And just like that?

You’re not anonymous anymore.

You’re the girl who beat Riki.

And he’s the boy who kissed you like he wanted to ruin you.

It’s been three days since the race.

Three days since you left Riki at the finish line, lips bruised from his kiss, heart pounding like an engine in your chest.

You haven’t seen him since.

But you feel him everywhere.

Eyes burning into the back of your skull during tune-ups. Silence that stretches just a little too long when people mention his name around you. Like they’re waiting for the explosion.

You just smirk and keep working.

If he wants revenge? He’ll have to earn it.

The garage is nearly empty when the door slams open.

You don’t even look up.

You know it’s him.

Riki strides in like the whole place belongs to him. No jacket tonight—just a sleeveless shirt, veins in his arms tense, jaw locked, silver chain bouncing lightly against his collarbone as he stops in front of you.

“You think you’re funny?”

You wipe your hands on a rag. “Sometimes.”

“You embarrassed me.”

“No,” you say, meeting his glare with a smirk. “You embarrassed yourself. I just drove better.”

He steps closer, inches away now.

You don’t move.

“You’ve got a mouth,” he mutters.

“You’ve got an ego problem,” you shoot back.

His jaw tightens.

Then—his hand slams on the worktable behind you, making the tools rattle.

You don’t even flinch.

“Does this scare you?” he asks, low and dangerous.

You tilt your head. “You think you scare me?”

His other hand grabs your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek in a way that’s far too intimate for how hard his grip is.

“You fucking should be.”

You stare at him.

Then—softly—you smirk.

“Then why are you breathing so hard, Riki?”

His pupils blow wide.

He looks like he’s going to kiss you again.

But he doesn’t.

He lets go like your skin burned him.

“You racing tonight or not?” he mutters.

You shrug. “Are you?”

He turns away, jaw clenching, running a hand through his hair. “You’re gonna make me lose my mind.”

You hop off the table, grabbing your keys.

“Then I guess you better keep up.”

The race isn’t in the lot this time.

It’s in the hills.

Wider curves. Higher stakes. More ways to crash and burn.

You line up beside him—same setup, same crowd, same tension burning hot under your skin.

He won’t look at you.

You roll down your window. “Nervous, Riki?”

His knuckles flex on the wheel.

“No,” he mutters. “Just focused.”

“On what?”

He glances over.

On you.

This race is brutal.

He’s more aggressive than last time—cutting you off, swerving just close enough to scare you. But you don’t back down. You press harder, faster, nearly scrape your car against his just to prove you won’t fold.

It’s war.

And when you take the final corner, neck and neck, tires screaming, headlights blending—

You both cross the line.

A tie.

Neither of you slows down.

He follows you off the track.

Engine cuts. The silence between you explodes.

You slam your door.

“So that’s how you drive now?” you yell. “Trying to run me off the road?”

He’s already storming toward you.

“You wanted me to take it easy? Should I have let you win again?”

“You’re out of control.”

He grabs your wrist. “You’re the one who got in my head.”

Your breath catches.

“You kissed me first,” you whisper.

“You kissed me back.”

The air is thick.

Then—without thinking—he pushes you against your car.

Hands on your hips. Nose brushing yours. Breath mingling. He’s shaking.

And so are you.

“You drive like you’ve got nothing to lose,” he whispers.

“I don’t.”

He leans in. So close. So angry. So desperate.

“Let me ruin you,” he says. You kiss him.

Hard. Messy. Teeth and tongue. Like it’s another race. Another win to steal.

He groans into your mouth.

And then pulls back. Eyes wild.

“This is gonna get ugly.”

You wipe your lips with the back of your hand.

“Then bring it on.”

You shouldn’t have kissed him.

You tell yourself that all night, all morning, even while you’re tuning your car.

But your fingers are shaking.

Because now?

Everything feels different.

Riki’s everywhere.

You see him in the corner of every race. Hear him in every engine growl. Feel him in every lingering look across the lot. And it’s not soft. It’s not romantic. It’s that blood-hot, pulse-pounding kind of want that scrapes your ribs raw.

And what’s worse?

He won’t stop playing with you.

“Look who’s still walking,” he mutters, falling into step beside you in the pit lot that night. “Thought I’d wrecked you harder.”

“Wreck me?” you laugh, not slowing your pace. “You kissed me.”

He smirks. “Same difference.”

You spin to face him. “You kissed me like you were starving.”

His eyes flash.

“You kissed me like you were gonna cry if I stopped.”

Your mouth drops open. “You’re delusional.”

“And you’re blushing.”

You shove past him, furious.

But he follows.

Ten minutes later, you’re both pressed up against a concrete wall near the back of the garage—barely speaking, breath shallow, the air around you burning.

“You’re always running your mouth,” you growl, fists balled in his shirt.

“And you’re always pretending you don’t want me,” he snaps back, hand fisting in your jacket, teeth bared.

You’re so close. Too close. But you refuse to give in again. You’re not going to let him win.

So instead?

You smirk.

“Let’s make a bet.”

His brows lift.

You lean in, whispering, “Next race. No rules. One lap. Winner gets anything they want.”

Riki freezes.

Then—slowly—his eyes narrow. “Anything?”

“Anything,” you repeat. “Think you can handle that?”

He leans even closer, mouth brushing your ear.

“I don’t think you can.”

You don’t sleep that night.

Neither does he.

The next evening, the crowd’s buzzing before you even show up. Everyone’s heard. Everyone’s betting. You and Riki are front page gossip now.

You line up at the start—no music, no distractions, just him in the car beside you, eyes dark, lips parted, knuckles white on the wheel.

You don’t speak.

Neither of you smiles.

This race isn’t for respect.

It’s for ownership.

You drive like your life depends on it.

And Riki?

He drives like he’s trying to outrun his own obsession.

The curves are tight. The asphalt’s slick. The adrenaline’s poison in your veins.

At one point, your cars are side by side—so close his mirror nearly clips yours—and you glance over.

He’s staring straight at you.

And smirking.

You growl and slam on the gas.

You win by a breath.

Just barely.

The moment your tires squeal past the finish, you yank the handbrake and launch out of the car, chest heaving, sweat beading on your neck.

And he’s already there.

Storming toward you.

“Not bad,” he mutters, voice ragged.

“Pay up,” you pant.

“What do you want?”

You step into his space, heart pounding so loud it hurts.

“I want you to shut up,” you whisper. “For five seconds.”

He freezes.

And then—

You kiss him.

Hard. Rough. All tongue and teeth and hands in hair. There’s no sweetness. Just heat. Need. Desperation.

You pull back, lips swollen, breathless.

He looks wrecked.

“You still hate me?” you whisper.

Riki swallows hard. His voice cracks.

“More than ever.”

You lean in, teeth grazing his jaw.

“Then why are you shaking?”

He doesn’t answer.

Just grabs your wrist.

And pulls you straight into his car.

You don’t remember getting in the car.

One second you were pulling away from his mouth, breathless and cocky from your win, and the next?

His hand was on your wrist, dragging you inside.

Now you’re in the passenger seat, doors slammed shut, windows fogging up already, and Riki?

Riki’s staring at you like he’s about to do something unforgivable.

He’s not speaking.

Just breathing hard.

Like kissing you made him lose control of his whole damn body.

“You’re shaking,” you whisper.

He doesn’t deny it.

Just stares.

“You still mad I won?” you ask, smirking.

He leans in so fast you gasp.

His mouth brushes your jaw, slow. “I’m mad you didn’t kiss me like that before.”

Then—his hands grab your thighs, drag you into his lap, and you’re not even pretending to fight it.

Your lips crash again.

Messy. Loud. Desperate.

It’s not gentle—it’s all heat and friction, like you’re trying to erase the other. His tongue licks into your mouth like he owns it, his teeth scrape your bottom lip, and you moan into him without meaning to.

“You hate me,” you pant between kisses.

“I fucking do.” he growls, gripping your hips tighter.

“You want me.”

“I can’t stop,” he gasps, head falling back as your lips trail down his throat. “You’re making me insane.”

You suck a mark into the side of his neck and his hips buck up hard—too hard—grinding into you like he can’t hold back.

“Fuck—” he moans, shaky and flushed. “Keep doing that and I’m not gonna stop.”

You freeze.

Eyes meet.

His chest is rising fast. Your fingers are still tangled in his hair. Your heartbeat’s pounding in your ears.

“…Don’t,” you whisper.

He nods, jaw clenched, pulling back just enough to breathe. “Yeah. Okay.”

Neither of you moves.

His forehead drops against yours.

You can still taste him on your tongue.

You close your eyes.

“I don’t even like you,” you murmur.

Riki laughs—bitter, breathless. “Yeah? Then why are you still on my lap?”

Silence.

You hate this. You hate him.

But you’d be lying if you said you weren’t obsessed with the taste of his lips. The way he whispers your name like it hurts.

You pull back slowly. He doesn’t stop you.

Just watches you slide off him and back into your seat, still flushed, still panting.

You stare out the windshield.

“Don’t make bets you can’t win next time.”

His voice is quiet.

“You’re not gonna kiss me again?”

You glance at him.

Then grin.

“Make me.”

You shouldn’t want him.

You tell yourself that every night.

Nishimura Riki is cocky. Arrogant. Full of himself. Always smirking, always showing off like the whole world revolves around the roar of his engine and the sharpness of your tongue.

You hate that about him.

And he hates you for the exact same reasons.

You’re reckless. Sarcastic. Sharp. Unpredictable. You don’t flinch when he growls in your face, don’t fold under pressure, don’t look away even when he’s breathing down your neck.

You’re fire and gasoline, and he’s the match.

But tonight…

Tonight, it’s different.

The air tastes like sweat and adrenaline. Your hands are still shaking from the race. The engines have cooled, the streets are quiet, and the city lights blur behind you as you both sit on the hood of his car—sweaty, silent, too close.

Your leg brushes his.

You don’t move.

He doesn’t either.

“…It’s not just the kisses anymore,” he says suddenly, voice low.

You turn.

His eyes are already on you—tired, dark, surprisingly soft in a way that makes your stomach twist.

“It’s not?” you ask, pretending to be unaffected.

He shakes his head.

Then shrugs, voice barely a whisper.

“No. I fucking wish it was.”

Your breath catches.

He leans in, slow this time. Not like the angry post-race makeouts. Not like the rough tug of your collar or the bite of your lip.

This kiss?

It’s softer.

Gentle.

Like he’s scared of how much he wants it.

You freeze. Then melt. Fingers tangling in his hair, lips parting, letting him in.

He kisses you like he’s trying to undo all the things he’s done wrong. Like he’s still angry at the world but not at you—not tonight.

You pull back first. Just enough to breathe.

“…This is gonna ruin everything,” you whisper.

Riki’s eyes fall shut.

“I know.”

You stare at him.

“Then stop kissing me.”

He opens his eyes.

“Can’t.”

You’re standing near your car, wiping oil off your hands, jaw clenched, heart still aching from the last kiss. From the way he said he couldn’t stop.

Riki’s pacing across the lot, restless, agitated. Talking to Heeseung about car parts and lines and brakes, but you know he’s just trying not to look at you.

Because if he does—he’ll give in again.

And if you do—you’ll never walk away.

But then it happens.

A guy from a newer crew. One you’ve never seen before.

Tall. Cocky. Rotten grin. Leaning against his beat-up Supra like he’s waiting to be punched.

“You’re the one with the Evo, right?” he asks, eyes raking you head to toe.

You nod, wary.

He whistles. “Shame a girl with a body like yours wastes her nights on racing. I could think of better uses for those thighs.”

You go still.

He smirks. “Bet they’d look real nice wrapped around—”

CRACK.

He doesn’t finish the sentence.

Because Riki’s fist crashes straight into his jaw.

The guy stumbles back, blood dripping from his mouth, wide-eyed.

Riki doesn’t stop.

Grabs him by the collar. Slams him against his car. “Say that shit again. I dare you.”

“Riki—!” you try to pull him back, but he’s burning.

Unhinged.

The guy groans something inaudible, and Riki shoves him harder. “You think you can look at her like that? Talk to her like she’s just—what? A body?”

He throws another punch. Harder.

You finally yank his arm, shouting, “That’s enough!”

He freezes.

Breathing hard.

His knuckles are split.

The guy’s collapsed on the ground.

And everyone’s watching.

Later, after his crew take the guy and the lot starts to clear, Riki disappears. No one knows where he went.

But you find him.

In the garage. In the shadows. Hands on the edge of his car, head down, bleeding slightly.

“…You didn’t have to do that,” you whisper.

He doesn’t turn. “I did.”

Silence.

Your voice is quiet. “Why?”

He finally looks at you.

And for the first time tonight—he looks scared.

“…Because I care,” he says. “And it pisses me off. Every time someone looks at you like that. Every time you act like none of this means anything.”

Your heart stutters.

He steps closer. “It means everything to me.”

You shake your head. “No. No, Riki, we’re not—this isn’t who we are. We race. We fuck around. We ruin each other, we don’t—”

“Love?”

Silence.

He’s too close now.

His eyes flicker to your mouth.

And your chest aches because you’ve imagined it.

Not just the kissing.

Not just the fights.

But the mornings.

His hair messy on your pillow. His voice rough with sleep. Holding your hand when no one’s watching. Waking up next to him, sunlight instead of streetlights.

You didn’t want to imagine it.

But you did.

Every fucking night.

And now you’re tired.

Of pretending. Of running. Of lying.

You grab his hoodie. Push him against the wall.

“…Tell me you don’t want me,” you said, barely above a whisper.

He stared at you.

“Tell me.”

Silence.

Tell me you don’t want to kiss me again.

Tell me you haven’t thought about mornings, about quiet breakfasts, about holding me when I’m not gripping a steering wheel with blood under my nails.

Tell me this is just lust.

Just adrenaline.

Just the danger.

But he doesn’t say a word.

You shove him.

“Fucking say it!”

His hands shoot out, gripping your arms like you’ll vanish. “I can’t!”

Your throat tightens.

You knew it.

You knew it, but hearing it makes your legs weak.

“I can’t,” he says again, softer now. “I think about you all the time. When I race. When I sleep. When I’m losing. When I win. I’ve imagined you in my passenger seat for life, not just a lap.”

Tears sting the corners of your eyes. You blink them away.

He steps forward again.

“You keep saying we’re just chaos, but it doesn’t feel like that to me anymore.”

You look at him.

At the cut on his lip, the grease on his shirt, the fury in his jaw—and the quiet love in his eyes.

And finally, finally—

You kiss him.

Not fast. Not rough. Not like the others.

This time, it’s soft. Slow. Real.

He pulls you in, forehead resting on yours after, breath shaky.

“Stay,” he whispers. “Just for tonight.”

You nod.

But even as you lie next to him in the quiet dark of the garage’s back room, curled under a worn blanket, you both know—

This wasn’t just for tonight anymore.

It’s quiet in his room.

Just the soft thrum of rain outside, and the slow, uneven rhythm of his breath behind you.

You’re in one of his old shirts. Still smells like engine oil and sandalwood.

He’s curled against your back, arm around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

You should go. You always do.

After the high. After the kiss. After pretending this is just physical.

But tonight… you don’t move.

You stay.

And it terrifies you.

He speaks first.

Voice cracked. Barely audible.

“…What are we doing?”

You stare at the wall. “I don’t know.”

“This doesn’t feel like hate anymore.”

You close your eyes. “I know.”

He shifts, pressing his forehead between your shoulder blades. “I don’t know what to do with this.”

You don’t either.

Because this isn’t part of the game. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

You weren’t supposed to care.

The next night is chaos.

You’re both racing. Different heats. Same lot.

You’re watching his final round when it happens—he goes too fast.

Too sharp on the turn.

He overcorrects—

And slams into the barrier.

Your heart stops.

The crowd screams.

You run.

You don’t even feel the pavement under your feet.

Don’t feel the way your voice shreds as you shout his name.

You just see the smoke—

And his crumpled car.

You pull the door open with shaking hands.

He’s alive. Bleeding. Dazed. A stupid smile on his face at the sight of you.

You grab his face. “Are you fucking insane?! You could’ve died—”

“I know.”

“You idiot! What the hell were you thinking?!”

“I wasn’t,” he snaps. “Because every time I think, it’s you. It’s you, and it hurts, and I don’t know how to shut it off!”

You go still.

His hands shake when he tries to hold yours.

“I don’t want to be like this anymore.”

You blink. “What?”

“This mess,” he breathes. “This half-thing. Lust and anger and pretending we don’t give a shit. I’m tired.”

You swallow hard.

He’s trembling. Eyes glossy.

“I want more,” he says. “I want you. Not your body. Not your smart mouth. You.”

Your voice is hoarse. “Then say it.”

“I love you.”

Silence.

Racing doesn’t feel like freedom anymore.

But this?

This might.

You nod, tears stinging your eyes. “Then stop running.”

“I will,” he whispers. “If you stay.”

Later that night, in his bed, after he took care of his luckily fairly small injuries, he kisses you like he’s never kissed anyone before. No noise. No hurry. Just slow, breathless press of lips like you might fall apart if he stops.

He holds your hand while you lie there chest-to-chest.

And for once, there’s no fight left in either of you.

Just peace.

You haven’t been to the lot in weeks.

Your car’s under a cover now. Parked in your garage like it’s never known speed.

And Riki—

Riki still races.

You hear it in the way he calls you at 3AM, voice scratchy and breathless, asking if you’re awake.

You always are.

But tonight, you ignore the call.

Because every time you pick up, he sounds farther away.

He shows up at your door the next morning.

Smelling like gasoline and guilt.

Eyes tired.

Hands in his jacket pockets, like he’s trying not to reach for you.

“You weren’t there,” he says softly.

You cross your arms. “You said you were done.”

“I never said that.”

“You did,” you whisper. “In your own way.”

Silence.

He steps closer. “I’m trying.”

“No, you’re not.”

You hate how your voice breaks.

“I gave it up,” you say. “For this. For us. And you… you still choose the street every time.

“It’s all I’ve known.”

“I know that. But I’m not gonna wait around hoping you come back in one piece. Not anymore.”

He flinches. Looks away.

You step back, heart hammering. “Tell me something, Riki. When you’re racing—do you ever think about what you’d leave behind if you crashed again?”

He doesn’t answer.

You nod. “That’s what I thought.”

You close the door.

And it kills you.

Because he looked like he wanted to say everything.

He doesn’t race that night.

Or the next.

Or the one after that.

You find him at the garage on Friday.

Covered in grease. Sitting on the hood of your car.

Not his.

Yours.

“I tuned it,” he says, eyes on the floor. “New plugs. Brakes. Fluids. You haven’t driven her in weeks.”

You don’t speak.

He glances up. “I missed you.”

“Bullshit,” you say. But softer than before.

“I miss us,” he corrects. “Not the way we were. The way we could be.”

You look at him—

Really look.

There’s oil on his cheek. A healing bruise on his jaw. The black hoodie you always steal from him in the mornings.

And in his eyes—

Regret.

Something warm.

You step forward. “You’re scared.”

“So are you.”

“Yeah,” you admit.

“But I’d rather be scared with you,” he says, “than safe without you.”

Your breath hitches.

Then he reaches out—

Not to kiss you.

But to hand you the keys.

“You drive,” he says. “Anywhere. I’ll follow.”

You stare at him.

And for the first time,

There’s no streetlight.

No finish line.

No screaming crowd.

Just him.

You smile.

“Buckle up, asshole.”

He laughs, eyes lighting up. “Yes, ma’am.”

And as the engine purrs and the sun starts rising,

You know one thing for sure—

This time, you’re racing forward. Together.

[annovaz]

*ೃ ✧˚ —𝑭ive 𝑺tars - n.rk

You just hooked up with Nishimura Riki. You're not a party girl, and he's not a player— Yet here you two are. Messy, ruined, and asking for seconds.

pairing: nishumura riki x fem!reader

genre: college au, smut?(extremely suggestive)

word count: 1000

This content is only for readers 18+

content warning: post-hookup intimacy, riding (implied), filthy talk, scratching, aftercare vibes, one-night-stand energy, college au, picks up right after the smut

soundtrack: after hours- the weekend

m.list! ✧ * : ･ﾟ

"So uhh—I don't even know your last name..." Riki chokes out nervously, his hands hesitating before they slide up your thighs.

You pant, sweat running down your brow and chest, hands still resting loosely on his broad shoulders.

You glance down at him in the dim light, noticing how the shadows dance across the pale complexion of his face.

And that's when it hits you.

You just hooked up with Nishumura Riki.

"I think we're a little past introductions, don't you think?" You say with a nervous laugh, tearing your gaze away from his to look at the mess between your bodies.

Your heartbeat tugs at your ears as you nervously shift on top of him. Still naked. Still straddling his hips. His dick still buried inside you.

The smell of sex mixed with the faint scent of his cologne fills your head. Your mind works overtime to try and figure out when—and how you got here.

It all started with a party you didn't really care to go to. Your roommate had a habit of dragging you around to those things.

Half an hour in, she was gone, leaving you alone in a sea of people you didn't know.

But there's one familiar face that caught your attention in the crowd.

Nishumura Riki, you recognized him from your chemistry lab. You watched as he fought his way through the messy crowd to the balcony to catch some fresh air.

And now? He's inside you, and he doesn't even know your full name.

"Better late than never, I guess.." He says as he smiles up at you, his fingertips tracing small circles mindlessly above your hip. The cold silver metal of his rings brushes against your hot skin, making a shiver shoot through your spine.

"So, um—chemistry..right?" you whisper, your hands sliding from his shoulders down to the top of his chest. Your eyes tracing the planes and outlines of his figure as you follow it with your hands.

The silver chain around his neck catches pieces of the moonlight coming in the room through the crooked blinds.

"Yeah, it's my second time trying to pass that class." He says awkwardly with a self-deprecating chuckle. His hands were still gently running over the curves of your body.

You laugh softly, the sound of your voices mixing together cuts through the otherwise quiet dorm room.

"So do you usually...do this kind of thing on weekends?" You whisper, voice cracking slightly as his hand slides to your lower back, keeping you straddled in his slick lap.

"No—no. I'm not that type of guy." Riki says with another soft smile at the confession.

"This is a first for me, actually...I don’t ever do this on a whim" He looks away, chest rising and falling as he struggles to steady his breathing with you still on top of him.

"Same...I mean, come on, do I look like a party girl? That's all my roommate." You complete, hands still tracing his body as you subconsciously bite your bottom lip out of habit.

Riki chuckles, his hard hands pulling your naked body into his even more. The warmth and slickness between you feels euphoric. Your breath catches as your bare chest brushes against the warm skin of his own.

"So I think we're usually supposed to get up now—" He trails off as he looks back into your eyes. One of his hands slides away from the curve of your back to gently brush some of your hair behind your ear.

You pause. This usually isn't included with the hookup package.

"Is it weird that I don't want to get up yet?" He whispers, pulling you down to melt into his body even more.

"I guess that makes us both weird." You say as your heart beat spikes when his arms pull you in closer. It feels like you've known Riki for longer than you actually have.

"So, how was your service?" You tease the moment between you, still charged and playful.

"Five fucking stars, and a cracked bedframe. Would definitely recommend." Riki says with a playful laugh.

"Sorry about that." You confess. The broken bed sinking awkwardly underneath the weight of you two.

Riki looks up at you, his mouth opening and closing like he wants—needs to say something, but the words are caught in his throat.

"Was that—good for you? The sex, I mean.." Riki asks.

"I probably sound stupid—"

"It was good, better than good," You interrupt, eyes scanning over the mess, over the scratches left across his shoulders and back.

"That's a relief...I totally didn't almost lose consciousness or anything." Riki says sarcastically in reply.

"Oh About sounding stupid—" you interrupt.

“Shit..." Riki whispers weakly. His shoulders shift as he maneuvers to get a better grip on you.

"Woman, you ruined me—" Riki confesses, wincing slightly at the stinging sensation left from your marks.

"Is that a bad thing?" You ask playfully,

"Not in the slightest—I'd let you do it again," Riki confesses as he leans in more, smiling as his nose brushes against your own.

You subconsciously lick your lips before smiling back. The smell of his cologne fills your senses again.

"How's next weekend sound?" You blurt out before you can even fully process the words.

"How about you get off my dick first before trying to make another appointment." Riki teases as he leans in.

He hesitates as his hands tangle in your hair as he pulls you closer.

Then he closes the distance.

His lips melt against your own, soft, pliant, and warm.

Your hands slide to the back of his neck as you kiss him harder, lips gasping for breath between messy kisses. Your heart races as he matches your effort with equal favor.

You break away breathless, his forehead resting against your own.

"Fuck..." You gasp, your chest tightening as you pull away to breathe.

"Yeah. Fuck..." Riki finishes, giving you a knowing look.

This is far from over.

"So I mean, we could shower, have sex again, or just lie here and talk for the rest of the night..." you suggest boldly.

"How about all the above?" Riki says before capturing your lips between his again.

You kiss him back, choking on a moan as you pull away to breathe out.

“All of the above.”

© brokenengene

kate's note: HI HI! This little thought came to me randomly, so decided to whip it up for Ni-ki’s brokenegene debut. PLEASE let me know if you guys like the shorter format fics! I'm more than happy to take requests for more!

Take care!

xoxo kate <3

perm. taglist: @aggarwaldrishti @kristynaaah @vanillaxbambi @ninistranaut @dulcetnostalgia @1-itsneverthatserious-1 @nesquikluvr @osakinanadesu @m1kkso @yazmike @lovcheol @luvksnn

[annovaz]

☆ in which bsf! niki finds your lacy number

f!rea, crack, suggestive, niki’s cheeky pinky

•••

the moment you heard his snort coming from your room, you knew you were in for it.

arms full of snacks, you trudge to your room. there awaits a smirking niki. your lacy red thong dangling from the edge of his finger.

"that's...not mine" you try, watching his smirk grow meaner in defeat.

he only snorts again, "really? who's is it then?"

you panic internally, knowing no answer will save you (especially not this one): "my mom’s..."

he only laughs and slingshots the garment at your head, conveniently hitting your flushed face. you sigh, throwing a chip bag at his face in retaliation. of course, he snatches it out of the air, opening the bag and stuffing some in his mouth.

he flops onto your bed like he owns it. "a bit weird she would leave it on your bed, no?"

you shove his feet off the bed, already done with his teasing. "you're so annoying," was all you could get out, flustered.

a few days later...

niki watches as you bend down to pick up your phone you just clumsily dropped. your low waisted jeans giving way to show red lace he couldn't stop thinking about.

when you get up, he smooths down the back of your shirt that had ridden up. pinky finger dipping just below your waist band to lightly tease at the lace.

he doesn't say anything, silently smug as your face reddens.

"you didn't see anything, freak," your grumble, swatting at his hand to no avail.

his pinky only dips under the lace to snap it back against your skin before pulling away. his hand finding its place on your hip.

“you're the freak for wearing your mom's panties."

•••

if you liked this, go check out my other works here🧟‍♀️

[annovaz]

UPSIDE DOWN KISS ౨ৎ lhs

cw: smut, 69 position, oral (m & f receiving), praise kink, overstimulation, loud!Heeseung, whiny!Heeseung, dom/sub dynamics (soft sub vibes), lots of dirty talk, possessive Heeseung, needy and noisy

<3 yes this is based on that txt song.. #babygirlletsgetfreaky #txtloves69

“You’re gonna ride my face while I fuck your throat.”

Heeseung said it like a promise.

One hand on your hip, the other wrapped around his cock — already hard, already leaking. You were naked, trembling above him as he laid back against the pillows, tongue licking at his lips like he couldn’t wait to taste you.

And he couldn’t.

You’d been teasing him all night. Pretty little kisses, sitting on his lap, grinding against him in those lace panties until he lost all patience and dragged you into the bedroom.

“C’mon, baby,” he murmured, voice thick with lust. “I’ve been craving this all fuckin’ day.”

He helped guide you onto his face, one big hand spreading your thighs as you lowered yourself onto his mouth — his tongue sliding between your folds instantly like he was starving for it.

“Fuck—fuck, Hee—”

He moaned loud into your pussy, hips twitching as you leaned forward and took him into your mouth. The second your lips wrapped around his cock, he groaned, so deep and desperate it rattled your thighs.

“Fucking hell—your mouth,” he gasped, licking a fat stripe up your slit. “So warm… fuck, you taste so good, baby—keep sucking—don’t stop—”

He was eating you like a man possessed. Tongue circling your clit, dipping into your hole, dragging loud moans from you every time he sucked hard enough to make your legs shake. And every single time you gagged around his cock, Heeseung whined. Guttural, broken sounds, like he couldn’t take how good you felt.

“God—fuck, that tongue—yes—keep going, baby,” he choked, fucking up into your mouth. “Just like that. You’re doing so good—”

You gagged again, tears pricking your eyes, and that only made him louder.

“Shit—fuck, fuck—throat so fuckin’ tight, you feel that? You feel how deep I am, baby?” He growled, voice breathless against your dripping cunt. “Let me hear you moan. Rub your pussy on my face—yeah—fuck, ride it—ride my tongue.”

You whimpered, grinding down on him, so close you could barely breathe, slick coating his chin, your own moans mixing with his.

“You’re gonna cum all over me, aren’t you?” he panted, fingers digging into your thighs. “Yeah… soak my face like a fuckin’ slut. Get my cock all wet from your mouth while you do it—”

That was all it took.

You came hard with a cry, thighs clenching around his head, and he groaned like he was the one cumming, grinding his hips up, fucking your throat while he devoured every drop from your pussy like he owned it.

But he wasn’t done.

“Still hard,” he whispered darkly, cock twitching against your tongue. “Didn’t even fucking cum yet. You gonna keep going, baby? Gonna let me finish down that pretty throat?”

You nodded, lips red, messy, still moaning around him.

“Good girl. My perfect fuckdoll.”

Heeseung thrust a little deeper, hand gripping your hair, and came with a filthy moan, hips stuttering as he spilled hot and thick down your throat.

You swallowed it all — choking a little, but still moaning around him, until he gently pulled you off and slid you down next to him.

Your face was flushed, thighs soaked, and he was panting like he’d just survived a storm.

But he still kissed you like you were his whole world.

“Best pussy I’ve ever tasted,” he whispered, licking into your mouth like he could still taste you. “Next time I’m gonna keep you on my face until you can’t walk.”

[annovaz]

• Just keep it cool - 심재윤 ↳ ┊: oops! - illit

꒰ 𝔖𝘺𝘯𝘰𝘱𝘴𝘪𝘴 ꒱┆building legos with jake, featuring his pretty hands ⨾

۶ৎ idol!jake x fem!reader┆fluff, a pinch of suggestiveness┆petnames, kisses, jake’s hands┆wc 484

⤷ 𝐲𝐞𝐣𝐢’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: jake’s hands…#needthat 🤭

꒰ঌ ℬℴℴ𝓀𝓈𝒽ℯ𝓁𝒻 ໒꒱

let's be honest. sim jaeyun had the prettiest hands in the world, no room for arguments.

engenes would thirst over how gorgeous jake's hands were and it just made you giggle, knowing that those pretty hands were all yours.

"yunnie!! i bought us some lego roses that we can make together!" you excitedly skipped into the room, showing your boyfriend the cute box of legos.

"angel, you're so adorable," jake simped, his eyes sparkling as he looked at you.

you plopped down next to him on the floor, sliding the box over to him. but instead of picking up the box, he gently lifted your hand, pressing a kiss against it. something he always liked to do.

"luckily for us, i have the rest of the day off! so we can build legos all day," he grins, resembling a puppy.

you're both halfway through your roses when your fingers start to ache, tired of snapping together small pieces of plastic. that's when your gaze slowly drifts to jake's hands, skillfully putting together the rose, piece by piece.

but you didn't give a damn about the rose right now, not when jake's hands were so perfect. the way his veins ran across the back of his hands, running along his forearms too. the way his long, slender fingers nimbly snapped pieces together. god—it was driving you insane.

by now, jake had noticed you had stopped building, glancing over to find your eyes on his hands, no expression on your face, just...admiration.

"angel? you okay?" he tilts his head towards you, jolting you out of your little fantasy.

"huh? oh yeah.." you blush. "just distracted."

"hm? by what sweetheart?" jake smirks. you didn't realize it until now, but he's closer. his body shifted an inch or two closer to yours, his plump lips hovering over your own.

but you don't answer, you're too embarrassed to. so you just shake your head, not wanting to say anything.

"ah-ah, don't do that sweetheart. tell me," he warns, his voice dropping to a lower decibel. dammit! why'd that have to be so attractive.

"your hands," you squeak, a red flush instantly hitting your cheeks. but jake just laughs.

"you're so adorable," he chuckles, his hand finding your chin. he closes the gap between the two of you, his lips smashed against yours.

"hmm, you taste like strawberries," he sighs against your lips. "you want my hands angel? well now you have 'em." he brings his large hands to yours, letting you trace the veins along his arms and up to his knuckles.

"so pretty yunnie," you say shyly, feeling the way his veins stuck out.

"yeah? my pretty baby has a thing for hands, hm?" he muses, kissing you again. "they're all yours sweetheart."

and the two of you sat on the floor, you straddled in jake's lap, tracing over his pretty hands, and the legos long forgotten.

˗ˏˋ ꒰ ✉︎ ꒱ ˎˊ˗ 𝐉𝐢𝐣𝐢’𝐬 𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @vmpivory, @yuvany, @seozii, @pinknjm, @greentulip, @jomisu, @nxzz-skz, @ancnymcnzjy, @hyukabean, @annybah, @ijustwannareadstuff20, @chaeneu, @17ericas, @firstclassjaylee, @riribelle, @right-person-wrong-time, @cheruphic, @woniefication, @melodiessvy, @soona-huh, @kiwicup, @yuuuraaa, @manariee, @ryuunaaa, @biradoobee, @haniipie

[annovaz]

he wouldve had me at the first word tbh

s.jy

synopsis | after a big argument with jake, your clingy and overly sensitive boyfriend, aka golden retriever, finds it impossible to handle the distance. and let’s face it, who can resist a teary-eyed, overly affectionate guy who’s one step away from curling up in your lap?

pairing | clingyboyfriend! jake x fem! reader

genre | fluff

jake was the kind of person who felt everything too much. it wasn’t a bad thing, he just had a heart so soft it bruised too easily. he was sensitive in a way that made him beautiful, like he carried every emotion so deeply it became a part of him. and when he loved, he loved hard. clingy, desperate, like he didn’t know how to exist without the people he cared about.

he was clingy too, always needing to be close, to touch, to hold. he followed you around the house like a lost puppy, watching you with those big, pleading eyes. he never liked distance, never liked silence between you.

and right now the house was too quiet. not in a peaceful way, but in that heavy, suffocating way that settled after an argument. you both said things you didn’t mean, and he ended up crying. jake always cried during fights. he hated it, tried so hard to hold it back, but he could never help it.

you were sitting on the couch, watching a movie, one you had been watching with him before everything went wrong. your eyes were glued to the screen, pretending to care about what was happening on it, but really, you couldn’t focus.

then you heard the faint sound of footsteps coming from the hallway. you didn’t look up, keeping your gaze fixed on the screen, you knew it was jake. you already saw his messy hair from the corner of your eye, his face poking around the corner of the living room, just enough to make sure you saw him. he didn’t say anything right away, just stood there, watching you with those puppy eyes of his. you didn’t look at him. you couldn’t.

he sighed softly, so soft you barely heard it, and took a slow step into the room. his shoulders were slumped, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, clearly unsure of what to do next.

he shifted closer, then gently slid down to sit beside you, his leg brushing against yours. “i… i don’t like when you’re mad at me..” he mumbled, voice quieter now, almost a whisper. his head dropped to your shoulder, his hair brushing against your skin. you could feel the subtle tremble in his body, the way he leaned into you, needing your comfort, even though you were still angry.

you didn’t say anything, didn’t have to. your shoulder relaxed, just enough for him to rest there without feeling rejected. but even with that small gesture, he still felt uncertain, still felt like he wasn’t allowed to hold you the way he wanted to.

his fingers twitched against your arm before hesitantly gripping onto the sleeve of your shirt, his hold weak, like he was afraid you’d shake him off. he sniffled softly, his breath uneven, and when he spoke again, his voice was so quiet, so broken, it made your chest ache.

“i’m sorry..” he whispered again, barely audible, like he was running out of strength to even say the words. his face buried deeper into your shoulder, and that’s when you felt it. the faint dampness of his tears soaking into your sleeve.

he was still crying. maybe he never really stopped after the argument, just hid away in the bedroom, curled up and upset until he finally couldn’t take the distance anymore.

his body curled into yours instinctively, his arms hesitating before wrapping loosely around you, his grip weak, desperate. “please don’t ignore me…” his voice cracked this time “i hate the silent treatment. it makes me feel like… like i’m in time-out.”

his words wobbled, thick with tears, his breath uneven as he sniffled against your skin.

god, he was so pretty when he cried. his lips were parted, glossy from where he had nervously chewed at them, his big, watery eyes peeking up at you through damp lashes. his cheeks were flushed, his whole face soft and open, so heartbreakingly vulnerable.

you sighed, your fingers twitched before you finally gave in, reaching up to cup his cheek, and he melted instantly, his entire body going boneless against you like he had been waiting for that touch.

“you’re not in time-out, jake.” you murmured, still a little firm, but gentler than before. “but you did piss me off.”

he nodded quickly, his curls bouncing against your shoulder. “i know.” he mumbled, still sniffly, still so soft and needy. “but i don’t wanna be mad at each other anymore. can we just… can we be okay now?”

he looked up at you then, eyes big and pleading, so impossibly pretty, and you sighed, feeling the last of your frustration slip away.

instead of answering, you leaned down and kissed his cheek. just a quick press of your lips, light and fleeting. but then he made this tiny, breathless sound, like he couldn’t believe you were kissing him after all that, and it made something in you soften completely.

so you did it again. and again.

a little kiss on the tip of his nose. then one on his jaw, lingering just slightly. then another right at the corner of his mouth, where his lips were still wobbly from crying.

jake blinked up at you, dazed, his breath stuttering like he didn’t know what to do with himself. and then, without thinking, he surged forward, pressing his face against yours, clumsily chasing after your lips.

his kisses were messy, desperate, all over the place. he kissed your cheek, your chin, your forehead—anywhere he could reach. his hands were gripping at your waist now, still shaky but holding on a little tighter, like he never wanted to let go.

“i love you..” he mumbled between kisses, his voice still stuffy from crying. “i love you, i love you, i love you—”

you laughed softly, tilting his face up so you could kiss him properly, slow and sweet, until he sighed into your mouth and melted against you completely.

he made this tiny sound against your lips, something between a sigh and a whimper. his hands trembled where they clung to you, fingers curling tighter into the fabric of your shirt.

“missed you..” he whispered between kisses, his nose bumping against yours. “hated being away from you…”

“i was right here, jake,” you murmured, your fingers slipping into his curls, gently scratching at his scalp. he shivered under your touch, melting even further into you.

“no..” he sniffled, shaking his head against your skin. “felt too far.”

you sighed, kissing the top of his head, feeling the way he practically purred at the affection. he was always like this, too soft, too clingy, too desperate for closeness, especially after a fight.

“you’re so dramatic..” you muttered, but your arms wrapped around him anyway, pulling him even closer.

he let out a breathy, content little sigh, pressing a few more lazy, sleepy kisses along your collarbone. “only for you.” he mumbled, voice barely above a whisper.

[annovaz]

bite, ink, repeat — until i stay

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who...

Synopsis: Sunghoon’s hands were made for ink —  but you, untouched and inkless, became his favorite canvas long before the needle ever kissed your skin. (a series of drabbles from the Tattoo Studio Collective: “Fated Ink”) Word count: 17.7k Warnings: tattoo artist AU, slice of life, first tattoo experience, friends-to-lovers energy, softdom!sunghoon x brat reader (with a lot of love), Soobin (TXT) as Sunghoon’s coworker, Sunoo at the front desk (aka emotional support), mentions of Jake hehe, tattoo shop family vibes, slow burn but also unhinged at times, warm domestic moments, acts of service as love language, lowkey loverboy hoon, very much “lalala” (yn) x “okokok” (hoon),  fluff + smut (MDNI), messy feelings but even messier smut, i didnt mean to write rough sex but here we are, backshots + tramp stamp combo (yeah… I had to), oral (f. receiving), creampie / cumplay, breast play, tattoo kink adjacent, some (... a lot) of overstimulation, praise + slight teasing, marking kink, breeding kink, aftercare (emotional and physical), matching tattoos duhhh, and sm more...

a/n: hiii this is in collaboration with my baby @hoonieyun after i dreamt about this tattoo artist sunghoon hehe… this is part of my birthday present you to kiki <333 happy birthday cutie, i hope all the coming years treat you with love, joy and health <333 this is my very first time NOT writing a full fledged fic and writing in yn's 2nd pov … so im veryyyy nervous about this but wtvvv enjoy guys lol.

⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… you met at a tattoo expo where he was a featuring artist, you were just a curious first-timer. You’ve been toying with the thought of a tattoo for a very  long time, yet hesitation keeps holding you back. What design do you want to get? The placement? What about the pain? What if you regret it? So you told yourself that coming here was a way to get you inspired, to see the artists in action, to get a real feel for the culture — a step towards making it real. As a matter of a fact, you went with a list, literal Notes app receipts of artists you'd stalked online for weeks: this was your research mission.  

The expo pulses with life before you’re even through the gates — a tangle of music, voices, and the unmistakable whir of tattoo machines drifting through the summer heat. It’s all fluorescent lights and the constant hum of tattoo machines, mixing with the faint thump of bass-heavy music from a DJ booth tucked somewhere in the far corner. 

People weave around you in all directions, skin on display like walking museums — fresh pieces glistening under plastic wrap, it was all healing layered work. Booths line the convention center floor, some extravagant and flashy portfolios open on tables with neon signage, others grungy and industrial with metal panels and graffiti art.

You approach an artist’s booth you’ve been eyeing for days — one of many that you have bookmarked obsessively, saved every design that caught your eye. The booth was minimalist, almost stark in its simplicity. The sleek setup with matte black banners and moody lighting feels familiar, absorbing the harsh expo lights rather than reflecting them — exactly what you were expecting. Small spotlights are strategically placed to illuminate a few framed sketches and carefully pinned flash sheets — each design detailed, precise, and clearly crafted with serious skill. 

A portfolio lies open on the table, the plastic sleeves faintly glossy under your hands. You begin flipping through the pages — delicate linework, expert shading, black-and-grey florals swirling into intricate dotwork patterns that catch your eye.

At the second page, you pause, brow furrowing. This style, this artist… it’s not the one you were searching for. The designs are stunning, but completely different from the color work you’d been studying. Your lips part slightly in surprise as you realize: you’ve wandered into the wrong booth. “…Wait. Shit. This isn’t — this isn’t who I thought it was.” You said, flipping through the portfolio once more. 

From behind the booth, a calm and dry voice pierced in through the noise. “Disappointed?”

“No,” you said, raising your eyebrows as you glanced at him — and immediately wished you’d worn sunglasses. His gaze was razor-clean, cutting straight through whatever bluff you were about to make. “I mean — I thought this was someone else’s table, honestly. But I guess yours isn’t bad. I’ll let it slide.”

His lips twitch, the beginnings of a smirk tugging at the corner. “Let it slide?”  He crossed his arms over his chest, forearms flexing beneath ink and fabric. “How generous. High praise coming from a girl who’s been stuck on the same page for two minutes.”

Rolling your eyes, you snapped the portfolio shut a little harder than needed. “Please. Don’t flatter yourself.” you said as you pushed it back on the table. “I’m just being polite.”

He leaned forward slightly, his tone dipping a bit with him. “You don’t strike me as the polite type.” You tilt your head to the side, curiosity piqued — you were maybe a little too ready to press the edge of his patience, a little too eager to get under his skin. “Oh yeah? And what ‘type’ do I strike you as?”

There’s a beat where he just looks at you — and then, with an exhale that might be a laugh, he grabs a lollipop from the small jar beside him. “You strike me as the type who always has something to say,” he said, placing it in front of you on the table. “Here is something to keep that mouth busy.”

Oh, he thinks he’s funny. This smug little shit. 

“I do, but I’m not sure that you…” Your tone breezy before pausing as you let your eyes drop, up and down, openly sizing him up now — tattoos slipping out from under his sleeves, muscle coiled just enough to catch the light, jaw tight like he’s fighting a smile.  “…are qualified.”

He let out a quiet huff, something close to a scoff, then set a business card beside the lollipop. “Right. My qualifications” he said, laced with sarcasm. “How reckless of me to forget I need approval from the girl who walked up to the wrong booth.”

You glanced down at the card, then back up at him — jaw tense, pulse ticking in your neck. “I am serious. Just… picky about who gets to put a needle in me.”  He lets out a soft hum, “sure you are,” as he nodded toward the card. “You can find me here, if you’re actually serious about getting inked and not just talking shit.”

You snatched what he offered on the table. “Might swing by.” The wrapper of the lollipop crinkles as you peeled it. “Just to prove that you are all talk.” You challenged, popping it in your mouth. Your eyes don’t leave his, even as you lean back a little to leave. 

“I’m counting on it.” He retorted, not breaking eye contact. “Bring that stubborn mouth with you.”

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… you absolutely looked up the second you got home. Just to verify, obviously. For research purposes, due diligence.

The studio instagram account loads — sleek handle, booking link in the header, clean bio with two names: Soobin and Sunghoon. Meaning it's two artists who share the space, or probably built it together. However, there were no clear faces to match the names to, which is annoying. Now, you’re realizing… you only talked to one of them at the expo, and you forgot to ask his name... too busy running your mouth, apparently. 

Now here you are, deep-diving an instagram account, trying to reverse-engineer names from tagged highlights and healed back pieces. You scroll… then scroll some more, before one post turns into five. The posts make the split between the two artists even clearer. Some are punchy and playful, others quietly meticulous. Eventually, you figure out who is who, and who actually runs the page.

Soobin posts frequently — flash sheets and dumb behind-the-scenes clips. In one of  his story highlights where tattoo guns buzz in the background of low chatter, the camera drifts across the shop and lingers just long enough on him — who you're now deducing has to be Sunghoon — at his station, head down and headphones in. He’s sketching, completely absorbed. You find another time-lapse video posted six months ago of him working. Gloved hands hovering just above someone’s back as he lines up stencil to skin. His sleeves rolled, head down, brows slightly knit — completely focused. He's frustratingly handsome, annoyingly hot — leaving you caught between wanting to look away and needing to see every little movement.

The worst part is that he barely posts, especially compared to Soobin’s constant flood of updates. When he does post, it’s quick — maybe a flash drop, a booking form, or the rare repost of a freshly healed tattoo. His feed is a curated gallery of ink masterpieces: clean lines, sharp blackwork, delicate fine details. Each piece looks like it was made to live on skin and not on screens. 

You close the app, then open it again. Shit, you might actually want him to tattoo you.

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… You booked the appointment partly out of spite — a petty, simmering need just to prove a point, to keep him from thinking he won. You weren’t about to let some smug tattoo artist win that easy. But the other half of it — the part you didn’t say out loud — was curiosity.

The studio hit differently the second you stepped inside — all exposed brick and matte black walls, low lighting humming quietly overhead. A flickering neon sign pulsed in the back with a lazy heartbeat, casting a soft red glow across the floor. It smelled like antiseptic, ink, and leather — sterile, but soothing in its own gritty way. There was a gumball machine by the front door, chipped chrome and faded pastels, nestled next to a hand-painted spin wheel labeled with things like ‘free flash!’, ‘$50 off’ or ‘try again…’ and ‘lucky pick’. 

You were still eyeing it when the man behind the front desk looked up. “Hi! Are you here for Soobin or Hoon?” He asked, voice chirpy like you’d met before, giving you that kind of smile that felt like a shot of espresso. You blinked, you recognized Soobin… not the other name. “Hoon?” You echoed, confused.

Before either of you could say anything else, the black curtain at the back swayed aside with an easy flick of a wrist. A figure stepped through with casual ease, voice trailing mid-sentence as he strolled in, not even glancing your way as his head turned toward the front desk. “Hey, Sunoo, I’m gonna clock out for a —”

The figure’s voice cuts off, stopped like someone pressed pause. You turned toward the sound, just as he looked your way. The two of you catching each other in full view. He stepped into the light — black shirt stretched smooth over his chest, sleeves shoved up haphazardly, forearms marked with faint smudges of stencil ink and skin-safe gloves tucked into his back pocket. His hair was pushed back in some places and falling into his eyes in others.

He stalled for a beat before that unmistakable smile curved across his face. “Oh, color me impressed,” he said, voice dripping with a quiet edge of amusement, “look who wandered in.” Now you're sure, it's Sunghoon unmistakably. 

Of course he recognized you. That first conversation had practically scorched itself into his memory. That attitude, that mouth, that very specific expression you wore when you knew you were about to stir the pot — yeah, he’d remember you anywhere. He leaned a shoulder against the counter, relaxed but dialed in, eyes tracking over you. “You lost, or just window shopping?”

You crossed your arms, brows raised. “Maybe. Depends.”

He tilted his head, playing along. “On?”

“What your rates are.”

He chuckled, almost in disbelief. “Oh, you mean my qualifications?” he teased. Of course he also remembered how you tossed jabs at him without hesitations, like you weren't the least bit interested. He found it entertaining — charming, even. Most people shifted under his stare and silence, but you weren't intimidated in the slightest. And fuck, it made his pulse stir with hotter blood to all his body. 

With one hand braced on the counter, you step closer to him — not overtly, just enough to tilt the space between wonder and provocation. “Figured I’d let you plead your case.” you said with a sweet smile, a disarming contract with your constant sharp digs at him. Standing this near, your perfume wrapped around his senses — soft, sultry vanilla folded into warm amber — it slashes and stands out through the shadows of his dimly lit studio. Impossible to ignore, impossible not to follow. “It would be fun to see you trying to convince me.”

Behind the desk, Sunoo blinked like he was watching a game without knowing any of the rules — eyes darting between you and Sunghoon, trying to keep up.

Atlas, he spoke. “She’s with me, Sunoo.” he tossed over his shoulder, gaze locked on yours. His voice was casual, but there was something definite in it — like this wasn’t up for discussion. Then, he tilted his chin toward the back of the studio, already turning. “Come on in.”

“Wait — what about your break, Hoon?” Sunoo called after him.

He didn’t pause. “Didn’t sound that important.”

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… could tell you were very nervous but stubborn as hell, refusing to back down and leave the appointment. Honestly you’d bite down on your very last nerves before admitting to them. You told yourself it wasn’t faintheartedness, just anticipation. Still, you fidget your feet a little too rhythmically under the desk.

Sunghoon flipped open a thicker binder, one you didn't recognise. “Didn’t bring this with me last time at the expo,” he said, thumbing through the new crisp, clear plastic sleeves. He angled it toward you, letting you take in the pages — clean, intricate linework, delicate shading, wings layered with downy texture so light you could almost feel the breeze they’d stir, tiny motifs were tucked into the corners — pieces that felt personal, not just flash and filler. He showed you some ideas, some of his own favorites, pointing out a few softly as you turned the pages — he’s not pushing, just letting you find something that fits. 

He was hoping that by letting the art speak first, it might say what he wouldn’t — that the quiet weight of ink and pencil might calm your shaky hands better than any rushed reassurance.

You flipping slowly, simply at awe. The designs weren’t just good — his work is remarkable, impressive even. A thoughtful mix of fine-line florals, anatomical sketches, many abstract concepts that made you pause. “Okay,” you said after a moment. “You’re… actually decent.”

“A compliment needs to be dragged out of you, huh?”

“Wouldn’t want it to go to your head.” Even with your heart racing, you fired back your reply without missing a second. A low, knowing sound rumbles out of him — more breath than laugh, but still laced with an unbothered grin. He already knew not to take your deflections seriously.

You hovered over one of the more intricate pieces — fine lines, some soft texture, deceptively simple but elegant. Your jaw slackened just slightly, tension dropping from your shoulders. “That one,” you murmured, tapping the corner of the sketch with your finger. “I like it.”

His smile softened, the usual smugness dimming and settling into something genuine. “Yeah?” he said, already sliding the binder away with care. “We can do that one.” He laid the page flat on the table, smoothing the edges like the piece deserved gentleness now that it was yours to carry. “Okay. Next up — placement. Where were you thinking?”

You gestured towards your side, just above the curve of your hip. “Right here.”

He didn’t say anything at first. Instead, his eyes dropped, studying the spot you pointed to while shifting his weight to kneel in front of you — a better viewing angle. He moved with practiced efficiency, you could see the way his mind was already tracing invisible lines, envisioning how the piece would sit on your skin. He glanced at your hip through the tall mirror, head tilted in quiet concentration. “Are you sure you want it here? It’s a pretty sensitive spot.” he asked, gaze flicking up to meet yours in the reflection.

“That’s kind of the point.” You retorted, trying to sound assertive even as your pulse thudded a little faster where his gloved fingers hovered on your skin and clothes. He cocked a sly eyebrow, “you like making my job hard, don't you?” he taunted, already reaching for the stencil from his drawers.

You’d usually fire back with some clever, witty — or just something, anything — but right now, your confidence was slipping through your fingers like sand. Your nerves were successfully eating at your bones. Sitting on the edge of his tattoo bed, you focused on steadying the erratic rhythm of your pounding heart and quieting the whirlwinded breathing inside your chest.

“Wait!” You blurted before you could bite your tongue. Your eyes locked onto his, wide and a little vulnerable — like a deer caught in headlights. He froze instantly as he was putting on his black gloves, turning his full attention to you. Your voice barely a whisper now, betraying the jitters you couldn’t hide anymore, “what if I cry?”

He chuckled, an amused sound that made you realize you’d scared him for nothing. Shaking his head, he laid out his tools. “You won’t cry.”

“Glad you’re confident.”

He gave you a knowing smile, one that held reassurance. “More like experienced,” he corrected, fingers steady as he prepped the needle. “And don’t worry, I’ve got plenty of tissues ready to catch any tears.”

You huff and circle back to the tattoo bed, letting Sunghoon’s hand settle against your side again, warm through the glove. He guided you into position with a quiet sort of supervision, fingerspads pressing the stencil onto your skin. No wonder he pulled so many clients — it's the way he worked: every touch felt attentive, respectful, almost reverent. 

Eventually, everything was set. 

“Alright. Now, no moving.” He instructed before the machine buzzed to life behind him, the sound louder than you expected in the quiet of the room. You forced yourself not to flinch when the first drag of the needle caught on your skin — sharp, precise and blooming into heat beneath the surface. You frowned, fingers tightening reflexively on the edge of the bed, though it wasn’t exactly painful.

He stepped back, giving you space and letting it sink in. “Okay, first little line. How do you feel?”

You exhaled slowly. “It’s not so bad.”

“See? Knew you could handle it.”

A few more minutes passed, you stayed still — mostly. The sting was manageable now, but your muscles tensed every time he hit a new line. You squeezed your eyes shut, focusing on steadying your breath and tuning out the hum of the machine with his occasional soft swipe of his hand as he wiped ink from your skin. At one point, he must’ve pressed a little harder than usual, drawing a subtle wince from your lips. 

He pulled the needle off from your skin instantly, but the machine continued to buzz. “Shhh,” his voice filled with quiet encouragement. He placed a hand on the dip of your hips, the latex cool against you but the pressure’s gentle. “You’re doing great. Need a break?”

You shook your head, because stopping meant thinking and registering how close he was. “No. Keep going.” You weren’t sure what stung more: the tattoo or the way your brain wouldn’t shut up about the dip of his breath against your flushed skin, the smell of his cologne, the steady heaviness of his hands…

By the time he finished, you felt completely drained and wrung out; but underneath it all is a hushed sense of pride swelled in your chest. You did it — body spinning and a little sore, but also... content. When he started cleaning the freshly inked skin, you expected him to be methodical, yes — pieces like his needed coherent structured aftercare — but you didn't expect him to be so tender, like he cared just as much about the healing as the art itself. 

As he rubs the ointment over your skin, he glances up from under his brow. “Now stay out of the sun, alright?” He tuts as he starts wrapping you, “no matter how cute your dress is.” 

“Didn’t know you were keeping tabs on my wardrobe.”

“Someone’s gotta keep an eye on trouble like you.” He said with a low voice that’s effortlessly magnetic, that unexpectedly curls and sinks in your stomach. He nodded toward the exit of his station, he drawled — smug as sin, “now move it, pretty.” You heard him say before his hefty boots thudded against the studio floor, each step was louder over your skipping heartbeats. 

With Sunoo chatting away at the front desk, you dug into your bag and pulled out your wallet, already bracing for the damage to your bank account. “So… how much is it?” You asked cautiously. Before Sunoo could answer, Sunghoon cuts in, ginning like a cat with playful intent. “Consultations are free.” 

Wait, what? Your brows furrowed, confusion flickering through your thoughts. “I wasn’t here for a consultation.”

He shrugged as he peeled off his gloves, fingers flexing like an artist unwinding. “Still not charging you.”

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… keeps seeing you show up at the shop’s doors again and again, session after session — each time with a new design in mind, always requesting him by name. You two pretend it’s about work and business, but he secretly scans the booking sheet every morning, searching for your name.

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who…  should be taking those rare moments between appointments to rest, to stretch his back, close his eyes — but instead he sketches extra pieces with you in mind. Spontaneous ideas and designs he hoped might catch your eye if you happened to walk in unannounced and need something fresh on the spot, like always. That familiar impulsive spark in your eyes when you see something new, just before kicking off your shoes, pulling up your sleeves, and saying, “put it here,” like your body was made to wear his work? It never got old to him. It only urged him more to create something just for you, right then and there.

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… listens — really listens — during appointments. He’s careful with his hands on you but focused with his ears, eyes occasionally flicking up from your plush skin to catch the way your soft, glossed lips move when you talk. You tell him about your job, your playlist, the dumb thing your roommate did this morning. Whatever it is, he would listen and drink in every word like it’s the most important thing in the room.

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… says he doesn’t play favorites, but Soobin knows better. There is always a saved slot in his schedule, open and waiting just for you.  

All those new tattoos you got are starting to heal, the skin still tender but the ink already vivid and alive. Today, you find yourself back in the studio again — partly to show him how well they’re mending, but mostly because it’s a perfect excuse to see him again. You roll up your shirt sleeve just enough to let the soft studio light catch the crisp, healed lines of your latest piece. The delicate shading and fine details seem to glow under the light of the overhead lamp.

Sunghoon leans in, careful not to touch but his eyes skim over you with an artist’s meticulous attention — focused, assessing, appreciative. “You did a good job taking care of it.” He hummed with approval. 

“I was under strict instructions.”

“You follow orders well when you want to, huh?”

You rolled your eyes, letting your sleeve fall back into place. “You're such a pain in the ass.”

He gave you that look — the one laced with amusement and the tiniest spark of challenge — as he stepped in close, the scent of clean skin and aftershave curling right into your space. “Takes one to know one, brat.” He whispered against the shell of your ear like velvet, only wanting you to hear it, before a sharp smack against your ass just bold enough to make you jolt. 

You flinched as your breath caught on, but didn’t move away. If anything, your spine straightened, warmth flooding your cheeks — not from embarrassment, but from how easy it was to feel seen by him. Teased and tracked down with ease. He was already turning back like nothing happened, resuming his work with maddening facility. 

His smile was still there. That smug, irresistible thing he wore whenever he got the upper hand. Equal parts infuriating and unfair — the kind of smile that made you want to throw something at his head… or drag him into the nearest empty room.

Depending on the day, or depending on the hour… hell, maybe even depending on the next breath.

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… keeps a slim, black portfolio near the front desk with Sunoo — tucked neatly beside the appointment book and labeled ‘designs just for Y/N’ in his own handwriting. 

It’s not official like the other portfolios are, but not something he offers anyone else. Frankly, you’ve come in enough times now, asked enough questions, changed your mind last minute, circled back with new ideas — that he’s kept track of every single one, filing them in his head first then later on paper. 

It's simply a personal archive of you and your style, your taste, the placement ideas you've wavered on, sketches he’s made on a whim because ‘it just reminded me of you’. You caught that portfolio once, half-hidden under a clipboard when Sunoo moved it aside looking for a pen. You blinked at the familiar sketch on the top page — something you’d rambled about weeks ago.

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… always puts on your playlist before tattooing you. You’d mentioned offhand what you liked to listen to when you’re on edge — and the next session, he already had them queued as the needle buzzed. Soft synths, sugary vocals, crooning through the shop speakers. A little Sabrina Carpenter, some Ariana thrown in like glitter, and Janet Jackson rounding it out with groove-heavy nostalgia. 

In fact, the second he sees your name on his day’s schedule, he’s already switching playlists. Even before you walk through the door, your playlist is bleeding through the shop’s speakers. And by now, the others have caught on. Sunoo groans from the front like clockwork. “I swear I’ve heard this ‘Dandelion’ song twelve times this week.”

“She’s not even here yet,” Soobin deadpans from his station. “Are you tattooing her or summoning her?”

Sunghoon would just say it's about atmosphere or client comfort, pretending it’s clinical. What they don’t know is that sometimes, when the studio is empty and the floor's dead quiet… he plays it anyway. Late at night, he would be sketching under low light, nodding his head while his studio bathed in your soft pop hooks. It’s the kind of music he’d never put on himself, but in his eyes, it makes the wait between your bookings feel a little shorter. 

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… wasn't kidding about that portfolio labelled ‘designs just for Y/N’. 

When other clients flip through his books and want something from your folder — the linework catches their eye, or the subject matter hits just right — Sunghoon doesn't hesitate. “Oh, that one?” he’ll say, all polite charm. “Sorry, that’s reserved for my girl.” 

It doesn’t matter if they offer double, triple, if they pout, beg, or pull the whole ‘but I’ll change it a little’ routine. He stays unmoved, like it's a rule. “Nah,” he’ll say easily. “It's priceless. Pick something else.” 

Honestly? He knows you’re not going to get all of them inked. He’s drawn more for you than your skin could ever hold. Pieces too large for what you asked, too delicate for your usual style. But the point is that they’re yours and not for sale. Every curl of linework, every intricate design, every bit of blooming ink — made with your name already stamped on it — in his head and heart, that is.

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… is a sweet boy in disguise. A buff lover boy in a compression tee, really. When he’s laser focused on his work or deep in his own thoughts, his brow naturally furrows into what most people mistake for a glare of doom.

People who come in and out of the building are terrified of him sometimes, giving him a wide berth. Not because he’s ever actually rude — but because his default face just... looks agitated. Like he's already halfway through plotting something violent. You found this out the hard way when Jake pulled you aside one afternoon. He glanced over his shoulder, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Hey, uh… is he mad at me?” 

You blinked. “Who?”

“Sunghoon,” Jake said, like it should’ve been obvious. “He’s always squinting at me — like glaring at me. I swear I didn’t do anything.”

You raised an eyebrow, still confused. “Why would he be mad at you?”

Jake shrugged. “I don’t know? I just… came to see my girlfriend upstairs. She is working this weekend. But every time I walked through, he looked at me like I keyed his car or something.”

You bit back a smile — because it was silly — how that man who barely spoke more than a few words but always noticed the little things, could look so fierce without meaning to. Jake wasn’t even a client of his. And still, Sunghoon noticed and locked him, involuntary of course. You laughed and decided it was time to intervene. You walked straight over to Sunghoon, who was at his station, bent over a sketch, brow furrowed and lips pressed in a line — maximum concentration. “Relax your face, grump.” You said, voice lilting as you nudged his shoulder.

He looked up, caught off guard like coming out of a fog. “Huh?”

“You’re scaring people again.” 

He cracked a sheepish smile, stretching his brows upward, deliberately exaggerated, until they arched like a cartoon character caught off guard before relaxing them. “Better?” 

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… lets you hang out at the studio after hours and pretend you’re just ‘browsing flash tattoos’, but really you’re stalling and he’s hoping you’ll stay a little longer.

The studio is quiet now — the droning of the machines long gone, the fluorescent lights switched off except for a single dim lamp on his desk casting soft shadows across the room. It feels more like a secret hideout than a workplace right now. The air still carries the metallic bite of ink and antiseptic, but under it mingles a faint trace of the cologne you once bought him — the very same one he struggled to pick out himself, so you took matters into your own hands, grinning as you said, “now i own your smell, you can’t escape me.” — it’s a scent he only wears when you’re around.

You sat perched on his desk while swinging your legs slightly, the vinyl cool against the backs of your bare thighs. He stood between your knees, hands planted firmly on the table behind you, subtly caging you in. He’s close enough to count your breaths, the heat of his body seeping into yours. He held your gaze with that familiar quiet intensity — a little fierce, a little soft — as his face tilted down. Lips so close you can feel the words before hearing them, close enough to test the space.

“You know,” his voice lowered with fake reprimand. “I should probably kick you out right now.”

With that slow, stubborn smile — half-angel, half-trouble — the way you always do with him, you toss back, “then why haven’t you?”

His eyes drop to your lips like it’s muscle memory — something he can’t help. A few strands of hair fall across his forehead, softening the edge of his usual cold expression. Then, almost like gravity made the choice for him, he leans in. The kiss came slow, almost tentative at first. His mouth brushed against yours with a gentleness that matched everything about the way he carried himself: it was mellow, patient.

When he finally pulls back, it’s only an inch — close enough that you still feel the warmth of him, his breath fanning over your cheek. His hands stay where they are, resting on either side of your waist. His eyes flicker between yours, searching for something — maybe trying to gauge if it’s too much, too soon. “I like you,” he admits, the words small and stupidly sincere, almost shy, “like… a lot.”

Your heart is doing laps in your chest at this point, chaotic and embarrassing from his kiss and his confession. But your mouth is still working overtime to keep your pride intact — still as stubborn as a mule. “Took you long enough,” your voice came out breathless, “I was starting to think I’d have to tattoo it on your forehead.”

He lets out a laugh as he shakes his head, eyes squinting just slightly — both exasperated and completely smitten. His fingers curl deeper around your waist, drawing you in even closer until your inner thigh bumps his hips. “Mouthy even when you’re swooning,” he cooed, nose brushing yours. “C’mere.”

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… never minds when you steal his iPad and start doodling absolute nonsense on it — crooked stars and hearts, a sword with a bow tied to the handle, angry little frogs, a tiny cartoon him with hearts eyes and a caption underneath that reads ‘cranky tattoo boy’. He never deletes any of it, in fact he saves them. All of them. One quiet evening, while you’re curled up sideways on a worn chair in the waiting area, and he’s finishing up with a walk-in client, you accidentally stumble across a hidden folder in his files. Originally labeled ‘better than Soobin’s’, it’s now been quietly renamed to ‘not mine but mine’.

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… only ever books you in at the end of the day — last appointment, every time. 

He would dim the lights low, put on your favorite playlist, and tell the rest of the shop to head out early. It's the time of day where no other clients with wandering eyes linger around. He never said it outright, but you noticed how Sunoo was always slipping on his jacket when you came in and Soobin’s already gone. 

After all, when it comes to you, he wants to take his time. He doesn’t rush, he never does with you. “I want to focus on you.” He’d say simply. No distractions, no one else in the room to see the way your shirt rides up, or how your lashes flutter when the needle hums to life. 

“You just want me all to yourself, don’t you?” you teased one night, reclining back slightly with a smirk dancing on your lips, trying not to show how flustered his attention made you. He leaned in then, gloved fingers brushing your waist as he adjusted your posture, “damn right I do.”

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… tells you not to get tattooed by anyone else. Not just because he’s confident in his work (which he is, to a borderline arrogant degree) but because the idea of someone else — especially another guy — leaning in close, pulling at your clothes, touching your skin, mapping it like it’s theirs to read, marking you? Yeah, no. Absolutely not.

He’d never say that part out loud. Not directly, anyway. Sometimes he’s subtle about it and say things like, “most of them don’t even know how to line properly. I’ve seen it. Plus, the places they chose are too shallow — you'd be lucky if that thing lasts the year. You’d regret it.” 

Other times... less so. You once mentioned a different artist in passing — someone you'd bookmarked on Instagram in passing — he didn't even bother to hide his reaction. “That placement? From him?” Sunghoon wrinkled his nose in disgust, “symmetry’s garbage.” Maybe he’s right, but deep down, you know it’s not just about technique. It’s about you: your skin, your time, your attention.

One day after finishing work, you sprawled out on the cracked leather lounge chair near the front desk, your legs draped over the arm, idly flipping through your portfolio — the thickest binder in the shop by far. Across the studio, Sunghoon was bent over his iPad at his workstation, scribbling away with his habitual furrow in his brow. His whole posture was tight, head low, wide shoulder blades flexing beneath the fabric of his shirt. He's the perfect picture of hyper-focused dedication.

However, you were in the mood to poke the bear. “Hmm,” you hummed, just loud enough for him to hear. “Maybe I’ll let Soobin do the next one. Y’know… just to switch it up.”

The scratching of the stylus on glass stopped. He didn’t turn around right away, just tapped the pen against the screen once, twice. When he finally spoke, his voice came out light, too light, “yeah?” A smirk of victory came to your face, oh, you hit a nerve in no time. He didn’t stop, “you in the mood for crooked lines and shaky hands now?” 

You bit down on your smile. “So dramatic.”

Still not looking at you, but his next words came with a quiet edge. “Just make sure he spells everything right. Would be a shame if your skin got stuck with a typo.”

You snorted, Soobin wouldn't be his coworker — let alone his friend — if Sunghoon didn’t respect his work. “He’s good, you know that.” 

Finally — finally — he turned, slowly and lazily. One elbow propped on the armrest of his chair, head tilted slightly, eyes dragging over you like he was daring you to keep going. Like your comment hadn’t just lit a fuse in his chest. “Sure,” he said, smile curling, sharp and toothy. “Go ahead. Let Soobin ink you.”

You raised a brow, testing him further. “Really?”

“I’ll just tattoo over it, babe.”

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… has coworkers who all know exactly who you are the second you walk through the door. 

Sunoo’s already sliding the clipboard off the counter before you reach the front desk. “Before you ask,” he says, eyes glued to his phone, like he’s done this a thousand times. “Yes, Hoon’s with a client.” And without missing a beat, you smile at him, “I know,” as you skip through the hallway like you own the place — because, at this point, you kind of do. 

You slip into the chair in the far back corner — the one you’ve only recently started calling yours. After weeks of perching on counters, switching seats, and pretending not to hover, you’ve finally landed here. It’s tucked just close enough to Sunghoon’s station that you can hear the hum of his machine and the low tone of his voice when he speaks to a client. You don’t interrupt, just sit and wait, content to exist in his orbit.

 And Sunghoon? He’s mid-session, black gloves tight over steady hands, eyes narrowed in concentration as he lines a delicate design into the crook of someone’s arm. But the second he hears your voice from the front — muffled but familiar beneath the quiet music and the buzz of his machine — something in his jaw eases. The tension he didn’t even know he was holding unspools. His lips twitch into the barest smile, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it shift. Like somehow, your presence tilts his day back into place.

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… can’t help but get a little messy when it comes to you — filthy hands, filthier mouth, mess all over you and him.

The rest of the night after your chest tattoo — a new piece you’d been craving for weeks, high on your sternum just above your heart — wasn’t the easiest to say the least. At home, he got you sat perched on the kitchen island while your tattoo sat nestled between your breasts, a fresh red and wrapped in cling film. 

He moved around the kitchen, pulling things from drawers, heating the kettle. Maybe for tea, maybe to clean your tattoo again. You don’t know and you couldn't care less. You watch the way his forearms move under the soft sleeve of his shirt, the faint sheen on his skin where sweat clings just barely, proof of the hours he spent bent over you. His hands are steady as ever, even now — long fingers, inked knuckles, clean palms wiping absentmindedly against a towel slung over his shoulder. You try not to stare — really, you do — but it’s hopeless. 

He looks irresistible like this — domestic, tired, hair a mess, still smelling faintly of  that sterile scent but mostly of his musk with soft tobacco — like he hasn’t just spent the entire evening memorizing the curves of your chest. There’s something about seeing him like this, worn down but glowing faintly in the soft kitchen light, that sends heat skimming along your spine.

You shift without meaning to, thighs pressing together as if that will help your leaking throb on the cold table. The squirming made the cling film crinkle slightly against your skin, which in turn made his eyes glance over — checking in on you. It was enough to catch the sight of your knees drawing inward in a pressing motion. 

He stops in front of you to rest a hand on your knee — a solid grip that burns nonetheless. "You okay?" he asks, voice’s a little worn around the edges from the long day, but still gentle with you. His thumb traces slow circles on your thigh, featherlight. 

You nod, eyes flicking away for half a second. “Just tired.” That was your first lie of the night. You’re many things at this current moment — sore, burning,  aching, buzzing from endorphins — but mostly? Restless, overwounded, and so, so frustrated. He’d been alluring and riling you up the whole time during the tattoo session — and the kicker? The worst part? He wasn't even doing it intentionally. He was endlessly tolerant, and kind in every little way.

However, from the way you’re acting… you’d think he’d performed open-heart surgery instead of tattooing your chest. 

The pressure was stirring harder as your mind replayed every movement of his fingers on your skin, Every gentle press of the needle, every low instruction, his sultry breath close as he's tattooing you or speaking to you, “breathe for me, baby, I’ve got you” and “Almost there…” and “I need you to relax and open up for me” . You didn't even know a voice could do that to you, or that a touch could stay burned into your nerve endings. You got up from the tattoo bed damped and with wobbly knees — he just mistook it for post-tattoos faintness. 

He tilts his head a little with a furrow between his brows. "You’re all red, baby," he murmurs, genuinely sounding concerned. His eyes rake over you — taking in your flushed skin, the glazed, unfocused look in your eyes, the slight parting of your lips as you keep swallowing the wet heat pooling in your mouth, struggling to keep your breathing quiet. The air between you two stretched like elastic, threatening to snap like a live wire. 

Then his hand lifts, palms are a little cold as it settles a press against your warm cheeks. “Hm,” he hums, thumb brushing along the bone beneath your eye before trailing lower. His touch slips down to the curve of your jaw, then your throat, where he pauses, pressing the backs of his fingers lightly to your neck — like he’s checking your temperature. "You got a fever?" 

No, but technically, yes. Your temperature is up. But not from sickness, or any flu or cold. It’s him and everything he’s doing to you now and earlier. The weight of him, the scent of him. The soft silken hands, the sweet honeyed voice. The way he’s close enough to kiss. That thumb trail back up to your cheek again, prompting you to speak. Your fuzzy eyes scan his face, “I…” You trailed off, really trying. 

He leans in closer, lips barely grazing the skin of your jaw,  his stubble catches on your delicate skin leaves a heat that makes your thighs twitch. You're pretty sure this stopped being about your temperature fairly quickly. “You what, baby?" His lips now are just millimeters from yours. "Hm?"

You rock your hips where you sit, beats pulsating at the base of your throat. The kitchen suddenly feels too bright, too quiet, too charged all at once. You could kiss him, you could beg him but you were unyielding. It is unfair how he gets to break you to pieces, and he’s blissfully unaware. “Fuck — you’re mean.” You whisper your second lie. 

It makes him pause before laughing — that low, gorgeous boyish laugh, bubbling up from somewhere deep in his chest which vibrates in your ribs before it even reaches your ears. A slow smile spreads across his face as his fit dies down. “I’m mean, huh?” He echoes, voice gravel-soft, rasp when you’re this — open and so easy to read — it’s almost cruel to you. His mouth is everywhere but where you want it most, making you lean backwards on the island, hoping he gets the message. And Oh he does, but he's savoring the control and not giving in yet. “We both know that’s not true.” 

He cradles you like an fucking angel — weather in or out of bed, his attentiveness never falter. Even in the thick of it, when your heart is frantic and your thoughts scatter like smoke — he's attuned to every shiver, never forgetting to care for you. Always patiently devoted. 

A kiss was pressed just beneath the cling wrap framing your still-tender tattoo. The warmth of his mouth soothes and sparks at once, each brush of his lips prudent but intentional. He knows how sore you are — which spots are raw, which are sensitive. “If I was mean, I wouldn’t have spent three hours working between those pretty tits.” He says before kissing lower, the cold metal of his chain brushing your belly. “Could’ve sworn I kissed every spot that made you flinch.”

“You teased the hell out of me the entire time,” you argued, your words barely carrying any weight — they’re more like an acknowledgement than an accusation. You mewl as his mouth lifts again and bites just above the fresh ink, just enough to make you jolt and arch into him. The pain is deliciously light, fleeting and dances on the edge of your ache. You feel his breath puff out against your skin before the stretch of a smile you can’t see as you're laid down on the kitchen island, but know all too well. “Did I?” His voice was too assured, too amused by the view. “Is that why you look so fucked out right now?”

Before you can respond, his palm is already sliding between your thighs to your needy, deprived cunt through your shorts. His knuckles dragging just right, his fingers cupping you with practiced ease. It’s not even skin on skin yet you feel your whole body lean into the contact. You tilt your head instinctively towards him as he noses along your neck — your body’s already surrendering and greedy for more.

“This pretty pussy missed me? Is that it?” he mutters, voice dipping into something actually mean. Now he's just being vulgar. You bite your lip, thighs trying to clamp shut again, but his firm hand keeps them open. “Don’t pout,” he mocks, soft but cutting as his lips ghost your ear. “She’s the one asking for it. Not me.”

You keen as your heart skitters, your hips grind ever so slightly against his hand. You’re restless now, burning up from the inside out, your body practically vibrating with impatience. This friction is simply not enough for what he accidently started at the studio. “I’ve had better from my vibrator,” you threw back, getting reckless but your third lie crackling in the space between you. “Either you fuck me or I’ll finish the job myself.” 

It's a bold, hard bait. You both know it. Because toys? You tossed them the morning after your first night with him — nothing’s ever felt like him since, not even close.

He just smiles, he knows exactly what game you’re playing — and he’s already winning. He leans in and kisses you, savoring something sweet that he earned. His mouth parts against yours, warm and coaxing, his tongue sweeping slowly across your bottom lip — licking into the kiss like it’s sugar. “Mm,” he hums, voice low against your mouth, “tastes even better when you’re bratty.”

The halt of his hands left you empty, twitching. Your legs instantly hook around his waist, pulling him to you with a strength you didn’t know you still had. “Don’t you dare stop,” you whisper, voice shredded and near a desperate whine. “But I thought I was mean,” the words dripped with feigning offense. He tilts his head like he’s genuinely considering it — oh, this asshole — gaze burning through your skin like a slow drag of heat. "Aren't I?”

Your lips are kiss-bruised, your body nothing but limp nerves and need.  “I’m sorry,” you gasp, the words breaking on your tongue. “I’m sorry.” It’s humiliating how pliant you’ve become. How quickly he’s undone you. You know he’ll hold this out until he drags it out from your lips. His palm finds the curve of your ass again as he squeezes, fingers digging in just to hear the sound you’d make. “For what?” He croons. “You know I don’t take empty apologies.”

“For…”you whisper, barely above a breath. “Calling you mean.” You finish off, sounds small coming from you, mustering the best helpless, heart-melting gaze you could give him.

He smiles down on you — fond, wicked and satisfied. "Now how could I ever say no to that face?” 

The space between you disappears, every touch setting fire to the air around you — and just like that, you’re lost to the wild rhythm that’s been building all evening. His hand moves to your lower belly, fingers splayed wide as he groans, feeling just how deeply he fits in you — needing to remind you, wanting you to keep remembering him. 

“Keep testing me,” he pants as his hips thrusts hard enough for his tip to nudge your cervix, “and I’ll tame you all the same.” The kiss that follows was sloppy, possessive regardless, before breathing against your mouth like a promise he will keep, "I’ll fuck it back in if I have to."

You believe him, he's a man of his word after all.

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who…  you end up feeding more than yourself whenever you show up with lunch. 

Many times find him hunched over the inner curve of his own bicep, tattooing something new — a design you recognize as yours because it’s always about you lately. “Just a sec, babe.” He’d say without looking up, his needle continued to dance above his skin. He’s used to you being part of his space — like the sound of your footsteps is just another thing he learned to listen for. He doesn’t need a glance, he just knows it’s you. 

You cross the floor in soft steps, careful not to bump the tray as you set the drinks down gently on the side table next to him. You reach out — just your fingertips, brushing the inside of his forearm, light enough to ask without interrupting his flow.

That’s all it takes: he stops immediately and sets the machine down. “Okay, okay,” he surrenders with a breathy chuckle, finally looking up. “Gimme a bite.” You laugh softly, fishing out his plate before holding the fork out to him like you’ve done it a hundred times. He leans in carefully, making sure his ink-stained hands don’t brush against you, and takes the bite with a small, pleased hum, “God, you always bring the best shit.”

“I’m starting to think you only keep me around for lunch.” You giggled, holding out another spoonful toward his waiting mouth. His chewing stops to raise a brow at you, “only?” He echoed before shaking his head, “you’re underestimating how greedy I am when it comes to you.”

Your hands feed him, his hands ink you. It’s balanced, really.

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… keeps a blanket just for you at the studio, folded neatly over the back of your chair…

There’s also a mini fridge in the corner near his station, tucked behind his rolling cart of inks and sterile packs. It has your favorite drinks — not just one or two, but full color-coded rows of the exact brand and flavor you always reach for. You’ve never seen it empty. And the snack cart? Off-limits, everyone knows that. Sunoo even calls it your ‘VIP buffet’. One time Soobin tried grabbing a granola bar without asking, he got hit with a look that could have curdled milk from Hoon.

Then there is THE drawer… the second one from the bottom. You didn’t even know about it at first. It wasn’t until you opened it one day looking for a charger, finding that it’s filled with little pieces of you: the lip balm you left behind once, now replaced in multiples. The hair ties you always lose. Two packs of your favorite gum. Advil. Bandaids. A fresh pair of socks. A mini mirror. Two kinds of heat patches and endless period supplies. He never made a show of it, never pointed it out or bragged. because to him, it's the bare minimum.

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… believes in a lot of aftercare — after tattoos and after sex. 

Quiet attentiveness stitched into his every movement. He keeps your sunscreen and creams in his drawer next to his own supplies, always warming it between his fingers before applying it to your skin with slow, gentle strokes that border on devotional. “Gotta protect my work.” He’d say as his hands — large, ring-heavy, deceptively skilled — move the same way they do when he inks you: careful but softer now, if that's even possible. 

“Sealing it in,” he’d mutter against your neck, leaving a kiss behind your ear as his tattooed knuckles ghost over your thighs. The pads of his fingertips trace over fading patches of blush pink, soft imprints on you from hours of being tangled in his sheets. If you’ve still got enough energy to tease, you would respond, “the ink or yourself?” With a voice that’s sleep-drunk and worn out. His digits pause where they’re stroking your skin, like he wants you to really hear it. Then, with a kiss just above your hip, “both.”

After a long night  — whether spent beneath the sharp hum of his tattoo machine or laid in the burning friction of his mattress — when you're all skin-warm, sore and sleepy, he tucks you into his bed. His fingers trace the edges of the piece he inked the week before, still not over how stunning it looks on you. His mouth follows with cloud-soft kisses, “this one’s my favorite,” he’d whisper against your skin, awe in his voice. He says this about every single one, just before biting near the skin — gentle but playful, just enough to make you stir under his blankets… then plants another kiss on another tattoo. “Fuck — actually, they’re all my favorite.”

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… you notice doesn’t really do social media.

He doesnt have a personal insta account, no twitter, no stories of what he’s eating or where he’s going. Just that one business insta page where he shares his work. Clean, minimal, clinical even — at first glance that is. If you scroll through, it becomes obvious real fast who is his muse. He tags you every time, on every post — like a quiet brag to the world.

Regardless, your tattoos show up on his grid more than anyone else’s — close-ups of healed ink on skin his hands have memorized, shots of stencils across your ribs, your wrist, your spine. A favorite of his is the one where your head’s tilted down, hair pulled to the side, and the caption just says, “healed perfectly”. Once you two started dating, he stopped posting other clients unless it’s a joint project, a convention promo, or something contractual. 

Every new design sketch he uploads sparks the same responses from his followers: “let me guess — hers?”, “you’re not even subtle anymore and I respect that”, “at this point just tattoo ‘in love’ on your forehead”. And they’re never wrong, he just likes the comments. 

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… is always hustling to grow his business — his books are full three months out, getting DMs from big-name shops across the country, running on fumes and his sketchbook’s overflowing with new concepts. Which means traveling for guest spots, conventions, and collaborations. He’ll do them — but not without you. He can’t imagine going without you. “Every time I travel with you,” he’d admit, “it feels less like work.”

At the airport, he's navigating terminals, checking bags, scanning the board without ever letting go of you. You’d think he worked TSA or he was a luggage concierge by the way he handles both your carry-ons, slinging them over one shoulder, his own gear already strapped tight to his back. When you reach for one, trying to lighten the load — he just flicks his eyes over at you and scoffs, “you think I’m gonna let you haul your own shit while I’m here? Not happening.”

One hand always hovers at your back, guiding you through crowds with quiet certainty. He opens doors, stands between you and the rush of bodies, pulls you into his side when lines stall or flights delay. His palm finds yours mid-escalator, thumb tracing idle circles against your knuckles.

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… lets you talk him into getting a tattoo to commemorate the trip. 

He pretends to roll his eyes when you beg with a smile, but he gives in faster than he wants to admit. When you both walk into the unfamiliar shop — your excitement bubbles, while his focus sharpens. His eyes don't stay still from the moment you step in, they flick across the room, landing on every tray, every stencil, every move the artist makes. He’s calm on the surface — but you know that look. That slight pinch between his brows? That’s scrutiny. He's already reworking the design in his head long before the needle even hits your skin.

When the fresh tattoo is covered in wrap and still tingling across your skin, he finally lets it out. “I could’ve made it a hundred times better,” he grumbles, bitter. You laugh, kissing his cheek, but the glint in his eye says he’s not joking.

Later, in your hotel room, it doesn’t take long before the air is thick and humid with sweat, steam, and whatever lingering tension hadn’t been fucked out of you yet. He’s bottomed out — missionary, the classic, favorite way — that’s how Sunghoon likes to indulge his so-called ‘attention to detail’, but you know better. You call it what it is: jealousy. Yet, he always fucks like he’s working on something permanent. 

Your thighs and poor cunt are still sticky and full from the last couple of times he came, coating your insides with his thick, cream colored load. You hadn’t even finished coming down from your own orgasms before he was pumping back in, fucking his own cum deeper, muttering something about ‘layering technique’. He’s fucking like he’s building something inside you again — not just pleasure, but proof. His body pushes in close, lips brushing your neck. “Next one’s mine,” he mutters, lips grazing your skin. “Gotta fix the symmetry.”

You reach for a comeback — but you cannot answer properly, not with the way you’re gasping. All you manage is a strangled, breathy whimper that doesn’t sound anything like defiance. You’re too gone to be smug, too full to be sharp. Sunghoon knows it, he hasn't given you a moment to recover like usual. Every time you try to meet his thrusts, he changes the tempo — faster when you chase slow, meaner when you try to melt. It’s not just overwhelming or rough. It’s strategic, ruinous stuffing. 

When he hears no response, you find your wrists clasped low together in his hands and held right between your bodies. Your arms arch like some devotional offering while your palms rest against the edge of his V-line — sticky from saliva, tears and most probably both of your cum. The new position pushes the fluff of your chest towards him, giving him an unguarded, full view. He knows he doesn’t need ropes or cuffs when it comes to you — just patience, you’ll puddle in his hands eventually. His voice brushes your ear, dark and velvet-rough. “Do I make myself clear?”

You nod, that’s all you can really do when you're cockdrunk and pliant. Your lips won’t form real words anymore, your eyes glassy and wide, clinging to him like gravity might flicker if you let go. His hips roll — agonizingly steady — hitting places inside you that make your body seize and melt all at once. Your cunt is such a tight fit even while trying to accommodate his size, hypersensitive but insatiable. The sound between your bodies is obscene — wet, slick, loud enough to echo. Like he’s stirring up everything he already gave you, then asking for more.

“You’re too big,” you mewled, voice cracking on a whimper as your walls trembles around him. It slips out before you can help it — overwhelmed, stretched, aching in all the sweetest way. “Yeah?” he groaned, his cock’s the one doing the thinking for him now. One hand gripping your thigh, the other steadying your waist. “Then why’s she taking me so well? Mh?” The words tumbled out of him, cuntstruck for sure. 

Nails rake down his back, dragging enough to leave angry pink lines, enough to make him hiss — but he doesn’t falter. “I’m coming again — baby, please —” You blabbled, you’re fucked dumb to say the least, mind all fuzzy. You barely register your own voice until you’re begging again until your limbs shake, your head lolls: you’re unraveling all over again.

“There she is,” He whispers against your mouth as you cling to him, his voice maddeningly calm with smug precision. “There’s my good girl.” He’s still moving — slow now, cruelly slow — like your pussy isn’t clenching from being used up, like your body isn’t begging for mercy and more at the same time.

You don’t realize you’re crying until his thumb sweeps under your eye, brushing away tears. “Want me to stop, baby?” he asks softly, mouth pressing to your cheekbone. You manage to whimper out the cutest “no”, your arms curling around his neck tighter. He hums to your response as he kisses the corner of the corner of your damp lashes, then your nose, your jaw. “You’re doing so good. So fuckin’ sweet like this.”

You feel him twitch inside you for the nth time tonight — still hard, still wanting and insistent. He’s still not done and simply insatiable.

He pulls out just enough to look down between your warmed bodies — where his cum leaks out like syrup, glossy against your folds and thighs. “One more time, baby?” He breathed as he ran two fingers through your slit, catching some of his release and yours before lazily pushing it back in. You just nod, lower lip trembling, hips shifting up to meet him again. “Yeah? Wanna make sure it sticks.”

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… known for his sharp lines and darker motifs, yet secretly enters one of your sketches into a mixed media show. 

It’s the dumb little doodle you made one night when he was too focused on a client to notice you snatching his iPad. You’d been swinging your legs at the edge of his table, nibbling on leftover takeout when you sketched a wide-eyed Kuromi and a permanently grumpy Badtz-Maru —  insisting they looked just like the two of you.

He had saved it like usual, but now it's in a goddamn gallery. The night of the exhibit, you’re drifting from one of his pieces to another — all dark strokes and matte finishes, monochrome palettes and heavy emotion. His work stands out even here: each one meticulously composed, a perfect reflection of his precision and control. You’re halfway through reading a small placard beside one of his more abstract designs when you round the corner — and you stop short.

There it is, your sketch. Projected ten feet tall against a clean white wall. It’s so… stupidly soft. Next to his broody, moody pieces., your favorite shade of pink is practically glowing. It’s surrounded by charcoal realism and shadowplay canvases — and it shines like someone hung valentine decorations in a haunted house. Your jaw drops, “you absolute ass,” you whispered, swatting his arm — not out of anger, but because your heart is doing too much. He’d smiled back like a boy caught red-handed. 

Later, in the stairwell — just past the main exhibit space, where the bustle of the crowd fades into the hush of polished concrete and gallery-glow — you finally get him alone. You kiss him hard like the whole night’s been leading to it, the projects on that wall have rewired something in you. Your hands tangle in his hair, fingertips skimming the tattoo behind his ears, pulling just enough to make him groan low into your mouth. It isn’t teasing — it’s gratitude, awe, longing pressed into the seam of your lips as he exhales into you like you’re the only oxygen he wants. You don’t even know how long you’re pressed up against that stairwell wall with hearts thudding out of sync.

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… insists on covering your nail appointments like it’s not even a conversation, “you use those hands to feed me, the least I can do is keep 'em cute.” He’d say, already sending the transfer. 

He’d also tag along every time, no matter how booked his week is. At first, he sits beside you and observes: legs spread wide, arms crossed, eyes sweeping the space like a bored security guard. The buzz of the nail drill hums under your laughter and the back-and-forth chatter you and your nail tech have built over months of soft girl gossip and inside jokes. 

But soon enough, he starts to sink. The rhythm of your voice, the occasional brush of your fingers on his thigh between sets… it all lulls him. You glance over — and sure enough — his head’s tipped back against the wall, arms relaxed now with soft snores ghosting past parted lips. 

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… is a man who only has two modes: working or with you… sometimes both at once. 

The studio’s quiet after hours have set in, the buzz of machines long faded with the low music. You’d started the night talking to him between sessions and clients, curled up on your chair with legs pulled up under you. But now… your head’s tilted against the armrest, eyes fluttering closed every few minutes. You’re not even pretending to stay awake anymore. Still, mid-line work, mid-shading — doesn’t matter — he’d glance over constantly to check up on you.

By the time his last client leaves — a long appointment, full sleeve, his shoulders were tight with fatigue at the end — but he’s already moving toward you. He crouches beside the chair, one knee to the floor, just to be eye level when he gently brushes a few strands of hair off your cheek. “Hey,” he murmurs, voice gravel-soft from hours of talking, “let’s get you home, baby.” You’ve done this two nights in a row already: waiting up on him, staying past closing time with the very last client, eyes droopy with sleep but never leaving him.

The keys jingle as he shuts the door behind you, then leans in to press a kiss to your forehead and your drowsy pout. It’s like the last thing on his list that he refuses to skip, no matter how tired he is. “Studio’s always open for you. Couch too.” He murmurs, thumb tracing the curve of your cheek, “but next time, just go home, yeah? I’ll be right behind you.”

You blink up at him, bleary-eyed but still flickering with that stubborn spark, your arms curl around him. “I didn’t want to leave you alone.”

He exhales slowly — a ragged sound that’s equal parts fondness for you and exhaustion from his day. “I know, baby, I know,” his fingers trace lazy circles on your back now, “but you’re really gonna choose that lumpy-ass couch over our bed?”

You shift in his arms, your body instinctively leaning close into his, “it’s… fine. I’m fine.” You mumble something incoherent that's more like the sleepy whine of someone too hardheaded to admit he’s right. He presses his smile into your hair, inhales the scent of your shampoo — making his whole world soften. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… you wake up before him, the early light just began to filter through the blinds, casting soft patterns across the bed and tracing the curve of his bare shoulder where the blanket’s slipped down. 

The room is quiet except for the faint sound of his steady breathing. You can tell he’s still deep under, mouth parted the slightest bit with his hair tousled across his forehead. As you were trying to nudge closer towards him under the covers, you pause when something resting on his nightstand catches your eye — a worn sketchbook left open. It’s one of his older ones, you recognize it by the frayed edges and worn leather cover. 

You reach out with careful fingers, sliding it closer without disturbing the way his arm is still draped over your waist. In loose, dreamy pencil lines is the outline of your profile — your face nestled gently against his pillow and safe in his bed. Next to the sketch, in his familiar handwriting, there’s a simple annotation: “♡ sleepy girl”. With a swelling heart, you realize that you’re loved in all the quietest ways.

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… absolutely melts whenever you offer to massage his back and neck after a long day. 

He’s a hardworking man through and through, always putting in long hours at the studio with clients, focused on every line and shade but always ends up tight and sore from the constant strain. He never asks — not once — but you can see it in the slope of his shoulders when he walks in, the quiet sigh he exhales when he finally shrugs off his work clothes and rolls his neck.

You’ve watched him work for hours without a break. Even when the studio closes, he stays behind — cleaning, organizing, prepping for the next day. He’s never one to complain, never says he’s tired. Tonight, he finally drops on the couch after showering, smelling like aftershave and with his hair damp. He groans as he’s sinking in like it’s the first time he’s been still all day. 

It never stops tugging at you — how much he gives, how little he asks for in return. So you settle in behind him, folding your legs on either side of his hips and begin to work your thumbs into the taut knots between his shoulder blades. Your touch is like pure relief, he sighs deeply and leans into your hands like it’s the best part of his day. “Holy shit,” he mumbles, voice hoarse. “I swear your hands should be licensed or something.”

You smile, dragging your nails lightly along the base of his neck, just the way he likes — soft but just enough to itch the right spots. “You forget who paid for these?” You tease, referencing the soft-but-deadly manicure he insists you keep up with.

He huffs a low laugh, tipping his head back slightly until it rests against your collarbone. “Best investment I ever made,” he mutters, eyes fluttering closed. “You’re lucky I don’t make you scratch my back all day.”

You press a bit deeper and feel the muscles shift under your hands — tight at first, then slowly giving in — making him dip lower on your lap, every breath a little softer now. “Promise me you’ll never quit this job,” he murmurs, almost too quietly to hear. You kiss the crown of his head, a smile playing on your lips. “Only if you promise to keep pampering me like a spoiled housecat.”

That earns you another low chuckle from him, eyes still closed. He turns just enough to catch your hand in his and presses a kiss to your palm, warm and slow. “That’s a deal I’m happy to sign up for.”

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… is a little bit of a nerd when it comes to his craft. Okay — not a little. A lot.

You’ll be curled up next to him in bed, half in his lap, scrolling aimlessly through your phone with your ankle looped over his thigh. You pause on a trendy, hyper-detailed tattoo — some fine-line celestial piece with stars trailing over a collarbone — and you turn the screen toward him, “think this would look cute on me?”

His brows furrowing slightly, eyes flicking over the image with laser focus of an artist. At first it's a thoughtful hum, then he starts talking. Like, really talking. “That ink saturation wouldn’t hold — especially with that much negative space. Would fade fast, too. Line weight’s not balanced either. They used too tight of a needle grouping here — you see it? There, see how it’s already fuzzing even though it’s fresh? That’ll blur in a year, tops. And yeah, placement’s cute, but if you ever wanted to add anything later, it might trap the flow. You always want to leave room to grow the piece, not corner it…”

You stare at your usual quiet, broody boyfriend, who is now suddenly animated, explaining gradient blending and machine stroke length and how certain pigments heal under different skin tones. He picks the whole thing apart with surgical precision. It's art meeting science meeting poetry.

You’re used to being the chatterbox in every room, filling every silence without meaning to. However now he’s fully in his element, and you’re the one listening  — you really can't help but listen. The way his voice dips with knowledge, how his fingers ghost across your skin in thought, like he's mapping something there.

When — and if — he catches himself over-explaining, he reels it back in, “but if you want it, I’ll make it work.”

Your heart’s already doing flips. He doesn’t even know what he does to you when he’s like this, so unflinchingly competent. There’s something magnetic about his confidence — not loud or showy, but built from calloused hands, long hours, and a mind that notices everything. 

You’re not sure if your heart or your thighs react first, to be completely frank… Who knew watching your tattoo artist boyfriend nerd out over needle depth and pigment retention could be this unfairly hot?

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… lets his hair grow out — not on purpose, not at first. 

It just got a little too long one week… then another. A few too many back-to-back weeks, until  strands are falling into his eyes mid-linework, tickling his cheek when he’s trying to focus. He huffs, frustrated, trying to blow them away with a puff of air while he’s sketching a design for an important client. 

Digging into your bag, you fish out a pink bunny clip you keep for emergencies. “Hold still,” you giggle, brushing his hair back. He doesn’t even flinch, just tips his head slightly to give you room. You secure the glittery thing in place, and smile at how ridiculously adorable he looks. 

He didn’t take it off, not even when Sunoo poked his head in and snorted, “nice accessory, Hoon.” Not even after the sketch is done… not even when his client shows up.

Soon, the bunny clip is joined by a sparkly bow, a red snap-barrette, even one shaped like a tiny strawberry. One by one, they find their way into a little glass jar on his workstation — tucked between ink caps and spare needles like they belong there. You caught him once, staring into the jar like he’s choosing a weapon, “need a new one?” You teased, you couldn’t help it — he looks like something out of a pastel daydream when he puts them on, “we can go to the store.” 

But he would just shake his head, voice soft and a little shy. “Nah. I want one of yours. Yours are better.”

What you don’t realize is… he could’ve cut it months ago. He should’ve, but it came down to your hands, always tugging gently at his roots and threading through the strands  when you kissed him. How you grip him when he’s between your thighs — clutching, curling, grounding yourself on him like you’re not sure where else to hold. He notices how tight you hold when his tongue slows down between your folds and clit, when his hands spread your thighs wider to give him more access, when you breathe out a broken version of his name. 

He pays attention — of course he does. He’s an artist painting his canvas with his tongue. And he loves it — the taste of you, getting his face soaked in your pussy like it’s the only way to really clear his head after a long day. “Fuck, angel —” He groans, voice muffled against your skin, hair’s already a mess. “You’re dripping.”

“All your fault,” you fuss, just to be difficult. It gave you a slow, smug bite — teeth sinking into the soft of your inner thigh — not rough, just enough to whine beneath his mouth. “Sensitive today, huh?” He tuts, lips brushing just beside the mark he left. His tongue follows soon after, soothing over the spot like an apology and a claim in one. He always makes sure to sooth it with his tongue, all while your hands tangle hardens and loosen in his once-groomed hair.

His digits found their way to your glistened lips — two of them already messing up your gloss to rest heavy on your tongue. “Suck, baby.” The words leave him low and firm — but when your eyes met his, clearly about to test your luck, he caught it. “Nicely.” He instructed a subtle warning, gentle only in tone. You huff, just for show, before finally obeying — lips wrapping around him with slow, deliberate pressure. Your cheeks hollow ever so slightly as your tongue swirls — giving him exactly what he asked for, but still on your terms.

There’s a glimmer of something playful in your eyes as you glance down at him, lashes low. You make sure to keep eye contact as you drag your tongue between the space of his two fingers, mimicking exactly what he promises. You let out the faintest hum, just to feel his fingers twitch to your preview dressed up in sugar. And he watched every second of the way your mouth works like he’s in a trance, expression impossibly fond and ravenous. “Jesus,” he mutters over his shallow breath.

His free hand slid beneath your thighs, thumbs pressing into soft flesh, folding you open like he’s studying a piece of art. He pulls them out with a soft pop, using those spit-slicked digits to part your swollen, puffy folds, spreading you open. “Too pretty to be this messy,” he breathed, his lips hovering just above your soaked skin. His mouth follows, deliciously cruel — with a long languid lick traced from your needy, dripping hole all the way up to your swollen clit, savoring every slick inch.

One palm drifts to your lower belly, applying gentle pressure that makes you keen — you feel his cold rings on your warm skin. The other comes up to your chest — calloused fingers and warm palms cupping your tits, brushing over your nipples in circles as his mouth stays sealed between your legs. His eyes never left your face, watching how your eyes flutter shut and your chest rises with every shaky breath by the co-stimulation.

Long after you cum, he keeps eating like he means it, tasting his own victory — like he doesn't want to waste a drop of you. Every flick of his tongue is deliberate, every hum against your skin sending aftershocks through your hips. He doesn’t just taste you — he savors you.

By the time he finally rises, his lips are slick, cheeks are flushed, hair is sticking to his forehead. He doesn’t bother wiping his mouth or acknowledge his own weighty bulge straining beneath his denim. Instead, he kisses you so you can taste yourself on his tongue — like he’s giving you a piece of his mind about how palatable you are, “taste how sweet you are, my love?” He whispers between your damp lips. You nod, breathless and boneless, dizzy from your second orgasm — adorable in your daze, your fingers still tangled in his hair long after the high has passed.

He swears, it makes him want to grow it a little longer — just to give you more to grab.

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… always, always shows you his sketches first. 

Even when the design isn’t completely finished, he would find you — whether you’re tucked into the corner of the studio or lounging somewhere around his apartment — and with that boyish tilt of his head, he’d ask, “what do you think, babe?” While his eyes flick between the page and your face. Your answer is almost always the same: an unfiltered smile and a soft, “I love it” because you do. You really, genuinely do. 

The truth is that he really values your opinion. Not just because he loves you, but because your reactions, your little gasps, how your eyes light up, the way you notice and study the details — they remind him why he does what he does.

Later, when the piece is fully inked, fresh and glowing on someone else’s skin — the cilent would stand in front of the mirror, grinning wide, praising the design — he’d murmur, “yeah… my girl saw it first.”

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… agrees — maybe too confidently — when you suggest a Mario Kart bet one lazy afternoon: winner gets to tattoo the loser.

Twenty chaotic minutes, three banana peels, one blue shell and a very unfortunate tumble off Rainbow Road later — he’s dramatically slumped on the couch with his face buried into his hands, groaning like he’s just faced mortal defeat. You’re already tugging him to his feet, smug as hell. “A deal’s a deal,” you sing-song, practically skipping toward his own studio chair. “Get comfy, loser.” 

He watches you prep with exaggerated seriousness — slipping into gloves that are a little loose (one inside out, which he gently helps you fix), your brows furrowed in concentration as you fumble to pick out the smallest and the friendliest needle you can find. He’s biting back a laugh the whole time. “I’m gonna give you the stinkiest, cutest little prison tat,” you gleamed with mischief as you sketch the design — a tiny, lopsided heart — on the side of his ankle. “Yeah? can’t wait to walk into the next guest spot with this.” He mused, settling onto the tattoo bed with how arms crossed over his chest like a stoic soldier. 

Despite all the teasing, he still walks you through it — instructions softened by affection: “angle your wrist more… yeah, like that.” and “careful, don’t press too hard — gentle, babe. There you go.” Of course, the moment you get too confident and accidentally jab just a little too deep, he sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth — a tight hiss breaking through his grin. “Oh, okay — shit,” he winces, but he's still smiling. “Damn, straight to the bone, huh?”

When your hand trembles slightly, heart pounding with the pressure of not screwing up permanent ink on a professional tattoo artist, he immediately steadies it with his. His fingers are warm over your glove, his thumb brushing gently across your knuckles. “You’re fine, baby,” he’d say quietly, eyes on you instead of the machine. “Keep going. You’re doing great.”

Later, when it’s done — crooked little heart and all — he fawns at it. “I’m retiring,” voice completely serious.  “You’ve outdone me.” 

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who... finds you curled up in someone else’s studio when he’s done with his last client for the afternoon — legs folded, drink sweating in one hand, flipping lazily through a portfolio that’s definitely not his.

“You always make yourself at home wherever you go, huh?” Said a wry voice — not his. You grin over your shoulder at her, one of the other tattoo artists in the building. She’s a little blunt, a little sharp around the edges. No-nonsense, usually hard to read. But once you cracked her tough exterior, she’d started leaving her studio door open whenever you wandered by. Letting you hang around her space like a stray cat she’s decided to keep. 

“I bring snacks,” you say in your defense, shaking the half-empty bag of gummies you mostly ate. She snorts, reaching over to steal one just as Sunghoon leans into her doorway.

“There you are,” he says, his voice softer, worn from hours of work and not seeing you. Hands still smudged with stencil markers, brows a little furrowed like always when he hasn’t seen you in a few hours. “You ghosting me for other artists now?”

“She’s mine today,” the other tattoo artist, now truly a friend of yours, calls from her chair with a shrug, eyes never leaving the digital tablet in her hand. “Finders keepers.”

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… picks you up from work even on his busiest days.

No matter how packed his schedule is, no matter how late he stayed up finishing designs the night before — he’s always there, without fail. You spot him leaning against his car from across the lot, hands tucked into his pockets, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, the tapestry of ink on his forearms sets in motion. His sunglasses are perched slightly low on his nose as he watches the entrance, waiting for you. He looks like he will cut someone's jaw in any second, but when he sees you? That edge softens instantly. 

“Hey, baby,” he murmurs when you reach him, voice still laced with that sleepy rasp like he hasn’t used it all day — like he’s been saving it just for you. “Tired?” He asks gently, eyes scanning your face like he’s already reading the answer. You nod, too drained to even think properly. “And missing you,” you mumble almost into his chest as you lean into him, wrapping your arms around his middle. 

He doesn’t say anything at first — just one arm comes up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading softly through your hair. The other wraps around your back, palm smoothing down your spine like he’s pressing you back together. You feel the deep breath he lets go against your hairline, like your touch alone loosened something in his chest he’d been carrying. He felt your absence all day.

He pulls back just enough to guide you to his car, opening the door with one hand and keeping the other steady on the small of your back. Not pushing, not rushing — just waits until you settle inside before leaning in one last time, pressing a kiss. “Missed you too.”

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… pretends to act unfazed when you walk into the studio, lean against the counter with your chin resting on your folded arms, and dead-seriously say, “I think I want a tramp stamp.” 

His head doesn't lift right away from sanitizing his workstation. His back stayed turned, gloved hands still moved with mechanical ease — but you notice the pause before he glances over his shoulder, “yeah?”

You nod, feigning innocence with glimmering eyes but you continue to push, “something cute. Lower back. Real classic, y’know?” You tilt your head, watching him closely with your grin already threatening to break through. He meets your gaze just long enough for you to clock it — the way his jaw flexes, the faint twitch of a muscle beneath his sharp cheekbone. There it is, bingo.  

He’s recalibrating every thought in his head because you just short-circuited his brain. Still, he keeps it cool, turning back to his tray like you didn’t just test every ounce of his patience and professionalism in one sentence. “Send me references.” He says casually, but you don’t miss the way his grip tightens slightly on the spray bottle. He’s already picturing it — his symmetrical design on you, in that placement, your skin — all his.

And references you were sure to send — dutifully.

Later, when his phone buzzes with your name lighting up the screen, he's already reaching for it before the second vibration. It’s maybe the third photo you’ve sent him that day. The earlier ones were tame: a Pinterest board,  some half-serious meme about butterfly tattoos. This one’s different, though. Closer and clearer. 

It was a mirror shot with your back on display. Shirt pushed up messily with one hand, the other tugging your waistband low across your hips. Just enough to reveal the curve of your spine, the soft dip of your lower back. Your skin is warm in the dim light of your room, cast in golden tones, and there — drawn faintly in pink marker — is a tiny arrow pointed right to the spot you wanted him. Underneath the photo, you wrote: ‘Make it pretty, Hoon.’

Sunghoon’s patience is the kind that stretches. He’s meticulous by nature, measured in every word, every breath — but, you — oh, you test the limits of that discipline.

He sat up straighter in front of his phone before leaning back in his chair, dragging a hand down his face and trying to breathe. He never stood a chance — not with you, not like this. Now he’s designing your tramp stamp at war with his own sanity.

When you actually show up for your appointment, the studio's air is already tight and inflated all at once — like the walls, and especially him — remember every message and photo you’ve sent, leaving them to burn into the back of his brain.

You strip off your shirt before stretching out on his tattoo bed with a lazy grace, like a big, spoiled cat basking in attention. Waistband’s tugged low revealing your hip dimples to him under the overhead lights. You fold your arms under your cheek, angling your head just enough to catch  his reflection in the mirror — the way his broad shoulders fill the frame, strong and solid, casting a shadow that covers most of the glass.

You bat your lashes at him when his eyes meet yours, making him mutter something low under his breath — like he’s trying to curse the thoughts you’re putting in his head before they take root. He didn’t even say much when he saw you — trying hard to stay composed, contained. Yes, he’s always the type to go quiet when focused — but this is unusually muteness. The silence sat thick between you two as he preps the stencil, jaw tight like he's chewing on the words he won't say, gloves already snapped on.

When the machine starts — that low, distinct buzz slicing through the studio — you take a deep breath, bracing yourself, a conditioned reflex at this point. 

Ten minutes in and the needle failed to drown out the sound of your shallow breathing you were trying to control. “Still with me?” He asks, tone dripping with honeyed ease even though he hasn’t smiled once since you walked in. You hum in response, barely audible, eyes heavy-lidded from the rhythmic sting and the warmth of his palms against your bare skin. 

His gaze drags to the hollow of your lower back — that dip where muscle softens and spine curves, the exact spot you pointed out in that photo. The same one that’s been seared behind his eyelids every night since. He leans in closer, needle’s still buzzing in his grip, but his focus has shifted entirely. “You’re doing so well,” he murmurs, lips brushing hot over your ear. His free gloved hand settles at the base of your ass, right where the swelled curve meets your trembling thigh. “Taking it like a fucking angel.”

Your fingers curl into the sheet with every tripped heartbeat. It floods you — his closeness, his quiet reverence wrapped in filth. “Hoon,” you whisper, and it sounds more like a plea than a warning.

That response from you makes it hard for him not to smile as he pressed a feather-light peck on the tip of red ear before trailing down to the back of your exposed neck. Every inch he closes the distance feels like an act of revenge — a slow payback for testing him. It’s his way of settling the score, a delicious kind of retribution just for you. “You gotta stay still,” he says, all velvety patience, he’s enjoying this way too much. “You want me to finish this or not?”

“Okay okay. I promise I’ll be good.” you mumble, voice half-drunk on endorphins and half-intention.

He clicked his tongue to that. “Liar.”

His reprimand made you twitch — hips squirm just slightly, barely perceptible. However, it’s enough for his palms to register instantly, that tiny flinch of guilt or want — he knows the difference. Immediately, the buzz of the machine falters for a beat before he kills it altogether, setting it down with a sharp click of it hitting the tray that's louder than it should be. “That’s it.”

Your eyes snap open. “Wait —”

“You keep moving,” his voice was stern like he’s teaching a simple lesson you clearly keep failing. “I take my lines seriously, you know that, I can't do them right if you keep moving.”

With your breath catching at the edge of frustration and something else that makes heat crawl up your neck, you're still persistent. “And you said you’d finish.” You fire back.

He pauses and then just sighs, unbothered, before grabbing a paper towel from behind him. With careful precision, he dabs over the half-inked lines and does a full swipe on the whole stencil. Not all of it is gone, but most of its outline is barely visible. You feel the pure force and heaviness of his touch, what’s been building for hours.

“You —” You turn while on the bed, incredulous and flushed, “are such a dick.” He doesn't bicker back, he just slips his gloves off with a snap and a lazy smirk. “You’ll come back tomorrow.”

“Oh, will I?”

“You will,” His voice softens just a little as he confirms for the both of you. His hand rises, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek with the backs of his fingers. It’s jarringly tender for someone who was just threatening to leave you with a half-done tattoo. “You don’t like unfinished things.”

Your throat bobs, but you keep your eyes on him. “You’re just drawing this out.” He doesn’t deny it — the endurance in his self-restraint allows him to indulge and also stretch the tension. Instead gives you an unfairly pretty smile — cocky nonetheless — with dimples peeking through his blown pupils. 

“You’re my favorite canvas...” he says, voice dipped lower than before — like he means every word and then some. He’s close, impossibly so, the air between your lips barely exists. “So why would I rush?” He finishes off — like the answer had been obvious all along — before his hands flip you gently, but with a finality that leaves no room for protest, guiding you back onto your stomach. A quiet oomph escapes you, stunned by the motion and the sheer audacity. 

The cool air kisses your skin again where the stencil used to be. “You know what they say — you gotta stretch the canvas, warm it up...” He spoke as he settled behind you, like he’s got all the time in the world — and you’re the only thing worth spending it on. No one else is on his mind but you. “Gotta break them in to make them fit like a glove…” You can’t see his face, but you can hear the grin over the sound of his heavy belt unlooping. 

“Except you?” His voice is hoarse as his swollen, neglected tip first rests on the plush of your ass, then dragged along your slit before he parts in slowly, like he doesn't want to miss a single second of how you try to wrap around his size — his proportions extending you to your limits. 

You try to bite back the noise that leaves you, but it slips anyway — soft, broken mewls. “You are tight enough to make me never want to pull out.” He groaned, quite simply you’ve knocked the breath out of him just being this snug, this soaked — this goddamn perfect.

One of his hands fists the sheets beside your head, the other slides under your thigh, lifting it just a little higher — angling you to take every inch of his girth. His hips grind the flush of your bottom, making your thighs jiggle with it. “There we go… told you I’d make it fit.” He’s speaking under his breath, staying there motionless with a buried, smothered cock before grinding once more just to feel your walls clench around him. He then sinks the rest of the way in, rougher now — deeper than you thought your poor cunt could take, “I was patient all damn day — this is what you do to me.” The spread of your walls makes your vision blur as he bottoms out in you. “Is this how you repay me? Mh, baby?”

He’s acting like you orchestrated all of this, like some grand seduction to drag something primal out of him — and he’s the helpless victim who’s drunk on you. And the thing is … he’s not exactly wrong. 

You tilt your head just enough to glance back at him, even as your breath hitches with every thrust, you can't keep your tongue tamed, “not my fault if — mmph — my pussy’s better than your self-control.” Your words drip off like syrupy venom. You keep sparring with him — with your words, sharp tongue, your stubborn pride — but everything else betrays you. 

Your body’s already sold you out. Your knees are unsteady, muscles twitching with every slow grind of his strong hips. Your lips continue to part with soft, involuntary whimpers and little ‘fuck, fuck, fuck’s. Your breath became shallow and shuddered like your chest can’t decide whether it wants to fight or melt.

And he notices all of it.

He huffs a low, amused laugh at the sight of you — wrecked and trembling around his cock — before his big hands find your arms, guiding your back to his chest with an unhurried pull. There’s no resistance in you, just pliancy. One strong arm snakes around you, securing both your wrists in his grip behind your back — while the other drifts to the base of your neck, just holding you there steadily without pressing. You gasp, not just from the sudden shift, but from how your spine arches for him so easily, so naturally. Like your body already knows how to obey him.

“Is that so?” He tutted right into your ear, almost a threat. Pressing deeper until your next moan chokes itself halfway out before it dissolves into something more desperate. His cock continues to edge your cervix, unforgiving. The hand at your neck slides up, fingers curling firm beneath your jaw. He tilts your head back with practiced ease, just enough to make you look up at him, revealing you to be vulnerably trembling in his grasp.

His eyes rake over your face like he’s inspecting you, every twitch of your long lashes, every shiver in your pump lips, every glint of subversion that's fast unraveling under the weight of him. “Look at you,” he murmurs — not mocking, no, his eyes are way too soft for that — but rather possessive. His calloused thumb brushes your cheek, deceptively gentle compared to his gut arranging pushes, “so sweet when you’re fucked open like this.”

Soon the stencil is long wiped clean, forgotten really. Part from him rubbing it off with that crumpled paper towel, part from his messy hick ropes spilling across the plush of your ass and the soft slope of your back. Some are still slowly cooling down, others already smeared into your heat-slick skin. Round after round, each one more feral than the last, now decorating your behind. 

So yes, he made sure it's pretty — but first, pretty with his dripping release. Then, and only then, with his design. You know he won't stop until you're sobbing his name into his tattoo bed. Dragging every orgasm out of you like he wants to memorize your pulse from the inside of your cervix.

You don’t even know what hour it is anymore. Morning? Night? All you know is that he’s still behind you, only now one his fingers are slowly dragging over the sticky remnant streaks on your skin, tracing the rope lines as if admiring a map. The other hand is drawing circles on your puffy clit. His teeth nibble along your neck and shoulders to leave red and pink blemishes, making you tense and relax beneath him. You hear the soft click of his jaw — not with anger, but satisfaction — as he surveys the aftermath, his aftermath. 

You still try not to melt into him and his engulfing scent just by how close he has you again. But your body is already singing for him, aching in all the places he ruined. “You gonna behave for the stencil this time?” He asks, mock-polite, brushing your hair away from your shoulder with his cum dripping fingers. His hips snapping hard against you when your answer took a moment — each thrust greedy, not giving you a second to catch your breath. 

You bite back a moan and shift just enough to meet his rhythm, daring him. Not only can you feel him inside, but also everywhere: on your skin, under your nails, in the throb of your clit. It’s not just sex… it’s claiming. He’s painting you from the inside out. You swear you can feel the imprint of him by now, like he’s marking you in a way no tattoo ever could. “You’re gonna stencil me up just to fuck it up again?” You huff, breath hitching from the force of him. 

“You’re stubborn as hell,” he grits with another thrust, the kind that knocks every thought from your head — again, “and that’s exactly why I’m gonna keep fucking you through every goddamn stencil until you learn.” His voice was unrepentant before he sighs, “guess we’ll have to start again tomorrow.” He muttered, not sounding even a little sorry.

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who... doesn’t finish the tramp stamp that first session. Not because of technique, or timing, or because he’s tired. But because the second you whimpered his name, squirmed just a little too much beneath his hands… and the way you turned your head to look at him after he wiped off the stencil? Dazed, pouty, half-pissed? Yeah. That look on your face was enough reason for him to keep the machine from ever moving past idle.

The second session began much the same. You find yourself perched on the edge of the tattoo bed, hips bare and still faintly pink from last time visit, the imprint of his ink work lingering. You avoid his gaze when he smooths on the fresh stencil. “Still sure about the placement?” You hear the smirk laced between the syllables.

“Sunghoon,” you say, meant to be firm but it comes out more like a whine than a warning. He hums, brushing the pad of his glove across your back. “Just checking, baby.”

But none of it mattered — your body had already made the call before your mouth could, arching into his touch. your hips canting back like you need him to touch you, like you need him to forget the stencil again. Gloves off, cast aside — again. 

“Fucking hell — You’re so fucking addictive.” It’s not just a statement — it’s a ragged confession, groaned under his breath, more to himself than to you — like he can’t believe how good you feel, how easy it is to lose himself inside you. You've got this man wrapped around your pinky, and he doesn’t even care. He’s not fighting it, he’s chasing it. The stretch from his length is a sting and a sigh all at once, your cunt is dewy slick is clenching around him. Every slow drag out feels worse than the push in — empty, then full, then empty again. 

“That tattoo’s not gonna finish itself, y’know.” you choke out, breathless as you roll your hips on his cock, just enough to test the sharp edge of what’s left of his control, taunting beneath his grip. You don’t even need to see his face to know it worked, the sharp inhale behind you gives it away. You can feel the heat of his stare burn into the back of your neck. 

His fingers trailing down to the soft dip above your tailbone, pushing you to an even lower arch with your back before he shifts you, tipping you onto your side to an unbearable angle — your thigh slung over his, your spine curled into the curve he demands. While the other palm hooks around your bent knee, keeping you wide open. “Shit, babe —” You jolt, barely manage a gasp before he’s inside you again, leaving no room for teasing. 

"Keep talking like that," he said, frayed with want while pulsing inside you, waiting for your bite back. “and we’ll never finish it."

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… surprises you by agreeing almost instantly when you suggest getting tiny matching lollipop tattoos — just a small, playful token of something only the two of you understand. 

Later, when you're both comparing the finished pieces — standing shoulder to shoulder by the mirror — you realize he didn’t just match the design. He mirrored everything. Same size, same shade of pink, placed just above the wrist. “You’re gonna regret this when someone asks what it means,” you giggled, it looks absurdly and comically out of place on him, nestled between all his badass tattoos. 

He leans in, catching your lips in a kiss —  like he’s done it a thousand times and will do it a thousand more. Soft and annoyingly sure of himself. “No, I won’t.” he promised against your mouth. Because this one? Like the subtle constellation he hid behind his ear (your birth stars), the micro heart near his collarbone (lifted from one of your silly iPad doodles), the flower tucked behind his bicep (your favorite kind)? 

This one’s yours too. Just another mark you left on him.

[annovaz]

👅👅

BUZZ BUZZ! new tattoo, babe?

Synopsis: when your notifications start blowing up, it’s either chaos from your favourite tattoo studio or Hoon being unbearably obsessed with you (again).

Warnings: tattoo artist AU, slice of life, fluff + crack + some angst w/ a lot of comfort hehe, suggestive content (MDNI), softdom!sunghoon x brat reader (with a lot of love), mentions of sex / thirst / sexting, too much flirting honestly, not serious... just feral, Soobin (TXT) as Sunghoon’s coworker, Sunoo at the front desk (aka emotional support)

a/n: surprise! this is my second part of my birthday gift to @hoonieyun hehe <333 everyone go say hbd NOW. this is also my first smau ever, im gonna shit my pants from how nervous i am about this. this smau is kinda like a part 2 of "bite, ink, repeat — until i stay", you can read this as a stand alone, but dont whine to me if youre lost, anyways MWAH enjoy c:

⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯

[annovaz]

can u guys tell im rlly into nerds

NONSTOP — SIM JAEYUN

loser nerd!jake x fem!reader established relationship in which your virgin geek of a boyfriend has sex for the first time and you can't keep up with his extremely high sex drive mikaela's based on out of my league jake and his need to explore the atoms of your body. | collection MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

this work contains: virgin!jake but he doesn't act like a virgin, p in v, creampie, munch!jake, oral sex (f receiving), jake is a nerd w a monster cock, dirty talk (just blabbering), boob fixation, nipple play, jake wants to research about your pussy smth like that...

loser nerd!jake who loses his virginity to you and becomes obsessed with the feeling of you wrapped around him

jake has no reason to be this excited or maybe he does, because you're below him well, naked — like naked, naked. Curves visible for him to touch, skin bare for him to feel. Not to mention you tits are out, like actual tits, real tits not the virtual kind of game boobs jake has seen online on sketchy ads.

jake is already in ecstasy the moment he lines himself at your entrance, bulbous tip merely pushing into the opening of your pussy. And you're tight, really tight to the point jake is shocked, groaning in pleasure as he asks, "babe why are you so tight? I mean it feels really good— don't get me wrong but your pussy is sucking me, like a vacuum cleaner."

"jakey," you moan, his cock only half-inserted yet you already feel full, "don't metaphorically link sex to cleaning tools, please."

"sorry baby," he pauses, letting out a soft moan, hands gripping the flesh of your hips as he juts his hips forward instinctively, causing your fingers to curl onto his sheets, "just excited, you know how I am. It's great that you're my girlfriend and you're so hot and that your pussy feels like heaven. Remember how I told you that I thought I'd be a virgin till I was fourty—"

jake's hips thrust forward forward as if it's natural, not like it's his first time having his dick enter the fourth dimension. And when he's truly fully inside you, you let out an euphoric moan, whispering his name under your breath like a ritual.

"fuck baby you feel so good, I didn't know sex would feel so good," jake blabbers, a habit of his when he's entranced, tip of his cock hitting your cervix in rhythmic beats and you can feel him twitch inside of you every time you call his name out. "You know I always had a thing for your tits but now that I've felt what your pussy feels like, I think it's a really close second."

"jakey I'm gonna cum," you wail, back arching as your boyfriend quickens his own pace, chasing his own pleasure, "can we not talk about your boob fixation right now."

"why, they're so pretty," he whines, hands reaching out to kneed the round mound of flesh on your chest, fingers playfully flicking over your nipples as he watches you squirm intently, taking mental notes in his head of your different reactions.

you're overwhelmed with pleasure, and you let out one last whimper of your boyfriend's name before you come undone, slick white cum coating jake's cock as he too releases in you.

jake just stays inside you, still too hyper fixated on your boobs, fingers circling it like he would a game controller, lips darting out in thirst. Would you let him? He hoped you would— "baby can I suck your tits? like put my mouth on it, you know like tongue and all."

your breathing is heavy, and you don't understand how your boyfriend, who deems that it's his first time having sex has such high stamina and drive.

jake continues toying with your nipples, as if your consent was asked just for the sake of asking, and he was going to do it regardless. "I know what sucking is," you hum, hands reaching out to sink your fingers into his messy mop of hair.

taking it as a sign of consent, jake grins goofily, head leaning into your chest as he buries your face between your boobs — he's smiling like a kid in a candy store, tongue darting out to line the rims of your right nipple with saliva, the other nipple given the attention of his fingers as he pinches it.

you whine, thinking that your boyfriend might just be a sex god in disguise of a loser and you'd just hit the jackpot, your fingers curling around the strands of his hair.

he takes your boob in his mouth, sensation making your nipples perk up in need of more and jake hums lazily, the vibrations of his throat making you shiver. and you can feel jake's cock twitch in you, as his hips grind over you like a dog in heat.

"i'm so happy you have tits, they're so perfect like two stress balls, the kinds you'd play with when you're trying to solve a science Olympiad question and you're stuck. They should really start selling boob balls, maybe I should be a founding father of that business, sounds amazing." jake's mouth leaves your boob with a loud, resounding pop, strings of saliva sloppily dangling over his chin and lips as he pitched his idea to you. "i'm already getting hard at the thought, and my mind feels so calm and clear, like i could solve a hundred physics questions right now."

"jakey," you groan, and you don't understand how you're finding this hot.

"don't lie to me and say that you hate that idea, you're throbbing, like pulsating and you're really wet," he states, like he isn't right in the middle of the most mind-blowing sex you've ever had.

"maybe it's because you're still inside me and you're sucking my boobs," you propose to him as he shakes his head in denial, moving his head over to your left nipple, tongue flicking it with one small movement that causes you to let out a soft squeal.

"no, definitely the boob ball thing," he says, fingers moulding it's flesh as his tongue swirled around it.

jake takes his time to work you up, tongue flicking, swirling, and sucking as you slowly reach a new high, hips jutting up into his in need for a new release. and jake is no different, hard at the mere fact that he's in between your tits as he takes his cock out of you only to slam it in again, unapologetically.

this time he pulls out when he's ready to cum, cock covered in milky semen you can barely see the raging red tip as he releases over your stomach, streaks painting your sweat-glossed skin in swatches.

and you're tired, eyelids dropping down yet your boyfriend seemingly never down on energy as he watches the way your gaping hole throbs, slick dripping out of it and he can't help his curiosity as he kneels down between the plush flesh of your thighs, strong arms wrapped around each side as he takes a long lick.

you flinch, and jake does it again, a content gleam in his eyes as he perks up to look at your expression of shock and satisfaction. "you taste really good baby, i was just curious about how you taste but i could literally eat you out right now."

you sigh, resigning to your fate. your boyfriend's curiosity always landing you in unimaginable situations, "but i'm tired," you murmur but jake doesn't stop as you feel the warmth of his tongue dance against your inner thighs.

"you don't have to do anything, baby," jake consoles you, thumb rubbing over your sensitive clit as you let out a lewd sound, "just lie there and take it as a research thing."

"you're researching about..." you drone on, tiredness evident in your voice. jake had just made you cum twice and it seemed like he's made it his ultimate mission to bring you to your utmost limit.

"your pussy," jake states as if it was the most normal thing to do. you'd always knew that jake had a curious mind, and that was one of the things you loved about him, but you didn't know it'd lead to intense rounds of sex with no rest.

jake's tongue probes your gaping hole, a shy touch before he presses the base of his tongue into you, fingers moving to massage your clit. it's tame at first until it's not. jake's tongue doing magic as your juices leak, leading to a loud, lewd slurp as traces of you drip down jake's chin and onto his bedding.

jake's pussy drunk on you and he feels his dick get hard again, a low moan escaping his lips as he continues like it's his calling, fingers occasionally pinching your clit as his tongue drive in and out.

he hears your whine as you come undone again, a new accomplishment for you as he sloppily cleans you up before moving up to place chaste kisses over your body.

"I'm actually going to break up with you," you sigh, eyes barely open and jake gives you an innocent chuckle, his lips glazed with remnants of you, "how are you so horny if it's your first time, i can't believe it."

jake shrugs, moving over to pull you into his bare chest, fingers twirling your hair as you lean into his warmth, limbs tangled and breathing heavy. "it's called having a really hot girlfriend," he states.

in fact, jake feels as if he could continue for hours more. not to mention he's still hard from eating you out, his bulge pressing between your thighs as he laughs guiltily.

"jake," you sigh, knowing what your boyfriend wants to say.

"i won't ask," he says, only for his voice to break the serene silence moments later, "one more round?"

© SJYUNS