cinnahoons

[cinnahoons]

holy shit i just realized i haven’t updated my carrd since last year 💀💀 YALL IM NOT A MINOR IM SCREAMING

you’re a minor writing smut ❔❔❔

ERRR im not a minor LMFAO 😭😭 i turn 19 next month!

[cinnahoons]

you’re a minor writing smut ❔❔❔

ERRR im not a minor LMFAO 😭😭 i turn 19 next month!

[cinnahoons]

✶ 𝗛𝗢𝗪 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗟𝗜𝗚𝗛𝗧 𝗚𝗘𝗧𝗦 𝗜𝗡 ── 𝗅𝖾𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗎𝗇𝗀

SYNOPSIS. with heeseung in your bed and a bali vacation for the books, it’s hard to remember why you ever set an alarm.

PAIRING. lee heeseung x fem! reader

WORD COUNT. 3.5k

GENRES. smut (18+, mdni), established relationship, morning sex, fingering, oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex (naughty), fluff, sleepy hee, reader never gets her smoothie lets kill the man, MY REAL ENHA SMUT TAG DEBUT HELLO

WARNINGS. profanity, explicit sexual content

AUTHOR'S NOTE. so this is officially my first time posting real #actual smut dun dun dun if its terrible dont tell me. glaze me. I BEG!!! i had a time writing this and long live soft dom hee <3 ⊹ BOOKSHELF

"WE'RE GONNA MISS BREAKFAST, BABY."

Heeseung doesn’t even flinch. Instead, his arm tightens around your waist, dragging your half-bare body further against him as he mumbles something incomprehensible into the crook of your neck. His voice is warm and sticky, half-melted by sleep and the balinese heat already creeping in through the slatted windows sitting just off to the side of your bed.

You sigh into his hair, the soft smell of his shampoo bathing your face in familiarity, your fingers tangled in the woven edge of the hotel blanket. One of your legs is thrown over his in a way that speaks more to your restless nighttime habits than to your desire to be close to your boyfriend. Not that the latter is any less appreciated; his warmth, his scent, it’s all achingly sweet. Especially now that the two of you have been traveling together for the last couple of weeks. His face has become the one constant in your life.

“It ends in thirty minutes,” you add, tracing circles on the bare skin of his back. “I want one of those smoothies with the flowers in it.”

A crinkle forms between his brows, and he lifts his head slightly, eyelids still heavy. 

“You hate plants in your drinks.”

You snort. If there’s anything Heeseung can claim, it’s that he’s uniquely talented in sniffing straight through your bullshit. Granted, it can be a little disconcerting to be the only one of your friend group who can’t get away with a little white lie to her boyfriend here and there, but you suppose you’d rather this than a man who’s much too aloof.

Heeseung stretches beneath you, his broad palms warm against the skin of your stomach. He’s shirtless, and tanned, and still wearing the shell necklace you’d bought him from a tourist stall two days ago. It had, unfortunately, cost you a day’s lunch and the last withering morsels of your dignity, but at least it has Heeseung looking like every sexy, picturesque summer boyfriend dream you’ve ever had. Except he’s real. And pouting. 

“Come on,” you coax, brushing his bangs off his forehead gingerly. “Up. Before I leave you for a banana pancake. Or a stranger with a moped.”

It’s as much a joke as it isn’t. The joke being that you’d leave willingly; but you and Heeseung both know that the possibility of you being snatched off the sidewalk and stuffed into a fruit cart by the various men who continue to whistle at you despite his valiant attempts to shoo them off—I’m literally right here—is shockingly real. 

He doesn’t move, though. Barely rolls his eyes, even. He’s in that sweet, sleepy morning-haze he always wakes up in, halfway between fluttering lashes and the watery rising run. He smiles, tilting his head back, his eyes crinkling. 

“What if I kiss you instead?”

It’s tempting. His voice is low, that same syrupy, rough quality to it that’s replayed over and over in your dreams. His fingers work gently over the skin of your hips, teasing. You’re not sure if any of it is intentional—if he’s trying to send a rush up to your head, to leave you dizzy and disoriented. But it’s working. 

“That would be a distraction,” you mutter, and it’s probably visibly obvious how much he’s affecting you. Heeseung only grins.

Forget probably. It’s definitely obvious.

“You’re easily distracted.”

And he proves his point (really, truly drives it home) by leaning up to press a soft, slow kiss beneath your jaw, where the skin is warm and sensitive. You sigh into it despite yourself, and if the brush of his smile against your neck is anything to go by, he’s noticed. He goes for another right under your ear. Each press of his lips sends a shiver down your spine, which is unfair, really. He’s all lazy and persistent, his mouth brushing yours before you even realize your eyes have fluttered shut. 

“Heeseung,” you warn, breath hitching slightly, but your voice is void of any and all conviction. “This isn’t going to get us breakfast.”

He pulls away just enough to whisper conspiratorially.

“We can order room service.”

You push against his shoulder softly, scoffing. It’s firm to the touch, a plane of sinewy muscle that you’re trying very hard to ignore. You’re scolding him, after all.

“We’re not rich.”

“We’re in Bali."

You snort, reaching a hand up to card through his hair. 

“That's not a counterpoint, Heeseung.”

But he’s already rolling you onto your back, shifting to hover over you with the gentlest grin playing on his lips. Light filters in behind him; a soft, yellowed halo glowing dimly off his honeyed skin. His necklace swings slightly, your breath catching.

“Fine,” you whisper. It’s hard to say no when you have him like this—pupils blown wide, eyes rich and brown like wet soil; like cocoa. His bangs fall over his forehead, brushing over the thick set of his brows tenderly.

“Fine?”

“Ten minutes. Then we go.”

He hums in agreement, dipping back down to kiss your collarbone like it’s routine. And it is, by now—his hands skimming your sides, your fingers ghosting over the nape of his neck, your legs tangled together under gauzy sheets as the world outside your room glows gold. He pulls you closer, the strap of your sleeping shirt slipping off your shoulder, thin and fairly unnecessary in your current state anyhow.

Heeseung kisses you like you’re water and he’s awoken to a world of rough, arid sand. It’s as sweet and languid as it is desperate, like he’s been dreaming about this. And maybe he has. You feel something hard against your leg, his boxers pressing against the skin of your thighs as he kisses you softly. It’s too much—you can only whimper quietly against his lips, insistent as you wrap your legs around him, pressing his warmth against your body.

He groans quietly, lingering too long in a way that makes you feel like your skin might catch fire under the weight of his mouth. His lips part just enough to drag, soft and deliberate, and you inhale sharply, the sound threading straight through the tension stretched thin between your bodies.

He pulls back to look at you, his eyes lazily tracing your face as his thumb smooths over your hip. There’s a smile at the corner of his mouth, curved with amusement. 

“Still want that smoothie?”

You shake your head once, slow. It’s not even a decision anymore. Hasn’t been, not since the moment he touched you. You curl a hand around the back of his neck instead, urging him down again, and he obliges easily, his teeth grazing your throat before sucking lightly just below your jawline. The contact is hot and wet, just this side of sinful.

Your back arches into it.

“You’re so annoying.”

“Mmm.” He doesn’t sound particularly offended, a smiling lacing his words. “You keep letting me get away with it.”

His hand slips lower, sneaky, warm fingers slipping under the edge of your shorts, brushing the soft skin at your hipbone with maddening gentleness. His eyes flick to yours, watching. You make no move to stop him. You wouldn’t, and you can’t. You’re boneless, completely paralyzed by the sight of him like this; innocent and broad and gorgeous, his hair still messy from sleep, eyes soft and glazed over by desire. Fuck breakfast, frankly.

“You’re wet,” Heeseung says, like it’s a fact he’s still trying to process. “Already?”

You hum, half a whimper. “Told you it was a distraction.”

He huffs a quiet laugh at the state of you, something amused and disbelieving, and dips his head again. Not to your lips this time—he’s pushed the delicate fabric of your shirt up, mouthing lazily at your chest, his tongue flattening over the swell of one breast while his fingers move slowly to position themselves between your legs. It’s torturous, how unhurried he is. How much he seems to enjoy keeping you right at the edge.

Your hips twitch up against his hand, shameless, and he rewards you with a bit more pressure, his middle finger slipping down to tease your entrance.

“You’re doing that thing again,” you murmur, breath catching in frustration, “where you act like we have all fucking day.”

His smile only grows, sunshine against your skin. 

“We do,” he says. “Unless you decide you’re dying for that flower smoothie.”

You roll your eyes, a laugh punched out of you by the way his finger finally sinks in, slow and firm. It curls deliberately inside you, instantly finding the spot that makes your thighs clench around his wrist. You moan quietly, stuttering. But he doesn’t stop. Just watches your face as he adds another finger; the drag of them just right, squelching in the quiet room.

“Heeseung—” your voice breaks around his name.

“I got you,” he murmurs. Quiet. Steady. “Just relax.”

And god, you do. You let your head tip back against the pillow, hands fisting weakly at the sheets while he works you open—gently, but with purpose. He watches the way your body responds, and when his thumb finds your clit again, it’s like a live wire. Your hips jerk, a loud gasp escaping your lips. He shushes you softly, his breath warm against your breast as he mouths at your nipple, wet and slow.

He moves up slowly, eventually reaching your mouth again, where you lift a shaky hand to cup his cheek as he kisses you. Your moans melt into his mouth, the rhythm of his fingers picking up as your hips continue to roll into his hand. His other hand presses firmly against your thigh, spreading you wider for him.

“You’re perfect,” he whispers against your lips, and you feel the words more than you hear them, each syllable low and reverent, like a prayer.

His mouth trails down again, slow and deliberate, like worship. He kisses along your collarbone, down the center of your chest, tongue laving gently as he moves. He has one hand slipped up to cup your breast, thumb brushing slowly over your nipple, his fingers pumping insistently. You can feel the way you suck him in with every thrust, and he looks down to watch it, his eyes hooded and dazed. Your back arches from the sight of his face with a soft gasp, needing more, your hips shifting restlessly against his hand. 

“Heeseung,” you breathe, pleading.

He hums, dragging his lips up the curve of your breast before pulling back to look at you. His hair is even messier now, falling over his eyes, his lips swollen and glistening. You can see the tension in his jaw, in the tight set of his shoulders. He’s holding himself back, barely.

You nod quickly, shaky. 

“Please.”

It’s all he needs.

He kisses you again, hard and deep, while his fingers slip from between your thighs only long enough for him to tug your panties down your legs, slow and careful. His eyes don’t leave yours, not even as he discards them to the floor. He sits up slightly, pulling you closer to him with your cunt now completely exposed. It takes everything in you not to try and cover yourself up, but the astonished look in Heeseung’s eyes helps to ease your shyness. His hands roam your thighs slowly before he leans back down, nestling between them. His breathing hitches as he looks at you—really looks at you—spread open for him, cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling fast under the soft glow from the windows.

“Fuck,” he whispers again, like he can’t help it, like he can’t believe you’re his. “You’re… Jesus, baby.”

Then he dips his head.

The first press of his tongue against your heat makes your whole body jolt. A gasp tears from your lips, your fingers flying to his hair and grabbing without thought. He groans low in his throat as your hips lift toward him, and he flattens his tongue, licking a slow, heavy stripe up your folds before wrapping his lips around your clit.

You cry out, back arching off the bed. Heeseung is patient, but relentless. He licks and sucks and moans into you, like he’s starved. Every flick of his tongue, every swirl, every kiss against your most sensitive spots has you trembling, babbling his name. Your thighs close in around his head without meaning to, and he just groans, hands gripping your hips tighter to keep you there.

“You taste so fucking good,” he murmurs into you, the words vibrating against your core. “Could stay here forever.”

Your mind is slipping, your thoughts reduced to a melting pot of heat and haze as Heeseung opens his jaw wider, his tongue pushing into you as his hands grip your waist, your ass, your body coiling tighter and tighter with each thrust of his tongue. You’re close, so close you can barely breathe. 

“Heeseung—” you mumble, hips twitching. “I’m—I can’t—”

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, looking up at you with dark, glassy eyes. “Come for me, baby.”

And so you do. The orgasm rips through you like a wave; stealing your breath, your voice, your thoughts. Your thighs shake violently, hands clutching at the sheets and his hair, your head thrown back as you cry out. He doesn’t stop, not until you’re squirming, too sensitive, gasping his name like a broken record.

It’s only then that he finally pulls back, his lips and chin slick and glistening. He kisses the inside of your thigh, then higher again, so tenderly it makes your chest ache. You reach for him blindly, trembling, and he crawls back up your body, pressing soft kisses along your skin until he’s hovering over you again. You’re still trying to catch your breath when his forehead drops against yours. 

“You okay?” he murmurs, his voice softer now.

You nod slowly, eyes fluttering open, heart still racing. 

“More than okay,” you breathe, fingertips brushing over his jaw. But something steals your attention; Heeseung is still hard against your leg, a visible bulge in his boxers that sends a flood of saliva to your mouth. “Heeseung. You—you can fuck me. I don’t want breakfast. I promise.”

He laughs warmly before leaning down to kiss you again. And you let him, tasting yourself on his lips, letting your arms wrap around him and holding him close. There’s that shampoo again, and the necklace that brushes against your cheek, and the strong arms that wrap themselves around your body, firm and warm and safe.

“You drive me crazy,” he whispers against your ear.

You’re barely holding on when he pulls back, his gaze locked on yours as he reaches for the waistband of his boxers. Your stomach flips violently at the sight of him when he pulls his cock out and begins to stroke himself, slow and easy, the tip flushed and leaking. There’s a dreamy haze to his eyes now, low-lidded and dark. His jaw is tight with restraint.

“You want it like this?” he asks, voice raspier than you’re used to hearing. “Slow?”

You nod, maybe a little too fast.

“Yeah?” You’re already spread open, and so he lines himself up easily, cock dragging through your folds once, twice. “Want me to take my time with you?”

“Please,” you beg.

That’s all it takes. He presses in slowly, inch by inch, your breath catching on a groan as he enters you. The stretch is full and perfect, the kind of deep that steals the words right out of your mouth. He watches you the whole time, his hand cupping your jaw like he can anchor you there, ground you while your body wraps tight around him.

“Shit,” he whispers, once he’s all the way in. “You feel so good.”

You do, too. Full to the point of unbearable, all that early morning laziness replaced by a simmering, helpless heat. You tighten your legs around his waist and drag him closer, and when he starts to move—slow, shallow thrusts that drag unbearably against your walls—it’s like you can feel each stroke in your chest. He kisses you messy, open-mouthed and deep, like he doesn’t care if he breathes, if he lives. One hand braces beside your head, the other slipping beneath your thigh to hitch it up higher. The angle changes, and you gasp.

“You okay?” he murmurs, half-groan, lips brushing your temple.

“So okay,” you manage, eyes screwed shut. “Don’t stop.”

His grin flashes, boyish and quick, stopping for a quick moment to ogle the sight of him sheathed deep inside of you, his hand coming down to flick at your clit.

You shift under him, restless, thighs shaking.

“Hee—”

“I know,” he says, almost a whisper.

He moves again. Long strokes, deep and deliberate. Each one makes your breath stutter, has your hands scrambling over his back, his shoulders, trying to anchor yourself to something. The room is warm, too warm, the air thick with sweat and salt and whatever visceral groan just tore out of your throat. He digs his fingers into your thigh, leaning over you. His mouth brushes over your in the most infuriating not-quite kiss. 

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs. He’s smiley, but you can see the restraint in his eyes, the vein that strains on his neck. He’s barely holding on.

“Then do something,” you moan.

That finally breaks something in him. He huffs a soft, ragged laugh and grabs your wrists, pinning them above your head with one hand while the other braces beside your ribs. His next thrust knocks the breath out of you.

“Oh,” you gasp, and he does it again. Harder, and faster, and sharper.

Your legs curl around him without thinking. His necklace swings against your tits, your wrists still caught in his grip. He’s not smiling anymore; he’s got his eyes closed, his jaw tight as he moans with every thrust, like he needs it-like he’s chasing it now. 

“Fuck,” he cries out, kissing your cheek, your temple, blindly. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to go anywhere after this.”

You let out a broken laugh. He thrusts deeper then, slower but stronger, and it knocks the breath right out of you. His hand is still closed around your wrists, holding you steady, fingers splayed wide over the sheets.

You arch under him, mouth falling open. 

“There—right there—”

“I know,” he pants, and kisses you quiet. “I know, baby.”

You moan, a wanton sound, and his eyes flutter shut like he’s trying to commit the sound to memory. And then he’s pulling out just enough to thrust back in, hard enough to make the headboard knock softly against the wall.

You gasp loud and unfiltered and Heeseung groans under his breath, his jaw clenched. 

“Yeah? That what you want?”

He’s not smiling, or teasing. He’s halfway gone.

“I can take it,” you whisper.

At that, he lets out a low, wrecked laugh—Fuck—and then his mouth is back on yours, hot and messy and insistent. His thrusts start to pick up, deeper now, sharper, every one landing just right. You’re soaked, clenching around him, and he groans when he feels it.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he mutters against your mouth. “So good.”

You nod, eyes barely open, your body moving in the sheets with every thrust.

“You always do this to me.”

His fingers slide up, hooking under your knee to push your leg up, open, wide. He wants to see all of you take him. The angle changes again and he watches your eyes flutter and your head tilt back as a moan rips out of you.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “There it is.”

You can barely speak now, just clinging to his shoulders, nails dragging down the golden skin of his back as his hips smack against yours again and again.

This is definitely a way to start your day, with your name being groaned into the junction of your neck. And still, even now, Heeseung presses a kiss to your cheek in between thrusts. One hand grips your wrists, and the other runs through your hair, like he can’t help touching you everywhere at once.

“I missed you like this,” he pants, voice raw. “Missed this you. All needy.”

“You have me every day,” you gasp, but the words falter. He’s fucking you harder now, rhythm tight and hungry. You can feel the edge coming up fast, sharp and curling in your spine. “Don’t say you missed me—fuck—like that.”

“I do,” he says, and it’s urgent now, a groan twisted into a confession. “I always miss you. Even when you’re right here.”

You’re so close. He knows it. He can feel it.

He brings his thumb to your clit, rubbing tight circles, his thrusts still deep and steady. “Come again for me, baby,” he whispers. “Come on. Want to feel it. Want you to soak me.”

It hits you hard, hips jolting, thighs squeezing around him, a cracked moan punched out of your chest as your whole body arches. You hear him groan, feel him rut into you deeper, chasing his own high now.

“Fuck—fuck, you’re perfect—”

You feel him spill inside you with a broken moan, his hips jerking once, twice more before he collapses against you, body shaking, groaning low in your ear.

Neither of you moves for a long moment. Just breathing and skin and sweat and this quiet golden morning.

Then, finally, he lifts his head just enough to catch your eye, giggling.

“How’s that for breakfast?”

© cinnahoons please do not steal, plagiarize, or reupload my work.

tags! @junityy @neo127

[cinnahoons]

flower smoothie is temporary but heeseung's love making session is forever however flower smoothie in bali is temporary as well so lets just go

ANON U GET IT!!!! FLOWER SMOOTHIE IS TEMPORARY!!!

[cinnahoons]

just read ur hearing fic AND OMGGG ur writing is incredible omg

🥹🥹 THANK YOUU i’ve been struggling to get rid of my writer’s block so im glad i was finally able to post smth 🙏🙏

[cinnahoons]

✶ 𝗛𝗢𝗪 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗟𝗜𝗚𝗛𝗧 𝗚𝗘𝗧𝗦 𝗜𝗡 ── 𝗅𝖾𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗎𝗇𝗀

SYNOPSIS. with heeseung in your bed and a bali vacation for the books, it’s hard to remember why you ever set an alarm.

PAIRING. lee heeseung x fem! reader

WORD COUNT. 3.5k

GENRES. smut (18+, mdni), established relationship, morning sex, fingering, oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex (naughty), fluff, sleepy hee, reader never gets her smoothie lets kill the man, MY REAL ENHA SMUT TAG DEBUT HELLO

WARNINGS. profanity, explicit sexual content

AUTHOR'S NOTE. so this is officially my first time posting real #actual smut dun dun dun if its terrible dont tell me. glaze me. I BEG!!! i had a time writing this and long live soft dom hee <3 ⊹ BOOKSHELF

"WE'RE GONNA MISS BREAKFAST, BABY."

Heeseung doesn’t even flinch. Instead, his arm tightens around your waist, dragging your half-bare body further against him as he mumbles something incomprehensible into the crook of your neck. His voice is warm and sticky, half-melted by sleep and the balinese heat already creeping in through the slatted windows sitting just off to the side of your bed.

You sigh into his hair, the soft smell of his shampoo bathing your face in familiarity, your fingers tangled in the woven edge of the hotel blanket. One of your legs is thrown over his in a way that speaks more to your restless nighttime habits than to your desire to be close to your boyfriend. Not that the latter is any less appreciated; his warmth, his scent, it’s all achingly sweet. Especially now that the two of you have been traveling together for the last couple of weeks. His face has become the one constant in your life.

“It ends in thirty minutes,” you add, tracing circles on the bare skin of his back. “I want one of those smoothies with the flowers in it.”

A crinkle forms between his brows, and he lifts his head slightly, eyelids still heavy. 

“You hate plants in your drinks.”

You snort. If there’s anything Heeseung can claim, it’s that he’s uniquely talented in sniffing straight through your bullshit. Granted, it can be a little disconcerting to be the only one of your friend group who can’t get away with a little white lie to her boyfriend here and there, but you suppose you’d rather this than a man who’s much too aloof.

Heeseung stretches beneath you, his broad palms warm against the skin of your stomach. He’s shirtless, and tanned, and still wearing the shell necklace you’d bought him from a tourist stall two days ago. It had, unfortunately, cost you a day’s lunch and the last withering morsels of your dignity, but at least it has Heeseung looking like every sexy, picturesque summer boyfriend dream you’ve ever had. Except he’s real. And pouting. 

“Come on,” you coax, brushing his bangs off his forehead gingerly. “Up. Before I leave you for a banana pancake. Or a stranger with a moped.”

It’s as much a joke as it isn’t. The joke being that you’d leave willingly; but you and Heeseung both know that the possibility of you being snatched off the sidewalk and stuffed into a fruit cart by the various men who continue to whistle at you despite his valiant attempts to shoo them off—I’m literally right here—is shockingly real. 

He doesn’t move, though. Barely rolls his eyes, even. He’s in that sweet, sleepy morning-haze he always wakes up in, halfway between fluttering lashes and the watery rising run. He smiles, tilting his head back, his eyes crinkling. 

“What if I kiss you instead?”

It’s tempting. His voice is low, that same syrupy, rough quality to it that’s replayed over and over in your dreams. His fingers work gently over the skin of your hips, teasing. You’re not sure if any of it is intentional—if he’s trying to send a rush up to your head, to leave you dizzy and disoriented. But it’s working. 

“That would be a distraction,” you mutter, and it’s probably visibly obvious how much he’s affecting you. Heeseung only grins.

Forget probably. It’s definitely obvious.

“You’re easily distracted.”

And he proves his point (really, truly drives it home) by leaning up to press a soft, slow kiss beneath your jaw, where the skin is warm and sensitive. You sigh into it despite yourself, and if the brush of his smile against your neck is anything to go by, he’s noticed. He goes for another right under your ear. Each press of his lips sends a shiver down your spine, which is unfair, really. He’s all lazy and persistent, his mouth brushing yours before you even realize your eyes have fluttered shut. 

“Heeseung,” you warn, breath hitching slightly, but your voice is void of any and all conviction. “This isn’t going to get us breakfast.”

He pulls away just enough to whisper conspiratorially.

“We can order room service.”

You push against his shoulder softly, scoffing. It’s firm to the touch, a plane of sinewy muscle that you’re trying very hard to ignore. You’re scolding him, after all.

“We’re not rich.”

“We’re in Bali."

You snort, reaching a hand up to card through his hair. 

“That's not a counterpoint, Heeseung.”

But he’s already rolling you onto your back, shifting to hover over you with the gentlest grin playing on his lips. Light filters in behind him; a soft, yellowed halo glowing dimly off his honeyed skin. His necklace swings slightly, your breath catching.

“Fine,” you whisper. It’s hard to say no when you have him like this—pupils blown wide, eyes rich and brown like wet soil; like cocoa. His bangs fall over his forehead, brushing over the thick set of his brows tenderly.

“Fine?”

“Ten minutes. Then we go.”

He hums in agreement, dipping back down to kiss your collarbone like it’s routine. And it is, by now—his hands skimming your sides, your fingers ghosting over the nape of his neck, your legs tangled together under gauzy sheets as the world outside your room glows gold. He pulls you closer, the strap of your sleeping shirt slipping off your shoulder, thin and fairly unnecessary in your current state anyhow.

Heeseung kisses you like you’re water and he’s awoken to a world of rough, arid sand. It’s as sweet and languid as it is desperate, like he’s been dreaming about this. And maybe he has. You feel something hard against your leg, his boxers pressing against the skin of your thighs as he kisses you softly. It’s too much—you can only whimper quietly against his lips, insistent as you wrap your legs around him, pressing his warmth against your body.

He groans quietly, lingering too long in a way that makes you feel like your skin might catch fire under the weight of his mouth. His lips part just enough to drag, soft and deliberate, and you inhale sharply, the sound threading straight through the tension stretched thin between your bodies.

He pulls back to look at you, his eyes lazily tracing your face as his thumb smooths over your hip. There’s a smile at the corner of his mouth, curved with amusement. 

“Still want that smoothie?”

You shake your head once, slow. It’s not even a decision anymore. Hasn’t been, not since the moment he touched you. You curl a hand around the back of his neck instead, urging him down again, and he obliges easily, his teeth grazing your throat before sucking lightly just below your jawline. The contact is hot and wet, just this side of sinful.

Your back arches into it.

“You’re so annoying.”

“Mmm.” He doesn’t sound particularly offended, a smiling lacing his words. “You keep letting me get away with it.”

His hand slips lower, sneaky, warm fingers slipping under the edge of your shorts, brushing the soft skin at your hipbone with maddening gentleness. His eyes flick to yours, watching. You make no move to stop him. You wouldn’t, and you can’t. You’re boneless, completely paralyzed by the sight of him like this; innocent and broad and gorgeous, his hair still messy from sleep, eyes soft and glazed over by desire. Fuck breakfast, frankly.

“You’re wet,” Heeseung says, like it’s a fact he’s still trying to process. “Already?”

You hum, half a whimper. “Told you it was a distraction.”

He huffs a quiet laugh at the state of you, something amused and disbelieving, and dips his head again. Not to your lips this time—he’s pushed the delicate fabric of your shirt up, mouthing lazily at your chest, his tongue flattening over the swell of one breast while his fingers move slowly to position themselves between your legs. It’s torturous, how unhurried he is. How much he seems to enjoy keeping you right at the edge.

Your hips twitch up against his hand, shameless, and he rewards you with a bit more pressure, his middle finger slipping down to tease your entrance.

“You’re doing that thing again,” you murmur, breath catching in frustration, “where you act like we have all fucking day.”

His smile only grows, sunshine against your skin. 

“We do,” he says. “Unless you decide you’re dying for that flower smoothie.”

You roll your eyes, a laugh punched out of you by the way his finger finally sinks in, slow and firm. It curls deliberately inside you, instantly finding the spot that makes your thighs clench around his wrist. You moan quietly, stuttering. But he doesn’t stop. Just watches your face as he adds another finger; the drag of them just right, squelching in the quiet room.

“Heeseung—” your voice breaks around his name.

“I got you,” he murmurs. Quiet. Steady. “Just relax.”

And god, you do. You let your head tip back against the pillow, hands fisting weakly at the sheets while he works you open—gently, but with purpose. He watches the way your body responds, and when his thumb finds your clit again, it’s like a live wire. Your hips jerk, a loud gasp escaping your lips. He shushes you softly, his breath warm against your breast as he mouths at your nipple, wet and slow.

He moves up slowly, eventually reaching your mouth again, where you lift a shaky hand to cup his cheek as he kisses you. Your moans melt into his mouth, the rhythm of his fingers picking up as your hips continue to roll into his hand. His other hand presses firmly against your thigh, spreading you wider for him.

“You’re perfect,” he whispers against your lips, and you feel the words more than you hear them, each syllable low and reverent, like a prayer.

His mouth trails down again, slow and deliberate, like worship. He kisses along your collarbone, down the center of your chest, tongue laving gently as he moves. He has one hand slipped up to cup your breast, thumb brushing slowly over your nipple, his fingers pumping insistently. You can feel the way you suck him in with every thrust, and he looks down to watch it, his eyes hooded and dazed. Your back arches from the sight of his face with a soft gasp, needing more, your hips shifting restlessly against his hand. 

“Heeseung,” you breathe, pleading.

He hums, dragging his lips up the curve of your breast before pulling back to look at you. His hair is even messier now, falling over his eyes, his lips swollen and glistening. You can see the tension in his jaw, in the tight set of his shoulders. He’s holding himself back, barely.

You nod quickly, shaky. 

“Please.”

It’s all he needs.

He kisses you again, hard and deep, while his fingers slip from between your thighs only long enough for him to tug your panties down your legs, slow and careful. His eyes don’t leave yours, not even as he discards them to the floor. He sits up slightly, pulling you closer to him with your cunt now completely exposed. It takes everything in you not to try and cover yourself up, but the astonished look in Heeseung’s eyes helps to ease your shyness. His hands roam your thighs slowly before he leans back down, nestling between them. His breathing hitches as he looks at you—really looks at you—spread open for him, cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling fast under the soft glow from the windows.

“Fuck,” he whispers again, like he can’t help it, like he can’t believe you’re his. “You’re… Jesus, baby.”

Then he dips his head.

The first press of his tongue against your heat makes your whole body jolt. A gasp tears from your lips, your fingers flying to his hair and grabbing without thought. He groans low in his throat as your hips lift toward him, and he flattens his tongue, licking a slow, heavy stripe up your folds before wrapping his lips around your clit.

You cry out, back arching off the bed. Heeseung is patient, but relentless. He licks and sucks and moans into you, like he’s starved. Every flick of his tongue, every swirl, every kiss against your most sensitive spots has you trembling, babbling his name. Your thighs close in around his head without meaning to, and he just groans, hands gripping your hips tighter to keep you there.

“You taste so fucking good,” he murmurs into you, the words vibrating against your core. “Could stay here forever.”

Your mind is slipping, your thoughts reduced to a melting pot of heat and haze as Heeseung opens his jaw wider, his tongue pushing into you as his hands grip your waist, your ass, your body coiling tighter and tighter with each thrust of his tongue. You’re close, so close you can barely breathe. 

“Heeseung—” you mumble, hips twitching. “I’m—I can’t—”

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, looking up at you with dark, glassy eyes. “Come for me, baby.”

And so you do. The orgasm rips through you like a wave; stealing your breath, your voice, your thoughts. Your thighs shake violently, hands clutching at the sheets and his hair, your head thrown back as you cry out. He doesn’t stop, not until you’re squirming, too sensitive, gasping his name like a broken record.

It’s only then that he finally pulls back, his lips and chin slick and glistening. He kisses the inside of your thigh, then higher again, so tenderly it makes your chest ache. You reach for him blindly, trembling, and he crawls back up your body, pressing soft kisses along your skin until he’s hovering over you again. You’re still trying to catch your breath when his forehead drops against yours. 

“You okay?” he murmurs, his voice softer now.

You nod slowly, eyes fluttering open, heart still racing. 

“More than okay,” you breathe, fingertips brushing over his jaw. But something steals your attention; Heeseung is still hard against your leg, a visible bulge in his boxers that sends a flood of saliva to your mouth. “Heeseung. You—you can fuck me. I don’t want breakfast. I promise.”

He laughs warmly before leaning down to kiss you again. And you let him, tasting yourself on his lips, letting your arms wrap around him and holding him close. There’s that shampoo again, and the necklace that brushes against your cheek, and the strong arms that wrap themselves around your body, firm and warm and safe.

“You drive me crazy,” he whispers against your ear.

You’re barely holding on when he pulls back, his gaze locked on yours as he reaches for the waistband of his boxers. Your stomach flips violently at the sight of him when he pulls his cock out and begins to stroke himself, slow and easy, the tip flushed and leaking. There’s a dreamy haze to his eyes now, low-lidded and dark. His jaw is tight with restraint.

“You want it like this?” he asks, voice raspier than you’re used to hearing. “Slow?”

You nod, maybe a little too fast.

“Yeah?” You’re already spread open, and so he lines himself up easily, cock dragging through your folds once, twice. “Want me to take my time with you?”

“Please,” you beg.

That’s all it takes. He presses in slowly, inch by inch, your breath catching on a groan as he enters you. The stretch is full and perfect, the kind of deep that steals the words right out of your mouth. He watches you the whole time, his hand cupping your jaw like he can anchor you there, ground you while your body wraps tight around him.

“Shit,” he whispers, once he’s all the way in. “You feel so good.”

You do, too. Full to the point of unbearable, all that early morning laziness replaced by a simmering, helpless heat. You tighten your legs around his waist and drag him closer, and when he starts to move—slow, shallow thrusts that drag unbearably against your walls—it’s like you can feel each stroke in your chest. He kisses you messy, open-mouthed and deep, like he doesn’t care if he breathes, if he lives. One hand braces beside your head, the other slipping beneath your thigh to hitch it up higher. The angle changes, and you gasp.

“You okay?” he murmurs, half-groan, lips brushing your temple.

“So okay,” you manage, eyes screwed shut. “Don’t stop.”

His grin flashes, boyish and quick, stopping for a quick moment to ogle the sight of him sheathed deep inside of you, his hand coming down to flick at your clit.

You shift under him, restless, thighs shaking.

“Hee—”

“I know,” he says, almost a whisper.

He moves again. Long strokes, deep and deliberate. Each one makes your breath stutter, has your hands scrambling over his back, his shoulders, trying to anchor yourself to something. The room is warm, too warm, the air thick with sweat and salt and whatever visceral groan just tore out of your throat. He digs his fingers into your thigh, leaning over you. His mouth brushes over your in the most infuriating not-quite kiss. 

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs. He’s smiley, but you can see the restraint in his eyes, the vein that strains on his neck. He’s barely holding on.

“Then do something,” you moan.

That finally breaks something in him. He huffs a soft, ragged laugh and grabs your wrists, pinning them above your head with one hand while the other braces beside your ribs. His next thrust knocks the breath out of you.

“Oh,” you gasp, and he does it again. Harder, and faster, and sharper.

Your legs curl around him without thinking. His necklace swings against your tits, your wrists still caught in his grip. He’s not smiling anymore; he’s got his eyes closed, his jaw tight as he moans with every thrust, like he needs it-like he’s chasing it now. 

“Fuck,” he cries out, kissing your cheek, your temple, blindly. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to go anywhere after this.”

You let out a broken laugh. He thrusts deeper then, slower but stronger, and it knocks the breath right out of you. His hand is still closed around your wrists, holding you steady, fingers splayed wide over the sheets.

You arch under him, mouth falling open. 

“There—right there—”

“I know,” he pants, and kisses you quiet. “I know, baby.”

You moan, a wanton sound, and his eyes flutter shut like he’s trying to commit the sound to memory. And then he’s pulling out just enough to thrust back in, hard enough to make the headboard knock softly against the wall.

You gasp loud and unfiltered and Heeseung groans under his breath, his jaw clenched. 

“Yeah? That what you want?”

He’s not smiling, or teasing. He’s halfway gone.

“I can take it,” you whisper.

At that, he lets out a low, wrecked laugh—Fuck—and then his mouth is back on yours, hot and messy and insistent. His thrusts start to pick up, deeper now, sharper, every one landing just right. You’re soaked, clenching around him, and he groans when he feels it.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he mutters against your mouth. “So good.”

You nod, eyes barely open, your body moving in the sheets with every thrust.

“You always do this to me.”

His fingers slide up, hooking under your knee to push your leg up, open, wide. He wants to see all of you take him. The angle changes again and he watches your eyes flutter and your head tilt back as a moan rips out of you.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “There it is.”

You can barely speak now, just clinging to his shoulders, nails dragging down the golden skin of his back as his hips smack against yours again and again.

This is definitely a way to start your day, with your name being groaned into the junction of your neck. And still, even now, Heeseung presses a kiss to your cheek in between thrusts. One hand grips your wrists, and the other runs through your hair, like he can’t help touching you everywhere at once.

“I missed you like this,” he pants, voice raw. “Missed this you. All needy.”

“You have me every day,” you gasp, but the words falter. He’s fucking you harder now, rhythm tight and hungry. You can feel the edge coming up fast, sharp and curling in your spine. “Don’t say you missed me—fuck—like that.”

“I do,” he says, and it’s urgent now, a groan twisted into a confession. “I always miss you. Even when you’re right here.”

You’re so close. He knows it. He can feel it.

He brings his thumb to your clit, rubbing tight circles, his thrusts still deep and steady. “Come again for me, baby,” he whispers. “Come on. Want to feel it. Want you to soak me.”

It hits you hard, hips jolting, thighs squeezing around him, a cracked moan punched out of your chest as your whole body arches. You hear him groan, feel him rut into you deeper, chasing his own high now.

“Fuck—fuck, you’re perfect—”

You feel him spill inside you with a broken moan, his hips jerking once, twice more before he collapses against you, body shaking, groaning low in your ear.

Neither of you moves for a long moment. Just breathing and skin and sweat and this quiet golden morning.

Then, finally, he lifts his head just enough to catch your eye, giggling.

“How’s that for breakfast?”

© cinnahoons please do not steal, plagiarize, or reupload my work.

tags! @junityy @neo127

[cinnahoons]

UR BACKKK

IM BACKKKKK😝😝😝 HI HI HELLO

[cinnahoons]

✶ 𝗛𝗢𝗪 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗟𝗜𝗚𝗛𝗧 𝗚𝗘𝗧𝗦 𝗜𝗡 ── 𝗅𝖾𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗎𝗇𝗀

SYNOPSIS. with heeseung in your bed and a bali vacation for the books, it’s hard to remember why you ever set an alarm.

PAIRING. lee heeseung x fem! reader

WORD COUNT. 3.5k

GENRES. smut (18+, mdni), established relationship, morning sex, fingering, oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex (naughty), fluff, sleepy hee, reader never gets her smoothie lets kill the man, MY REAL ENHA SMUT TAG DEBUT HELLO

WARNINGS. profanity, explicit sexual content

AUTHOR'S NOTE. so this is officially my first time posting real #actual smut dun dun dun if its terrible dont tell me. glaze me. I BEG!!! i had a time writing this and long live soft dom hee <3 ⊹ BOOKSHELF

"WE'RE GONNA MISS BREAKFAST, BABY."

Heeseung doesn’t even flinch. Instead, his arm tightens around your waist, dragging your half-bare body further against him as he mumbles something incomprehensible into the crook of your neck. His voice is warm and sticky, half-melted by sleep and the balinese heat already creeping in through the slatted windows sitting just off to the side of your bed.

You sigh into his hair, the soft smell of his shampoo bathing your face in familiarity, your fingers tangled in the woven edge of the hotel blanket. One of your legs is thrown over his in a way that speaks more to your restless nighttime habits than to your desire to be close to your boyfriend. Not that the latter is any less appreciated; his warmth, his scent, it’s all achingly sweet. Especially now that the two of you have been traveling together for the last couple of weeks. His face has become the one constant in your life.

“It ends in thirty minutes,” you add, tracing circles on the bare skin of his back. “I want one of those smoothies with the flowers in it.”

A crinkle forms between his brows, and he lifts his head slightly, eyelids still heavy. 

“You hate plants in your drinks.”

You snort. If there’s anything Heeseung can claim, it’s that he’s uniquely talented in sniffing straight through your bullshit. Granted, it can be a little disconcerting to be the only one of your friend group who can’t get away with a little white lie to her boyfriend here and there, but you suppose you’d rather this than a man who’s much too aloof.

Heeseung stretches beneath you, his broad palms warm against the skin of your stomach. He’s shirtless, and tanned, and still wearing the shell necklace you’d bought him from a tourist stall two days ago. It had, unfortunately, cost you a day’s lunch and the last withering morsels of your dignity, but at least it has Heeseung looking like every sexy, picturesque summer boyfriend dream you’ve ever had. Except he’s real. And pouting. 

“Come on,” you coax, brushing his bangs off his forehead gingerly. “Up. Before I leave you for a banana pancake. Or a stranger with a moped.”

It’s as much a joke as it isn’t. The joke being that you’d leave willingly; but you and Heeseung both know that the possibility of you being snatched off the sidewalk and stuffed into a fruit cart by the various men who continue to whistle at you despite his valiant attempts to shoo them off—I’m literally right here—is shockingly real. 

He doesn’t move, though. Barely rolls his eyes, even. He’s in that sweet, sleepy morning-haze he always wakes up in, halfway between fluttering lashes and the watery rising run. He smiles, tilting his head back, his eyes crinkling. 

“What if I kiss you instead?”

It’s tempting. His voice is low, that same syrupy, rough quality to it that’s replayed over and over in your dreams. His fingers work gently over the skin of your hips, teasing. You’re not sure if any of it is intentional—if he’s trying to send a rush up to your head, to leave you dizzy and disoriented. But it’s working. 

“That would be a distraction,” you mutter, and it’s probably visibly obvious how much he’s affecting you. Heeseung only grins.

Forget probably. It’s definitely obvious.

“You’re easily distracted.”

And he proves his point (really, truly drives it home) by leaning up to press a soft, slow kiss beneath your jaw, where the skin is warm and sensitive. You sigh into it despite yourself, and if the brush of his smile against your neck is anything to go by, he’s noticed. He goes for another right under your ear. Each press of his lips sends a shiver down your spine, which is unfair, really. He’s all lazy and persistent, his mouth brushing yours before you even realize your eyes have fluttered shut. 

“Heeseung,” you warn, breath hitching slightly, but your voice is void of any and all conviction. “This isn’t going to get us breakfast.”

He pulls away just enough to whisper conspiratorially.

“We can order room service.”

You push against his shoulder softly, scoffing. It’s firm to the touch, a plane of sinewy muscle that you’re trying very hard to ignore. You’re scolding him, after all.

“We’re not rich.”

“We’re in Bali."

You snort, reaching a hand up to card through his hair. 

“That's not a counterpoint, Heeseung.”

But he’s already rolling you onto your back, shifting to hover over you with the gentlest grin playing on his lips. Light filters in behind him; a soft, yellowed halo glowing dimly off his honeyed skin. His necklace swings slightly, your breath catching.

“Fine,” you whisper. It’s hard to say no when you have him like this—pupils blown wide, eyes rich and brown like wet soil; like cocoa. His bangs fall over his forehead, brushing over the thick set of his brows tenderly.

“Fine?”

“Ten minutes. Then we go.”

He hums in agreement, dipping back down to kiss your collarbone like it’s routine. And it is, by now—his hands skimming your sides, your fingers ghosting over the nape of his neck, your legs tangled together under gauzy sheets as the world outside your room glows gold. He pulls you closer, the strap of your sleeping shirt slipping off your shoulder, thin and fairly unnecessary in your current state anyhow.

Heeseung kisses you like you’re water and he’s awoken to a world of rough, arid sand. It’s as sweet and languid as it is desperate, like he’s been dreaming about this. And maybe he has. You feel something hard against your leg, his boxers pressing against the skin of your thighs as he kisses you softly. It’s too much—you can only whimper quietly against his lips, insistent as you wrap your legs around him, pressing his warmth against your body.

He groans quietly, lingering too long in a way that makes you feel like your skin might catch fire under the weight of his mouth. His lips part just enough to drag, soft and deliberate, and you inhale sharply, the sound threading straight through the tension stretched thin between your bodies.

He pulls back to look at you, his eyes lazily tracing your face as his thumb smooths over your hip. There’s a smile at the corner of his mouth, curved with amusement. 

“Still want that smoothie?”

You shake your head once, slow. It’s not even a decision anymore. Hasn’t been, not since the moment he touched you. You curl a hand around the back of his neck instead, urging him down again, and he obliges easily, his teeth grazing your throat before sucking lightly just below your jawline. The contact is hot and wet, just this side of sinful.

Your back arches into it.

“You’re so annoying.”

“Mmm.” He doesn’t sound particularly offended, a smiling lacing his words. “You keep letting me get away with it.”

His hand slips lower, sneaky, warm fingers slipping under the edge of your shorts, brushing the soft skin at your hipbone with maddening gentleness. His eyes flick to yours, watching. You make no move to stop him. You wouldn’t, and you can’t. You’re boneless, completely paralyzed by the sight of him like this; innocent and broad and gorgeous, his hair still messy from sleep, eyes soft and glazed over by desire. Fuck breakfast, frankly.

“You’re wet,” Heeseung says, like it’s a fact he’s still trying to process. “Already?”

You hum, half a whimper. “Told you it was a distraction.”

He huffs a quiet laugh at the state of you, something amused and disbelieving, and dips his head again. Not to your lips this time—he’s pushed the delicate fabric of your shirt up, mouthing lazily at your chest, his tongue flattening over the swell of one breast while his fingers move slowly to position themselves between your legs. It’s torturous, how unhurried he is. How much he seems to enjoy keeping you right at the edge.

Your hips twitch up against his hand, shameless, and he rewards you with a bit more pressure, his middle finger slipping down to tease your entrance.

“You’re doing that thing again,” you murmur, breath catching in frustration, “where you act like we have all fucking day.”

His smile only grows, sunshine against your skin. 

“We do,” he says. “Unless you decide you’re dying for that flower smoothie.”

You roll your eyes, a laugh punched out of you by the way his finger finally sinks in, slow and firm. It curls deliberately inside you, instantly finding the spot that makes your thighs clench around his wrist. You moan quietly, stuttering. But he doesn’t stop. Just watches your face as he adds another finger; the drag of them just right, squelching in the quiet room.

“Heeseung—” your voice breaks around his name.

“I got you,” he murmurs. Quiet. Steady. “Just relax.”

And god, you do. You let your head tip back against the pillow, hands fisting weakly at the sheets while he works you open—gently, but with purpose. He watches the way your body responds, and when his thumb finds your clit again, it’s like a live wire. Your hips jerk, a loud gasp escaping your lips. He shushes you softly, his breath warm against your breast as he mouths at your nipple, wet and slow.

He moves up slowly, eventually reaching your mouth again, where you lift a shaky hand to cup his cheek as he kisses you. Your moans melt into his mouth, the rhythm of his fingers picking up as your hips continue to roll into his hand. His other hand presses firmly against your thigh, spreading you wider for him.

“You’re perfect,” he whispers against your lips, and you feel the words more than you hear them, each syllable low and reverent, like a prayer.

His mouth trails down again, slow and deliberate, like worship. He kisses along your collarbone, down the center of your chest, tongue laving gently as he moves. He has one hand slipped up to cup your breast, thumb brushing slowly over your nipple, his fingers pumping insistently. You can feel the way you suck him in with every thrust, and he looks down to watch it, his eyes hooded and dazed. Your back arches from the sight of his face with a soft gasp, needing more, your hips shifting restlessly against his hand. 

“Heeseung,” you breathe, pleading.

He hums, dragging his lips up the curve of your breast before pulling back to look at you. His hair is even messier now, falling over his eyes, his lips swollen and glistening. You can see the tension in his jaw, in the tight set of his shoulders. He’s holding himself back, barely.

You nod quickly, shaky. 

“Please.”

It’s all he needs.

He kisses you again, hard and deep, while his fingers slip from between your thighs only long enough for him to tug your panties down your legs, slow and careful. His eyes don’t leave yours, not even as he discards them to the floor. He sits up slightly, pulling you closer to him with your cunt now completely exposed. It takes everything in you not to try and cover yourself up, but the astonished look in Heeseung’s eyes helps to ease your shyness. His hands roam your thighs slowly before he leans back down, nestling between them. His breathing hitches as he looks at you—really looks at you—spread open for him, cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling fast under the soft glow from the windows.

“Fuck,” he whispers again, like he can’t help it, like he can’t believe you’re his. “You’re… Jesus, baby.”

Then he dips his head.

The first press of his tongue against your heat makes your whole body jolt. A gasp tears from your lips, your fingers flying to his hair and grabbing without thought. He groans low in his throat as your hips lift toward him, and he flattens his tongue, licking a slow, heavy stripe up your folds before wrapping his lips around your clit.

You cry out, back arching off the bed. Heeseung is patient, but relentless. He licks and sucks and moans into you, like he’s starved. Every flick of his tongue, every swirl, every kiss against your most sensitive spots has you trembling, babbling his name. Your thighs close in around his head without meaning to, and he just groans, hands gripping your hips tighter to keep you there.

“You taste so fucking good,” he murmurs into you, the words vibrating against your core. “Could stay here forever.”

Your mind is slipping, your thoughts reduced to a melting pot of heat and haze as Heeseung opens his jaw wider, his tongue pushing into you as his hands grip your waist, your ass, your body coiling tighter and tighter with each thrust of his tongue. You’re close, so close you can barely breathe. 

“Heeseung—” you mumble, hips twitching. “I’m—I can’t—”

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, looking up at you with dark, glassy eyes. “Come for me, baby.”

And so you do. The orgasm rips through you like a wave; stealing your breath, your voice, your thoughts. Your thighs shake violently, hands clutching at the sheets and his hair, your head thrown back as you cry out. He doesn’t stop, not until you’re squirming, too sensitive, gasping his name like a broken record.

It’s only then that he finally pulls back, his lips and chin slick and glistening. He kisses the inside of your thigh, then higher again, so tenderly it makes your chest ache. You reach for him blindly, trembling, and he crawls back up your body, pressing soft kisses along your skin until he’s hovering over you again. You’re still trying to catch your breath when his forehead drops against yours. 

“You okay?” he murmurs, his voice softer now.

You nod slowly, eyes fluttering open, heart still racing. 

“More than okay,” you breathe, fingertips brushing over his jaw. But something steals your attention; Heeseung is still hard against your leg, a visible bulge in his boxers that sends a flood of saliva to your mouth. “Heeseung. You—you can fuck me. I don’t want breakfast. I promise.”

He laughs warmly before leaning down to kiss you again. And you let him, tasting yourself on his lips, letting your arms wrap around him and holding him close. There’s that shampoo again, and the necklace that brushes against your cheek, and the strong arms that wrap themselves around your body, firm and warm and safe.

“You drive me crazy,” he whispers against your ear.

You’re barely holding on when he pulls back, his gaze locked on yours as he reaches for the waistband of his boxers. Your stomach flips violently at the sight of him when he pulls his cock out and begins to stroke himself, slow and easy, the tip flushed and leaking. There’s a dreamy haze to his eyes now, low-lidded and dark. His jaw is tight with restraint.

“You want it like this?” he asks, voice raspier than you’re used to hearing. “Slow?”

You nod, maybe a little too fast.

“Yeah?” You’re already spread open, and so he lines himself up easily, cock dragging through your folds once, twice. “Want me to take my time with you?”

“Please,” you beg.

That’s all it takes. He presses in slowly, inch by inch, your breath catching on a groan as he enters you. The stretch is full and perfect, the kind of deep that steals the words right out of your mouth. He watches you the whole time, his hand cupping your jaw like he can anchor you there, ground you while your body wraps tight around him.

“Shit,” he whispers, once he’s all the way in. “You feel so good.”

You do, too. Full to the point of unbearable, all that early morning laziness replaced by a simmering, helpless heat. You tighten your legs around his waist and drag him closer, and when he starts to move—slow, shallow thrusts that drag unbearably against your walls—it’s like you can feel each stroke in your chest. He kisses you messy, open-mouthed and deep, like he doesn’t care if he breathes, if he lives. One hand braces beside your head, the other slipping beneath your thigh to hitch it up higher. The angle changes, and you gasp.

“You okay?” he murmurs, half-groan, lips brushing your temple.

“So okay,” you manage, eyes screwed shut. “Don’t stop.”

His grin flashes, boyish and quick, stopping for a quick moment to ogle the sight of him sheathed deep inside of you, his hand coming down to flick at your clit.

You shift under him, restless, thighs shaking.

“Hee—”

“I know,” he says, almost a whisper.

He moves again. Long strokes, deep and deliberate. Each one makes your breath stutter, has your hands scrambling over his back, his shoulders, trying to anchor yourself to something. The room is warm, too warm, the air thick with sweat and salt and whatever visceral groan just tore out of your throat. He digs his fingers into your thigh, leaning over you. His mouth brushes over your in the most infuriating not-quite kiss. 

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs. He’s smiley, but you can see the restraint in his eyes, the vein that strains on his neck. He’s barely holding on.

“Then do something,” you moan.

That finally breaks something in him. He huffs a soft, ragged laugh and grabs your wrists, pinning them above your head with one hand while the other braces beside your ribs. His next thrust knocks the breath out of you.

“Oh,” you gasp, and he does it again. Harder, and faster, and sharper.

Your legs curl around him without thinking. His necklace swings against your tits, your wrists still caught in his grip. He’s not smiling anymore; he’s got his eyes closed, his jaw tight as he moans with every thrust, like he needs it-like he’s chasing it now. 

“Fuck,” he cries out, kissing your cheek, your temple, blindly. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to go anywhere after this.”

You let out a broken laugh. He thrusts deeper then, slower but stronger, and it knocks the breath right out of you. His hand is still closed around your wrists, holding you steady, fingers splayed wide over the sheets.

You arch under him, mouth falling open. 

“There—right there—”

“I know,” he pants, and kisses you quiet. “I know, baby.”

You moan, a wanton sound, and his eyes flutter shut like he’s trying to commit the sound to memory. And then he’s pulling out just enough to thrust back in, hard enough to make the headboard knock softly against the wall.

You gasp loud and unfiltered and Heeseung groans under his breath, his jaw clenched. 

“Yeah? That what you want?”

He’s not smiling, or teasing. He’s halfway gone.

“I can take it,” you whisper.

At that, he lets out a low, wrecked laugh—Fuck—and then his mouth is back on yours, hot and messy and insistent. His thrusts start to pick up, deeper now, sharper, every one landing just right. You’re soaked, clenching around him, and he groans when he feels it.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he mutters against your mouth. “So good.”

You nod, eyes barely open, your body moving in the sheets with every thrust.

“You always do this to me.”

His fingers slide up, hooking under your knee to push your leg up, open, wide. He wants to see all of you take him. The angle changes again and he watches your eyes flutter and your head tilt back as a moan rips out of you.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “There it is.”

You can barely speak now, just clinging to his shoulders, nails dragging down the golden skin of his back as his hips smack against yours again and again.

This is definitely a way to start your day, with your name being groaned into the junction of your neck. And still, even now, Heeseung presses a kiss to your cheek in between thrusts. One hand grips your wrists, and the other runs through your hair, like he can’t help touching you everywhere at once.

“I missed you like this,” he pants, voice raw. “Missed this you. All needy.”

“You have me every day,” you gasp, but the words falter. He’s fucking you harder now, rhythm tight and hungry. You can feel the edge coming up fast, sharp and curling in your spine. “Don’t say you missed me—fuck—like that.”

“I do,” he says, and it’s urgent now, a groan twisted into a confession. “I always miss you. Even when you’re right here.”

You’re so close. He knows it. He can feel it.

He brings his thumb to your clit, rubbing tight circles, his thrusts still deep and steady. “Come again for me, baby,” he whispers. “Come on. Want to feel it. Want you to soak me.”

It hits you hard, hips jolting, thighs squeezing around him, a cracked moan punched out of your chest as your whole body arches. You hear him groan, feel him rut into you deeper, chasing his own high now.

“Fuck—fuck, you’re perfect—”

You feel him spill inside you with a broken moan, his hips jerking once, twice more before he collapses against you, body shaking, groaning low in your ear.

Neither of you moves for a long moment. Just breathing and skin and sweat and this quiet golden morning.

Then, finally, he lifts his head just enough to catch your eye, giggling.

“How’s that for breakfast?”

© cinnahoons please do not steal, plagiarize, or reupload my work.

tags! @junityy @neo127

[cinnahoons]

Hii giirl one question, good luck babe is Discontinued or paused?

hi!!!! good question LOL for right now it’s only paused, not discontinued, because i still need to decide (once i get back from my vacation, which is in a couple days) whether or not i’m going to keep working on it!! i don’t wanna toss it just yet but smaus are a lot of work and i have to make sure im up for it this summer yk

[cinnahoons]

UR BACKKK 🩷🩷🩷

HIIII YES I AM😝😝

[cinnahoons]

( 𝐚𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 ) ─ ㅤ❛ ㅤ 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐃. ❜ 종성

𝗦𝗬𝗡𝗢𝗣𝗦𝗜𝗦 // 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗇𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗇𝗈 𝖾𝗑𝗂𝗍, 𝖺 𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾.

𝗕𝗢𝗢𝗞𝗦𝗛𝗘𝗟𝗙｡⠀( 𝟪𝟣𝟤 ) ㅤㅤjay x fem!reader, fluff ✶ sunkissed knees, morning heat, the most gentle man ever ㅤ꒰⁠ 🍋⁠ᵕ⁠⸝⸝ᵕ ꒱ㅤ..ㅤi'm in italy this month and something took over me to write this, happy reading!

the sun is already cruel by eleven in the morning.

it melts against the tiled rooftops of sorrento, spilling down the ochre walls like honey and seeping into the skin of your collarbones as you sit on a windowsill with a spoon in your mouth and your legs dangling in the heat, blouse dipping low on your chest. you can hear the cicadas humming like static in the garden below, the smell of sun-warmed fruit and basil drifting up with the occasional lick of breeze. 

jay is lying on the floor behind you, one hand tucked under his head, the other curled lazily around a lemon he’d stolen from the basket on your aunt’s kitchen table. the hem of his white button-up is riding up. he’s not wearing socks, and his sunglasses are askew on his chest, almost like he forgot he was wearing them.

“you’re gonna fall out,” he murmurs, voice hoarse from sleep.

you glance down at him, at the golden sliver of tan skin peeking out from above the waistband of his trousers. “then catch me.”

“i’ll catch the yogurt cup,” he mutters, eyes closed. “you’ll be on your own.”

you roll your eyes and flick your spoon at him. a small dollop lands on his collarbone and he makes a sound of outrage, sitting up abruptly.

you only grin at him, and he huffs, plucking the spoon from your hand and licking the rest off with no hesitation. the movement is casual, all warm and lazy, and it makes your stomach flutter the way it always does when he does something careless and sweet and impossible not to fall in love with.

“what time is the market?” he asks, licking yogurt from the corner of his mouth.

“twelve. but it’s already hot as balls and i don’t wanna go.”

jay hums. his fingers drum against the lemon in his hand.

“you promised we’d get those little sugar apricots.”

“and you promised you’d cook dinner tonight.”

“i will,” he smiles, tilting his head against the sunlight, “if you wear that dress.”

you pause, shifting the gold bangles on your arms. they’ve become sticky with the heat. “which one?”

“the red one,” he says, eyes sliding over to meet yours. “the one that drives me crazy.”

heat blooms under your skin that has nothing to do with the sun. you hate him. you really, really hate him.

(you love him.)

you bring a hand up to your eyebrows, shielding your eyes from the sunlight as you attempt to stave off a grin. “you said that about the white one yesterday.”

“it’s a dress-per-day kind of week. not my fault you look beautiful in anything.”

you scoff, looking down. the windowsill is rough and warm against your palms, numbing them gently. “you’re insane.”

“you’re radiant,” he says simply, standing and stretching. you turn now, back facing the garden. the hem of his shirt lifts again, revealing another flash of tan skin and the shadow of where his necklace disappears beneath it. “and i’m right.”

he pads barefoot across the tile to stand in front of you, gently prying your thighs open so he can step between them. your legs dangle on either side of him, still warm from the open window. his palms cup your knees, thumbs stroking thoughtlessly over the sunburn blooming on one of them.

“you’re like a postcard,” he says, gaze lingering on your face. “the most gorgeous scenery in italy. everyone would want to come here.”

you blink, throat tightening. “jay.”

“what?”

“don’t say things like that.”

“why not?” he asks, quieter now, a smile teasing at his lips. “isn’t it true?”

you don’t answer. not really. you just reach up, brushing a thumb along his jaw where stubble has begun to show. he leans into your touch like it’s instinct. it probably is. the two of you have spent every day of this trip wrapped around each other like ivy. falling into rooms, falling into sun, falling into something stupid and golden and hard to name.

outside, you hear someone shout in italian. birds take off from a roof nearby. you glance out the window to see your aunt watering her potted plan, the garden hose writhing like a snake on the stone. 

jay doesn’t look away from you. “let’s skip the market.”

“we need food.” your head tilts against the hand of his that’s slipped into your hair, lulled by the gentle scratch.

“we have bread, and cheese.”

“jay. you’ll kill me.”

he grins. “i won’t. not if you wear the red dress.”

you groan, pulling him closer by the collar. “fine. but if we die of hunger, it’s on you.”

“i’ll make sure you die pretty,” he promises, forehead pressed against yours. “sundrenched. like now.”

you kiss him once, quick and messy.

then again, slower. tasting his smile.

the cicadas keep chirping their song.

© cinnahoons please do not steal, plagiarize, or reupload my work.

[cinnahoons]

( 𝐬𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗋𝖾 ) ─ ㅤ❛ ㅤ 𝐁𝐀𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐑𝐄. ❜ 희승

𝗦𝗬𝗡𝗢𝗣𝗦𝗜𝗦 // 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗌𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗌𝗄, 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗎𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾. 𝗌𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗐𝖺𝗒.

𝗕𝗢𝗢𝗞𝗦𝗛𝗘𝗟𝗙｡ ( 𝟤,𝟪𝟧𝟢 )  ;; vampire!ㅤㅤheeseung x human fem!reader, angst, basically starved horny vampire feeds erotically IDFK, fluff if you squint, this is just unholy i fear, warnings blood bro lots of blood / 18+ go away minors & BAC THIS GOES OUT TO U (smut debut soon)

the first thing you notice when you enter is the light. not the absence of it, though the apartment is dark, save for a dim bulb flickering half-heartedly above the stove, but rather the quality of it. it’s the wrong kind of light for this hour: not the warm, syrupy amber that usually drips across the walls of heeseung’s kitchen. tonight, it’s pale and sterile, casting sharp, oblong shadows along the edges of his shelves; his counters. 

the second thing you notice is the smell. not immediately, not when you step into the hallway or even when your fingers first graze the doorknob—which, oddly, gives way without resistance, though he always insists on locking it three different ways—but a beat later, as the door creaks inward and the stillness of the apartment exhales forcefully onto you. the air is thick and suffocatingly still, but within it is the unmistakable tang of iron. faint, yes. but sharp and distinct, a smell you’d know anywhere by now.

blood.

you don’t call out, at least not yet. there’s something in the silence that holds you back, something too full to interrupt. you toe off your shoes with care and step inside, drifting through the apartment with ease. it’s etched into your brain by now, as familiar as the back of your hand. 

you find him in the kitchen, as you’d known you would. shirtless, turned away from you, braced against the sink in a way that makes it seem as though the ceramic is the only thing keeping him vertical. he’s got his back bowed, maybe not quite with pain but with something more resemblant of fatigue, turning his body inward. and then, finally, you see the blood.

it streaks across his side in sluggish, glistening arcs. dark where it’s dried and ruby red where it still seeps along a cruel, jagged gash. you stare for a moment too long, eyes caught on the flesh that pulls apart in a manner with which you almost can’t comprehend. this is the reality of a creature who, by all accounts, should not bleed like this. 

"heeseung," you say finally, the slight tremor to your voice slicing through the heavy air.

he doesn’t turn, instead stilling further, almost like he’d expected that this would happen. that you would show up, unannounced and uninvited, like you always do. something he has no defense against, for you and him are terribly different. you’re human. you have no obligation to be allowed inside. 

"i told you not to come here tonight."

his voice is low, rasping. you’d expected something more on edge, laden with the heat of anger that he no doubt feels at this moment. but it’s overshadowed by pure exhaustion. he sounds like he’s been awake for days, or like he’s trying not to use too much breath in case it pulls him apart further. you step closer, slowly, fearing he might startle, though that’s never been his way. even at his worst, heeseung is never startled. he simply endures.

"you’re bleeding," you say, and it feels like the most menial sentence you’ve ever spoken. a laughable thing, really. a penny tossed at a beggar, a single useless and pitiful observation. he huffs softly. a breath that might be a laugh, if there were anything left in him for amusement. 

you wither, stepping around him. it’s only then that he lifts his head, and it makes you flinch. not because he looks monstrous, but because he doesn’t. there’s no violent red in his eyes, no sharpness in his features, but a strange, resigned kind of distance. his skin is far too pale, nearly grey beneath the flickering light, and there’s a tremor in his hand where it grips the counter. you try to reach for him, gently, just your fingertips brushing against his arm, but he pulls away. it’s weak, and he winces as he stabilizes himself against the sink.

“don’t touch me,” he grunts, voice low. a warning, maybe, but you’ve never been one to listen to him. 

it clicks at once why the wound hasn’t closed, why his voice sounds like it’s been scraped down to the marrow. it doesn’t really take much. there aren’t very many reasons as to  why a vampire would be incapable of healing.

"you haven’t fed," you murmur, quietly, because it’s not a question.

he doesn’t answer. doesn’t need to.

you reach for him, and this time he flinches; not away, but inward, like your touch registers as something painful. still, he lets you press your palm to his skin, fingers gentle around the edge of the injury. the blood is warm and thick against your skin.

"you’re not healing," you whisper. “that wound should have closed by now.”

“i know,” he finally says, his voice cracking. it’s the first time you’ve heard him do that. he sounds furious with himself. and you can’t help yourself—you lift your hand again, this time to his face, and he lets you. his skin is cold, fevered in reverse. his jaw tenses under your palm.

“who did this?”

he swallows, looking away from you. “someone i used to run with. one of them saw us.”

you pause, whatever thoughts that had been forming dissipating as quickly as they’d been firing through your head. “saw us?”

heeseung finally meets your eyes. round and glassy. you’d always, secretly, thought his eyes were his best feature. it was a marvel, that even in this terrible, monstrous reality, among the violence of his nature, that there could be a gentleness to him much deeper than deemed possible. sweet and dreamlike, a chasm so void of darkness he could charm anything into believing he was human.  

“they know you’re human,” he continues, lashes downcast. “they think i’m weak for keeping you close. i told them i wasn’t. so they gave me a reason to bleed.”

you stare at him wordlessly. there’s too much rushing through you at once—fear, guilt, fury—but underneath it all is the simplest, most dangerous thing: love. terrifying, blinding love, as real as the pounding in your ears.

"you should’ve told me," you whisper fiercely; angrily.

"and said what? i’m dragging you into something you never asked for."

you shake your head, frustrated. he never seems to get it—that he’s not the burden he thinks himself to be. “you’re not dragging me. i’m here of my own volition, aren’t i? i chose this.”

he’s silent for a long moment, one that feels much too charged for your comfort. his eyes flutter closed, weight more slackened against your frame. "i didn’t plan to feed again," he murmurs. "ever."

a lump settles in your throat. "what do you mean?"

he finally meets your gaze, and those same beautiful eyes—there’s something wild behind them now, though not in the predatory sense many have come to expect from stories and old folklore.  no, it’s in the way someone looks when they’ve been trapped in their own mind too long, like a feral thing begging not to be pitied. it shrivels your resolve, dries the saliva on your tongue. 

"if i don’t feed," he says slowly, "i don’t heal. and if i don’t heal…" he trails off, eyes sliding past you. "then maybe it’s over."

you can only stare at him, heart cracking open like fruit in the sun.

"i offered," you tell him weakly. "last week. i offered and you said no."

he closes his eyes again. "because you shouldn’t have to. that’s not what you are to me."

"i didn’t say i was," you snap. "i said i wanted to help."

god, he’s so frustrating. who is he to make these decisions for you? to draw the line between you as if you haven’t expressed, time and time again, that this is what you chose? and that you remain steadfast in that choice, regardless of the obstacles? 

"you don’t understand what it means to be wanted like this," he says, and his voice isn’t cruel. it’s pleading. "it’s—it’s more than love, or tenderness, or even lust. it’s desire."

you exhale shakily, eyes trained on his. "and i still trust you."

"you shouldn’t."

"too fucking late."

heeseung scoffs, short and pained. then, slowly, his hand lifts. it’s shaking, but he cups the side of your neck with the kind of reverence reserved for relics. you can feel the cold of his skin, the way his thumb presses softly just below your jaw.

"just this once," he breathes, and the words feel more like a warning to himself than a promise to you. "if i lose control—"

"you won’t."

"but if i do—"

"then i’ll come back tomorrow." you swallow. steady. sure. "and the next day. and the day after that."

there is a moment of stillness, a moment in which you think he might try again to convince you that you don’t want this, that what you feel for him is wrong. he studies you, and whatever he sees in your expression must undo something, because the mask falls. his hand drifts up, tracing the column of your throat like it’s glass. 

his lips brush your skin first, though not with the urgency you’d expected. it’s mournful, like he’s saying goodbye to the part of himself that still believes he can walk away from you. all useless. you’re the living embodiment of his deepest desires, his one and only kryptonite.

heeseung exhales shakily and leans in, his forehead resting against yours for a beat, a silent apology. your breathing stutters when he dips lower, mouth brushing the skin just below your jaw. instinctively, you tilt your head, allowing him access. only he doesn’t move for a second, just breathes you in like it’s the only nourishment he’ll let himself have. 

when his nose presses against your pulse point, it’s wondrous. an aching, fragmented moment. his tongue grazes your skin next, languid, a touch so starved and longing that you wonder if he’s been thinking about this moment for however long it's been since his last feed. when his lips part, the shape of his canines graze against you softly, but they’re deliberate in their restraint. just the promise of pain rather than the pain itself, and anticipation building in your lungs long before the bite comes. 

and then—

heat. not fire, but warmth, slow and encompassing, something coiling in your chest and blooming behind your eyes. you sag slightly into him, and he catches you easily, one arm banded around your waist, the other steadying the back of your head. he drinks in measured pulls, every swallow a rough breath of relief, and maybe also something like agony.

you don’t realize he’s crying until you feel his tears run down your neck.

a whimper builds deep in your throat, and his grip on your waist tightens. but he’s careful, always careful. even when his restraint starts to crack, even when his breathing comes fast, even when he lets himself take.

your fingers curl into the soft fabric of his sweatpants, knuckles white with tension, dually from the pain but also from the unbearable weight of intimacy; this strange, sacred offering of self. the kitchen is silent save for the flickering bulb and his soft, shuddering groans. the way your breath catches and the quiet exhale each time he pulls back to keep himself from going too far. it’s a rhythm, a slow, devastating kind of music. a prayer muttered in a dying cathedral.

there comes a point where his breath fans across your collarbone, humid and erratic, and you realize he’s no longer drinking. he’s breathing you in, his lips parted and warm against your skin, nose dragging up and down the bloodied column of your throat like he’s trying to drown in the scent of you.

your grip tightens, and his hand, which had been steadying the back of your head, drifts lower, his fingers weaving into your hair, anchoring you to him. you feel it when he presses closer, not possessive, not desperate, just there. solid and burning and almost entirely too much. you can feel his restraint against your body, the way his hips have locked in place to keep from pressing into you fully. the noise he makes against your throat when you shift against him ever so slightly. 

“don’t,” he breathes, though he doesn’t pull away. his voice is threadbare, wrecked. “don’t move. please.”

you go still, for his sake. for your sake. he stays where he is, trembling against your throat. his fingers are clenched in your hair, jaw tense against your skin like he’s barely holding himself inside his body. you can feel when he tries to breathe through it. his nose brushes the slope of your shoulder and he exhales through clenched teeth, like he’s in pain and he’s trying to ground himself in anything but this. but you want this. so you shift. not by much, just a singular breath, a tilt of your neck.

he draws in a breath that sounds like it might tear him in two, and you feel it—feel it—the second his restraint splinters. it’s in the way his mouth parts against your skin, hot and wet, how his fingers dig hard into your waist. his whole body shudders, and for the briefest moment, he hesitates.

then he sinks his teeth into you again.

you gasp, the air leaving your lungs in a broken stutter as the pain blooms hot and sharp and good, in the way lightning is good, in the way things are good when they are alive and too much and all at once. his mouth is deeper this time, hungrier, less careful. it’s not violence, it’s need. it’s desperation.

his hips press flush against yours as he groans low in his chest, something animal and helpless. for a moment your hands go slack, head tilting back against the cabinet, a breathless whimper breaking past your lips. heeseung’s grip tightens at your waist if it’s even possible, holding your listless body as it throbs in time with your pulse, your blood, his mouth—each beat a wave cresting between your legs, dizzying and warm. he drinks like he’s drowning, and you’re the light at the end of the tunnel. and when he finally pulls back, lips slick and parted, pupils blown wide, he doesn’t let go. he leans in close, resting his forehead against your temple, his breath ragged and open against your cheek. you can see it on his face, the dazed haze of hunger sated and something else breaking loose beneath it. there’s blood everywhere, smeared across his lips, his chin, glistening. he’s never looked more ruined, more beautiful.

“i’m sorry,” he says hoarsely. “i didn’t mean to—i shouldn’t have—”

“heeseung,” you interrupt, your voice weak but so undeniably sure. “it’s okay.”

“no,” he whispers, and when he leans back, his eyes are wide. glassy. terrified. “it’s not.”

you reach up to cup his cheek, your thumb brushing over smears of blood like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“i wanted it,” you tell him quietly.

he stares at you, his lips still parted. his breathing is uneven, shaky, and when he kisses you, because of course he kisses you, it’s no longer desperate. 

it’s reverent.

“did i hurt you?” he asks hoarsely, his voice gravel-thick with guilt. you shake your head, still dizzy. you keep having to blink until his face comes back into focus. his lips are stained a gorgeous red, the wound at his side already beginning to seal. there’s color returning to his cheeks, albeit faintly. he looks more alive like this, at least. not fully, but enough. 

“no,” you whisper, eventually. “you didn’t.”

heeseung swallows hard. his eyes—they’re blood-red, a twisted reminder of what he is, what he’s done. what he will do, again and again. they flicker down to the pulse still fluttering at your throat, and then back up. he has guilt written over his face, clear-as-day. but underneath it is wonder. as if he still can’t believe that you would ever let him do this, as if he doesn’t know you’d do it again.

you shift slightly, just enough to wipe your sleeve across your neck. when the fabric comes away, it’s streaked heavily with red. heeseung watches you through all of it and doesn’t say a word.

“better?” you ask him, voice low.

he only blinks at you. “no.”

you huff, more breath than laugh, and lean your head back against the cabinet behind you. your pulse is still hammering. heeseung’s still too close. neither of you moves away.

eventually, he speaks.

“i didn’t mean for it to be like that.”

his eyes have returned to their usual color, round and wet like rich soil. 

“i know.”

he works his jaw, like there’s more he wants to say but no clean way to say it. instead, his hand flexes once against your waist. you let it linger.

“just…” you murmur, not really sure where you’re going with it. “next time, ask. please.”

he nods, slowly, and you stay like that for a while. no apology. no promise. just this stillness. it’s perfectly enough.

© cinnahoons please do not steal, plagiarize, or reupload my work.

[cinnahoons]

( 𝐬𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗋𝖾 ) ─ ㅤ❛ ㅤ 𝐁𝐀𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐑𝐄. ❜ 희승

𝗦𝗬𝗡𝗢𝗣𝗦𝗜𝗦 // 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗌𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗌𝗄, 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗎𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾. 𝗌𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗐𝖺𝗒.

𝗕𝗢𝗢𝗞𝗦𝗛𝗘𝗟𝗙｡ ( 𝟤,𝟪𝟧𝟢 )  ;; vampire!ㅤㅤheeseung x human fem!reader, angst, basically starved horny vampire feeds erotically IDFK, fluff if you squint, this is just unholy i fear, warnings blood bro lots of blood / 18+ go away minors & BAC THIS GOES OUT TO U (smut debut soon)

the first thing you notice when you enter is the light. not the absence of it, though the apartment is dark, save for a dim bulb flickering half-heartedly above the stove, but rather the quality of it. it’s the wrong kind of light for this hour: not the warm, syrupy amber that usually drips across the walls of heeseung’s kitchen. tonight, it’s pale and sterile, casting sharp, oblong shadows along the edges of his shelves; his counters. 

the second thing you notice is the smell. not immediately, not when you step into the hallway or even when your fingers first graze the doorknob—which, oddly, gives way without resistance, though he always insists on locking it three different ways—but a beat later, as the door creaks inward and the stillness of the apartment exhales forcefully onto you. the air is thick and suffocatingly still, but within it is the unmistakable tang of iron. faint, yes. but sharp and distinct, a smell you’d know anywhere by now.

blood.

you don’t call out, at least not yet. there’s something in the silence that holds you back, something too full to interrupt. you toe off your shoes with care and step inside, drifting through the apartment with ease. it’s etched into your brain by now, as familiar as the back of your hand. 

you find him in the kitchen, as you’d known you would. shirtless, turned away from you, braced against the sink in a way that makes it seem as though the ceramic is the only thing keeping him vertical. he’s got his back bowed, maybe not quite with pain but with something more resemblant of fatigue, turning his body inward. and then, finally, you see the blood.

it streaks across his side in sluggish, glistening arcs. dark where it’s dried and ruby red where it still seeps along a cruel, jagged gash. you stare for a moment too long, eyes caught on the flesh that pulls apart in a manner with which you almost can’t comprehend. this is the reality of a creature who, by all accounts, should not bleed like this. 

"heeseung," you say finally, the slight tremor to your voice slicing through the heavy air.

he doesn’t turn, instead stilling further, almost like he’d expected that this would happen. that you would show up, unannounced and uninvited, like you always do. something he has no defense against, for you and him are terribly different. you’re human. you have no obligation to be allowed inside. 

"i told you not to come here tonight."

his voice is low, rasping. you’d expected something more on edge, laden with the heat of anger that he no doubt feels at this moment. but it’s overshadowed by pure exhaustion. he sounds like he’s been awake for days, or like he’s trying not to use too much breath in case it pulls him apart further. you step closer, slowly, fearing he might startle, though that’s never been his way. even at his worst, heeseung is never startled. he simply endures.

"you’re bleeding," you say, and it feels like the most menial sentence you’ve ever spoken. a laughable thing, really. a penny tossed at a beggar, a single useless and pitiful observation. he huffs softly. a breath that might be a laugh, if there were anything left in him for amusement. 

you wither, stepping around him. it’s only then that he lifts his head, and it makes you flinch. not because he looks monstrous, but because he doesn’t. there’s no violent red in his eyes, no sharpness in his features, but a strange, resigned kind of distance. his skin is far too pale, nearly grey beneath the flickering light, and there’s a tremor in his hand where it grips the counter. you try to reach for him, gently, just your fingertips brushing against his arm, but he pulls away. it’s weak, and he winces as he stabilizes himself against the sink.

“don’t touch me,” he grunts, voice low. a warning, maybe, but you’ve never been one to listen to him. 

it clicks at once why the wound hasn’t closed, why his voice sounds like it’s been scraped down to the marrow. it doesn’t really take much. there aren’t very many reasons as to  why a vampire would be incapable of healing.

"you haven’t fed," you murmur, quietly, because it’s not a question.

he doesn’t answer. doesn’t need to.

you reach for him, and this time he flinches; not away, but inward, like your touch registers as something painful. still, he lets you press your palm to his skin, fingers gentle around the edge of the injury. the blood is warm and thick against your skin.

"you’re not healing," you whisper. “that wound should have closed by now.”

“i know,” he finally says, his voice cracking. it’s the first time you’ve heard him do that. he sounds furious with himself. and you can’t help yourself—you lift your hand again, this time to his face, and he lets you. his skin is cold, fevered in reverse. his jaw tenses under your palm.

“who did this?”

he swallows, looking away from you. “someone i used to run with. one of them saw us.”

you pause, whatever thoughts that had been forming dissipating as quickly as they’d been firing through your head. “saw us?”

heeseung finally meets your eyes. round and glassy. you’d always, secretly, thought his eyes were his best feature. it was a marvel, that even in this terrible, monstrous reality, among the violence of his nature, that there could be a gentleness to him much deeper than deemed possible. sweet and dreamlike, a chasm so void of darkness he could charm anything into believing he was human.  

“they know you’re human,” he continues, lashes downcast. “they think i’m weak for keeping you close. i told them i wasn’t. so they gave me a reason to bleed.”

you stare at him wordlessly. there’s too much rushing through you at once—fear, guilt, fury—but underneath it all is the simplest, most dangerous thing: love. terrifying, blinding love, as real as the pounding in your ears.

"you should’ve told me," you whisper fiercely; angrily.

"and said what? i’m dragging you into something you never asked for."

you shake your head, frustrated. he never seems to get it—that he’s not the burden he thinks himself to be. “you’re not dragging me. i’m here of my own volition, aren’t i? i chose this.”

he’s silent for a long moment, one that feels much too charged for your comfort. his eyes flutter closed, weight more slackened against your frame. "i didn’t plan to feed again," he murmurs. "ever."

a lump settles in your throat. "what do you mean?"

he finally meets your gaze, and those same beautiful eyes—there’s something wild behind them now, though not in the predatory sense many have come to expect from stories and old folklore.  no, it’s in the way someone looks when they’ve been trapped in their own mind too long, like a feral thing begging not to be pitied. it shrivels your resolve, dries the saliva on your tongue. 

"if i don’t feed," he says slowly, "i don’t heal. and if i don’t heal…" he trails off, eyes sliding past you. "then maybe it’s over."

you can only stare at him, heart cracking open like fruit in the sun.

"i offered," you tell him weakly. "last week. i offered and you said no."

he closes his eyes again. "because you shouldn’t have to. that’s not what you are to me."

"i didn’t say i was," you snap. "i said i wanted to help."

god, he’s so frustrating. who is he to make these decisions for you? to draw the line between you as if you haven’t expressed, time and time again, that this is what you chose? and that you remain steadfast in that choice, regardless of the obstacles? 

"you don’t understand what it means to be wanted like this," he says, and his voice isn’t cruel. it’s pleading. "it’s—it’s more than love, or tenderness, or even lust. it’s desire."

you exhale shakily, eyes trained on his. "and i still trust you."

"you shouldn’t."

"too fucking late."

heeseung scoffs, short and pained. then, slowly, his hand lifts. it’s shaking, but he cups the side of your neck with the kind of reverence reserved for relics. you can feel the cold of his skin, the way his thumb presses softly just below your jaw.

"just this once," he breathes, and the words feel more like a warning to himself than a promise to you. "if i lose control—"

"you won’t."

"but if i do—"

"then i’ll come back tomorrow." you swallow. steady. sure. "and the next day. and the day after that."

there is a moment of stillness, a moment in which you think he might try again to convince you that you don’t want this, that what you feel for him is wrong. he studies you, and whatever he sees in your expression must undo something, because the mask falls. his hand drifts up, tracing the column of your throat like it’s glass. 

his lips brush your skin first, though not with the urgency you’d expected. it’s mournful, like he’s saying goodbye to the part of himself that still believes he can walk away from you. all useless. you’re the living embodiment of his deepest desires, his one and only kryptonite.

heeseung exhales shakily and leans in, his forehead resting against yours for a beat, a silent apology. your breathing stutters when he dips lower, mouth brushing the skin just below your jaw. instinctively, you tilt your head, allowing him access. only he doesn’t move for a second, just breathes you in like it’s the only nourishment he’ll let himself have. 

when his nose presses against your pulse point, it’s wondrous. an aching, fragmented moment. his tongue grazes your skin next, languid, a touch so starved and longing that you wonder if he’s been thinking about this moment for however long it's been since his last feed. when his lips part, the shape of his canines graze against you softly, but they’re deliberate in their restraint. just the promise of pain rather than the pain itself, and anticipation building in your lungs long before the bite comes. 

and then—

heat. not fire, but warmth, slow and encompassing, something coiling in your chest and blooming behind your eyes. you sag slightly into him, and he catches you easily, one arm banded around your waist, the other steadying the back of your head. he drinks in measured pulls, every swallow a rough breath of relief, and maybe also something like agony.

you don’t realize he’s crying until you feel his tears run down your neck.

a whimper builds deep in your throat, and his grip on your waist tightens. but he’s careful, always careful. even when his restraint starts to crack, even when his breathing comes fast, even when he lets himself take.

your fingers curl into the soft fabric of his sweatpants, knuckles white with tension, dually from the pain but also from the unbearable weight of intimacy; this strange, sacred offering of self. the kitchen is silent save for the flickering bulb and his soft, shuddering groans. the way your breath catches and the quiet exhale each time he pulls back to keep himself from going too far. it’s a rhythm, a slow, devastating kind of music. a prayer muttered in a dying cathedral.

there comes a point where his breath fans across your collarbone, humid and erratic, and you realize he’s no longer drinking. he’s breathing you in, his lips parted and warm against your skin, nose dragging up and down the bloodied column of your throat like he’s trying to drown in the scent of you.

your grip tightens, and his hand, which had been steadying the back of your head, drifts lower, his fingers weaving into your hair, anchoring you to him. you feel it when he presses closer, not possessive, not desperate, just there. solid and burning and almost entirely too much. you can feel his restraint against your body, the way his hips have locked in place to keep from pressing into you fully. the noise he makes against your throat when you shift against him ever so slightly. 

“don’t,” he breathes, though he doesn’t pull away. his voice is threadbare, wrecked. “don’t move. please.”

you go still, for his sake. for your sake. he stays where he is, trembling against your throat. his fingers are clenched in your hair, jaw tense against your skin like he’s barely holding himself inside his body. you can feel when he tries to breathe through it. his nose brushes the slope of your shoulder and he exhales through clenched teeth, like he’s in pain and he’s trying to ground himself in anything but this. but you want this. so you shift. not by much, just a singular breath, a tilt of your neck.

he draws in a breath that sounds like it might tear him in two, and you feel it—feel it—the second his restraint splinters. it’s in the way his mouth parts against your skin, hot and wet, how his fingers dig hard into your waist. his whole body shudders, and for the briefest moment, he hesitates.

then he sinks his teeth into you again.

you gasp, the air leaving your lungs in a broken stutter as the pain blooms hot and sharp and good, in the way lightning is good, in the way things are good when they are alive and too much and all at once. his mouth is deeper this time, hungrier, less careful. it’s not violence, it’s need. it’s desperation.

his hips press flush against yours as he groans low in his chest, something animal and helpless. for a moment your hands go slack, head tilting back against the cabinet, a breathless whimper breaking past your lips. heeseung’s grip tightens at your waist if it’s even possible, holding your listless body as it throbs in time with your pulse, your blood, his mouth—each beat a wave cresting between your legs, dizzying and warm. he drinks like he’s drowning, and you’re the light at the end of the tunnel. and when he finally pulls back, lips slick and parted, pupils blown wide, he doesn’t let go. he leans in close, resting his forehead against your temple, his breath ragged and open against your cheek. you can see it on his face, the dazed haze of hunger sated and something else breaking loose beneath it. there’s blood everywhere, smeared across his lips, his chin, glistening. he’s never looked more ruined, more beautiful.

“i’m sorry,” he says hoarsely. “i didn’t mean to—i shouldn’t have—”

“heeseung,” you interrupt, your voice weak but so undeniably sure. “it’s okay.”

“no,” he whispers, and when he leans back, his eyes are wide. glassy. terrified. “it’s not.”

you reach up to cup his cheek, your thumb brushing over smears of blood like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“i wanted it,” you tell him quietly.

he stares at you, his lips still parted. his breathing is uneven, shaky, and when he kisses you, because of course he kisses you, it’s no longer desperate. 

it’s reverent.

“did i hurt you?” he asks hoarsely, his voice gravel-thick with guilt. you shake your head, still dizzy. you keep having to blink until his face comes back into focus. his lips are stained a gorgeous red, the wound at his side already beginning to seal. there’s color returning to his cheeks, albeit faintly. he looks more alive like this, at least. not fully, but enough. 

“no,” you whisper, eventually. “you didn’t.”

heeseung swallows hard. his eyes—they’re blood-red, a twisted reminder of what he is, what he’s done. what he will do, again and again. they flicker down to the pulse still fluttering at your throat, and then back up. he has guilt written over his face, clear-as-day. but underneath it is wonder. as if he still can’t believe that you would ever let him do this, as if he doesn’t know you’d do it again.

you shift slightly, just enough to wipe your sleeve across your neck. when the fabric comes away, it’s streaked heavily with red. heeseung watches you through all of it and doesn’t say a word.

“better?” you ask him, voice low.

he only blinks at you. “no.”

you huff, more breath than laugh, and lean your head back against the cabinet behind you. your pulse is still hammering. heeseung’s still too close. neither of you moves away.

eventually, he speaks.

“i didn’t mean for it to be like that.”

his eyes have returned to their usual color, round and wet like rich soil. 

“i know.”

he works his jaw, like there’s more he wants to say but no clean way to say it. instead, his hand flexes once against your waist. you let it linger.

“just…” you murmur, not really sure where you’re going with it. “next time, ask. please.”

he nods, slowly, and you stay like that for a while. no apology. no promise. just this stillness. it’s perfectly enough.

© cinnahoons please do not steal, plagiarize, or reupload my work.

[cinnahoons]

also anon with the jay ask in my inbox i swear im not ignoring u im gonna fulfill ur req i just wanna reply to the ask once i finish it 🙏🙏

[cinnahoons]

( 𝐬𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗋𝖾 ) ─ ㅤ❛ ㅤ 𝐁𝐀𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐑𝐄. ❜ 희승

𝗦𝗬𝗡𝗢𝗣𝗦𝗜𝗦 // 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗌𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗌𝗄, 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗎𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾. 𝗌𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗐𝖺𝗒.

𝗕𝗢𝗢𝗞𝗦𝗛𝗘𝗟𝗙｡ ( 𝟤,𝟪𝟧𝟢 )  ;; vampire!ㅤㅤheeseung x human fem!reader, angst, basically starved horny vampire feeds erotically IDFK, fluff if you squint, this is just unholy i fear, warnings blood bro lots of blood / 18+ go away minors & BAC THIS GOES OUT TO U (smut debut soon)

the first thing you notice when you enter is the light. not the absence of it, though the apartment is dark, save for a dim bulb flickering half-heartedly above the stove, but rather the quality of it. it’s the wrong kind of light for this hour: not the warm, syrupy amber that usually drips across the walls of heeseung’s kitchen. tonight, it’s pale and sterile, casting sharp, oblong shadows along the edges of his shelves; his counters. 

the second thing you notice is the smell. not immediately, not when you step into the hallway or even when your fingers first graze the doorknob—which, oddly, gives way without resistance, though he always insists on locking it three different ways—but a beat later, as the door creaks inward and the stillness of the apartment exhales forcefully onto you. the air is thick and suffocatingly still, but within it is the unmistakable tang of iron. faint, yes. but sharp and distinct, a smell you’d know anywhere by now.

blood.

you don’t call out, at least not yet. there’s something in the silence that holds you back, something too full to interrupt. you toe off your shoes with care and step inside, drifting through the apartment with ease. it’s etched into your brain by now, as familiar as the back of your hand. 

you find him in the kitchen, as you’d known you would. shirtless, turned away from you, braced against the sink in a way that makes it seem as though the ceramic is the only thing keeping him vertical. he’s got his back bowed, maybe not quite with pain but with something more resemblant of fatigue, turning his body inward. and then, finally, you see the blood.

it streaks across his side in sluggish, glistening arcs. dark where it’s dried and ruby red where it still seeps along a cruel, jagged gash. you stare for a moment too long, eyes caught on the flesh that pulls apart in a manner with which you almost can’t comprehend. this is the reality of a creature who, by all accounts, should not bleed like this. 

"heeseung," you say finally, the slight tremor to your voice slicing through the heavy air.

he doesn’t turn, instead stilling further, almost like he’d expected that this would happen. that you would show up, unannounced and uninvited, like you always do. something he has no defense against, for you and him are terribly different. you’re human. you have no obligation to be allowed inside. 

"i told you not to come here tonight."

his voice is low, rasping. you’d expected something more on edge, laden with the heat of anger that he no doubt feels at this moment. but it’s overshadowed by pure exhaustion. he sounds like he’s been awake for days, or like he’s trying not to use too much breath in case it pulls him apart further. you step closer, slowly, fearing he might startle, though that’s never been his way. even at his worst, heeseung is never startled. he simply endures.

"you’re bleeding," you say, and it feels like the most menial sentence you’ve ever spoken. a laughable thing, really. a penny tossed at a beggar, a single useless and pitiful observation. he huffs softly. a breath that might be a laugh, if there were anything left in him for amusement. 

you wither, stepping around him. it’s only then that he lifts his head, and it makes you flinch. not because he looks monstrous, but because he doesn’t. there’s no violent red in his eyes, no sharpness in his features, but a strange, resigned kind of distance. his skin is far too pale, nearly grey beneath the flickering light, and there’s a tremor in his hand where it grips the counter. you try to reach for him, gently, just your fingertips brushing against his arm, but he pulls away. it’s weak, and he winces as he stabilizes himself against the sink.

“don’t touch me,” he grunts, voice low. a warning, maybe, but you’ve never been one to listen to him. 

it clicks at once why the wound hasn’t closed, why his voice sounds like it’s been scraped down to the marrow. it doesn’t really take much. there aren’t very many reasons as to  why a vampire would be incapable of healing.

"you haven’t fed," you murmur, quietly, because it’s not a question.

he doesn’t answer. doesn’t need to.

you reach for him, and this time he flinches; not away, but inward, like your touch registers as something painful. still, he lets you press your palm to his skin, fingers gentle around the edge of the injury. the blood is warm and thick against your skin.

"you’re not healing," you whisper. “that wound should have closed by now.”

“i know,” he finally says, his voice cracking. it’s the first time you’ve heard him do that. he sounds furious with himself. and you can’t help yourself—you lift your hand again, this time to his face, and he lets you. his skin is cold, fevered in reverse. his jaw tenses under your palm.

“who did this?”

he swallows, looking away from you. “someone i used to run with. one of them saw us.”

you pause, whatever thoughts that had been forming dissipating as quickly as they’d been firing through your head. “saw us?”

heeseung finally meets your eyes. round and glassy. you’d always, secretly, thought his eyes were his best feature. it was a marvel, that even in this terrible, monstrous reality, among the violence of his nature, that there could be a gentleness to him much deeper than deemed possible. sweet and dreamlike, a chasm so void of darkness he could charm anything into believing he was human.  

“they know you’re human,” he continues, lashes downcast. “they think i’m weak for keeping you close. i told them i wasn’t. so they gave me a reason to bleed.”

you stare at him wordlessly. there’s too much rushing through you at once—fear, guilt, fury—but underneath it all is the simplest, most dangerous thing: love. terrifying, blinding love, as real as the pounding in your ears.

"you should’ve told me," you whisper fiercely; angrily.

"and said what? i’m dragging you into something you never asked for."

you shake your head, frustrated. he never seems to get it—that he’s not the burden he thinks himself to be. “you’re not dragging me. i’m here of my own volition, aren’t i? i chose this.”

he’s silent for a long moment, one that feels much too charged for your comfort. his eyes flutter closed, weight more slackened against your frame. "i didn’t plan to feed again," he murmurs. "ever."

a lump settles in your throat. "what do you mean?"

he finally meets your gaze, and those same beautiful eyes—there’s something wild behind them now, though not in the predatory sense many have come to expect from stories and old folklore.  no, it’s in the way someone looks when they’ve been trapped in their own mind too long, like a feral thing begging not to be pitied. it shrivels your resolve, dries the saliva on your tongue. 

"if i don’t feed," he says slowly, "i don’t heal. and if i don’t heal…" he trails off, eyes sliding past you. "then maybe it’s over."

you can only stare at him, heart cracking open like fruit in the sun.

"i offered," you tell him weakly. "last week. i offered and you said no."

he closes his eyes again. "because you shouldn’t have to. that’s not what you are to me."

"i didn’t say i was," you snap. "i said i wanted to help."

god, he’s so frustrating. who is he to make these decisions for you? to draw the line between you as if you haven’t expressed, time and time again, that this is what you chose? and that you remain steadfast in that choice, regardless of the obstacles? 

"you don’t understand what it means to be wanted like this," he says, and his voice isn’t cruel. it’s pleading. "it’s—it’s more than love, or tenderness, or even lust. it’s desire."

you exhale shakily, eyes trained on his. "and i still trust you."

"you shouldn’t."

"too fucking late."

heeseung scoffs, short and pained. then, slowly, his hand lifts. it’s shaking, but he cups the side of your neck with the kind of reverence reserved for relics. you can feel the cold of his skin, the way his thumb presses softly just below your jaw.

"just this once," he breathes, and the words feel more like a warning to himself than a promise to you. "if i lose control—"

"you won’t."

"but if i do—"

"then i’ll come back tomorrow." you swallow. steady. sure. "and the next day. and the day after that."

there is a moment of stillness, a moment in which you think he might try again to convince you that you don’t want this, that what you feel for him is wrong. he studies you, and whatever he sees in your expression must undo something, because the mask falls. his hand drifts up, tracing the column of your throat like it’s glass. 

his lips brush your skin first, though not with the urgency you’d expected. it’s mournful, like he’s saying goodbye to the part of himself that still believes he can walk away from you. all useless. you’re the living embodiment of his deepest desires, his one and only kryptonite.

heeseung exhales shakily and leans in, his forehead resting against yours for a beat, a silent apology. your breathing stutters when he dips lower, mouth brushing the skin just below your jaw. instinctively, you tilt your head, allowing him access. only he doesn’t move for a second, just breathes you in like it’s the only nourishment he’ll let himself have. 

when his nose presses against your pulse point, it’s wondrous. an aching, fragmented moment. his tongue grazes your skin next, languid, a touch so starved and longing that you wonder if he’s been thinking about this moment for however long it's been since his last feed. when his lips part, the shape of his canines graze against you softly, but they’re deliberate in their restraint. just the promise of pain rather than the pain itself, and anticipation building in your lungs long before the bite comes. 

and then—

heat. not fire, but warmth, slow and encompassing, something coiling in your chest and blooming behind your eyes. you sag slightly into him, and he catches you easily, one arm banded around your waist, the other steadying the back of your head. he drinks in measured pulls, every swallow a rough breath of relief, and maybe also something like agony.

you don’t realize he’s crying until you feel his tears run down your neck.

a whimper builds deep in your throat, and his grip on your waist tightens. but he’s careful, always careful. even when his restraint starts to crack, even when his breathing comes fast, even when he lets himself take.

your fingers curl into the soft fabric of his sweatpants, knuckles white with tension, dually from the pain but also from the unbearable weight of intimacy; this strange, sacred offering of self. the kitchen is silent save for the flickering bulb and his soft, shuddering groans. the way your breath catches and the quiet exhale each time he pulls back to keep himself from going too far. it’s a rhythm, a slow, devastating kind of music. a prayer muttered in a dying cathedral.

there comes a point where his breath fans across your collarbone, humid and erratic, and you realize he’s no longer drinking. he’s breathing you in, his lips parted and warm against your skin, nose dragging up and down the bloodied column of your throat like he’s trying to drown in the scent of you.

your grip tightens, and his hand, which had been steadying the back of your head, drifts lower, his fingers weaving into your hair, anchoring you to him. you feel it when he presses closer, not possessive, not desperate, just there. solid and burning and almost entirely too much. you can feel his restraint against your body, the way his hips have locked in place to keep from pressing into you fully. the noise he makes against your throat when you shift against him ever so slightly. 

“don’t,” he breathes, though he doesn’t pull away. his voice is threadbare, wrecked. “don’t move. please.”

you go still, for his sake. for your sake. he stays where he is, trembling against your throat. his fingers are clenched in your hair, jaw tense against your skin like he’s barely holding himself inside his body. you can feel when he tries to breathe through it. his nose brushes the slope of your shoulder and he exhales through clenched teeth, like he’s in pain and he’s trying to ground himself in anything but this. but you want this. so you shift. not by much, just a singular breath, a tilt of your neck.

he draws in a breath that sounds like it might tear him in two, and you feel it—feel it—the second his restraint splinters. it’s in the way his mouth parts against your skin, hot and wet, how his fingers dig hard into your waist. his whole body shudders, and for the briefest moment, he hesitates.

then he sinks his teeth into you again.

you gasp, the air leaving your lungs in a broken stutter as the pain blooms hot and sharp and good, in the way lightning is good, in the way things are good when they are alive and too much and all at once. his mouth is deeper this time, hungrier, less careful. it’s not violence, it’s need. it’s desperation.

his hips press flush against yours as he groans low in his chest, something animal and helpless. for a moment your hands go slack, head tilting back against the cabinet, a breathless whimper breaking past your lips. heeseung’s grip tightens at your waist if it’s even possible, holding your listless body as it throbs in time with your pulse, your blood, his mouth—each beat a wave cresting between your legs, dizzying and warm. he drinks like he’s drowning, and you’re the light at the end of the tunnel. and when he finally pulls back, lips slick and parted, pupils blown wide, he doesn’t let go. he leans in close, resting his forehead against your temple, his breath ragged and open against your cheek. you can see it on his face, the dazed haze of hunger sated and something else breaking loose beneath it. there’s blood everywhere, smeared across his lips, his chin, glistening. he’s never looked more ruined, more beautiful.

“i’m sorry,” he says hoarsely. “i didn’t mean to—i shouldn’t have—”

“heeseung,” you interrupt, your voice weak but so undeniably sure. “it’s okay.”

“no,” he whispers, and when he leans back, his eyes are wide. glassy. terrified. “it’s not.”

you reach up to cup his cheek, your thumb brushing over smears of blood like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“i wanted it,” you tell him quietly.

he stares at you, his lips still parted. his breathing is uneven, shaky, and when he kisses you, because of course he kisses you, it’s no longer desperate. 

it’s reverent.

“did i hurt you?” he asks hoarsely, his voice gravel-thick with guilt. you shake your head, still dizzy. you keep having to blink until his face comes back into focus. his lips are stained a gorgeous red, the wound at his side already beginning to seal. there’s color returning to his cheeks, albeit faintly. he looks more alive like this, at least. not fully, but enough. 

“no,” you whisper, eventually. “you didn’t.”

heeseung swallows hard. his eyes—they’re blood-red, a twisted reminder of what he is, what he’s done. what he will do, again and again. they flicker down to the pulse still fluttering at your throat, and then back up. he has guilt written over his face, clear-as-day. but underneath it is wonder. as if he still can’t believe that you would ever let him do this, as if he doesn’t know you’d do it again.

you shift slightly, just enough to wipe your sleeve across your neck. when the fabric comes away, it’s streaked heavily with red. heeseung watches you through all of it and doesn’t say a word.

“better?” you ask him, voice low.

he only blinks at you. “no.”

you huff, more breath than laugh, and lean your head back against the cabinet behind you. your pulse is still hammering. heeseung’s still too close. neither of you moves away.

eventually, he speaks.

“i didn’t mean for it to be like that.”

his eyes have returned to their usual color, round and wet like rich soil. 

“i know.”

he works his jaw, like there’s more he wants to say but no clean way to say it. instead, his hand flexes once against your waist. you let it linger.

“just…” you murmur, not really sure where you’re going with it. “next time, ask. please.”

he nods, slowly, and you stay like that for a while. no apology. no promise. just this stillness. it’s perfectly enough.

© cinnahoons please do not steal, plagiarize, or reupload my work.

[cinnahoons]

i have no words for this cb except that i WILL be writing bc the album is driving me crazy

[cinnahoons]

‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐄𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐘𝐍‎𝐃𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐄 ;; " 𝗆𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗆𝗒 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖻𝗈𝗒𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽 ! "

// 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 ‘𝗆𝗒 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖻𝗈𝗒𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽’ 𝗉𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗄 𝗈𝗇 𝖾𝗇𝗁𝗒𝗉𝖾𝗇 ✧

ㅤ( 𝟤𝟣𝟨𝟣 ) fluff, f!reader, established relationships, flirting, lots of offended boyfriends lol ── 𝖡𝖮𝖮𝖪𝖲𝖧𝖤𝖫𝖥 ｡⠀

✶ LEE HEESEUNG 

it’s late, and you’re both sprawled out across heeseung’s bed, legs tangled somewhere in the sheets. the glow of your phone screen keeps casting soft shadows across his face. he’s got his arm resting loosely over your stomach, his thumb tracing thoughtless circles just above the hem of your shirt. the soft scent of detergent fills your senses, and you fight the urge to burrow your face into his skin. 

heeseung’s half-awake. he scrolls with one hand, his lashes low and mouth parted slightly as you shift beside him and prop your phone up against a pillow. you hit record without ceremony, turning just enough to smile at the camera.

“just winding down with my current boyfriend,” you murmur, light and easy.

there’s a pause, in which he blinks a couple times and then turns his head toward you: eyes soft, expression unreadable, his thumb still idly moving against your side.

“…current?” he repeats, voice rough with sleep.

you hum. he holds your gaze for a long moment; not offended, not jealous, just faintly amused. then he lets out a breathy laugh, shifting to rest on one elbow. the blanket falls slightly off his shoulder.

“huh,” he says. “current’s a weird word for someone who keeps stealing my clothes.”

you grin at him. “they’re comfy.”

“mm.” he pauses like he’s considering something. “so is exclusivity.”

you laugh, nudging his shoulder, and he’s still watching you with a lazy, half-lidded look, the kind  he gets when he’s on the edge of falling asleep and still doesn’t want to miss anything.

“you want me to say last boyfriend?” you ask.

he shrugs, but his fingers tap twice against your wrist, all soft and rhythmic. “you don’t have to.”

“but you’d like it.”

“...i’d like it,” he says, simple and sure.

your smile softens. heeseung shifts closer again, pressing a kiss just under your jaw before settling back into the pillow, his voice quiet as he adds:

“just in case you forget where home is.”

✶ PARK JONGSEONG 

you’re leaning against the kitchen island while jay finishes plating up dinner, the sleeves of his button-down rolled up and gold ring glinting on his hand as he reaches for the pepper grinder.

your phone is already recording before he glances up, catching your eye.

“filming again?” he asks, amused.

“mhm,” you hum. “just getting a clip with my current boyfriend.”

he freezes. not just a little pause—a full on, blank stare. he doesn’t even blink.

you watch, holding back a laugh, as his expression flickers through at least five emotions.

then, very seriously: “you mean husband.”

“husband?” you laugh, incredulous. “you’re my current boyfriend.”

jay sets the pepper grinder down with surgical precision, walking over to you like a man on a mission.

“say it with me,” he starts, holding up one finger. “H.”

“jay—”

“U.”

you’re giggling now, but he’s persistent, stepping closer, one hand bracing on the counter beside your waist.

“come on. you wanna do this on camera? let’s do it right. say: husband. i’ll even do the dishes.”

you raise a brow. “just for that?”

he leans in, voice low against your ear. “also because i love you more than anyone on earth and your mom already likes me. but mostly the dishes.”

✶ SIM JAKE 

it’s golden hour, the sky split open in orange and peach, and jake’s standing barefoot on the patio with one hand on his hip and the other brandishing a pair of tongs like a weapon. he’s got an apron on and his sleeves are pushed up just enough to show the veins on his forearm. the air is filled with the tantalizing scent of grilled meat and seasoning, a light breeze fluttering your hair.

you’re sitting on a cooler, filming him from behind your lemonade.

“just grilling with my current boyfriend,” you say casually, zooming in on the way he flips a burger. he glances over his shoulder, unblinking.

“yep,” jake says, cool as ever. “me and my girlfriend at the moment.”

you pause, and he flashes an innocent smile at the camera. “she’s on a trial run. depends on how these burgers turn out.”

“oh my god.”

“what?” he shrugs, teasing.

you try to act annoyed,  but he’s already walking over with a plate of food, nudging your knee with his hip so you’ll make room for him. he sits beside you, setting a plate down in front of you. “you get the first one. for old time’s sake.”

you stare at him, unimpressed. “we’re still dating.”

“for now,” he says, ignoring his own words and biting into your burger.

“you’re insufferable.”

he wipes his mouth with a paper towel, grin crooked. “but still your boyfriend… currently.”

✶ PARK SUNGHOON 

you’re both in the bathroom getting ready to go out. the mirror lights are on full blast, hair tools scattered across the counter, and the air smells like his cologne and your perfume layered on top of each other. he’s standing behind you in a crisp button-down, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve with impeccable focus.

you set your phone up on the edge of the sink, press record, and lean slightly into the frame with a small smile.

“filming a quick ootd with my current boyfriend,” you say casually, tilting the camera to catch both of you in the mirror.

you’re smiling. he’s not. his fingers pause on the second cuff, gaze flicking up to the mirror. not at the camera, not at you, just a slow, almost imperceptible blink like he’s just been personally wronged by god.

you try to stifle a laugh. “hoon?”

no answer. he inhales slowly through his nose, finishes the cuff, and then continues his routine like nothing happened. except now, he’s noticeably quieter and calmer, almost eerily composed.

“...what?” you prompt again, already giggling. “you’re not gonna say anything?”

he finally speaks, his voice polite: “you’re gonna want to run that back.”

you lose it.

cut to a second clip.

same mirror, same lighting. but this time, sunghoon’s standing closer, arms crossed loosely over his chest, one brow lifted at the camera. you hold the phone up properly now, barely containing your smile. “filming a quick ootd with my husband,” you say sweetly.

he nods once, solemnly. you turn the camera toward him. “anything you want to say?”

he looks directly into the lens, a satisfied smile gracing his lips.

“just that i accept your apology. and that i’ll be changing the dinner reservation name to mr. and mrs. park.”

✶ KIM SUNOO 

you’re curled up together on the couch in your usual configuration: legs tangled under a shared blanket, your foot tucked beneath his thigh, his head propped up on a throw pillow that he fluffed to perfection before sitting down. the TV is playing something you’ve both already seen three times, which means sunoo is only half paying attention, scrolling his phone with idle little pouts at whatever he’s reading, his fingertips occasionally brushing yours like he just wants to make sure you’re still there.

he looks peaceful, relaxed, and completely unsuspecting. it’s perfect. 

you smile to yourself and lean over slightly, propping your phone up against the base of a candle on the coffee table. you clear your throat just enough to get his attention.

“just relaxing with my current boyfriend!” you coo.

you don’t even get to blink before sunoo’s head snaps up so fast you swear you almost get second-hand whiplash. “current boyfriend?”

you nod. he lets out an indignant gasp so dramatic it startles the cat lounging on the arm of your couch.

“current?”

“yeah,” you say sweetly. “just for now.”

he yanks your phone from where it’s sitting and stares into the camera like he’s on a reality show. “for the record, i’d like to say i’m being emotionally manipulated.”

“sunoo—”

“no. no. because i have done nothing but love her. i let her wear my moisturizer. my laneige. the expensive one. i call her pretty every day.” he turns to you now, eyes wide with betrayal. “do you know how many people want to be me?”

you’re laughing so hard you nearly fall off the couch. he reluctantly lets you pull him back, though not before delivering one final glance at the phone and whispering:

“delete it. or caption it current boyfriend who deserves better.” 

✶ YANG JUNGWON 

your room is quiet except for the soft shuffle of notebook pages and the occasional scratch of your highlighter dragging across text. the two of you are camped out on the floor, your legs draped over his as he leans back on one hand, casually quizzing you on terms you definitely should’ve memorized three days ago.

he’s halfway through peeling the corner of a granola bar wrapper when you set your phone on the edge of your nightstand, screen angled just barely toward the two of you. it’s subtle. he clocks it, but doesn’t say anything. you click record.

“study night with my current boyfriend,” you announce softly, eyes still on your notes.

jungwon doesn’t miss a beat. he finishes unwrapping the granola bar, breaks it in half, and offers you the bigger piece without looking up.

“hmm,” he hums. “temporary. that’s new.”

you glance at him. he’s still reading over your notes, impassive, like you didn’t just call him disposable to the internet.

“nothing to say about that?” you tease, poking at his knee with your foot.

he finally looks up, entirely unaffected, the corners of his mouth lifting just slightly.

“should i be worried?” he asks, tone light, eyes sharp. “is this the part where you trade me in for someone who doesn’t double check your citations?”

you laugh, but he’s already pulling a highlighter from the pile and uncapping it for you.

“no, really,” he continues, gesturing toward your notes. “write that down. that’s good. current boyfriend. sounds professional. clinical. a little sterile, but i’m sure devon will love it.”

“who the hell is devon?”

“your next boyfriend,” he replies easily. “hopefully he likes sour gummies. i just trained you out of the orange ones.”

you’re already losing it, giggling into your sleeve, and he just shakes his head, flipping back to your vocab list like this is all part of a recurring bit he’s well-versed in.

“let me know if he needs my login for the quizlet,” he adds absently. “seems rude to leave him hanging.”

you reach for his arm, pulling him toward you with a laugh, and he lets you, leaning in close with that same unbothered grin.

“mm,” he murmurs, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear. “current boyfriend, huh?”

you grin at him. “maybe.”

he leans in, tapping his pen lightly against your forehead.

“then i guess i better make you fall in love with me again tonight.”

✶ NISHIMURA RIKI 

he’s deep into a match when you come in, his legs folded pretzel-style in his desk chair, controller balanced loosely between his hands. he’s got his headset pushed down around his neck so you can hear both the game audio and his occasional muttered commentary. the screen casts a glow across his face, all cool blues and blinking reds, but he still looks impossibly pretty like this. focused, relaxed, and completely in his element.

you snake your arms around his shoulders from behind, pressing your cheek to the side of his head. he doesn’t startle, just shifts slightly to let you in closer before pressing a quick kiss to your cheek, tapping something on the controller with the practiced ease of someone who could do this with his eyes closed.

“say hi,” you whisper near his ear, already angling your phone to catch both of you in the shot. “this is my current boyfriend.”

he glances at the screen, grinning without missing a beat. “yo.”

you snort, turning to look at him. he catches your movement in the corner of his eye.

“what? you think you’re slick?”

you hum innocently. he turns his head a little more now, squinting at you. “fine. run that back. say final.”

you laugh, already shaking your head. “final?”

“i’m not getting replaced,” he murmurs, mock-offended.

you try to answer, but the laughter bubbles up too fast to stop. he clicks something on his controller, dies instantly in-game, and turns to face you immediately. he points a finger at your phone camera, which is still recording.

“hey. first and final.”

you laugh. “riki—” 

“no, no. it’s fine.” he leans back dramatically, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “i’ll just reinvent myself real quick. learn french or something. start doing pilates. maybe become emotionally unavailable and change my name to something mysterious like... lucien.”

you snort, forehead pressing into the curve of his shoulder. “you already dye your hair every six weeks. you don’t need to be more mysterious.”

“exactly,” he says, with the kind of confident shrug that suggests this was his point all along. “i’m the final boyfriend. nobody’s falling for your little prank.”

© cinnahoons please do not steal, plagiarize, or reupload my work.