burlesquerade

[burlesquerade]

emmie wrote a junhan fic for me ohhh she’s getting it tonight

i never really did

pairing: junhan x reader wc: 1.9k. summary: you and junhan are longtime rivals, always clashing in the studio— until one late-night period to catch up on a partner task stretches too long and the tension finally snaps. tags: eventual smut. soft dom junhan. enemies to lovers. college au.

here damn @burlesquerade

the room smells like dust and varnish—strings, wood, that faint metallic hum of instruments not yet played. it’s too early for this. the campus’ studio is cold, sterile, with flickering fluorescent lights that buzz just slightly louder than junhan’s presence in the corner.

he’s already there when you walk in. headphones on. work book open. he does not look up when you enter.

you drop your bag with just enough force to make a point. “you could at least pretend you hate this as much as i do.”

his pencil halts mid-stroke.

“i do,” he replies quietly, without inflection. “i just don’t complain about everything, unlike you.”

you scowl. “that’s not noble. that’s boring.”

finally, he glances over. no smirk. no frown. just that unreadable calm that somehow manages to feel smug anyway.

your professor paired the two of you together for this semester’s songwriting project. you are chaos and impulse. he is vigilence and silence. oil and water, pretty much. and yet— every time he plays something, you find yourself listening too long. every time you add a line, he hums it under his breath like it got stuck in his head.

neither of you say it, but the tension between your styles makes something real.

you perch across from him, arms crossed. “so what, we’re just doing verse one today?”

he shrugs. “not sure, we can do as much as possible if you have a melody that actually works this time.”

you narrow your eyes, but pull out your notebook. “at least i bring ideas.”

he does not argue. he just plugs in his guitar to the nearby amp, testing the strings gently, the quiet riff curling between you like smoke. his fingers are elegant, precise, and you catch yourself staring.

you look away first.

and you feel it again—that strange heat in your chest, not quite anger. not quite admiration.

something dangerous. something inevitable.

you try not to look at his hands again.

it feels stupid, really, the way your chest tightens every time his fingers slide up the fretboard. there is nothing special about it. just movement. just sound. but the notes linger in the room longer than they should, and his gaze flicks toward you like he knows.

you clear your throat and drop your eyes back to the page. “we need to include a bridge, the brief says,” you say, more to the paper you’re reading than to him.

he replies with nothing at first. the silence stretches, frays, tugs at the edge of your nerves. then, quietly, he strums something softer. it is slower than the verse he was playing previously. hesitant, almost shy. and pretty in a way that makes your stomach flip.

you glance up. “is that new?”

he nods. his eyes train on his pick, he doesn’t look at you. “made it last night.”

you want to ask if he wrote it thinking of this song. of this project.

of you.

but that would mean admitting you care more than you pretend to.

and you would rather drop out entirely than do that.

instead, you hum along, trying to catch the rhythm. your voice wavers a little, but he doesn’t flinch. just adjusts the chord progression to match you.

for a moment, his presence feels easy.

strange, absolutely.

but easy.

and then he speaks.

“you always rush the high notes.”

you blink. “and you always write in a key that’s too low.”

“i like the way it sounds,” he murmurs.

“yeah?” you challenge, tilting your head. “or you just like making things harder for me.”

he looks at you then, properly. his gaze is steady, unreadable, but not cold. his voice is softer than you expect when he replies.

“you always handle it. i know you can.”

your breath catches. not because of what he says, but how he says it. low. certain. a quiet admission that slips under your skin before you can build your next defense.

and then, like nothing happened, he goes back to playing. like he did not just disarm you with such simple words.

you watch his profile in the studio light. something shifts in you.

and god, he is so beautiful when he thinks you’re not looking.

not everything that starts as rivalry necessarily has to stay that way…. right?

the hours slip by in fragments. verse, pause. pre-chorus, silence. bridge, stillness. your voices loop the same melody until it becomes muscle memory, until you forget whose line came first. the sky outside bruises purple, and still, neither of you have a desire to leave.

your phone buzzes. a text, to which you ignored. you glance at the time. too late to be just practice.

you both are sitting closer together on the studio’s couch now. not closer much by much, per-se, but just by a subtle shift. his knees angled toward yours, his arm brushing against the notebook you abandoned somewhere between lyric drafts. he does not touch you. not quite. but every time his fingers strum another chord, you feel the vibration in your bones.

you tilt your head, watch him. his hair falls into his eyes and he does not push it back. his mouth is set in concentration, lips parted slightly as he hums the bridge you wrote earlier. it sounds better in his voice.

“try it with the harmony,” you murmur.

he glances at you, then plays the first few notes again. this time, your voice joins his, softer than usual. for once, you are not trying to one-up him.

you are just… letting whatever happens happen.

and whatever does happen.

your eyes meet when the last note fades. you are both quiet, like if anyone speaks, the spell will snap.

his gaze drops to your mouth for half a second. you feel it like a lightning strike.

“what?” you whisper, breath catching.

he shakes his head. not a no. not quite. more like a silent war behind his eyes. his fingers flex around the neck of the guitar. “nothing.”

but it is something.

it’s the way the air tilts between you. the way your knees brush again, this time on purpose. the way he exhales, slow and shallow, and his eyes do not leave yours.

“you’re doing it again,” you murmur.

his voice is low. hoarse. “doing what?”

"looking at me like that."

he does not deny it. does not move away.

“like what?”

“you don’t look like someone who hates me,” you add, quieter now.

“maybe i never did,” he confesses. he said it so quiet, so gentle.

and that—that—is what breaks it.

you lean in before you mean to. he meets you halfway. his hand cups the back of your neck, tentative at first, like he is still unsure. but your lips find his like they have always known the way. soft, then harder. slow, then hungrier.

he quickly moves the guitar off his lap and lays it to the floor without breaking away. once it’s situated, he moves you to straddle him.

you kiss him like you’re falling apart.

he kisses back like he’s there to collect the pieces.

and for once, there’s no noise between you. just breath. just skin. just this.

his kiss deepens until it swallows you— slow and hot, all breath and tension and long-held want finally breaking loose. the guitar lies forgotten on the floor, notebooks scattered, and the only thing you can feel is him— his hands on your hips, his mouth trailing warmth down your throat.

you’re still straddling his lap, his back pressed against the creaking leather of the studio couch. it smells like dust and old songs. it smells like him.

“do you want to keep going?” he asks, low against your neck.

you nod your head instantly. “please don’t stop.”

his breath shudders. “okay. okay, come here.”

his hands slip under your shirt again, slow and sure this time, sliding it up and over your head. he takes a second to look at you— eyes heavy, reverent, like he is seeing you for the first time and memorising every detail.

“you’re so—” he swallows. “wow, you’re unreal.”

you kiss him before he can get shy with it. his fingers curl around your waist, thumbs brushing up your spine. when you shift against him, your hips press to his— friction blooming hard and dizzying.

he groans into your mouth, hands guiding you into a slow grind. “that’s it,” he murmurs. “keep moving like that.”

you roll against him again and he sucks in a breath— sharp, shaky. his self-control is unreal, and still he gives it all to you. still, he’s holding you like you’re something sacred.

“can i taste you?” he asks, barely a whisper. “here?”

you nod. breathless. dazed. and he lays you back across the couch.

he lowers himself slowly, kissing down your stomach, your thighs, until you are squirming under his mouth. the room is dead silent except for the subtle creak of vinyl and the soft, wet sound of his tongue lapping into you—slow, unhurried, like he is playing your body by ear.

you moan— quiet at first, then louder when his fingers slip in, curling in time with his tongue.

“jun—god—”

“i’ve got you,” he breathes against you. “let go for me.”

you do— shaking, thighs clenching around his shoulders, breath coming in gasps as your orgasm crashes over you, sharp and messy.

he groans softly, still licking you through it, still holding your hips down with gentle strength.

when he finally comes up, mouth glistening, eyes dark, you are barely holding yourself upright.

“still with me?” he asks, brushing his thumb over your lip.

“yes,” you pant. “need you inside me.”

his jaw tightens. he kisses you again— messy, deep— and you fumble for his jeans. he helps, tugging them down just enough, and pulls a condom from his wallet—hands trembling.

“you sure?” he asks one more time.

“yes. fuck. please.”

he lines himself up, slow and careful, easing in with a low groan that sounds like it’s been waiting in his chest for weeks.

you cry out— full, stretched, perfect. he stills, breath caught.

“you feel—” he chokes on the words. “so so good.”

he starts to move, slow and deep, one hand braced behind your head, the other wrapped around your thigh. the couch shifts beneath you with every thrust, the quiet rhythm echoing in the otherwise still room.

he leans close, panting against your neck. “wanted this for so long,” he murmurs. “wanted you.”

you cling to him, nails digging into his back. “jun, i’m—”

“yeah?” he whispers, you feel his lips curl to a smirk against your skim. “come for me again. let me feel it.”

you do— your whole body tightening, pulling him in deeper as you fall apart for him a second time.

his orgasm follows after you fast, hips stuttering, moaning your name into your mouth as he spills into the condom, fingers gripping you like he never wants to let go.

the silence afterward is soft. buzzing. sacred.

you lie tangled on the couch, half-naked and still catching your breath.

he brushes your hair back, presses a kiss to your temple.

“we’re still in the studio,” you mumble, dazed.

he huffs a quiet laugh, burying his face in your neck. “no one’s coming in. they know i book it late.”

“you planned this?”

“i hoped this would happen eventually,” he murmurs. “but no. not like this.”

you glance up. “regret it?”

his eyes meet yours, gentle and warm. “not for a second.”

outside, the sky is black and the building is quiet.

inside, you’re finally still.

and he is still holding you. like he means to keep doing it. always.

this is my first xdh work so if its bad don’t tell me im newgen to this fandom🫩😀

shout out to jay for helping me ily

[burlesquerade]

already had it

pairing: han jisung x reader tags: drabble. implied friends to lovers. slightly suggestive. part of the emmieverse special—see here

“okay, i’m gonna teach you the basics,” jisung begins, settling onto the floor with his guitar already in hand, his back against the couch and knees bent. “don’t laugh if i look cool doing it.”

“you never look cool,” you shoot back, grinning as you sink down beside him and pluck a random pick from the floor like it belongs to you.

he gasps like you slapped him. “betrayal. and here i was gonna be gentle.”

“you? gentle? please,” you tease, nudging your knee against his. “just teach me the damn instrument."

“fine,” he huffs, dramatically clearing his throat and passing the guitar to you. “e minor. your first trial. put your fingers here… and here—yeah, close. not quite.”

he leans in, body warm beside you, one hand guiding your fingers, the other braced on the floor just behind you. the scent of his shampoo curls into your senses, subtle and clean, and the soft scratch of his voice sends a slow ripple through your spine.

you pretend not to notice. pretend your fingers are not trembling just a little as they press down on the strings.

“like this?” you ask softly, your attention more on the guitar neck than your words.

he hums, the sound low, thoughtful. “almost. your wrist’s a little tense.”

“you’re a little tense,” you mumble, cheeks hot.

he laughs and flicks his hand in a gesture that tells you to shift forward, to not lean the couch. once you obey, he moves to sit behind your back. now he has one leg on either side of you, chest pressed to your back, and the body of the guitar still across your lap. his arms wrap around your sides, hands finding yours again.

it is just easier this way. more efficient. that’s all.

there’s no ulterior motive. no way.

“relax your hand—no, like this,” he murmurs, fixing your grip with practiced ease. his chest brushes your back with each breath he takes. his words kiss the side of your face.

you swallow hard. how will you focus like this?

“you’re not listening,” he utters, close enough that his voice hums through you instead of around you. “is it that hard to focus when i’m near you?”

your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. because it is true. because you have been in love with him forever and right now, he is everywhere.

“you’re just… distracting,” you mutter.

he stills behind you for one long second. then—

“oh?”

you can hear the smirk that’s curling on his lips before he leans in, chin nearly on your shoulder, his voice dipping lower.

“you always act like this when i get close,” he teases, voice like velvet. “why’s that, huh?”

“i don’t.”

“you do.”

you can feel his eyes on you. can feel the way his hands have stopped fixing the chord, fingers resting lightly over yours like they belong there.

“you got a crush on me or something?”

you freeze. you’re being so obvious right now.

he laughs, breath warm on your cheek. “you do!”

“shut up,” you whisper, but it is weak. breathless.

“you know…” he comments, slipping the guitar gently from your lap. “if you wanted my attention, you didn’t have to pretend to suck at guitar.”

using your waist as an anchor, he shifts around so that he’s in front of you now. legs still bracketing yours. face too close.

“you already had it.”

and when he tilts your chin up with two fingers, slow and deliberate, all you can do is lean in.

this ones for my hot and sexy daddy thank u@burlesquerade

taglist (ask to be added here): @burlesquerade @makeitworse @petersasteria @gdinthehouseee @aizshallnotbefound @floofeh-purpi @ldydeath @wcnderlnds @ttturnitup @breakmeoff @sherrayyyyy @ricecake9999 @leni111 @scream-queen-25 @spiritualgirly444 @fairyprincesslvr21 @loonybunny1 @uuchii @sherxoo @m-325 @slut4junho

[burlesquerade]

seeing skz live in 15 days han jisung u better run

[burlesquerade]

rubbing my hands together like a fly

jay x jisung ♡

⤷ attie’s 400 event !

[burlesquerade]

curly haired junhan my beloved

[burlesquerade]

i’m gonna cream

writing for stray kids soon

[burlesquerade]

need him carnally

[burlesquerade]

couldn’t even edge to ts i busted immediately

what's a little ink?

pairing: han jisung x reader

word count: 7.3k

summary: you wanted the upper hand. you came for a tattoo. you also came for him. and somehow you ended up in his hoodie, eating his eggs, and wondering how a bet turned into this stupid, soft thing you just can’t resist wanting

tags: tattoo artist au, friends to lovers, fluff and smut. porn with plot. sweet, sappy, and gross romance. enjoy

requested by @burlesquerade hope u like it honey

It all started with a simple, completely ridiculous bet. You and Han had been hanging out for hours, as you often did, swapping old stories and making fun of each other’s quirky habits. Laughter echoed around the cozy living room, the kind of laughter that was easy and natural, the way it always was when the two of you were together.

"Okay," Han said, a sly grin spreading across his face. He leaned forward, eyes glinting with that playful spark you knew all too well. "If you can beat me at this stupid game one more time, I will get you whatever you want as a prize."

You raised an eyebrow, already suspecting he might be setting you up for something ridiculous. "Whatever I want? Really?"

"Yep. No holds barred. You name it, and it’s yours," Han assured you, his tone full of confident mischief. "But if I win…" He paused for dramatic effect, leaning in so close you could feel the heat of his breath on your cheek. “You have to let me tattoo you.”

You snorted, shaking your head. “Tattoo me? Really? That’s your big gamble?”

Han’s smile grew wider. “I’m a tattoo artist, remember? It's a fair trade. I think you’re too scared to let me do it.”

You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped your lips, your fingers tapping idly on your cup. “Scared? Please. I’m not scared of a tattoo.”

His eyes narrowed, a challenge sparking in their depths. “Oh, so now you’re saying you can handle it? Alright then. You’re on. But we both know I’m going to win.”

You gave him a playful smirk. “Big talk for someone who has no idea what they’re up against.”

The game you were playing—a mix of cards, trivia, and guessing games—was silly, and it didn’t take long for the competition to become heated. But, much to your surprise, you did win. By a narrow margin, of course, but a win was a win.

Han’s mouth dropped open in disbelief, and you had to bite your lip to stop yourself from gloating too much. You had been expecting him to be smug, but now, as the reality of the situation sank in, you saw a flicker of something else cross his features.

“Alright, alright,” he muttered, trying to hide his grin. “You won. So what do you want?”

You leaned back in the chair, considering your options. There were so many things you could ask for—something extravagant, maybe—but you had been thinking about this for a while. Han had been inking people for years now, and you had always wondered what it would feel like to have him work on you.

So, you decided to go for it.

“I want a tattoo,” you said with a straight face, barely able to hide the excitement in your voice.

He blinked at you. “Wait… you’re serious?”

“Totally,” you answered, your grin impossible to hide. “You’re going to ink me, Han. And you can’t back out.”

He stared at you for a long moment, as if trying to make sure you weren’t joking, but then the challenge returned in his eyes.

“Well, if I have to do this, I get to choose where,” he said, his tone slightly mischievous. “No complaints, okay?”

You snorted, rolling your eyes. “Fine. As long as I get to decide what the design is, I’ll leave the location to you.”

Han smirked and held out his hand. “Deal.”

The text from Han came just before noon.

“Hope you’re not chickening out. Studio at 3. Wear something loose. ;)”

You stared at your phone longer than you meant to, heat crawling up your neck. Chickening out? Hardly. But that stupid winking face was another story. He always knew how to push just the right buttons—just enough to make your pulse quicken, just enough to stir things that should probably stay buried.

Still, you showed up. Of course you did.

His studio was tucked into a quiet side street downtown, its glass windows fogged slightly from the early spring chill. You had been here before—countless times, really—but never like this. Never with your skin on the line. Never with your heart threatening to beat out of your chest for reasons that had very little to do with ink or needles.

The soft chime above the door rang as you stepped in. Han was already inside, hunched over a sketchpad, his brows knitted in concentration. A pencil twirled between his fingers as he tapped it against his lower lip, eyes flicking to you the moment you walked in.

And just like that, the air shifted.

He smiled, slow and crooked. “You came. I’m impressed.”

“You told me to. I don’t exactly think that counts as bravery,” you replied, trying to play it cool, even though you were already peeling off your jacket, already catching the way his eyes flicked to your collarbone with something unreadable.

Han rose from his chair, brushing his fingers through his soft brown hair. “I sketched some ideas. Wanna see?”

You nodded, joining him by the desk where several sheets were spread out. The designs were delicate—subtle, intricate things, clearly drawn with you in mind. One of them caught your eye: a minimalist crescent moon nestled inside a trail of tiny stars, the lines fine and whisper-soft.

“I like this one,” you murmured, fingers brushing the paper.

“I thought you might.” His voice had dropped a bit. He was watching you closely, as if your reaction meant something more than approval. “It’s gentle. Quiet. But it lingers.”

You swallowed.

“I’ve decided where to put it,” he added after a beat, stepping closer.

“Oh?” you asked, lifting an eyebrow. “Do I get a hint?”

Han smiled, tilting his head just slightly as his eyes traveled—unapologetically—over your exposed shoulder, down the dip of your neck. “Upper shoulder. Right where it curves into your neck. Here.” He reached out, fingers grazing the exact spot, the barest ghost of a touch. “It’s a place you never see, but everyone else does. Intimate. Subtle. Kind of like the moon.”

You froze. It was a good idea—too good, actually. Because now, your body was responding to more than just nerves. The closeness. The delicacy in his voice. The way his fingertips lingered, resting there a heartbeat longer than necessary.

“I trust you,” you whispered, hoping it would ground you.

Han met your gaze. For once, he looked serious. “Then lie down for me.”

The chair was cold at first, the studio quiet but for the low murmur of music and the faint clatter of his tools. You lay on your side, hair pulled up and shirt slightly off one shoulder, baring the space where he would work. The air kissed your skin, but it was Han’s presence—his warmth—that you felt most acutely.

He cleaned the area with methodical care, the scent of alcohol and antiseptic somehow comforting. But it was the way his hand curved around your shoulder, the way his thumb brushed the nape of your neck, that made you hyper aware of every inch of yourself.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

“Mhmm.”

“Tell me if it hurts too much.”

You chose not to tell him that it already did—but not because of the needle.

As the machine buzzed to life, the first kiss of ink stung. You flinched, just slightly, and felt his other hand firm on your back in response. Steadying. Anchoring.

He worked in slow, precise strokes, the pressure rhythmic, hypnotic. But each time his fingers brushed your skin, each time his breath tickled your shoulder from how close he leaned—it lit something warm and aching inside you.

His voice broke through the quiet after a while, low and slightly hoarse. “You’re really still. Most people twitch like hell when it’s here.”

You exhaled, barely moving. “I think I just… don’t want to mess you up.”

“You couldn’t,” he murmured. And for a second, the machine paused. His hand stayed, resting lightly over the fresh lines. “You’re kind of perfect like this.”

Your breath caught.

You didn’t dare move. Didn’t dare ask what he meant. But in the pause between one stroke and the next, the silence pulsed—thick with something fragile, something not quite spoken yet.

He resumed working, but something had changed. His touches had always been skilled, steady, but now there was a new kind of deliberateness in the way his fingers slid across your skin—slower, more lingering, more aware. The buzz of the machine became background noise to the static dancing along your spine.

Your breath came shallow and controlled, each exhale purposeful, but no amount of focus could erase the way heat pooled low in your belly each time he adjusted your position, each time he leaned in just close enough that his breath grazed the shell of your ear.

"You’re warm," he said suddenly, voice barely audible over the low thrum of music.

You tilted your head, cheek brushing the leather of the chair. “Is that your way of saying I’m sweating too much?”

A quiet laugh. "No." He wiped the spot gently, fingers spread wide against your upper back. “Just saying... your skin feels alive.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, willing yourself not to shiver.

He paused to dip the needle again, but his other hand stayed pressed against you—thumb dragging absently along the edge of your spine. And then, as though the words slipped free without permission, he added, “It’s kind of driving me crazy.”

The machine stilled. Your eyes snapped open.

“What?”

Han blinked, as if he had not meant to say it aloud. But the corner of his mouth lifted anyway, a half-smile that was equal parts sheepish and satisfied. “Nothing. Just... hard to stay focused when you’re under my hands like this.”

Your pulse spiked. “You’re the one who insisted on choosing the placement.”

“Maybe I wanted an excuse to touch you like this. To drive you crazy”

The air between you crackled. He was close now—too close. His hand still rested against your skin, fingers slightly curled as if resisting the urge to grip tighter. You felt it in your bones: the shift from friendly banter to something heavier. Something hungry.

The tattoo needle remained idle, forgotten for the moment.

Your voice came soft, but steady. “Are you always this... handsy when you’re working?”

He leaned in slowly, slowly, until his mouth hovered just behind your ear. “Only when the canvas makes it impossible not to be.”

Your breath caught. You could feel the heat of him, the deliberate pause before he moved again—not toward his tools, but toward you. His hand slid from your shoulder, knuckles brushing the side of your throat in a line so featherlight it made your skin pebble.

Your voice was barely above a whisper. “You said you wanted to drive me crazy, too.”

“Is it working?” he murmured.

You closed your eyes, exhaling. “I think you already know the answer.”

Han chuckled under his breath, but there was a tightness in it—like restraint stretched thin. Still, he didn’t kiss you. Didn’t push further. Instead, he pressed a hand to your waist and guided you gently back into place, the spell not broken, only deferred.

“I should finish,” he said, almost hoarse.

You nodded, breathless. “Yeah. Finish.”

But every second after that was charged. Every brush of his hand, every hum of the machine, every stolen glance when you dared to peek up at him—all of it thrummed with the knowledge that something had shifted. And neither of you could pretend it hadn’t.

You lost track of time. Moments bled into minutes, drawn out by the quiet rhythm of his work and the unspoken weight between you.

By the time he shut off the machine, your body felt like it had become a tuning fork—tight with tension, humming with everything unsaid.

“That’s it, you're done,” Han said quietly, voice thick.

He reached for a clean cloth, gently dabbing the inked area. The sting had dulled into a soft ache, but the way his hand moved over your skin—slow, deliberate, reverent—was what left you breathless.

He lingered there, thumb brushing just above the fresh lines. “You did good. Barely moved.”

You shifted onto your elbows slightly, twisting to catch his face. “Is that praise, or are you just surprised I didn’t faint?”

His gaze met yours. For a second, he said nothing. Then, a smile tugged at his lips—but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You’re a lot tougher than you let on.”

You sat up, pulling the collar of your shirt gently over one shoulder. “Maybe you just bring it out of me.”

Han stood there, still holding the cloth, still watching you with that unreadable expression. The tension between you was no longer subtle. It stretched between your bodies like a wire, thin and tight, vibrating with things neither of you had said out loud.

You looked away first.

“Let me pay you,” you said, reaching for your bag.

“Don’t,” he interrupted. “This wasn’t about that.”

Your fingers froze on the strap. You turned slowly. “Then what was it about?”

He hesitated, jaw tight. The weight in his gaze softened for a beat—something bare flickering through, like he wanted to say everything but chose instead to say:

“I wanted something of mine on you.”

The words landed in your chest like a drop of ink in water—sinking, blooming.

You didn’t respond right away. The silence folded around you again, but it was thick, pulsing, the air saturated with all the ways you almost touched.

Finally, you smiled, small but real. “Well... now you’ve got it.”

He laughed under his breath, but it was quieter this time. A little more careful. “Yeah. Guess I do.”

You moved toward the mirror, pulling your shirt slightly aside to see the finished piece that now lay protected by second skin. The crescent moon curved delicately against your skin, soft as a secret, sharp as a wish you hadn’t meant to speak aloud.

It was beautiful. It was everything you could have asked for.

You caught Han watching your reflection—eyes fixed not just on the ink, but the shape of you, the moment of you. Like he had never really allowed himself to look until now.

And still... he did nothing. And neither did you.

Just two bodies, standing too close, tied together by a single piece of ink and a silence that spoke louder than anything else.

You turned from the mirror, fingers brushing down the edge of your collar one last time. The skin was still tender beneath your touch, but not as tender as the weight in your chest.

“I should go,” you said, voice a little too light. A little too careful.

Han nodded once, but he did not move from where he stood. “Right. It’s late.”

You moved toward the door, bag slung over your shoulder, shoes forgotten under the bench. The silence followed you like smoke—slow and curling and hard to breathe through. You could feel his eyes on your back.

But just as your hand touched the knob, you paused.

“…I’m not usually like this.”

The words escaped before you could catch them.

Han’s voice came from behind you, lower now. “Like what?”

You didn’t turn to face him. “This affected.”

A beat.

Then: “Me neither.”

You turned then. Slowly. He was closer than he’d been a moment ago. Still not touching. Still not reaching.

But close.

The streetlights from outside filtered through the frosted windows, casting soft shadows over his face—his expression was unreadable again, but his eyes were not. They were dark and warm and searching. Like he wanted to speak with his hands instead of his mouth.

“I should walk you out,” he offered.

“I don’t need—”

“I know.” A pause. Then, his voice was gentler, “Let me anyway.”

You nodded.

He opened the door, and the cool air of the hallway hit your skin like a shock—like stepping out of a dream. The clack of your shoes echoed softly as you both walked, side by side, neither of you speaking.

You reached the door to the street. The city breathed on the other side. Stillness clung to the space between you like fog.

“Hey,” Han called, just as you stepped onto the threshold. His voice pulled you back. “Wait.”

You turned, heart stuttering.

He was standing close again. Too close. The kind of close that felt deliberate. His hand hovered near your waist, fingers flexing once, like he was debating whether to touch you again.

He didn’t.

Instead, his voice dropped. “If I kiss you right now… would that mess things up?”

Your breath hitched.

The world held its breath with you.

You let the silence stretch. Let the ache of it crawl up your spine. And then you said—quietly, honestly:

“I think not kissing me might mess things up more.”

And still—still—he did not kiss you. He only looked at you like he wanted to memorize the moment, the space between your mouths, the way you had just told him everything without saying it outright.

He smiled, slow and heavy with intent. “Then maybe I’ll wait until it really ruins me.”

Your throat went dry.

“Night,” he murmured, stepping back.

And just like that, the door closed between you.

But your heart stayed in his hands.

It was past midnight when your phone lit up.

"You still awake?"

You stared at the screen, thumb hovering, heart already answering before you could.

"i never really went to sleep"

Three dots appeared, then vanished. Then again.

"Me neither"

A beat of no incoming messages passed, then:

"I'm keeping myself up thinking about earlier''

Your breath caught.

"the tattoo?"

"Not exactly.."

You didn't respond right away. You didn’t have to. The air in your room had changed—thicker, tighter, like his voice might pour from the cracks in the wall's paint if you leaned in close enough.

And then the screen lit up again—this time, a call, to which you answered—not after panicking for a few seconds, of course.

“…Hey.” You whispered into the microphone.

His voice was low, rough from too many unsent words. “You looked good tonight.”

You swallowed the simmering embarrassment down. “You saw a lot of skin.”

“Not the part I meant.”

A silence stretched. Not awkward—intimate. It curled through the receiver like warm breath against your neck.

“Come by tomorrow,” he said finally. “I need to check your tattoo.”

“You just want to touch me again.”

“I'm not gonna sit here and lie to you by saying I didn't love every second of touching you. Come by tomorrow, please?”

Your skin flared at the bluntness. There was no smirk in his tone. No teasing this time. Just heat. Quiet and real.

You whispered, “Okay.”

The next day, you were back at his studio.

You told yourself it was just for aftercare, but the second you walked in, saw the way he looked up at you—eyes dark and steady—you knew you were both done pretending.

“Shirt,” he said softly, gesturing to the seat.

You sat. You peeled the fabric from your shoulder, the same stretch of skin that had sparked the night before and haunted his thoughts since. His hands were gloved, but his touch still felt like bare electricity.

He leaned in, inspecting the ink, but the space between you crackled. “Looks good,” he murmured. “You’ll heal fast.”

“So I can go?” you teased, voice thinner than usual.

He gave you no answer. Just peeled off the gloves, tossed them aside, and placed his bare hand against your back—palm flat, warm. Possessive.

“You came back,” he said. “That’s what I wanted.”

You turned your head, letting your cheek rest against your shoulder, watching him. “I did as I was told, Han. So what now?”

Han stepped around to face you. He reached up and touched your chin, tilting your face to his. The air between you shrank to nothing.

“Now I kiss you.”

And this time, he did.

His mouth was warm, unhurried, like he was tasting something he had waited weeks to touch. His fingers cradled your jaw, and you melted into it, into him, into the truth that had been aching beneath your skin for days.

He pulled back, just an inch.

“Still messing things up?” he asked, breath brushing your lips.

You smiled. “Only in the best way.”

The kiss tasted like every moment that came before it—charged, aching, sweet with restraint. His mouth moved against yours like a secret unraveling, like he had memorized the shape of your lips before ever daring to touch them.

You leaned into him, fingers curling into his shirt, pulling him closer like instinct. Like gravity. Han followed the movement without hesitation, one hand sliding around your waist, the other brushing the side of your neck—soft, reverent, as if you might vanish if he held you too tightly.

When he pulled back, just enough to breathe, your foreheads touched. Your eyes stayed closed.

“You have no idea what you’ve been doing to me,” he whispered.

You opened your eyes. “Then show me.”

The words cracked something open between you. Quickly, he sat beside you on the tattoo bed and pulled you onto his lap.

He kissed you again—deeper now, his hands no longer tentative. One slid under your shirt, fingers warm against the small of your back, the other braced at your hip like he needed the anchor. You shifted in his lap, and before you realized you had even moved, he groaned low in his throat at the feel of you straddling him, bodies pressed with no space between.

Still, he slowed. Just for a breath.

“You okay?” he asked, voice rough.

You nodded, nose brushing his. “More than.”

His lips returned to the bare side of your throat—soft at first, then with the scrape of teeth. Your hands threaded into his hair as you tilted your head for him, shivering when he dragged his mouth down the slope of your shoulder.

“Han,” you breathed.

He stilled for a moment, forehead pressed against your skin.

“I’ve wanted this,” he said. “But not just this.”

You stilled, heart thudding.

“I want every version of you,” he continued. “The fire, the softness, the silence. I want the way you look at me when I'm not looking. I want the way you talk like you are not afraid but touch like you’re terrified.”

You exhaled, chest caving. “You noticed everything?"

“I tried not to.”

He leaned back to meet your gaze. His hands moved with more intent now, but still gentle—still you-first. His thumbs traced the curve of your hips beneath your shirt, and you shivered under the slow build of it.

And then, still holding your waist, he laid you back against the padded bench—carefully, gracefully—like you were something rare. Like he had dreamed of this exact moment in the quiet between days.

Your shirt came off slowly, inch by inch. His hands explored like a map he was finally allowed to touch. Every kiss was a promise: I will not rush this. I will learn you inch by inch. I will memorize every sigh.

When his mouth found yours again, the kiss burned hotter—teeth clashing gently, breath shared. You tugged at his shirt, and he pulled it over his head in one clean motion, your hands already seeking skin, already desperate to feel.

Still, even in the heat, he slowed now and then—traced your ribs with a single finger, kissed the inside of your wrist. Whispers scattered between kisses.

“I want you,” he said. “But I also want you.”

You arched into him, fingertips splayed across his back, heart wide open. “You have me.”

The second his shirt hit the floor, your hands were on him—tracing the taut muscle beneath warm skin, nails catching just enough to make him hiss. His mouth was back on yours before you could take your next breath, more forceful now, more needy. Tongue sliding against yours with a hunger that made your spine arch and your legs tighten around his hips.

Han groaned when he felt it—your thighs drawing him in like a vice, like you already knew exactly how this would end.

“Fuck,” he murmured against your mouth. “You feel too good.”

“You haven’t even felt me yet,” you whispered back.

His eyes darkened.

He pulled you up in one fluid motion, strong hands gripping your thighs as he laid you down atop the workbench, your back pressed against cool wood, your skin burning beneath his palms.

He kissed down your throat, not slow anymore. Messy, greedy, open-mouthed kisses that left your pulse stuttering. He bit lightly at the curve where your shoulder met your neck, and you gasped—head tipping back, legs spreading instinctively, begging for more contact, more friction, more.

His hands slipped beneath the band of your pants, thumbs dragging over the sensitive skin at your hips.

“These need to come off,” he growled, voice thick with want. “Right fucking now.”

You lifted your hips to help, letting him tug them down along with your underwear in one swift motion. The heat in his gaze when he looked at you—all of you—bare on his table, flushed and panting, legs spread for him like it was the most natural thing in the world—

It made your stomach flip, made your core throb.

“You’re gorgeous,” he said, like he was angry about it. “So fucking pretty and wet already, and I haven’t even touched you properly.”

“Then do it,” you whispered. “Touch me.”

And he did.

One hand pressed your thigh open, the other sliding between your legs, fingers stroking through your slick folds in a rhythm that was maddeningly light. He teased your clit with the pad of his thumb, watching the way your hips jerked, your mouth parted around soft gasps.

“You gonna let me make you come with just my fingers first?” he murmured, leaning close, breath hot against your ear. “Wanna feel you grip them before I fuck you. Want you so messy I can’t think straight.”

You whimpered, back arching. “Yes—please, Han—”

He slid one finger in, slow, letting you feel the stretch. Then two. Then a curl of his knuckles that had you crying out, your hands scrabbling for purchase on the edge of the table.

“That’s it,” he groaned. “Grind on my fingers. Let me see how desperate you are.”

You did—hips rocking, thighs trembling, your core clenching around him as he worked you open with deliberate pressure, circling your clit with his thumb until the pressure built fast and dizzying.

“I can feel you getting close,” he said against your throat. “You gonna come for me, baby? Right here on the table where I ink people’s skin?”

“Fuck—Han—yes—”

You shattered with a cry, legs shaking, body arching against his mouth as he kissed you through it—murmuring things you could barely process, words lost in the white-hot rush.

And when you finally came down, breath heaving, he leaned back and licked his fingers clean with a satisfied smirk.

“Think you’re ready for my cock now?”

You nodded, dazed. “Please.”

He undid his belt with one hand, gaze locked to yours as he stroked himself—slow, thick, already slick from the sight of you. Then he lined up, ran the head through your folds once, twice, teasing your oversensitive clit just to watch you twitch—

And then he pushed in.

You both groaned—deep, guttural—like relief and hunger all at once. He filled you in one slow, brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt.

You were soaked. Sore. Already wrecked.

But he did not stop.

He fucked you—hard, deep, each thrust lifting your hips from the table, your hands clawing at his back, your moans turning to whimpers, then cries. His name over and over.

Your moans spilled out in sobs as your second climax hit you like a dam bursting. It was hot—blinding—your release painting his cock in pulsing waves, your entire body locking up beneath him. All the hunger, the want, the times of aching tension you had swallowed back whenever he so much as looked at you with those dark, unreadable eyes—it all came out in that moment. You clenched tight around him, and he groaned loud and low, his head dropping to your shoulder.

“God—look at you,” he rasped, voice wrecked, pride and awe tangled in every word. “So good for me. So perfect when you come.”

But then, his hips stopped to a jarring halt. He was still buried inside you, forehead pressed to yours, breath ragged. You could feel the tension in his body—every muscle taut, his hips stuttering in that way that told you he was right on the edge, right there—

But holding back. Just for you.

You cupped his jaw, breathless but steadying. “You didn’t come.”

He shook his head, eyes fluttering. “Wanted to feel you first. Wanted to see—fuck—how tight you get when you come around me.”

Your body gave a little twitch at the memory, still oversensitive, still full. But a flicker of something else lit behind your eyes.

You kissed him—slow and deep—and then, with a sly smile, clenched around him deliberately.

He choked on a moan, arms trembling where they braced beside your head.

“Baby—don’t—”

“You always so in control?” you whispered, brushing your lips along his jaw, down his throat. “Or are you just that good at hiding when you want to break?”

He groaned, head falling to your shoulder. “Please—fuck—”

You rolled your hips beneath him, just a little. Just enough.

“You’re still so hard,” you murmured, voice thick with satisfaction. “Still deep inside me like you need to be. You want to come? Want to fill me up?”

“God—yes.”

“Then allow me.”

You pushed him gently, and he let you—collapsing back into the chair beside the bench, cock glistening and flushed as it slipped free, twitching with the aftershocks of restraint. He barely had time to breathe before you dropped to your knees between his legs and wrapped your hand around him—tight, slow strokes from base to tip that had him gasping and clenching the arms of the chair.

“You look so pretty like this,” you murmured, kissing the head of his cock, licking the slit just to taste the salt of him.

His hips bucked and he cursed—head thrown back, abs tensing.

“Sensitive already, aren’t you?” you purred.

“I’m gonna—fuck—I’m gonna come—”

You took him into your mouth before he could finish the sentence—deep and warm, tongue swirling as you bobbed your head, one hand cupping his balls, the other pressing down gently on his hip to keep him from thrusting.

He was loud now, whimpering, begging, gasping your name like prayer.

And when he came—god—

It was with a broken moan, back arching, thighs shaking under your palms. You swallowed everything, licked your lips, and looked up at him through your lashes as he tried to remember how to breathe.

His eyes were glassy, hair clinging to his forehead, chest rising in jagged waves.

You smiled. “Still in control?”

He laughed—wrecked, breathless. “Fuck no.”

You climbed into his lap again, your bare skin still warm, flushed and tingling, and curled against him with a quiet little hum.

He wrapped his arms around you like instinct. And then, softly:

“…Round two’s gonna ruin us both.”

You grinned against his neck. “Good.”

The studio held comfortable silence for a moment.

Only your breathing filled the space—shallow and warm, mingling with his where you straddled him on the tattoo bed again, skin flushed and shining in the low amber glow of the work light. The air smelled like sweat and sex, care, and ink—hot, heavy, and honest.

Han was still beneath you, arms slack, mouth parted. His chest heaved, his cock softening between your thighs.

You dragged your fingers along the lines of his jaw, smug and satisfied. “Speechless?”

He blinked once. Then again. Something shifted in his eyes.

“No,” he rasped. “Just… trying not to fuck you so hard this bed breaks.”

You laughed softly—until his hands shot to your hips and slammed you down onto his thigh.

You gasped, the sudden friction making your oversensitive body jolt.

“I let you ruin me once,” he growled, voice low and wrecked. “Your turn now.”

You barely had time to react before he stood, arms beneath your thighs, lifting you like nothing. Your back hit the nearest wall—your bare skin flush to cool concrete, legs wrapped around his waist, his cock already hardening between you again.

“What—Han—”

“You think you can just look at me like that,” he snarled against your neck, grinding up between your soaked folds. “Touch me like you own me. And then walk out of here? Nah.”

You shivered. His cock pressed right against your entrance.

“Han—”

“Look at me.”

You did.

He didn't give you a warning. Just a brutal promise, growled against your skin; “I’m gonna fuck you so good you’ll forget your own name—but still remember mine when your hands are between your legs for weeks after.”

Then he was inside you again—deep—in one smooth, merciless thrust, hips snapping forward so hard your back hit the wall with a dull thud.

You gasped—high and breathless—arms clinging to his shoulders, nails biting into skin.

“Han—fuck—”

He caught your cry in a kiss that was anything but sweet. All tongue, teeth, and desperation, lips crushed to yours like he needed your breath to survive.

Your walls fluttered around him already—sensitive from the first round, still dripping wet and raw, but ready despite the ache. He filled you so completely, so perfectly, it stole the air from your lungs.

“I felt this pussy clench around my fingers,” he groaned, pulling back just enough to slam into you again. “But it’s nothing—nothing—compared to how you grip my cock. So fucking tight. So wet.”

You moaned—helpless—every part of your body trembling as he started to move.

Hard. Fast. Focused.

Your back scraped against the wall with every thrust, the studio echoing with the filthy slap of skin on skin, the sound of your choked gasps and his rough groans.

“You want control?” he hissed, fingers digging into the underside of your thighs, forcing them open wider. “Then take it.”

He pulled out.

You nearly cried from the loss.

Then he moved you back to the table, your knees hitting the workbench edge as he turned you, bent you forward, pressed your chest flat to the table.

You barely had time to breathe before he plunged back inside from behind, the new angle making you cry out, high and broken.

“Louder!” he commanded. “Let the whole damn building know how good I fuck you.”

And louder you were when he found that spot inside you—over and over again, the pace brutal and relentless.

He gripped your hips, pulling you back to meet every thrust, the obscene sound of your slick arousal growing louder with every stroke. Your legs started to buckle—nerves frayed, every inch of your skin alight.

“F-fuck—Han—I can’t—too much—”

“You can. You’re taking it like a fucking dream,” he rasped, reaching down, rubbing your clit in tight, wet circles that made your vision blur.

Your whole body tightened—shaking, clenching, desperate to come again, and again—

He leaned over you, lips to your ear, voice hoarse:

“Come on my cock again, baby. Milk it. Let me feel that pretty pussy worship me.”

And you did.

You shattered—body convulsing, mouth open in a silent scream as you came hard, squeezing him so tight he cursed and slammed into you with one final, brutal thrust.

He came with a shout—loud, raw, high—hips jerking as he spilled inside you, his hands fisting in your hair, his teeth grazing your shoulder.

You stayed like that for a moment.

Ruined. One tangled, sweaty, aching mess.

Then his hands softened—smoothed up your back, traced the curves of your hips like reverence.

He pressed a kiss between your shoulder blades.

“…Still remember your name?”

You laughed, wrecked and breathless.

“Remind me?" you whispered.

You did not remember collapsing—just that one moment he was still inside you, and the next, you were draped across the tattoo bed like laundry left out to dry. Your skin tingled, nerves alight, thighs sticky and trembling, your mind still floating somewhere just above your body.

And Han?

Han was slumped in the chair again, legs spread, one arm thrown dramatically over his face.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered into the crook of his elbow. “I think I blacked out. You short-circuited me.”

You snorted, face still pressed to the cool surface of the bench. “You short-circuited me. I’m literally leaking.”

He scooted the chair to get a full view of what you were talking about, eyes glassy but mischievous. “Good. I want it dripping down your thighs next time you show up in those little skirts you wear.”

You blinked. “Next time?”

Han grinned, wicked and lazy. “Oh, baby. This is so not a one-time thing. I’m gonna put a stamp on you like a repeat customer loyalty card.”

You rolled onto your side, raising a brow. “You’re gonna fuck me five times and give me a discount on a flash piece?”

He laughed—loudly. Like you caught him off guard. “God, you’re a menace.”

“You’re the menace. Who says that shit mid-stroke?” you shot back, mimicking his earlier line with mock dramatics: “‘Forget your own name but still remember mine?’ Who writes you?”

He leaned forward, dragging his fingers up your bare spine. “No one writes me. I just improvise.”

You narrowed your eyes. “So… you freestyled your way into making me cum thrice and see stars?”

He winked. “What can I say? I’ve got bars and stamina.”

You smacked him with a rolled-up paper towel, but he caught your wrist and pulled you into his lap, arms curling around your waist like he never wanted to let you go.

Then—softer, like he almost did not mean to say it aloud:

“…I really like you.”

You stilled, looked over to him and kissed him gently, pouring every single ounce of reciprocation your being had to offer him. Because maybe he was a cocky, ridiculous, and insatiable man—but he was your cocky, ridiculous, and insatiable man.

Even when he was a little bit of a menace.

The silence after pulling away was heavy—not the uncomfortable kind, more like an exhale. A shared, serene stillness, your heartbeat slowing while his lips ghosted along your jaw, your collarbone, the tender edge of your throat.

He had not moved far.

Still close. Still inside your gravity.

Then Han shifted, propping his head on one elbow which rested on the arm of the chair, eyes sweeping your face like he was memorizing something. His fingers moved before his mouth did—brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, thumb dragging down your cheek.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

You blinked up at him, still dazed. “Hey.”

He hesitated—not out of uncertainty, but because this, somehow, felt bigger than everything you both had already done.

“You don’t have to go home tonight.”

You blinked. “Huh?”

His voice stayed soft, careful, “I mean… you could stay. With me.”

You stared.

He rushed to fill the silence, eyes darting between yours.

“Not just for more of this—though God, don’t get me wrong, I want more of this—but like. We could crash at my place. Order food. You could steal my hoodie. Wake up and make terrible coffee together. You could see what I’m like in the morning. Spoiler: not sexy. Kind of grumpy. But you’re good with chaos, right?”

You laughed—but something in your chest ached, cracked just a little.

Because he meant it—this wasn’t just about lust anymore. Not even about proximity or chemistry.

It was a choice.

He was asking you to stay, to see him past the high, into the quiet.

You leaned up, kissed him once—slow and certain.

“I’ll stay,” you whispered.

And the way he looked at you then—hopeful and smug and so unmistakably fond—made you feel warmer than anything else that night.

Sunlight crept in like it was in on a secret, painting lazy gold across your bare shoulder.

You stirred, slowly, blinking awake to the smell of coffee and something warm—eggs?—cooking in the kitchen nook. Your body ached, in all the right places. Inner thighs sore. Lips swollen. A fingerprint or five pressed like stamps into your hips. You stretched, wincing slightly, and smiled.

And Han—God, Han—was nowhere in the bed, but his hoodie had been draped over your legs like a blanket, his scent wrapped around you like a sigh.

You slipped it on, oversized and soft, sleeves swallowing your hands, and padded barefoot across the polished concrete toward the sound of gentle humming and the clatter of a pan.

Han stood with his back to you—shirtless, hair wild and sticking up in twenty-seven different directions, tattoos flexing as he flipped something in a pan. There were two mugs of coffee already out. One black. The other just the way you liked it.

You leaned on the doorway, biting your smile.

He sensed you, because of course he did.

“You’re up,” he murmured, glancing over his shoulder. And then, softer, like he couldn’t help himself: “Fuck, you look good in my hoodie.”

You padded up behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist, pressing your face on his nape.

“You’re feeding me. You really trying to make me fall in love with you?”

He chuckled, flipping the egg once again with a practiced hand. “That was the plan, yeah. Ruin your body, then win your heart with food.”

You laughed against his skin. “Tactical.”

He turned the stove off and turned in your arms, resting his hands low on your hips, looking down at you with sleepy warmth in his eyes. You felt it then—not just the physical closeness, but the easiness of it. The comfort. The pull.

“You staying the whole day?” he asked, voice quiet now, vulnerable in that way he rarely let show.

You nodded, brushing your lips over his collarbone.

“Only if you kiss me like that again,” you teased.

He grinned.

And did just that—slow, sweet, a kiss with no agenda other than to keep you there.

Later, with your stomach full, your limbs loose and drowsy from the best kind of indulgence, you found yourself curled up on the couch—Han’s head in your lap, your fingers absentmindedly playing with the messy strands of his hair.

Some terrible movie was playing on his television. Neither of you was really watching it. The remote lay forgotten on the floor. His fingers traced idle patterns on the bare skin beneath your borrowed hoodie, the both of you half-clothed, half-tangled, fully comfortable.

“This is dangerous,” you murmured.

Han cracked one eye open. “What is?”

“This. Us. You looking at me like I hung the stars and made your coffee.”

He smirked without moving. “You did, though. Kind of. That coffee was perfect.”

You rolled your eyes, but your cheeks warmed anyway.

His expression softened, gaze dropping to where his hand rested just beneath your ribs. “You should let me tattoo you again,” he said after a long beat.

You looked down at him. “Now?”

“No,” he smiled, “not now. But someday. Something small. Just for me. Somewhere only I get to see.”

Your stomach flipped at the idea. You tried to play it off. “That’s a lot of trust, letting you draw on me permanently.”

His fingers slid a little lower, dangerously close to a place that still pulsed with the memory of last night.

“You already let me ruin you once,” he said with a grin. “What’s a little ink?”

You snorted, swatting at him half-heartedly. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“And you’re still here,” he countered easily, nuzzling into your thigh like he belonged there. Like he always had.

You sighed contently as you carded your fingers through his hair again.

“Yeah,” you whispered, half to him, half to yourself.

“And I'm here to stay.”

drops this in your hands and runs off into the sunset

taglist (ask to be added here): @petersasteria @gdinthehouseee @aizshallnotbefound @burlesquerade @floofeh-purpi @ldydeath @wcnderlnds @ttturnitup @breakmeoff @sherrayyyyy @ricecake9999 @leni111 @scream-queen-25 @spiritualgirly444 @fairyprincesslvr21 @loonybunny1 @uuchii @sherxoo @m-325

[burlesquerade]

i’m screaming without the s

correct me, i dare you

pairing: bang chan x reader

word count: 8k

summary: as chan's choreographer, he told you not to test him. now you’re all messed up in a studio chair, trying to remember your own name while he’s planning round two.

tags: brat/brat tamer dynamic, porn with plot, unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), tension. enjoy

It always began the same way.

With him being late.

You were halfway through your warm-up, music echoing low through the empty studio, when his reflection emerged in the mirror—hood up, the ghost of a smirk already tugging at the corner of his lips. He moved with the casual arrogance of someone who had never once been told no. Someone who knew you would forgive the delay simply because he was good.

You did not turn to greet him. Did not acknowledge him. You continued to stretch, breathing steady and precise, though your skin buzzed with a treacherous awareness—an irritating, familiar hum that only he could summon. The kind that made you feel seen in a way that was almost unbearable.

Behind you, the studio door closed with a soft thud.

"You’re late, Chan," you said, gaze fixed forward.

"I’m worth waiting for," came his reply, smooth and infuriatingly self-assured. His voice, lower than usual, dragged across your spine like velvet laced with steel. You heard the dull thump of his bag hitting the floor. A moment later, he stepped into your space as if it belonged to him. “Unless you missed me.”

You finally turned, offering him the flattest look you could summon. "I missed the part where you follow the schedule."

"Schedules are tedious."

"And you’re exhausting."

He hummed, letting his eyes wander over you with the kind of unrepentant interest that made your blood simmer. His head tilted slightly, all charm and provocation. “Strange. You look wide awake to me.”

He came to a halt too close—deliberately close—and there was something maddening in the way he regarded you. Expectant. Like he was waiting for you to snap. To bite. To rise.

You did not dare give into him. Not yet.

Instead, you stepped forward, refusing to retreat. "Are you going to follow the routine today? Or must I play babysitter again?"

Chan’s smile curved, sharp and wolfish. “You can try.”

He moved past you with infuriating ease, brushing his shoulder against yours in a way that felt far too intentional. You swore he did it just to steal the air from your lungs.

And it worked. You exhaled through your nose, reached for the speaker, and pressed play.

As the beat rose and the session resumed, you already knew—this would be difficult. He would not merely follow the choreography. He would flirt with it. With you. With every boundary you had erected between what was permissible and what was not.

And worse still?

You were going to let him.

The first mistake was subtle—a  single beat too early. A downward roll of his shoulder when it should have lifted. Barely perceptible to anyone else—but not to you. You saw everything.

You cut the music.

The abrupt silence cracked through the air like a whip. He glanced up, one brow raised, a bead of sweat sliding down his temple, breath steady despite the interruption.

"You’re early on that step," you said as you crossed the floor toward him, your tone calm, precise, with the faint edge of authority you had learned to wield like a shield.

"I’m in the pocket," he countered, the corner of his mouth twitching. "You’re simply obsessed with clean lines."

"No, I’m obsessed with accuracy."

"Mm." He made a thoughtful sound, amused. "Is that what we’re calling it?"

You stopped in front of him. "Turn."

He obeyed—slowly, deliberately. As though he were indulging you. As though you had not earned his compliance.

You stepped into his space, eyes on his shoulders, fingers lifting to adjust the angle. The moment you touched him, everything shifted.

His muscles stilled beneath your hand. The air thickened. His breath caught, barely audible—but there. Real. Raw. You were too close. You could count the freckles scattered beneath his jaw, trace the curve of his smirk with your thumb if you dared.

"Like this," you said, your voice softening, almost in spite of yourself. Your fingers guided his arm upward. "Not down. It ruins the symmetry."

You anticipated a nod. Silence. Deference.

Instead, his gaze dropped to your hand. Then lifted to meet yours. His lips parted, just enough to be dangerous.

"Are you always this hands-on with the others?" he asked, his voice low and curling.

Your fingers twitched. You pulled away like he had scorched you.

He turned to face you fully, his expression unchanged—confident, calculating, unreadable.

"Go on," he said. "Correct me again."

The words were a dare.

An invitation.

A spark held too close to dry kindling.

Your pulse quickened. Your mouth dried.

"Keep pushing me," you murmured, almost without thinking. "See what happens."

He stepped forward, gaze unwavering.

"I am."

You held his stare.

And for a moment—just a single, suspended second—he believed you would retreat. That you would fall into old patterns: step away, bite your tongue, pretend this was not a game you both played in heat and proximity.

But not this time.

This time, you lifted your chin, voice cool and unwavering. “Is it attention you want that badly, Chan? Fine. Let’s correct the entire routine.”

You stepped forward with deliberate poise.

His eyebrows rose—barely—but the subtle arch was all the proof you needed. A hairline fracture in that maddening self-assurance.

You reached for his wrist, adjusting it into the proper position—higher, tighter, until the tension rippled through his forearm. Satisfaction bloomed in your chest at the way his breath hitched, ever so slightly. Your other hand swept across the line of his back, palms pressing flat, coaxing his shoulders into symmetry with a precision born of practiced control.

“You’re slouching,” you murmured, your tone featherlight and biting.

“I’m relaxed,” he replied, tone casual, though his posture betrayed him.

“Wrong energy.”

You moved behind him, fingers barely skimming the plane of his spine as you traced a slow descent. He stiffened beneath your touch, every muscle drawn taut, as though your proximity alone threatened to unravel him. You paused at his hips, nudging them into alignment, the silence between you swelling with something unspeakably charged.

“You like giving orders, do you?” he muttered, the words caught between a breath and a challenge.

“Only when people fail to listen.”

His head turned slightly, gaze sliding to meet yours over his shoulder. His eyes had darkened, that lazy grin now replaced by something sharper. Edged. Curious.

“Is that why you keep touching me?”

You offered a smile—sweet, sharp, devastating.

“Would you prefer I simply tell you that you’re wrong?”

And then—purposefully—you let your hands fall from him, slow and final, the ghost of your touch lingering even as you stepped away.

“Your choice, Chan,” you said with a shrug, voice dripping with implication. “Keep testing me. I don't mind showing you exactly what you can’t get away with.”

The atmosphere shifted.

His breath caught.

That ever-present smirk faltered.

And for the first time since he arrived, he remained completely still.

Throughout the rest of practice, he listened.

Not perfectly. Not without that trademark insolence glinting in the curve of his mouth or the flick of his gaze. But he listened.

Because now, he knew what it cost not to.

Every cue you gave, he followed—sharp, fluid, intentional. Every correction you made, he absorbed without a word. You watched him from the corner of your eye, and it infuriated you just how good he looked when he was focused. How easily he slipped into that quiet dominance, body cutting through the choreography like he was born to lead.

And still—you felt it.

The shift.

With every pass, the space grew tighter, the air more fraught. Every glance he threw your way bore a weight it had not held before—no longer teasing, no longer smug.

Something else had taken its place.

Something coiled. Waiting.

At one point, you reached for your water bottle and caught him watching you through the mirror—openly, steadily, unflinching. He made no effort to look away.

You raised a brow.

He licked his lower lip—slow, subtle—and exhaled the softest laugh. The sound was quiet, but it struck you like a match dragged across dry kindling.

It lingered between you. That laugh. That look. That dare.

By the time the last beat dissolved into silence, your pulse thundered in your throat, your skin overheated—not from exertion, but from him. From the unbearable presence of him, the pressure that never eased.

You knelt to unplug the speaker, sweat cooling against your spine. You never heard his footsteps—only felt the warmth of his approach, the charged silence that always accompanied him when he drew too close.

His voice came low. Measured. Dangerous.

“You push harder when you are flustered.”

You rose slowly, subconsciously standing just a little too close for professionalism. “And you make more mistakes when you want attention.”

He smiled—barely. But it was different now. The mischief was muted. The darkness had settled in. He leaned even closer to your face, mere centimetres away by now.

The proximity sent your brain into haywire—was he about to kiss you?

Then, he broke the silence softly—almost like a secret—

“So what happens when we slip?”

Your breath caught.

He did not wait for a reply. He turned and walked away, towel slung over his shoulder, leaving nothing behind but the echo of his actions and the heat it carved into your chest.

You lasted four minutes.

Four long minutes of stretching, of pretending to cool down, of rationalizing your stillness in an empty room now thick with unsaid things. You told yourself you were being responsible. That this was routine.

You waited for him to return, to shut up your flustered little brain with his lips, like he threatened to do before he left. But, the doorway remained empty. So, you went after him.

The hallway outside was dim, lit only by vending machines and flickering overhead lights. You found him by some lockers, shirt clinging to his back, head bent as he scrolled through his phone like nothing had happened.

Your voice cut through the quiet.

“You always walk away like that?”

He looked up—slowly. No trace of surprise. Just a small flicker of something that told you he expected this. Maybe even wanted it.

“That a complaint?” he asked.

You gave a half-shrug. “Doesn’t feel like your style to run.”

He offered a lazy smile, but his eyes were sharp beneath it. “I wasn’t running.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

There was a pause then. Something softer. And when he spoke again, it came quieter. “You followed me.”

The air changed again, heavier now, suspended in a silence that could shatter with one wrong word.

You took a step closer.

His eyes tracked the movement—first your mouth, then your hands, then back again.

“You keep starting things you don’t finish,” you said, your voice low.

He tilted his head, gaze steady. “And what exactly is it you want me to finish?”

You let the question settle for a breath. “Pick one.”

His jaw clenched—subtle but telling. You saw the moment something inside him shifted, his control fraying at the edges.

“You really want me to finish something?” His voice dropped, warmer now, tinged with restraint.

“I want you to stop pretending this isn’t real,” you said, barely more than a breath. “Whether you act on it or not, stop playing like it isn’t there.”

He stepped forward, closing the space between you. Still not touching. But the pressure of his presence was overwhelming.

“Then tell me,” he whispered. “Which one do you want?”

And God help you—you could not tell if he meant the choreography or the almost-kiss.

But either answer would be dangerous.

And either way, you were about to find out.

You said nothing. You had no need to.

Because something in him changed. His gaze dropped to your mouth—and stayed there. Your breath stuttered, heat washing over your skin.

He moved closer.

Not boldly. Not recklessly. Just—closer. Deliberate. His hand lifted, hovered near your jaw, fingers twitching as though asking permission he would not voice.

Your lips parted. Not in invitation. In instinct.

You did not lean in.

But your eyes flicked to his mouth—and that was all it took.

He leaned forward.

Just enough for your foreheads to brush.

Your breath mingled. His hand found your waist, not with confidence, but with care—uncertain, hesitant, like the moment might collapse beneath the weight of it.

You tilted your head, just enough for the moment to turn.

And then—

The door swung open.

Footsteps. A voice, casual and unaware: “Yo, Channie—manager’s looking for—oh. Uh..”

You broke apart as though scalded.

His hands dropped. You stumbled back. Blood roared in your ears, a deafening rush of shame and unspent want. Chan cleared his throat, turning away as if to hide what could not be hidden.

“Right,” he muttered. “Coming.”

The third voice mumbled an apology and disappeared.

And what followed was silence.

Not the charged kind. The kind that ruins everything.

Neither of you spoke at first. You didn’t even look at each other.

But as he reached for his bag, something passed between you—unspoken, trembling.

“I wasn’t going to do anything,” he said quietly.

You nodded. “Me neither.”

A beat passed.

Then the faintest, wryest smile. “We’re such liars.”

You said nothing, you just watched him walk away for the second time.

But this time, the tension did not dissipate, it settled. Sank deep into your bones.

Waiting. Waiting for the next time. The inevitable. Not if.

When.

The next time you encountered him, it was in another studio. The mirrors were unfamiliar, the playlist unfamiliar still, yet the weight beneath your skin remained unchanged. A pressure that had not dulled, only shifted—waiting. You had arrived early, already moving through stretches when he stepped in. Earlier than usual. Deliberate, perhaps. His gaze found yours too quickly, and for the briefest of moments, both of you froze, suspended in the remnants of memory. The lockers. The breathless hush of almost. The air between mouths that had nearly touched.

But no words acknowledged it.

“Morning,” he offered with the kind of ease that could only be forced, lifting one arm to stretch overhead, voice deliberately light.

“You’re on time,” you replied, nonchalant.

“Trying to be good.”

Your eyes flicked toward him, measuring.

His smile curved, laced with implication. “For now.”

Electricity pulsed between you—not overt, not overwhelming, but coiled tightly beneath the surface, waiting for friction. You chose silence, turning toward the speaker as though the task of finding a track demanded all of your focus. In truth, your hands betrayed you, trembling faintly with the effort it took to maintain distance.

The music began. The session commenced. But the silence between the beats—between the counts—spoke louder than anything the speakers delivered.

Every motion you made was shaped by awareness. His presence carved itself into your periphery, every mirrored movement sending subtle tremors down your spine. When your rhythms aligned, when his shadow stretched too close behind you, it no longer felt like mere choreography. It felt deliberate. Intimate. Dangerous.

He slipped once, losing half a beat on a glide. Your eyes met his in the mirror, and the atmosphere shifted. That heat—undeniable and hungry—returned with a vengeance.

You were the one who looked away first this time, though only just. And yet, before the song had finished its final measure, you reached for the speaker—only to find him behind you once again. Not touching. Merely present. His breath a soft warmth against your neck, the scent of sweat and something inherently him clouding your thoughts.

“Still correcting me?” he murmured, voice pitched low, brushing the back of your mind like velvet dragged slow.

You did not turn. “Do you still require correction?”

There was a pause—barely a breath—before he answered, quieter still. “Perhaps.”

Then, as though his nearness had not unraveled the composure you fought to maintain, he turned away, towel in hand, a ghost of a smile curving his lips. He left you standing there, the ache blooming inside your chest like a bruise kissed too many times.

And this time—this time—you cursed him, because it had been you who wanted to close the space. You who ached to kiss him first.

It began with a glance. He was mid-step, face composed, body fluid—until your gaze found his in the mirror once again, and you gifted him a smile far too knowing, slow and sweet, laced with an innocence you did not possess. He faltered, missing his mark by a fraction of a second.

“Too early,” you noted smoothly, your tone silk and challenge in equal measure as you crossed the studio floor. “Again.”

He cleared his throat, gave a terse nod, and reset his posture. He did not meet your gaze this time. Did not dare.

The music restarted, but you no longer danced. Instead, you circled. A quiet predator draped in calm, arms crossed, watching him with all the patience of something waiting to strike. He held steady, but you saw it—the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched slightly each time your footsteps drifted too close behind him.

You waited.

You let the chorus build.

And then you moved.

When he turned, you were there—too close again, and yet not touching, until your hand rose with precision to adjust the angle of his posture. The movement echoed your earlier correction, but this time your fingers lingered. They traced the length of his forearm, slow and deliberate, pausing at his wrist before gliding upward again, your eyes never leaving his.

“Better,” you murmured, your breath teasing the edge of his skin. “I hadn’t expected you to be so obedient.”

His breath caught—a shallow hitch—and you watched the restraint tighten across his brow.

“You like it when I touch you, don’t you?”

He tried to laugh, but the sound caught, strangled by the atmosphere. “Don’t start something you won’t finish.”

You stepped in until your chest nearly brushed his, your gaze heavy-lidded, your voice a murmur blooming like smoke between you. “Who said I wouldn’t?”

His stare burned. His hands remained clenched at his sides, but his entire body trembled with the effort to remain still.

And then you touched his chest—once, lightly, a single mocking tap over the steady thrum of his heartbeat. “Start again.”

He did not move immediately.

You saw the conflict in him, the tension that curled like a storm behind his eyes, the desire barely restrained. He waited. He wanted.

And in that hesitation, you knew you had won.

Because this time, he had no words.

This time, it was him left breathless.

You continued, unabated.

The lingering touches, the glances heavy with implication, the murmured suggestions veiled in choreographic critique—each one became more deliberate, more artfully placed. A calculated seduction cloaked in professionalism. And he? He accepted it all in stride. A faint smirk here, a deeper inhale there. But he never rose to the bait. Never stumbled. Never retaliated.

So you pressed further.

During a lull—water break, bodies gleaming with effort—you leaned casually against the far wall, the curve of your hip framed in sunlight spilling through the studio window. You sipped slowly from your bottle, letting the straw linger between your lips, tongue brushing it just so. A test.

He looked.

This time, he did not smile.

Instead, he walked toward you—unhurried, unflinching, and terrifyingly assured. Each step reverberated like a silent countdown. You straightened, half-formed wit on your tongue, some flirty retort meant to reestablish the upper hand—but you never spoke it. He reached you first.

One hand braced against the wall beside your head, grounding you in place with a subtle dominance that stole your breath. The other hand lifted, slow, deliberate, until his fingers curled beneath your chin. Gentle, yet inescapable, he tilted your face upward, commanding your gaze with nothing but touch.

His eyes were not cold—but they were unreadable. Deep and calm, like a still ocean hiding a storm just beneath the surface.

“You finished?” he asked, voice low and unshaken.

Your stomach dropped, heat coiling in its place. “What?” you whispered.

“Playing.”

You blinked, feigned confusion. “I wasn’t—”

“Don’t lie to me.”

His grip did not tighten, but it also did not relent. His thumb traced lightly along the line of your jaw, as though mapping it to memory—or warning.

“You’re charming when you tease,” he murmured, the edge of a smile tugging at his lips, though it held no mirth. Only precision. “But don’t forget what could happen when I stop indulging you.”

Your breath caught. Blood surged, dizzy and hot beneath your skin.

He studied you like a man memorizing a work of art—one he intended to wreck, piece by piece. His voice remained smooth, but it darkened, dipping into something far more dangerous.

“You believe you’re in control here?” His smile sharpened, languid and lethal. “Princess, I’ve only allowed you to think so.”

Then he leaned in—not enough to kiss, not quite. But his breath caressed your skin, hot and deliberate, brushing your ear like a secret.

“You want to be a brat? Go on, be my guest,” he breathed. “Just remember—”

He withdrew, slowly, his gaze sweeping you from head to toe with devastating intention.

“Brats get handled.”

And then he stepped back. Casual. Composed. As if he had not just stolen every shred of power from your body and left it trembling in your veins.

You remained there—motionless, lips parted, heart thrumming in your throat. Breathless, undone.

You knew, then. The game had shifted.

The next round?

You would not be the one in control.

But you did not stop. Even after that moment at the wall—after the words that laced threat with promise, after the heat of his breath echoing in your skin like a burn—you could not seem to stop. Perhaps it was the way he looked at you now, gaze simmering with warning and anticipation, like a man one heartbeat away from devouring. Perhaps it was the thrill—the exquisite danger of pushing too far, too fast, too close.

But today, he was done playing.

Today, he struck the match.

You had been playing a dangerous game—one step too close, one brush too many, your body skimming his in a way that most certainly did not belong to the choreography. And he saw it. Saw you smirk at your own boldness in the mirror.

That was all it took.

The music cut, abrupt and echoing in the sudden hush that followed. The studio stilled. Heads lifted. A few half-smiles, expecting a correction, perhaps even a teasing remark.

But he did not joke.

He turned to you. “Come here.”

Your stomach turned over at the sound of it—low, commanding, unmistakable. You hesitated, just long enough to register your heartbeat climbing.

“I said—” His tone sharpened. He snapped his fingers, pointed to the floor in front of him with infuriating precision. “Come. Here.”

You moved, pulse thudding like thunder in your ears.

He did not touch you. Not at first. He circled you slowly, like a thought forming in real time, eyes raking over your frame with unnerving composure. And then, he began to correct.

His hand settled at your hip, adjusting the tilt with a firm, measured push. His palm rose to your arm, guiding it upward, fingers splayed just wide enough to graze the sensitive space below your ribs. He stepped in closer, lifted your chin with a single knuckle—not gently, not cruelly, but with a control that brokered no disobedience.

He said nothing.

Not until he stood behind you, breath whispering against your ear like silk edged in flame.

“You want to be a brat?” he murmured. “Very well.”

His hands did not wander—they instructed. They placed. They demanded.

“You will hold this form. You will listen. And if you test me again—”

He leaned in, just close enough for the strength in your knees to falter.

“—I’ll deal with you in private.”

And then he stepped away. As though the warning had never left his lips. As though he had not just carved a promise into your spine with the threat of restraint.

You remained where he placed you—locked in position, every nerve alight, throat tight with anticipation.

And from that moment forward?

You behaved. But it was not fear that tethered your obedience.

It was desire.

After the rehearsal had concluded, you gathered your things in silence, though every motion, every breath, was steeped in tension. You felt his presence behind you like heat radiating from a fire you refused to face. Each glance toward the mirror caught his reflection—poised, dispassionate, but never inattentive.

He was watching.

Waiting.

Your steps carried you to the smaller practice room—the one without windows, the one with a door that locked. You stepped inside. The door closed behind you with a soft, decisive click.

You did not need to turn.

He followed. Still, he did not speak.

He moved toward you with the same deliberate calm, the air between you darkening, thickening, drawing tight around your throat. His eyes raked over your body—not with lust, but with intent. Calculation. Possession.

“You don’t listen,” he said, his voice quiet, surgical in its stillness.

You did not reply.

“You flirt. You provoke. You test.”

He stopped in front of you.

“And when I warn you?”

You glanced at his lips, unthinking.

His hand snapped to your jaw—not violently, but with unwavering dominance—redirecting your gaze back to his with a pressure that brooked no defiance.

“You smile.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Then, without ceremony, he leaned in. His lips did not find yours. Instead, they brushed your cheek—deliberate, lingering. A claim, not a kiss.

“You wanted this,” he whispered, voice deep enough to tremble through your bones. “Every little stunt. Every subtle touch. Every glance.”

He pulled back, just enough to study your expression.

“You wanted to be handled. Is that right?”

You swallowed. “Yes.”

His smile returned, slow and devastating.

“Then put your hands behind your back.”

Your breath stilled.

“Now.”

And you obeyed.

The moment your wrists crossed behind you, he moved—swift, precise. One hand gripped your hip, dragging your body flush to his. The other tangled in your hair, firm but controlled, tilting your head until your throat bared for him.

“You don’t speak unless I say so,” he growled, voice rich with heat and power. “You don’t move unless I command it.”

A kiss, featherlight, brushed just beneath your ear.

“And you don’t come until I allow it.”

You shuddered.

He felt it. Smiled.

“Good,” he murmured against your skin. “Lesson begins now, right?”

His fingers tightened in your hair—not cruelly, but with authority. A signal. A seal.

You nod meekly in answer.

He tilted your head just enough to force your gaze to his, his thumb ghosting along your jaw with a delicacy that belied the command in his posture. His eyes locked to yours—unchanging, fathomless, a storm beneath glass.

“Words.”

“Yes,” you whisper.

He studies you for a moment longer, then releases your hair with a final stroke and began pacing behind you. Slow. Silent.

You did not turn to look. The weight of his eyes was too heavy to bear.

You felt him instead—circling, appraising, plotting every step like a predator does when they know the prey cannot go anywhere.

Then, without warning, his voice unfurled at your ear—low, deliberate, velvet-wrapped steel.

“Take off your jacket.”

You obeyed. Fingers trembling slightly, you slid the fabric from your shoulders. Slowly. Precisely. Offering him the ritual of your submission with each inch revealed.

He didn’t move to help. Didn’t lift a hand to touch.

Just watched.

When it fell to the floor in a soft rustle, he made a sound—deep and approving, barely more than a hum.

“Good girl.”

The words landed like fire in your chest.

“Now,” he murmured, “come here.”

You stepped forward, heart caught in your throat. But before you could close the distance, he halted you with a hand at your hip. His grip was firm—anchoring, possessive. You felt the shape of his restraint pressed against your body, his power held tightly in check.

Still, he did not kiss you.

Instead, his palm slid upward, trailing the curve of your waist with exquisite slowness, watching your eyes as if waiting for the moment they’d break.

“You know what I want?”

You shook your head, breath caught in your lungs.

His fingertips ghosted along the edge of your waistband—just enough to tease, never enough to give.

“I want to hear you beg.”

Your breath stuttered. But before you could speak, his smile curved—dangerous.

“Not yet.”

Then suddenly—motion. Heat. Pressure.

His hands closed around your hips, lifting you as if you weighed nothing. He placed you on the table’s edge, the wood cool and unyielding beneath your thighs. He spread your knees, stepping into the space he now owned like he’d claimed it by right.

His mouth brushed your cheek. Barely there.

“You’ve been restless all week,” he murmured, breath hot and intimate. “Acting out. Testing limits. All so I’d give you this.”

“I—” you started, but your voice came out as a whisper, shaky and small.

His hand slid beneath your shirt, knuckles trailing your spine, an ache of contact that never satisfied—too light, too brief, too intentional.

“Quiet,” he said, voice like silk drawn tight. “You don’t speak unless I say.”

You nodded.

He clicked his tongue softly. “Still not listening.”

Then his mouth descended on your throat—not with tenderness, but with claim. Each kiss dragged, teased, taunted. He pulled soft, involuntary sounds from you—gasps that dared to break past your lips before you swallowed them down.

His hand dipped lower, brushed between your thighs—once. Barely.

Your body jerked forward, instinct chasing what it needed.

Immediately, he withdrew.

“Don’t,” he growled—low, sharp, searing. “Do. Not. Move.”

You froze. Eyes wide. Breath stalled.

He waited until the tremble settled in your legs, then tilted his head with that maddening smirk.

“I thought you wanted to be good.”

“I do,” you said, the words spilling out, hoarse and needy.

“Then prove it.”

And with that, he stepped back—not to leave you, not to show mercy, but to begin.

To take his time.

To teach you exactly what it meant to fall apart at the hands of someone who delighted in denying you everything until you earned it.

He returned to that maddening rhythm—touching, teasing, coaxing you to the precipice only to steal it away with surgical precision. Again. And again. Each retreat more cruel than the last. Each denied high a blade across your nerve endings.

Your thighs trembled, the ache blooming into something unbearable, your lips parting in a silent plea you no longer knew how to suppress.

His mouth traced your collarbone like a secret he’d memorized. Up the delicate slope of your throat, across your jaw—each kiss a promise without fulfillment, a cruelty dressed in velvet.

Still, he didn’t kiss you.

Still, he withheld.

“You feel that?” he murmured, voice a warm breath against your skin, fingers pressing almost—almost—to where you burned for him.

You nodded, a frantic gasp caught in your throat, a tremor running through you like lightning.

But he only leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper edged with wickedness.

“Not even close to earning it yet.”

Then—emptiness.

He stepped back, stripping you of warmth, of touch, of relief. You were left gasping, trembling, hands clenched in the fabric of your shirt like you might come apart if you let go.

His smile as he watched you was both tender and merciless—beautiful and brutal.

“You’ll beg soon,” he said, voice like a verdict.

And then, to your disbelief, he turned.

Walked to the other side of the room with unhurried grace. Dragged a chair across the floor, the sound scraping through the silence like a dare. He sat—legs spread, arms folded, gaze fixed on you with the full weight of his dominance.

“Try again,” he said. “From the top.”

Because this wasn’t indulgence.

This wasn’t even pleasure.

This was a lesson—and you, trembling and undone, were the student.

The chair groaned beneath him as he leaned back—composed, commanding. He looked relaxed, leisurely, like a man with all the time in the world.

But you knew better.

His eyes were sharp—cut-glass cold. Unforgiving. Watching not just your body, but the unraveling of your will. He wasn’t waiting.

He was watching you fall. A performance, a masterpiece in the making.

A slow, sweet descent into obedience.

You were still trembling—perched on the edge, slick and aching, every nerve a livewire. Jaw set tight, lips parted, your whole body strung taut with need. And still, you did not move.

Not until he allowed it.

His voice slid into the silence like silk over a blade.

“Go on,” he said, low and unhurried. “Beg.”

You blinked, your breath catching, heart stuttering like it had forgotten how to beat.

“What… what do you want me to say?”

That earned you a slow, dangerous smile.

“I want you to admit it. Tell me what you need.”

The silence stretched. Heavy. Punishing. You swallowed.

“I… I need you to touch me.”

He hummed—displeased. Like that wasn’t enough.

“You’ll need to do better than that.”

Your hands clenched into trembling fists. Your voice, when it came again, was louder. Frantic.

“Please. Please—just touch me. I need—”

He leaned forward just enough to steal your breath.

“That what all this attitude was about? All week?” he asked. “Pushing buttons, playing games—just to fall apart at my feet?”

Shame flared hot across your cheeks, but you nodded. The truth clung to you like heat, undeniable.

“Say it,” he ordered.

Your throat worked. You were already breathless.

“I want to come for you,” you whispered.

His smile sharpened, cruel and beautiful.

“And why should I let you?”

“I can’t think—I can’t breathe—” The words tumbled out in broken pieces. “I’ve been aching since you walked in—I need you to take it—I’ll be good, I swear—please, please—”

And then he moved.

Two strides. A fist in your hair. He tilted your head up, forcing your eyes to his.

“You’ll be good?” he growled.

“Yes.”

“You’ll listen?”

“Yes—yes, I promise—”

“No more bratty little stunts unless I ask for them?”

“God, yes—please—”

His mouth descended on yours in a brutal kiss—hot and claiming, teeth and tongue, a devouring hunger unleashed. His hands gripped you everywhere—commanding, unrelenting—like your pleading had finally torn the leash from his restraint.

And then he pressed you to the mirrored wall. One hand slipped between your thighs, the other pinned your wrists high above your head.

He smiled.

“There she is,” he murmured, reverent and wrecking.

And you broke.

Not from the touch itself, but from what it meant—that he had made you wait for it. That you had earned this.

He kissed you like he had starved for it. No space. No mercy. Just his mouth consuming yours, swallowing every whimper, every gasp. One hand fisted in your shirt, the other tracing fire between your legs—not teasing this time.

This time, it was real.

Your hips jolted forward, seeking more, but he pulled back—just a hair.

“Don’t,” he said, voice razor-sharp. “You begged to be good. Be good.”

You froze. Your whole body trembling in the silence that followed.

His smile was maddening.

And then he moved again.

His fingers pressed between your thighs—deep, slow, deliberate strokes over fabric. Not fast. Not generous. Just enough to have you writhing, your hands twitching in his grip.

“Still,” he reminded.

You obeyed. Barely.

His mouth traveled down your neck—biting, soothing, leaving traces only he would know were there.

“I could keep you like this all night,” he murmured. “Dripping, trembling, obedient. Until you forget everything except how to beg.”

You whimpered—weak, wrecked.

His fingers circled your clit again, slow and torturous.

“You’d let me, wouldn’t you?” he whispered. “Let me take you apart. Piece by perfect piece.”

“Yes,” you breathed. “Please—”

“Then ask.”

“Please… let me come.”

He stilled.

And smiled.

“Good girl.”

Then everything changed.

He slipped beneath your waistband, found you bare, drenched, desperate. Two fingers pushed deep, curling just right, sending shockwaves down your spine. You cried out, your body arching, but he held you fast—his strength the only anchor in the storm.

“You hear yourself?” he growled, mouth against your ear. “So fucking loud. So needy. You were made for this.”

He moved with purpose now—no longer denying, but delivering. Each thrust of his fingers uncoiled something unbearable inside you. His mouth was at your neck again, claiming every sound, every twitch, every unraveling breath.

“You take it so well,” he whispered. “Fucking perfect.”

Your body tightened—hips trembling, core clenching around him.

“Say it,” he commanded. “Who do you come for?”

“You,” you gasped. “You—Chan, fuck—please—”

“Then come.”

And you did.

With a cry that shattered the silence. Your body convulsed, clinging to him, coming apart in his hands while he whispered you through it, holding you like something precious. Reverent. Relentless.

“That’s it,” he breathed. “That’s my girl.”

Your vision blurred. Your limbs trembled. But he didn’t stop.

He slipped his fingers free—wet, glistening. He moved to hold them up to your mouth.

“Open.”

You obeyed wordlessly, to which he slid them past your lips, watching as you sucked yourself clean, dazed and undone.

“That’s right,” he whispered, “You’re all mine.”

And then—he lifted you.

A gasp escaped before you could stop it, air rushing from your lungs as the ground disappeared. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, legs instinctively circling his waist. His grip was firm, assured—like he’d done this a thousand times in the dark of his mind. He carried you like you weighed nothing, then lowered you into the chair with reverence, like he was crowning you, before sinking to his knees between your spread thighs.

“You don’t get to stop now,” he murmured, dragging you forward until you were right where he wanted. “I decide when you’re done.”

You barely managed a nod before his mouth was on you.

His tongue moved slowly—devastatingly—like he intended to savor every inch, like you were something forbidden he’d finally been allowed to taste. He licked into you with aching patience, moaning against your soaked skin, hands gripping your thighs with a possessive edge as he opened you wider, held you still.

You tried to shift.

He growled.

“Still,” he ordered.

A whimper rose from your throat.

He only smiled, smug and sinful, and kept going—flicking the tip of his tongue over your clit until your eyes rolled back, sucking you softly until you cried out, until your legs trembled around his head and tried to close. He forced them open again with a harsh squeeze, unrelenting.

“No running.”

And then you shattered—quick, brutal, your climax torn from you in a sob that barely sounded human.

But he didn’t stop.

Didn’t pause.

He kept licking, mouth locked to your heat, tongue dragging through your second orgasm as it surged up behind the first—hot and helpless, tearing through you as your body arched, your fingers twisted in his hair, and your voice broke on his name.

When you finally slumped, boneless and breathless, reaching for him with a wrecked sort of need, he rose.

Unbuckled.

His cock was flushed, hard, slick with precum as he stroked himself lazily, watching you with a hunger that made your knees shake all over again.

“Get on my lap,” he said, voice dark velvet—an order barely veiled in honey.

Your breath hitched, heart pounding against your ribs as you obeyed, your limbs moving on instinct alone. You climbed into his arms with a quiet gasp, thighs trembling as they slid around his waist. His hands guided you with slow precision, anchoring your hips as he settled you astride him. The chair groaned beneath the shift of weight, wood creaking with every motion like it, too, was aware of what was about to happen.

“Take it,” he murmured, eyes burning.

Your fingers trembled as they slipped between your bodies, wrapping around his cock—hot, heavy, slick with need. You guided him to your entrance, breath shallow as your body quivered with anticipation, still pulsing from the high he’d already coaxed from you.

You began to sink down—inch by inch, unbearably slow.

He filled you like fire—stretching you wide, pushing into the sensitive ache he’d left raw and wanting. The pressure stole your breath, your spine arching as you took more of him, your walls fluttering helplessly around the thick drag of him.

He didn’t help.

Didn’t thrust.

Didn’t move.

He just watched—utterly still beneath you, like a king on his throne, content to let his prize struggle to claim him. His hands rested on your hips, warm and commanding, but he offered no lift, no aid—only possession. His gaze tracked every twitch of your mouth, every tremor in your thighs, every desperate gasp you made as you worked to take all of him.

“You can take more,” he rasped, his voice jagged with restraint. “Be good for me. All the way.”

You whimpered, nearly undone by the fullness—the way he stretched you open, made you feel too much. But you didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Not with the way he was looking at you, like nothing had ever captivated him more.

Finally, with a trembling sob, you sank the last inch, until he was buried to the hilt—hot, thick, deep. Your body clenched, fluttering in overwhelmed surrender, your thighs quaking around him as you tried to breathe through it.

He didn’t move.

Just one large hand rose, slow and sure, to wrap around your throat—not tight, but claiming. He tilted your face up until your eyes met his.

“Now ride.”

You tried.

You set a rhythm—fragile, unsteady, the rise and fall of your body a stuttering dance over his cock. Each descent was a war against gravity and exhaustion, your slick walls dragging along his length in maddening friction. But your strength was spent, your body trembling from earlier pleasure, and your movements slowed with every pulse of overstimulation.

He watched you falter—watched the way your head dropped to his shoulder, your grip on him desperate and shaking.

And then he took over.

His grip on your hips turned unyielding, and he slammed you down onto him with brutal precision. His thrusts were deliberate—slow, devastating, designed not for pace but for impact. Each one drove up into you with a punishing force, making your eyes roll back as he filled you again and again, bottoming out so deep you saw stars.

“Still think you’re in charge?” he panted against your ear. “Still think you can tease me, push me, and not pay for it?”

You sobbed, lips parted, unable to form a single word as your next climax rushed toward you like a breaking wave.

He caught your face again, palm hot against your cheek, thumb dragging across your lower lip.

“Look at me,” he growled. “You’re gonna come again. On my cock. Right now.”

And you did.

Your body broke like glass—shattered and blinding and unbearable. Your head fell back, mouth open in a silent scream as you clenched hard around him, your walls fluttering in helpless spasms as pleasure exploded in white-hot waves through your core.

But he wasn’t done.

He held you there—crushed against his chest—and kept thrusting into you. His pace slowed, but the force remained—deep, relentless, possessive. He fucked you through the aftershocks, through the sobs, through the trembling collapse of your strength.

“I’m gonna fill you up,” he groaned, voice breaking. “So deep you’ll feel me dripping out of you every time you move. You’ll think of me every time your thighs press together.”

You clenched around him, broken by his words.

And it was enough.

He let out a guttural moan and buried himself to the base, spilling inside you with a shudder that rocked through both your bodies. His hips stilled, jaw clenched tight as warmth spread between your thighs, thick and hot and endless.

You collapsed against him.

Ruined.

Shaking.

His.

The silence that followed felt holy. Your breath came in broken exhales against his shoulder, your fingers tangled in the damp hair at the nape of his neck. His hand rubbed slow circles into your back, grounding you as you melted into him—sweat-slicked and spent.

“You alive?” he asked, his voice a rough whisper.

You nodded, the movement barely there. “Barely.”

He chuckled, low and tender. “Didn’t tap out. I’m impressed.”

“You didn’t let me,” you mumbled, lips brushing his skin.

“Of course not,” he said, mock-affronted. “You begged for this. Over and over.”

You groaned weakly, burying your face in his neck. He laughed again, thumb sliding beneath your chin to tilt your head.

“Hey,” he said gently. “Look at me.”

And his gaze—soft now, reverent—melted everything inside you.

“You okay?”

You nodded. “Really okay.”

“Good,” he murmured, and kissed you slowly. Like a thanks. Like a promise. Like a home.

Then—“Gonna have to carry you to the showers, aren’t I?”

You scowled. “I can walk.”

He arched a brow. “Is that so?”

You tried to shift—and winced.

His grin turned feral.

“Thought so,” he said smugly. “Guess I’ll have to take care of you. Again. What a burden.”

“You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Obviously. You were such a brat. And now look at you—wrecked and clinging to me like I’m the only thing keeping you alive.”

You slapped his chest half-heartedly.

He caught your wrist, brought your fingers to his lips, and kissed them with mock solemnity.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered as he stood with you cradled in his arms. “I’ll deal with you properly once you’ve recovered.”

You blinked, dazed. “That wasn’t properly?”

His smirk darkened.

“Oh no, sweetheart,” he said, walking toward the showers. “That was just the start.”

You were curled against his chest, limbs boneless, body swaddled in the oversized hoodie he’d tugged over your head with gentle hands—still warm from him, still carrying the ghost of his cologne. That scent—clean, musky, unmistakably him—wrapped around you like second skin, grounding you in the aftermath.

A thick studio blanket had been pulled from the couch and thrown over both your bodies, tangled at your waists where your legs remained loosely knotted, thigh to thigh, hip to hip. The lights had been dimmed to a golden hush. Somewhere, the mirror still wore the breath of your bodies—fogged and glistening in the low light, like it remembered.

Everything was slow now. Quiet.

His fingers brushed idle shapes into your bare thigh, the pads of them warm and absentminded, like he couldn’t stop touching you, even when he had no destination in mind. His voice came low, laced with the softness of a man who'd thoroughly undone you, and was still basking in the afterglow of your ruin.

“You were good,” he murmured, tone deceptively casual. “Eventually.”

You huffed into his shoulder, lips twitching. “I tried.”

He hummed, thoughtful and amused, his lips brushing against your temple like punctuation.

“Next time,” he whispered, the words velvet and sin against your skin, “don’t make me work so hard.”

You smiled, eyes fluttering shut as you nestled closer into the cradle of his arms. “Where’s the fun in that?”

His chest rumbled with a deep, lazy laugh—content and unhurried—as he tilted his head and pressed a kiss to your hair.

“God,” he said, almost to himself, “you’re lucky I like you.”

A quiet grin curved your lips, full of warmth and weariness and something dangerously close to love.

“I know,” you whispered.

And then there was nothing but his steady heartbeat beneath your cheek, the rhythm of his breath against your back, and the comforting weight of his embrace as he held you there—tucked safely in the stillness, limbs entangled, skin to skin in the hush that followed the storm.

He did not speak again, he just kept holding you, as if he were protecting your tired form from the world outside his arms.

soo this was a lil longer than expected......

taglist (ask to be added here): @petersasteria @gdinthehouseee @aizshallnotbefound @burlesquerade @floofeh-purpi @ldydeath @wcnderlnds @ttturnitup @breakmeoff @sherrayyyyy @ricecake9999 @leni111 @scream-queen-25 @spiritualgirly444 @fairyprincesslvr21 @loonybunny1 @uuchii @sherxoo @m-325

[burlesquerade]

skz brainrot so bad i had to edit top to railway

tiktok

@emmiesoverthemoon here u go u animal

[burlesquerade]

bang bang bang gd i think ab u daily 🥀🚬

tiktok :)

[burlesquerade]

my love song to you

jane like from breaking bad call me jesse the way idk how to handle allat ur pussy like meth the way im choppin it up idk PLEASE LET ME HIT PLEASE PLEASE

HIS WRITING IS FIRE?!?!?!?

(come over bae u can hit)

[burlesquerade]

just creamed

clay stains

pairing: hwang hyunjin x reader

word count: 3.1k

summary: hyunjin enjoys it when you let him take the lead. in more situations that just a pottery class.

tags: tension, teasing, flirting. oral (f receiving). enjoy

The studio had fallen quiet, save for the low hum of the pottery wheel and the soft scuff of your shoes across the worn concrete floor. Light poured in through the tall, arched windows—molten gold cascading in long, lazy beams that stirred the floating dust into glitter. The scent of damp earth and spinning clay filled the air, grounding and ancient, as though time itself had thickened around you.

And he was already there.

Hyunjin.

Bent over the wheel with his sleeves pushed up and his fingers coaxing grace from chaos. A smudge of pale gray streaked across his forearm, another just beneath his jaw, another on his forehead, threatning to mix with the short hairs of his buzzcut. The white of his shirt clung in places where sweat had kissed the fabric, tracing the planes of his chest, the crest of his bicep, the dip of his spine. He looked almost unreal—like something sculpted from alabaster and warmth.

You paused in the doorway, suspended. Caught between the instinct to retreat and the ache to step into his orbit. To belong in that still, golden moment that smelled like summer storms and felt like something slow and blooming.

Then he looked up.

The grin that unfurled across his lips was dangerous. Too knowing. Too soft.

"There you are," he said, his voice a low thrum in the quiet, as if he’d been waiting for you all morning and had enjoyed every second of the wait.

You tilted your head, arching a brow. "Thought this was a group class."

"It was." He stood, wiping his hands on a towel, then letting it fall aside without ceremony. "Then I asked if I could have you to myself."

Your breath caught somewhere high in your throat, and he noticed. Of course he did. He crossed the space between you with that same deliberate ease he wore on stage—like time bent itself to his rhythm. Sunlight gilded the angles of his jaw, caught on the sheen of sweat along his collarbone.

He stopped just shy of touch. Close enough that the air felt charged.

"You ready?" he asked, coaxing, velvet-toned.

You nodded—too fast.

The wheel spun, quiet and steady as you settled before it. Hyunjin stepped behind you, his presence unmistakable, magnetic. Then his hands brushed up your arms, fingertips dragging softly against your skin before curling around your wrists. He guided them forward, slow, reverent, until your palms hovered above the clay.

His touch lingered.

"Hands here," he murmured, wrapping his fingers around yours. His breath warmed the shell of your ear, his voice sinking into your bones. You leaned back, unthinking, into the space he offered, into the heat of his body aligning with yours.

His chest brushed your back. His hips aligned behind you. And when he guided your hands to cup the spinning clay, his fingers slid between yours, pressing in—not just to instruct, but to feel.

Your breath hitched.

"Good," he whispered. "Steady now… let the clay move through you."

It sounded like a ritual, like prayer.

The clay spun, slick and warm beneath your touch, and he molded it with you—pressing down, coaxing upward, shaping something new from your combined intent. His voice murmured praise, soft and slow, threading into your veins like smoke.

"You’re tense," he said, brushing his lips just above your temple. "Relax. Trust me."

And so you did.

He let go. Only for a breath.

Then his hands shifted lower, framing your hips, anchoring you. "There," he murmured. "Don’t move."

His touch ghosted across your skin every time he adjusted your fingers, each graze more deliberate than the last. The heat built between you—quiet, relentless—as if the wheel itself pulsed with want.

“I thought this was a pottery lesson,” you murmured, though your voice barely qualified as sound. It trembled at the edges, fragile beneath the weight of his nearness.

Hyunjin chose not to answer right away. His eyes flicked to yours, dark and gleaming with something far too wicked to be innocent.

“It is,” he said, the corners of his mouth curling into a knowing smirk. “I’m a very… hands-on teacher.”

The air between you thickened. Heavy. Charged.

You turned slowly, gaze catching his—too long, too deep. The moment stretched, trembling like a string pulled taut. One breath and it might have snapped.

“You’re a natural,” he whispered, the words low and smooth, his breath fanning across your cheek. He was close enough that if you tilted your head just a fraction, your lips might have brushed.

You remained still.

“Or maybe,” he added, voice slipping lower, the syllables velvet-soft and dangerous, “you’re just letting me take control.”

A sound left your throat—half laugh, half gasp—but it came out thin, breathless. “Is that… a problem?”

He hummed, the sound slow and deliberate, vibrating through the warmth of his chest against your back. “Not at all,” he murmured near your ear. “I like when you let me take the lead.”

You were unsure if he meant with the pottery anymore.

And when you glanced over your shoulder to meet his eyes—those endless, dark pools gleaming just above your skin—you knew he didn’t mean it in that context either.

His gaze dropped. First to your mouth, lingering there with bold, deliberate slowness. Then, just as slowly, his eyes lifted again, his smile returning—but softer now. Less teasing. More intent.

His hand slid around your waist. The touch was unfirm, but it was not fleeting either. His thumb rested against your side, unmoving. As if he was anchoring himself. As if you were the thing grounding him.

“You’ve got clay on your cheek,” he murmured, his voice a little rougher now, quieter. His thumb reached up to brush the spot, tender and slow. But it made no move to pull away. It hovered—just a breath too long. “Want me to get it off for you?”

The air crackled around you, silent and electric.

You nodded. A small gesture. And you hated how breathless it made you feel.

But instead of wiping it away, he dipped his thumb back into the bowl of wet clay—and with a mischievous glint in his eye, tapped it gently against the tip of your nose.

You gasped, blinking. “Hyunjin!”

He was already laughing, the sound bright and boyish, the kind of laugh that pulled heat to your chest even as you narrowed your eyes.

“You should’ve seen your face,” he grinned, utterly pleased with himself.

You moved to flick a smudge of clay at him in retaliation, fingers swiping through the bowl, but he caught your wrist mid-motion—fast and fluid. And suddenly, without meaning to, your hand was splayed against his chest.

The laughter stilled.

Your palm pressed over the soft fabric of his shirt, right where his heartbeat pulsed strong and steady. He didn’t let go. And neither did you.

For one suspended breath, you just stood like that—your hand on his heart, his fingers curled gently around your wrist, eyes locked like the world had narrowed to just this.

And then, low and wrecked and barely a whisper, he said, “You’re making it really hard to behave.”

Your breath hitched. Soundless. Helpless.

He stepped back, but only by a pace, only just enough to let the air return between you, though the heat remained. That maddening smirk curved across his lips again as he caught your fingers and tugged lightly.

“Come on,” he said, voice smoother now but no less rich. “Let’s clean up. I’ve got… other ideas.”

You followed, your skin flushed, your heart thundering wild and erratic, the clay still warm beneath your nails. And you already knew—every nerve in your body knew—that this night was nowhere near its end.

The car was quiet. Too quiet.

Outside, the sun had dissolved into dusk, painting the city in soft amber hues and the blue hush of approaching night. Shadows stretched long across the pavement, and the streetlights had begun to flicker to life—warm halos blurred against the glass, like the world had been dipped in honey and left to glow. Inside, the silence settled thick between you, intimate and brimming with unspoken weight.

The hum of the engine purred low beneath you, each gentle vibration a tether to the moment. You sat still in the passenger seat, hands clasped too tightly in your lap, knuckles pale from the strain. And yet it wasn’t tension you felt—it was anticipation. The phantom heat of Hyunjin’s hands still lingered on your skin like a ghost, a memory, something molten and stubborn that refused to fade.

He drove one-handed, fingers draped with casual elegance over the wheel, while the other hovered on the gearshift—too close. Painfully close. So close that each bump in the road felt like a provocation, like the universe itself conspired to close the distance between skin and skin. Every shift of the car was a question. Every silence, a dare.

You swallowed against the tightness in your throat, eyes flicking toward him in a stolen glance.

He didn’t speak. Just glanced back, slow and knowing, the corner of his lips curving in a way that made your pulse stutter. Like he knew. Of course he knew. Like he was content to let you simmer, to let the echo of his touch drive you quietly mad while he sat cool as dusk beside you.

“Didn’t expect you to be so good with your hands,” you said at last, voice pitched low—an attempt at nonchalance that failed miserably beneath the softness that had crept in.

Hyunjin’s laugh was a low, velvet thing in his throat. “You liked that, didn’t you?”

Your gaze dropped to the blur of passing lights outside, but your mouth curved in spite of yourself. “I didn’t not like it.”

He shifted gears, and the back of his hand grazed your thigh—an accident, maybe. Or maybe not. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. Just kept his gaze on the road while the corner of his mouth twitched upward in subtle satisfaction.

The silence returned, thicker now. Tighter. It thrummed like a string stretched to its limit, vibrating between you both.

He tapped the steering wheel lightly with his fingertips. Then, like the thought had just occurred to him, he said, “You looked cute concentrating like that.”

You turned your head, slow and measured, unsure whether you wanted to challenge or indulge him. “Cute?”

“Mmh.” His smile deepened. “All serious and focused. Tongue caught between your teeth. Your eyes kept darting between the clay and me—like you couldn’t decide if I was about to help you or kiss your neck.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“You were watching me?” you asked, the words falling quiet, fragile.

He glanced at you again—this time longer. This time slower. That lingering look that undressed without touching, that made you feel warm and bare under your clothes.

“You were hard not to watch,” he said.

The world tilted slightly.

You shifted in your seat, knees grazing his, the contact small but seismic. He didn’t pull away. And neither did you.

“So…” you murmured, the word curling at the edges with the faintest smile, “was this your plan all along?”

“To seduce you with clay?” he asked, laughing softly. The sound was warm, indulgent, wicked. “Maybe.”

You looked at him through lowered lashes. “And what now?”

He eased the car to a slower glide as the light ahead turned gold. The moment stretched—long enough for his gaze to slide back to you, for his hand to slip, finally, fully, onto your thigh. His touch was slow. Deliberate. The weight of it was nothing short of electric.

“Now,” he murmured, voice like silk unraveling, “I take you home.”

A beat of silence followed—sharp, suspended.

Then, softer: “But not before making you admit you wanted my hands on you the whole time.”

Your breath tangled in your chest, heart knocking against your ribs.

And as the light turned green, he drove on—one hand steering you through the city, the other anchored to your thigh like a promise.

By the time you crossed the threshold of his home, you were already unraveling—every thought threadbare, every breath half-formed.

Flecks of clay still clung to your arms like phantom fingerprints, a soft reminder of where he had touched you. Your shoes lay forgotten by the door. You turned instinctively, not even sure what you were reaching for—an answer, a reprieve, maybe him—and found him already there, close and silent, his presence like a tide cresting toward you.

The door whispered shut behind you, sealing you in. The sound echoed louder in your chest than it did in the room.

He didn't kiss you.

Not yet.

He only watched you—his gaze slow, deliberate, dragging over every inch of you with the kind of reverence that felt heavier than hands. He saw more than your shape. He saw the shiver running along your spine, the rise and fall of your breath, the heat you had been carrying all night like a secret you could no longer keep.

Hyunjin stepped closer, and it felt less like movement and more like gravity tilting toward your skin. His fingers found your hair, brushing it back from your face with an aching tenderness that made your pulse stutter. Then down—his hands ghosted over your arms, featherlight, until they reached your wrists.

He curled his fingers around them gently and tugged, coaxing you backward until your spine kissed the wood of the door. It was a barely-there pressure, a coaxing rather than a command, and yet it held you still.

“You were such a mess earlier,” he murmured, his voice a velvet coil wrapping slow around your ribs. “Didn’t know what to do with your hands. Just let me touch you… guide you…”

His gaze dropped to your mouth—hungry, soft, certain. “You like letting me guide you, don’t you?”

You nodded. Just a flicker of movement. You were unsure if you were breathing.

A smile bloomed; slow and dangerous across his lips.

“Good,” he whispered. “Then don’t move.”

Then he sank to his knees at your feet.

Your breath caught like a gasp left half-born. He settled before you with the reverence of a man kneeling before something holy. The crown of his head brushed your thighs, and his hands found the backs of them, tracing slow, possessive lines as though committing the shape of you to memory.

“Look at you,” he murmured, the words devout, almost in awe. His thumbs stroked lazy circles into your skin. “Standing here all quiet… all sweet… like you don’t know how long I’ve wanted this.”

You could barely make a sound. Your lips parted, but nothing came.

He looked up at you, eyes burning with something quiet and consuming. “You gonna let me take my time?” he asked, his voice like honey trickling over heat. “Or are you already aching for me?”

The tremor in your legs gave you away. That made him smile.

“Hmm. I thought so.”

And then—slow as moonlight melting over dark water—he pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee. Not rushed. Not greedy. Just a single, awed kiss, soft and devastating. Then another. Higher. His hands slid beneath your skirt with the patience of a man who knew he had earned every second, and his thumbs hooked around the waistband of your underwear.

“You wore these to pottery class?” he teased, lips brushing skin just above where your thigh met your hip. His breath made your knees buckle. “Sweetheart… you wanted to be touched.”

You whimpered.

“Still pretending you don’t? I see how it is.”

He pulled your panties down slowly, watching the fabric stretch, watching the wetness already glistening there like a secret too loud to ignore. He groaned softly, the sound raw and low, like he was restraining himself by the thinnest thread. Holding your gaze, he let the underwear fall to the floor, but his attention never wavered—not from you.

Then he leaned forward—and kissed you, right where you needed him most.

A slow, delicate stroke of his tongue between your folds that stole the air from your lungs. Your hands flew to the door behind you, clawing for something solid, something real, as your moan broke open against the hush of the room.

“Fuck,” he exhaled, voice muffled against your skin. “Already this wet, and I haven’t even started? Baby.”

You tried to breathe. Tried to answer. But your hips jerked forward, and he caught you effortlessly, wrapping his arms around your thighs, anchoring you to his mouth.

“Uh-uh,” he murmured, tongue sliding against you again—firmer now, slower. “You stand there and take it. You asked for this the second you leaned into me like that at the wheel.”

A strangled sound escaped you, high and desperate, and he grinned against your heat.

“You remember that?” he whispered, his lips ghosting along your inner thigh. “How you were squirming while I held your hands… made you press down slow and hard?” His mouth found your clit and sucked—gently, terribly, perfectly.

“You were panting like I was already inside you.”

You cried out, hips jerking forward again, your body entirely out of your own control.

He pressed you to the door harder, his tongue flicking with new purpose, his fingers now sliding between your folds, pressing slow and sure where you needed him most.

“I’m not gonna stop,” he said, voice ragged and reverent, “until your legs give out.”

His mouth worked you with aching precision, tongue circling, lips sealing around you like he was learning you by taste.

“I want you to remember this every time you see a ball of clay,” he murmured, and then sucked again, relentless, skilled, perfect.

You shattered with his name on your lips—your back arching, your hands clawing at the door frame as your climax crashed over you in waves, messy and sudden and breath-stealing.

You didn't fall—only because he held you up. Even as your legs trembled. Even as your voice failed.

His mouth gentled, his tongue drawing softer circles now, slower kisses against your overstimulated skin as he brought you back to earth. Then one last kiss—low, tender, possessive—before he stood.

He rose like the tide returning, slow and inevitable. His eyes burned. His hands cradled your waist.

He pressed a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, and then he leaned in close enough that his breath ghosted over your lips.

“I’m not done.”

im gonna get the pottery video tattooed on my inner eyelids so i can see it when i close my eyes

taglist (ask to be added here): @petersasteria @gdinthehouseee @aizshallnotbefound @burlesquerade @floofeh-purpi @ldydeath @wcnderlnds @ttturnitup @breakmeoff @sherrayyyyy @ricecake9999 @leni111 @scream-queen-25 @spiritualgirly444 @fairyprincesslvr21 @loonybunny1 @uuchii @sherxoo @m-325

[burlesquerade]

real as fuck

me, zen, jay and emmie logging onto the server each day to spam the chat with hot steamy gay e-sex

@aizshallnotbefound @burlesquerade @emmiesoverthemoon

[burlesquerade]

hey guys i remembered i have videostar 🔥

[burlesquerade]

me the WHOLE FUCKING TIME i was reading this ugh you never miss i love u emmie

reunion

pairing: han jisung x reader

word count: 2.5k

summary: han really missed you while he was away on tour…

tags: established relationship. phone sex, face riding, switch han, p in v. porn no plot. enjoy

dt my fine shyt @burlesquerade

The call came just after midnight.

You had already begun to drift to sleep, cocooned in the hush of your sheets, lulled by the familiar ache of absence. But then Han’s name lit up your phone like a flare in the dark, and with it came a visceral pulse beneath your skin.

You answered without hesitation, your voice drowsy, dipped in silk.

“Couldn’t sleep huh?”

A pause. Just his breath, frayed and shallow, carrying through the line like a confession.

“I need you,” he murmured.

There was no witty preamble. No coy deflection. Only the unvarnished truth, spoken in that ragged tone he reserved solely for you—roughened by restraint, vulnerable in a way that no one else ever saw.

Your lips curled into a faint smile, even as your own pulse stuttered. “You sound wrecked already.”

A low laugh slipped through the speaker, half-mirth, half-misery. “You have no idea what you do to me. I walked off stage still hard. I couldn't stop thinking about your voice, your mouth, the way you whisper in my ear when you’re on top of me.”

You let the silence stretch, luxuriating in the anticipation. Your fingers played absentmindedly along your thigh, nails grazing light welts into the bare skin.

“Are you touching yourself right now?”

He exhaled, a sound so fragile it bordered on a whimper. “Yeah. I couldn’t wait.”

“Did I say you could?”

Another beat of silence. You could almost hear the tension winding tighter in him, the barely-leashed urge to obey warring with the pulse-deep ache of need.

“No, ma’am,” he said at last, and the tremor in his voice was delicious.

“That’s what I thought.” Your tone was velvet-lined steel. “Slow down. Start over. Long strokes. I want to hear how badly you want it.”

Han obeyed, and the sound of it—the slick, rhythmic glide of skin, the muffled curse he bit down on—sent a ripple of heat through your gut. You closed your eyes, letting yourself paint the picture; his hips tense, legs splayed wide, head tipped back against cheap hotel pillows, throat bared in helpless need. He would be flushed, you knew it, his lip caught between his teeth, every breath laced with your name even if he dared not speak it aloud.

“You’re such a mess for me,” you whispered.

“Only for you,” he breathed, brokenly. “No one else could do this to me.”

“Tell me what you want.”

“I wanna taste you,” he rasped, voice hoarse and cracking at the edges. “I want to be underneath you, tongue buried deep, your thighs wrapped around my head. I want to feel you grind against my mouth until I can’t think straight.”

Your thighs clenched involuntarily.

“What else?” you asked, your voice lower now, a murmur of heat in his ear.

“I want to beg for it. I want you to use me. I want you to tell me I belong to you. And you to me.”

There it was—that delicious unraveling. He was not just aroused; he was unmade. Every word he uttered came from a place below desire—somewhere raw and untouched that only you had access to reach.

“You want to come, don’t you?”

“Yes,” he groaned. “Please. I’ve been good, I’ll do anything—anything you want.”

“Say it.”

“You own me.”

“Again.”

“You fucking own me.”

Your breath caught. God, he sounded ruined—like a man who had already fallen to his knees in his mind and was now begging to do it in body too.

“You’ve earned it,” you murmured. “Come for me, Han. Let me hear how good it feels to belong to me.”

His moan shattered through the speaker, raw and uncontrolled. You could feel the intensity of it even from hundreds of miles away—the way his body would seize, the way his face would twist with release, the way your name would spill from his puffy lips like an invocation.

And when it was over, there was only silence, save for the quiet rasp of his breath. A long pause. A stillness that felt reverent.

“You okay?” you asked softly.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice worn thin. “I’m… fuck, I’m perfect. I just miss you so much I don’t know what to do with myself.”

Your throat tightened with something tender, something real.

“Only a few more weeks,” you whispered. “Then you’re back to me, all mine again.”

“I never stopped being yours,” he replied, soft, wrecked, sincere.

The moment the front door of your home closed behind him, the air in the room shifted.

This shift was not caused by just the sudden quiet, or the scent of him—sweat and cologne and airport fatigue. It was the way he stood there, like he was frozen in place at the doorstep. Like he was waiting for permission to cross the room and touch what he had craved every night for weeks.

You watched him in silence, your legs folded beneath you on the plush bed, wearing nothing but his oversized hoodie, which swallowed your frame and made you look almost deceptively innocent.

Han dropped his bags without a word. His eyes locked on you like a starving man stumbling upon water.

“Strip,” you commanded.

It was not a request. It was an order.

His breath hitched, and he obeyed—eager fingers dragging his T-shirt up and over his head, jeans shoving down along with his boxers. He stood bare before you in the soft golden light, flushed already, his cock half-hard and twitching as though it recognized you before he could speak a word.

You rose slowly, like you were gaining your bearings, and stepped toward him. Your hand reached out, brushing his jaw, tilting his head so you could kiss his cheek, then the corner of his mouth. But you avoided kissing him fully—not yet. The denial was intentional. The gentleness of your gestures created a beautiful, tender juxtaposition against his carnal need that felt torturous.

“You said you wanted me to ride your face until you couldn’t breathe,” you murmured, nails grazing down his chest, marking him in feather-light trails. “Still mean it?”

He nodded quickly, breath stuttering. “Please.”

“Lie down.”

He backed up without tearing his eyes away, as though keeping his sight on you was a necessity. Like you would fade away as soon as he glanced in a different direction. He sank onto the mattress and stayed still for you—limbs obedient, gaze clear in its intention.

You straddled his chest first, your bare thighs framing his ribs. He let out a low, ragged sound, but made no move. His hands clenched the sheets beside him. Waiting.

“You’re going to keep those hands there,” you said softly. “No touching unless I say so. Nod if you understand.”

He nodded, quickly—eager, desperate.

Then you moved up, inch by slow inch, until your knees bracketed his face. Your hand sank into his hair, gripping just tight enough to anchor him. And then you lowered yourself.

Han moaned—long and guttural—the sound vibrating straight into your core. His tongue flicked out hungrily, and you gasped at the first contact, your hips twitching forward instinctively.

You rocked slowly at first, savoring the way he groaned beneath you, the way his tongue moved with greedy precision, tracing your folds, seeking your reactions. He yearned to please. No—he yearned to worship.

And you gave it to him.

Your hand fisted in his hair tighter, pulling slightly, guiding him where you needed him most. Your breath quickened, thighs beginning to tremble around his face, as you ground down harder, chasing every wave he gave you.

His moans turned frantic as your pace increased, his tongue following, matching your desperation with his own. You were soaked, undone, dizzy with control.

And when you came—sharp and sudden and all-consuming—he kept licking, relentless, as though he needed your release more than his own.

You gasped his name and pulled away, trembling, barely able to keep upright on shaking knees.

“Good boy,” you breathed, your voice softened by pleasure. “So good. You’ve missed this, haven’t you?”

He was panting, lips and chin glistening with your arousal, eyes blown wide with need. “I’ve missed you.”

You leaned down, finally granting him a kiss—deep, lingering, filthy. “I missed you too. I love you.”

When you pulled away, he grasped your wrist.

His grip was now firm, intentional.

“I need to fuck you.”

His voice had changed—no longer pleading, no longer breathless. There was a heat behind it. A rawness. A dangerous edge.

You arched an eyebrow. “Oh?”

He flipped you onto your back in one smooth movement, suddenly above you, his arms caging you in without crushing you.

“You made me wait. You ruined me on the phone. Now it’s my turn.”

And just like that, the dynamic tilted.

His hand slid into your hair as his mouth claimed yours—rough, possessive, hungry. You let yourself be taken, your body softening beneath his weight, giving him the power he so clearly craved.

He pulled back, eyes glittering with heat as he rose to sit on the edge of the mattress. “Suck me.”

The command landed like a spark on a dry summer’s grass.

You obeyed with a sinful smile, sliding down to the floor between his legs and taking his cock into your mouth without hesitation. He hissed a curse, hands fisting in your hair the same way you had in his. His hips jerked as you worked him with long, slow licks that turned filthy fast.

“You’re so good at this, baby,” he groaned, voice cracking. “Fuck—your mouth was made for me. Fitting me so perfectly.”

You hummed around him, watching him fall apart, watching the muscles in his thighs tense with restraint. He was close. Right there.

But then he pulled himself out of your mouth with a desperate grunt, panting as though he’d nearly lost himself. His fingers trembled slightly where they tangled in your hair, his body taut with restraint, as though even the air brushing against him was almost too much.

His cock glistened with your spit, flushed and throbbing against his abdomen as he looked down at you—eyes wrecked, jaw tight, chest heaving.

“I want to be inside you when I come,” he rasped, voice frayed and shaking. “I need to feel you.”

Before you could respond—before you could even blink—he had you gently but firmly pressed back onto the bed. His hands cradled the backs of your thighs, spreading you open with reverent hunger, and then he was above you again, covering you with his heat, his scent, his weight.

And then he slid into you—one long, deliberate thrust, deep and possessive, like he was claiming a space that had always belonged to him.

Your gasp collided with his, your back arching involuntarily at the stretch, the sudden fullness. He filled you perfectly—completely—your walls clenching around him in instinctive welcome. He pressed his forehead to yours, eyes fluttering closed, lips parted as though in silent prayer.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “You’re—still so tight. So fucking warm. I missed this. I missed you.”

His hips began to move, slow at first—luxurious, almost taunting. He rocked into you like he wanted to feel every slick drag of your walls around him, every inch of how wet and ready you were for him. But the pace didn’t stay slow for long.

Within moments, the desperation in his veins bled into the rhythm of his thrusts. He fucked you like he had been starving for this—for you. Like every lonely night, every missed touch, every unsent message had built into this moment, and he was going to feel all of you until the ache went quiet.

“I’ve been thinking about this every night,” he gasped against your throat, voice unraveling. “Waking up hard—dreaming of your mouth, your body, how you moan for me. I’ve been waiting to fuck you for so—so long.”

And you felt it in every thrust. In the way he ground his hips deeper, hitting the spot inside you that made your thighs shake. In the way he kissed you, open-mouthed and wild, like he was trying to drink you down to your soul.

But then—you pushed back.

Hands braced against his chest, you used a brief lull to flip the rhythm, your body shifting and rolling until he was the one on his back now, blinking up at you in breathless disbelief.

You climbed atop him with deliberate grace, hair falling around your face like a curtain of silk, and slowly—so slowly—sank back down onto his cock, your jaw dropping at the depth, the way he filled you from below.

His head fell back with a ragged moan, his hands clutching at the sheets beside him.

“Holy fuck—”

But you had no intention of rushing. No—this was your rhythm now. Your pace. Your control. You rode him with devastating motions, hips rolling in hypnotic circles, grinding down on him with slow, torturous movements that left him trembling beneath you.

He could do nothing but take it. Feel it. Feel you.

You watched him come undone with every shift of your hips, every low moan that slipped from your lips as you chased your own pleasure atop him, using his cock like your own personal plaything. You leaned back slightly to change the angle, and his hands—instinctively—flew to your thighs, gripping hard enough to bruise.

Han had no desire to fight for control. He gave it.

Let you take what you needed. Let you use him.

Let you own him.

You leaned down, lips brushing his ear, your voice a sinful whisper.

“You look so good like this… beneath me. Ruined. Desperate. Mine.”

His entire body shuddered beneath you, a helpless whimper breaking from his throat. “I am yours. Fuck—do whatever you want to me. Just—don’t stop.”

But the moment you dared him—dared him to take control again—his eyes darkened. Something primal flickered back to life behind his pupils.

And just like that, he rose up with a growl, capturing your mouth in a bruising kiss as he flipped you again—your back hitting the mattress with a gasp, your legs caught around his waist as he began to drive into you with renewed ferocity.

“You want me to take control?” he growled into your ear, breath hot. “Fine. But don’t expect mercy.”

He fucked you like a man possessed—like he was trying to brand himself into you. Each thrust was brutal and precise, deep enough to make you cry out, fast enough to leave you spiraling.

Your nails clawed at his back, dragging red down his spine, and he only groaned louder, loving the pain. The chaos. The feeling of you unraveling beneath him.

It was a storm. A claiming and surrendering all at once. A symphony of tangled limbs, breathless cries, and power shifting like sand beneath your bodies.

Dominance traded like a whispered promise in the dark.

You pushed. He yielded.

He commanded. You obeyed.

And neither of you knew, by the end, who had truly been in control—because it had never been about power.

It had always been about trust.

About love, buried deep beneath every moan, every bruising kiss, every shaking breath.

By the time you both came—together—you were no longer separate things.

You were one body. One rhythm. One endless echo of need.

And when he collapsed beside you, pulling you close, your skin still burning from the aftershocks, the only thing he could manage to whisper was:

“I belong to you.”

And you believed him. Because he did.

welcome to goonville how we feeling

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[burlesquerade]

i genuinely think ab this look at least twice a day

Superstar ❤️🐉👑