imagine-all-the-imagines

[imagine-all-the-imagines]

Please read the warnings before reading. They are there for a reason!

Cherry Bomb Part 1

Summary: When your life turns upside down, Eddie is there to lend a shoulder

Pairing: OC!Boyfriend x Reader, Eventual Eddie Munson x Fem Reader

Warnings: Domestic altercations, Reader's boyfriend gets very aggressive with them, gaslighting, attempted assault, verbal, mental, physical abuse, just an all around not great time, I will be tagging all triggers that I can think of. This is a rough first part, please let me know if I missed anything so that I can make sure it is tagged.

Notes: This was only going to be a one shot, but my brain kept thinking of more things that needed to be here before we got to the main story, so this is going to be a multi part series now. I hope you guys enjoy it!

Taglist: @spookyscarydemonbabe

Taglist here if you would like to be added! Or send me a message/ask!

Dividers created by @strangergraphics and @firefly-graphics

The moment that the sky turns to shades of purple before the sun disappears behind the horizon was your favorite time. All of the colors from the day bleeding into one until they are all enveloped in the darkness was just so comforting, and you felt like you could stay out on your porch in this moment forever. 

Unfortunately, the raised voices of your parents tore through the peace and you looked towards the back door, watching as your mother leaned towards you father, a sneer obvious on her face. She was no doubt spitting insults at him, telling him he was worthless, and if he cared about his family, he would have gotten that promotion at work. Letting him know that she hadn’t loved him in years, and that every time she went to the bar, the men there were buying all of her drinks and showing her more affection than your father ever did. 

You watched your father’s face through this, saw how his eyes reflected the sadness before finally hardening and not letting any more emotions show. You knew that he loved your mother, but taking this abuse for so long was starting to wear on him. On one hand you hated that your mother was treating him so terribly, but on the other, you were relieved that her attention wasn’t on you. 

Normally when your mother got into these moods, you and your father found reasons to be out of the house, but tonight the mood changed without any warning. You had been lucky, you had already gone out to the porch, but your father had just been sitting in the living room watching his nightly shows. 

You flinched as you heard glass break, assuming your mother threw her glass at your father while he wasn’t paying attention. You take this moment to sneak away, making your way through your backyard until you made it to the street. You let your feet take you to your boyfriend’s house and you knocked on the door.

Your boyfriend’s mom opened the door, used to late night appearances from you. She ushered you in and brought you to the kitchen where she started making tea for the both of you.

“Kevin isn’t in yet. Practice ran late and he went to get dinner with his teammates.” She said to you, a sad smile on her face. 

“Thanks Sheila, I didn’t want to bother anyone, I just didn’t want to be home anymore.” 

Sheila placed a hand on your shoulder, the two of you had spoken before about the troubles that were happening at home, and she had offered to let you come over whenever you needed an escape. You knew that offer was contingent on dating her son, but it was still nice to have someone that cared. 

As the time rolled on, you sat with Sheila drinking tea and talking about what had happened at home until finally Kevin walked through the door with a slight stumble. You looked at the clock, 12:00. He looked at his mom and then at you, and as his head was turned towards his mom you saw the unmistakable redness of a blossoming hickey under his shirt collar. 

You knew Kevin wasn’t the most loyal of boyfriends, but you never thought he would be so obvious about it. You held your shock in and gave him a slight smile before getting up to help him up the stairs to get him to his room. 

Sheila got up to help but you shook your head, “I’ve got it. Thank you for the tea and for listening. I appreciate your company.” 

You gave her a small smile before going with Kevin up the stairs. You felt his hand on your back before he slid it down lower to get a squeeze of your ass through your pants. You lightly swatted his hand away and continued up the stairs. As you made it to the top of the stairs, you felt Kevin’s hand creep back down your body and land on your ass again and decided not to bother with it. 

When you got to Kevin’s room, you opened the door and helped him to his bed. As he flopped down onto the mattress, Kevin grabbed your wrist and pulled you with him so that you landed on top of him. He secured his arm around your waist and rolled over on top of you, burying his lips into your neck and sucking at your skin. 

You tried pushing him off of you, but he was stronger than you even when he was sober, and now in his inebriated state, he seemed even stronger as he grabbed your wrists in his hands and held them above your head. Your eyes started watering and you struggled under him harder, praying that you could get him off of you before he did something worse than that. 

“Kevin, get off of me.” You said, trying to get out from under him, your wrists burning from the pressure he had on them. 

“I’m just getting what I’m owed, Y/N. We’ve been dating for a year and I’ve been so patient with you. But the guys and I were talking and they said that we should have been fucking months ago.” Kevin said in a harsh whisper, his lips still against your neck, letting his teeth sink into your skin, marking it in an act of dominance. 

“Please, Kevin, you don’t want to do this, not tonight. You’re drunk, not thinking clearly.” You begged while pulling your wrist free out of one of his hands, placing it on his chest, trying to push him away. 

Kevin didn’t seem to notice you pushing at him as he shoved his hand under your shirt. You moved your free hand to push at the hand that was invading your personal space.

Kevin chuckled, “God, you’re such a prude. You know, Katie has been all over me, but I’ve been rejecting her because of you. You don’t want me to run to her do you?”

Your eyes widened in shock and then narrowed as you pulled his shirt collar down with your one free hand, “Oh, you mean she’s not the one who gave you this?”

You took advantage of Kevin’s shock and wrenched your other wrist free and pushed him off of you. As you got off the bed, you straightened out your clothing and started out the door to his room. 

“Fine walk out. I don’t need you anyway. I’ll call Katie and she’ll come over as soon as I ask.” Kevin said as he scrambled to stop you. 

You let out a humorless laugh, “Go ahead, Kevin. I don’t really care anymore.” With that, you grabbed the rest of your things and left the room. 

You weren’t sad, you knew that you should have been, your social life was basically over and you didn’t really have any friends that weren’t directly connected to Kevin. You did feel a bit of relief that you didn’t have to keep up appearances, but mostly you just felt numb. You were sure the feelings would come eventually, but right now you just let yourself enjoy not feeling anything at all. 

You weren’t sure where you were going after you left Kevin’s house, so you let your feet take you wherever it was that they wanted. 

It wasn’t until you felt the gravel under your feet that you felt the world come back into focus. Seeing the sign for Forest Hills Trailer Park you looked around. Not recognizing most of the vehicles you scanned until you saw a familiar van parked in front of one of them. 

You made your way to the front door and raised your hand to knock, pausing briefly when you heard the muted sounds of a guitar strumming. 

Eddie had been your friend since you came to Hawkins in third grade. He was a little older than you, but he took you under his wing the second he saw you looking like a lost puppy on the playground. You had never been the best at making friends, and moving to a new city in the middle of the school year, when friendships had already been established didn’t make it any easier. So, when the fifth grader came up to you and offered his hand, you were unsure what to do, but then he smiled that lopsided smile and just like that, you had a best friend. 

Eddie always made sure that you had someone to hang out with. He was your constant companion, and while your parents didn’t quite understand the friendship, they were happy that you had someone to look after you. 

When Eddie moved on to high school you made him promise that he wouldn’t forget about you. Eddie gave you a big smile and let out a laugh, “As if I could ever forget about you, you’re my best friend. I’m honestly wondering how on earth I’m going to survive for two whole years without you there!”

You smiled and wrapped Eddie in a hug, “I’m wondering the same thing, you big dork. You’ll just have to suffer without me.” 

“Hey, we’ll still hang out all the time, and I’ll still share my music with you. You know, can’t let your parents think that the corruption stopped just because we aren’t going to school together anymore.” Eddie hugged you back, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head.

Eddie had always been affectionate with you, wrapping his arms around you, pressing little kisses to your head. You had never thought any of that was weird, just the person he was. 

While you and Eddie kept your promises not to forget about each other, your hang outs became less and less frequent. You had gotten on the cheerleading team your last year, so your after school time was consumed by practice and Eddie had been helping his uncle out by getting a job at the record store in town. Unfortunately when you had free time, Eddie was working, and if Eddie had free time, you were at practice. 

By the time you got to high school, you had decided that cheerleading just wasn’t for you, but you were still friends with the jocks.

You had seen Eddie after school and ran up to him, sneaking your hands around his waist and hugging him from behind. Eddie jumped and spun around when you let him go, and when he realized who it was that had hugged him, he wrapped his arms around you and gave you a quick spin, laughing.

When the cheerleaders saw you interacting with Eddie after school, they quickly pulled you away and demanded to know what you were doing. 

“I’ve been friends with him since I was nine years old, I was just saying hi to him.” 

Katie gave you a disgusted face, “Well, that’s just not going to work. That freak will only bring you down, you shouldn’t hang around him.”

You looked back at Eddie and he gave you a weird look, you quickly looked away and stared at your feet, “I don’t understand, what’s wrong with hanging out with my friend.”

Katie scoffed, “He’s a freak. He and his little friends, playing that satan game, he’s no good for you.” 

And that’s when you knew you had to make a decision, either go back to Eddie and be a social outcast, your status compromised before it even got a chance to start. Or stay with Katie and the other jocks and be able to not worry about anything for your entire high school career. 

You had made your choice that day and the look on Eddie’s face had absolutely killed you. You had tried to reach out to him multiple times, but anytime you tried calling or going by the trailer, Eddie’s uncle would tell you that Eddie wasn’t in, even when you could clearly hear the guitar in the background. 

Eddie’s uncle had always liked you and when he had tried to ask Eddie why you hadn’t been coming around as often, he had been met with a shrug and a very angsty, “Apparently she found better people to hang out with.”

All those thoughts flashed in your mind as you stood in front of the door to the trailer. When you finally came back to reality, you steadied yourself and knocked on the door. The guitar stopped and you heard footsteps heading to the door. 

All of a sudden, you felt panic rising in your chest and you turned and started to walk away. You barely heard the door opening over the sound of your heartbeat in your ears. 

“Y/N? Is that you?” The voice behind you said, a hint of annoyance on it. 

You stopped and slowly turned around, attempting to regulate your breathing. 

“Hey.” You stuttered out, looking at the person in front of you. 

You felt wetness on your cheeks and went to wipe it off, not realizing that you had been crying. You quickly wiped both your cheeks, “Sorry, I shouldn’t have come here. I don’t even know why I’m here, I’ll just go.”

You turned to go again and heard Eddie running towards you before you felt his hand on your arm, lightly pulling you back to look at him. 

You saw the conflict in Eddie’s eyes, you knew he wanted to say something about the past few years, but he didn’t, not yet, “What happened?”

“I made the wrong choice.” You said, and that’s when the dam broke. 

You felt your legs give out at the same time you let out a sob. Eddie kept you from hitting the ground and helped you into the trailer where he got you onto the couch before heading into the kitchen area and grabbing one of his uncles mugs and making you hot chocolate. 

You felt yourself sink into the couch as you pulled a blanket off the back of the couch and draped it over yourself, feeling safer than you had in a long time. 

When Eddie finished making your drink, he walked back to the living room only to find you sleeping, breathing lightly. Setting down the mug gently, Eddie scooped you up, trying his best to not disturb you. He knew that you wouldn’t mind waking up on the couch, but he wanted to make sure that you didn’t have a crick in your neck when you finally woke up in the morning.

He noticed just how peaceful your face was, a stark contrast to what it had been only 10 minutes ago. As Eddie went to cover you up he noticed the red marks on your wrists and the bite on your neck, all of which would be bruises by the morning. Eddie didn’t know what had happened to you, but he knew you must have been exhausted to fall asleep that fast. There was so much that he knew you both needed to talk about, but that could wait till the morning. 

As Eddie went to close the door, you stirred slightly, “Eds? I’m sorry.” 

Eddie moved back to you, and bent down to brush a kiss to your forehead, “Sleep, Princess, we’ll talk tomorrow.”

The first thing that you noticed when you started to wake up was the smell. While the smell of marijuana wasn’t a new smell to you, your parents would have killed you if they smelled it in your room. Next was the bed, it wasn’t as comfortable as yours, but there was something familiar about it. Stretching out, your fingers brushed against something solid. Cracking your eyes open, you saw the off-white wall at the head of the bed. 

Feeling anxious about being in a strange room, you sat upright and took a better look. Your eyes frantically looked for anything that you could recognize. Things started to fall into place when you saw the guitar hanging against one wall and the Corroded Coffin banner tacked to another wall. 

You slowly made your way out of the bed, straightening up your sleep mussed hair and clothes. As you made your way out of the room, you made it to the living room where you found Eddie sprawled out on the couch, his too long legs hanging over the armrest. You stifled a laugh before noticing the mug of hot chocolate, long since cold, sitting on the side table. Grabbing it, you headed back to the kitchen to get rid of the old drink and started making another mug. 

While you were in the kitchen, Eddie started to wake up, hearing the slight commotion in the kitchen. Getting up, Eddie followed the noise and found you leaning against the counter as you waited for the milk to get warm enough to add the chocolate powder to. 

“Hey, how’d you sleep?” Eddie said, clearing his throat, trying to clear the sleep from his voice. 

You hugged yourself tight and shrugged, “Ok, I guess. Probably better than you though.”

Eddie looked at you quizzically while you gave a light laugh, “Sorry,” you continued, “You just looked a tad bit uncomfortable on that couch, limbs everywhere.”

Eddie smiled at you and nodded, “Well, I wasn’t about to let you sleep on the couch. One, it would be rude, and two, you needed it more than I did.” 

Just then, the microwave dinged and you grabbed your drink, scooping a couple scoops of the chocolate powder in before stirring it to combine everything. You set your mug down and turned to the freezer to grab a couple of ice cubes, plopping them into the drink and stirring again to help them melt. 

“You’re still doing that? I thought you would have grown out of it by now?” Eddie said, watching you stir the drink.

You shrugged, “It’s the best way to make it. Gets it cooled down and ready to drink faster, plus it’s just habit at this point.” 

Eddie smiled slightly, glad to see that you hadn’t completely changed, despite outward appearances. He looked you over, you looked better than you did last night, but he was right about the marks you had shown up with. Your wrists had light blue/purple marks around them, and your neck had a bright red mark that was starting to turn purple towards the center. If Eddie looked closely enough, he could swear he saw the individual teeth marks. 

A surge of anger flooded Eddie’s veins when he looked at your injuries, while he knew there wasn’t anything he could have done to stop them, he still wished that you didn’t have to go through this.

“So, uh, you wanna talk about what happened last night?” Eddie said, not wanting to push you too much, but also wanting to know what happened. 

You looked up at Eddie, “Kevin and I broke up, he was cheating on me.”

Eddie nodded, “Fuck, I’m sorry. He’s a piece of shit.”

“Yeah, you were right, I was an idiot.” You said, holding the mug close to you, letting the warmth radiate through your chest. 

Eddie shook his head and sighed, “That’s not all I was asking about Y/N. What happened? You showed up in the middle of a breakdown, which was understandable, but you also have bruises. What did he do to you?”

You ducked your head, avoiding eye contact, “It’s nothing Eddie, just a misunderstanding.”

Eddie scoffed, “Don’t bullshit me Y/N and stop protecting him, you guys aren’t together anymore!”

You flinched back slightly at the harshness of the words, and Eddie, of course, noticed. His features softened immediately and you barely had enough time to move the mug out of the way before Eddie had wrapped you in a hug, his lips pressing to your forehead. 

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” he repeated, “I didn’t mean to. I’m never going to hurt you, I promise.” 

You nodded against his chest, tears threatening to spill out, “I know Eds, I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry.” 

Eddie squeezed his arms tighter for a moment before holding you at arms reach, “I’m going to make breakfast and then we’re going to talk, you don’t have to tell me everything, but just tell me whatever you’re comfortable with.”

You sniffled and nodded your head. Eddie gave you another look before releasing you and heading to the kitchen, pulling out what he needed for breakfast. 

While Eddie did that, you grabbed your mug and went to the couch, relaxing into it. You looked around the small space and felt yourself smile a bit, while you hadn’t been here in a very long time, it looked exactly the same. Wayne’s mug collection and all the hats hanging on the wall were the same, but there was a new guitar sitting in the corner that Eddie must have been playing the night before. 

You heard Eddie mumbling and bumbling around in the kitchen as plates clattered together and something sizzled.

“Eds? Do you need any help?” You asked, starting to get up.

Eddie’s head popped around the corner, “Don’t you even think about it. You sit there and drink your hot chocolate, I’ll be done in just a sec.” 

You laughed and sat back, bringing the mug to your lips and drinking the now cooled drink. 

Eddie reappeared, this time with two plates in his hands. He set one of them down in front of you and kept the other as he sat down on the other end of the couch. 

You grabbed your plate and readjusted yourself, sitting cross legged, facing Eddie. Looking at your plate, you smiled and began to dig in to the eggs and toast. 

Eddie watched as you ate, glad to see that you were actually eating. 

“You’re staring Eddie, eat your food” You say, not even looking up. 

Eddie smiled at you and began to dig in to his own plate. He didn’t cook much, but he had watched Wayne enough to know the basics. And this tasted pretty good if he did say so himself. 

Once you both were done with breakfast, you took the dishes to the kitchen and rinsed them before placing them in the kitchen. When you made your way back to the living room, Eddie sat in his same spot, looking at you with a small, sad smile on his face. 

“Story time?” Eddie asked.

You took a deep breath and nodded, “Story time.” 

You sat on the couch facing Eddie again and picked at the couch cushion beneath you, “I had a gut feeling he was cheating on me. We’d go to parties and someone would catch his eye. He’d never do anything during the parties, but he’d stay late at practice from time to time and he’d always say that he was practicing with the guys, but when I’d ask them about their extra practices, they wouldn’t know what I was talking about. Apparently he forgot to tell them to lie to me. I guess he didn’t care enough to keep it that big of a secret.”

You paused to sniffle, looking at your wrist, “This isn’t the first time he’s done this.” You said, lifting your wrist, “He’d grab me when I would start leaving a party early, or when he’d have a little too much to drink. He never hit me though, so I thought it wasn’t that bad. You know? It’s not like he was abusing me. He just liked to be in control.” 

Eddie fought against every one of his instincts to reach out to you, gripping his arms tight as he felt his heart breaking while listening to you. He knew you weren’t done, and if he interrupted now, he didn’t think he’d be able to hear the rest. 

“Last night, the noise in my house was just so loud, I had to get away. So I went to Kevin’s, he wasn’t there, but his mom let me come in and talk to her while we waited. She’s always been so nice to me, part of me wonders if she knew what he was doing.” You shook your head, “Doesn’t matter. Kevin came home, drunk as a skunk, with a hickey on his neck and I offered to help him upstairs. He kept touching my ass and grabbing me, but I could deal with it. But then we got to his room and he got me on the bed and he wouldn’t let me go.” 

You looked up at Eddie, tears in your eyes, “He’d never done anything like that before, Eds, never. I just kept trying to get him off of me and he just kept saying how he was owed this, that we’d been together for long enough that I should be putting out for him. He even told me that Katie was interested in him, so I told him he should just go be with her. Then I left.” 

You looked back down at your hands, not knowing exactly what to expect from Eddie.

Eddie was sitting there watching you, his brain barely registering the end of what you were telling him. He was so focused on the fact that Kevin had tried to force himself on you. He was so mad that he was starting to see red. 

You noticed that far off look in Eddie’s eyes and placed a hand on his wrist. This broke him from the rage that was building in him and he looked back up at you. 

“I’m sorry Eddie, I should have been smarter, I never should have chosen them.” You were starting to cry as the apologies kept pouring out of your mouth. 

Eddie immediately leaned forward, pulling you into his lap and comforting you, “Hey, you don’t need to apologize, you never have to apologize to me. We’re going to be ok, you’re still my best friend. And we still have so many shenanigans to complete. And now we’re in the same school, so I’ll make sure they don’t fuck with you.”

You laugh a little through your sobs before wiping your hand over your eyes, “How can you still say that? I abandoned you to protect my image. You were my best friend and I just dropped you. And here you are acting like nothing has changed.” 

Eddie’s hand ran up and down your back trying to comfort you, “None of that matters anymore, shit happens, all you need to worry about is the now. And the tomorrow I guess, since it’s Monday and we have class.” 

You groaned and buried your head into Eddie’s shoulder, “Fuck. Do we have to go? I’m going to be the butt of everyone’s jokes tomorrow. ‘Hey, did you hear that Y/N finally found out Kevin was sleeping around? Took her long enough.’” You said knowing that everyone would be looking at you. “The gossip is sure to have gotten around by now.”

Eddie pulled back from you and wiped some of the tears from your face, “Fuck them. No one will say anything to you without having to deal with me. And the rest of the guys, I won’t tell them anything, but they know that any friend of mine is a friend of the group.” 

“Eddie, you don’t have to do that. I don’t deserve any of that, I’ll just hang out in the library during lunch until it all dies down. I’m a big girl, I can take care of myself” You sat up a little straighter, putting a determined look on your face.

Eddie laughed a little, “Believe me, I’m well aware of that fact.” He said more to himself than to you. 

“What was that?” You asked, knowing what he said but needing more of an explanation. 

Eddie stammered for a moment, “Nothing, I mean, not nothing, but nothing that needs to be talked about just now.”

You looked at him for a moment, waiting for him to give something up, but when it became clear that he wasn’t going to elaborate, you let out a sigh, “Well, at some point I need to go home and try and get myself together enough to face everyone on Monday.”

Eddie got off the couch and pulled you up with him, “Take your time and do whatever you need to do, and I’ll come pick you up in the morning so you can get to school.” 

You rolled your eyes and gave Eddie a smile, “Eddie, I can get myself to school.”

“Nope! You’re in my gang now, I don’t mind picking you up at all. Plus you’re on my way to school.” Eddie said shaking his head, you knew that there was no arguing with him so you just smiled and nodded at him. 

“Fine, but you don’t have to every day. I can get there myself.” You said, looking him in the eye. 

Eddie shrugged and you could tell this was going to be an ongoing argument that would most likely never be finished. 

When you got back to your house that afternoon, the first thing that you noticed was the house was eerily quiet compared to how you had left it. There was no screaming, no TV, nothing. 

As you made your way to your room, you realized that you could barely tell that there had been a fight at all, everything had been put back in order, everything was picture perfect, just as your mother liked it. 

You made it to your room and fell into your bed, everything from the past twenty four hours crashing back into you and you closed your eyes again, falling back into a deep sleep. 

“Well, look who finally decided to come back home. Finally get tired of acting like a little slut out there with your boyfriend all night?” Your mother snapped at you from your doorway as you were brought back to reality. 

“Mom? What are you talking about?” You asked, rubbing your tear swollen eyes. 

“You were gone for almost an entire day! I know you were at Kevin’s and I remember being your age and all the trouble I would get into with my boyfriends! I thought you were smarter than that.” She said with a sneer. 

You were shocked, yeah your mom had yelled at you before, but she had never been this cruel. You felt the tears welling up in your eyes. “Mom, I don’t know what you’re talking about, Kevin and I didn’t do anything last night!”

Your mom pointed an accusatory finger at your neck, “Oh, and what are those? Curling iron burns? Please! I’m not stupid Y/N!” 

You raised a hand to put it over your neck, feeling the tender areas from the literal bite marks that Kevin had left on you. “That was all Kevin, I tried to push him off Mom, but he was so much stronger than me. I got him off of me before anything more happened! I swear!” You felt your eyes welling with tears again, “Mom, we broke up last night! Because I wouldn’t give him what he wanted, I swear!” 

Your mom rolled her eyes, “Honey, if you didn’t want it, Kevin wouldn’t have done it, he’s a good boy, and even if something did happen, you were probably asking for it and then said ‘No’ like the little tease you are.” 

You heard a gasp behind your mom as your dad came up to try and get her away from you, “Grace! What are you talking about? You know Y/N isn’t like that. You just need to take a breath outside and we can talk about what happened after we’ve all calmed down.”

“No! I don’t want someone like her in my house anymore! She’s a terrible daughter and we’d be better without her here!” Your mom pointed at you again. “You have two hours to be out of this house. I don’t want to see you here again!”

Your dad looked at your mom in shock before looking back at you, “Let me talk to her, I just need to get her calmed down.” 

You knew that you were crying again as you shook your head, “No Daddy, she won’t calm down, and even if she does, I can’t live like this, walking on eggshells, never knowing when she’s going to snap again. I’m sorry Daddy.” 

Your father led your mom out of your room and out of the house while you went to the kitchen and picked up the phone, calling the only person you could think of. 

“Yello?” Eddie said as the phone rang for the third time. 

“Eddie?” you said, sniffling into the receiver.

Eddie immediately straightened up from where he was, “Princess? Princess, what’s wrong?” 

You let out a light groan, “Got kicked out of the house, apparently I’m a slut for letting Kevin… do what he did.” You shrugged your shoulders, knowing he couldn’t see it.

“Excuse me?!” Eddie said in a loud voice, making you flinch, “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to yell. Do you need me to come get you? Because I can be there in like 20 minutes. I just gotta let Wayne know what’s going on.” 

You sighed and looked around your room, there wasn’t much you needed to take with you right away, but you knew your mother would be snooping through all of your things as soon as you left the house. 

“She gave me two hours, I gotta get things put together and I don’t need her going through whatever I leave behind.”

You could hear Eddie rummaging around the trailer and explaining what was happening to Wayne, who of course gave an affirmative to you crashing with them. 

“I’ll be there in two hours, promise.” Eddie promised you, and you thanked him as you continued to look through your room. 

True to his word, Eddie pulled his van up to your house exactly two hours after you had hung up the phone. 

You were sitting on the stoop of your house with your dad who had wrapped his arm around your shoulder. 

“Listen, I’m going to talk to your mom, see if there isn’t some help I can get her. I’ll keep you in the loop. I’m so sorry Y/N, I promise, I’ll get you home as soon as I can.” Your dad gave you another squeeze before you got up with your bags and headed toward the van. 

Eddie got out and opened the side door for you, taking your bags from you to put in the back while you climbed up in the passenger seat, looking at your house again, trying not to let the pain you felt reflect in your face as you waved at your dad. 

Eddie got back into the driver's seat and shifted the car into gear. The last thing you saw when you looked at your house was your mother glaring at your from the window before catching your eye and jerking the curtains closed and disappearing into the shadows.

[imagine-all-the-imagines]

ancient greek word of the day: κακοθερής (kakotherēs), unfitted to endure summer heat

[imagine-all-the-imagines]

When I tell you that ending hit me out of nowhere! So good!

space oddity; han jisung

PAIRING I astronaut!han x gn!reader

CAST I han jisung, felix lee, kim seungmin

WC | 3.5k

GENRE I angst, ai!au, astronaut!au, established relationship

WARNINGS | explicit language, major character death, unhealthy coping mechanisms, alcohol consumption

SYNOPSIS | your fiancé jisung always called himself an alien—too odd and out of place for this planet, destined to be somewhere beyond the stars. so he became an astronaut, and you became lonely, turning to an ai service to ease the pain and constant solitude.

A/N I inspired by the song space oddity by david bowie, the song alien by HAN of stray kids, and the recent film wonderland!! this was an old draft from ~a year ago and i wanted to finish it lol

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MASTERLIST | RAIN’S PLAYLIST

“Ground control to Major Han?”

“Ha. Very funny.”

Your boyfriend’s face pops onto your screen, his familiar gummy smile lighting up the room. “How was your day, baby?”

You hum softly, setting your phone down on your desk and propping it up so that you can see him. “It was… good. I still miss you though, a lot.”

Jisung’s smile fades a little as he hears the sadness laced through your voice, and for a moment he’s silent. Then, he comes closer to the camera, whispering your name. “Hey. Hey, watch this,” he says, his normally cheerful voice serious. For a moment you believe that your playful boyfriend was going to get serious with you, but then he backs away from the camera to show you that he’s floating. He moves his arms to “swim” through the air, turning upside down and chuckling at you as you can’t help but scoff and smile at how cute he looks.

“Seriously, though. I miss you too.” Now Jisung’s voice is the one laced with sadness, and you manage a half smile as you stare at him over the video call. He’s righted himself, and moved back towards the phone to get a better view of you.

“How long until you come home again?” you ask wistfully, your heart thumping painfully in your chest as you watch Jisung’s face fall.

“I told you… I don’t know yet. The mission still isn’t complete.” His voice is gentle, but his words are firm. Perhaps even harsh. You can tell he’s trying to get it into your head that hopefulness won’t bring him back any sooner. “But — I’m trying my best to get my work done as fast as possible, so I can come home to you.” Jisung reaches out to run his fingers over the rim of his phone, and for a moment it feels like he’s gently caressing your face in reality. You lean into it, allowing yourself to play into falsity for just a moment, before sighing and leaning back slightly. Jisung watches you carefully, his big eyes following your movements.

“I didn't mean to bring the mood down. How was your day?” you ask softly, bringing your knees up to your chest and hugging them tightly. It simulates the comforting, weighted sensation that you got so used to with Jisung next to you all the time.

“Good,” he says quietly, mirroring your own response from earlier. “Gathered some data, wrote some stuff up… Joked around with the guys a little. Typical.” He runs his fingers through his hair as he mulls over the mundane events of his day. At least, what he could gather from his frazzled memories. Being in space for so long messed up clear timelines in his mind.

You’re about to respond when your phone starts ringing with another call. Distracted, you hesitate to say anything, your lips pursed in an open position with no sound coming out for a moment before you shift into a pretend yawn, covering your mouth with your hand. Jisung watches you, seeming to believe your lie as he cocks his head to the side innocently, his eyes shining with amusement and slight concern.

“Are you tired? We can log off for the night,” he asks, as he watches you stifle another ‘yawn,’ not picking up on the way your hand moves to ignore the incoming call.

“Sorry, baby. Just been a long day, you know?” you say, once again lying through your teeth. Suddenly, your arms feel like they’re in an awkward position and you cross and uncross them, hoping Jisung doesn’t notice or comment on your unnecessary movements.

The thing is, you don’t even know why you’re lying to Jisung. The incoming call was from Felix, a mutual friend that Jisung met in school and then introduced to you.

“I know.”

There’s a silence after he responds. Why you couldn’t just say “good night,” or something else, you’re not sure. But you smile weakly, hanging up the phone before Jisung can ask you if you’re really okay.

You pick up Felix’s call.

He’ll get worried if you don’t.

“What’s up?” you ask, false positivity bleeding through your voice once more.

Felix hums softly. “Are you coming out tonight? We’re celebrating Seungmin’s promotion at work.”

Damn. You’d forgotten.

“Uh… I don’t know. It’s not a good night for me.” Lying once more, making your back sticky with cold sweat. Lying had never come easily to you, and that didn’t change now. If anything, lying to those close to you added to the anxiety of it all.

“Why? Did something happen?” Felix’s voice is laced with concern.

“No. No, nothing like that.” You catch your lower lip between your teeth, gnawing off a piece of flesh and spitting it out. “I’m just tired. I worked some extra hours this week.”

Your voice is thick, both from the pain (your lower lip was now bleeding) and the uncomfortability of your lie growing.

Felix sighs. “It’s nothing crazy. Just our little group, you know? That isn’t too much, is it? For me. For Seungmin.”

His voice catches after he says Seungmin’s name, as if he were about to continue and say someone else’s name afterwards. Instead, he swallows hard.

“Come on.”

It’s a weak attempt at convincing you, but it does work. You feel guilty for ignoring your friends, when they’re so close by in proximity too. You felt bad for not capitalizing on that more often. For taking it for granted.

Your face is in a worse state than you thought. Not particularly ugly, but so exhausted. It wouldn’t be that hard to keep up the lie of working extra hours — it showed on your face, even if it wasn’t true. You busy yourself with smearing concealer on your eye bags, on the imperfections, to make a sorry attempt at decency. It works, to an extent. After covering up your face in a thick mask and reapplying some color to your face, you now resemble a normal human being more than a bloated corpse.

You sigh, and then text Felix that you’re on your way. Reluctantly.

—

The restaurant that Felix had chosen is a busy one. He must’ve booked it far in advance — there isn’t a single table open as you walk by, and everyone is dressed quite nicely. It is in a more upscale area after all, but it’s still jarring. You’re not that used to all of this — going out as a whole, but especially not in such a glitzy scene.

The table is full of laughter when you walk up. Seungmin is glaring at Felix and a few other friends from his workplace, and you can assume from the context that they’re all making fun of something that he’d said at work.

“You’re supposed to be on my side, Felix,” Seungmin snaps playfully. The topic of the statement looks up and sees you, gleefully motioning for you to sit down.

“Hey, hey. I bet they’re on your side.” He giggles, before sipping more of his cocktail. You’re unsure of the name of it, but it’s the color of a sunset and complete with an orange wedge on the rim of the glass. “We were waiting for you! Order a drink. I’m paying.”

“Only for the drinks. He’s cheap,” Seungmin murmurs, gently rubbing your back as you sit down, seeing the strained muscles in your neck and the stiffness in your frame. “How’ve you been?”

“Good, good… Congratulations on your promotion, by the way,” you say, smiling softly. Seungmin scoffs, waving it off as if it were nothing, before ordering you a drink.

He remembers your favorite.

For a moment, you realize how much you missed being with friends. How isolating it really was to sit in your empty apartment all by yourself.

But by the end of the night, you bid everyone good night and find peace in the walk home by yourself — even though you need to have a hand on the taser in your pocket the whole way back. And then you think, perhaps it’s better to be alone, and to be vigilant.

—

“Remember when I would sing you to sleep?”

Jisung’s soft voice asks from the darkness. He’s on the phone, and your phone is sitting on the pillow beside you. His pillow. The one he used when he was home.

“Back in the beginning of our relationship? Yeah,” you reply, after a moment of hesitation. You remember it well. How he would sing the softer of the songs that he’d been writing in his free time, cradling you in his arms as you felt sleep slowly overtake you. It was tempting to ask him why he stopped, but you weren’t sure if the answer would help or hurt you more.

“I should start doing that again, when I’m home,” Jisung says softly. He sighs, almost too quiet for you to hear him. “There’s a lot of things I want to do when I come home.”

The longing in his voice makes your heart hurt. It actually makes your chest jolt with pain, and you have to blink back tears.

“Don’t… don’t say that. Please. I miss you too much to hear that,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady.

“Baby, it’ll be okay… I’m coming home, remember? One day, I’ll be there beside you again… singing to you and holding you close.”

You fiercely wipe away the tears that are beginning to spill down your cheeks. You don’t let Jisung see your face, even though the entire bedroom is shrouded in darkness at the moment. The only light is coming from your phone, and the glow-in-the-dark sticky stars on your ceiling that almost mock you every night that you spend looking up at them, imagining Jisung sailing among them in the sky.

“One day,” you exhale sharply, closing your eyes. Seeing the stars and hearing his voice at the same time hurt too much.

“One day,” he repeats, quietly.

You fall asleep, exhausted from a full day of holding back your emotions. Meanwhile, Jisung listens to the sound of your breathing as he looks out the window, seeing the ever so distant planet Earth. He plants a hand against the glass, wondering why it seemed so still. Then again, everything on Earth seemed still when he was this far away, merely spectating life down there from a nearly unimaginable distance.

—

Nearly a week had passed since you last saw your friends to celebrate Seungmin and his promotion. The only person that you really spoke to was Jisung, and Felix every few days to make sure that he knew you were still alive. He was… persistent.

Like always.

Jisung had asked him to be, before he left for this last mission. “Please, be there for them. Especially when I can’t be.”

You’re in the middle of sending Jisung another message, asking about the mundane, when a video call from Felix pops up.

This does send you into a panic — you’re unshowered, unkempt, and clearly looking unwell, despite the desperately convincing texts you’d been sending to Felix over the past few days.

You send him a message: can’t talk rn. call later?

Now you’d have to slot a shower into your schedule, between all of the work assignments that you’d been putting off.

He texts back: Pick up. Now.

There’s barely ten seconds between the text registering in your mind and another video call request. Cursing, you look into the camera to try and smooth your greasy hair away from your face, try and angle your shirt so that no stains would show in the camera.

You pick up.

“What’s up?” you ask, false positivity overtaking your voice again. It’s a little too peppy to be normal, and you know that. Felix’s eyes narrow, and he looks at you, trying to peer around your face to look at the state of your apartment at the same time.

“You aren’t doing okay,” he says. It’s a statement, not a question.

“I’m doing… fine,” is your mediocre reply.

Felix sighs deeply. “Come on. Look at yourself. When was the last time you talked to a real person?” he asks. Despite the harsh words, there’s real concern in his voice.

You’re not sure how to reply — it’s been a long, long time. You’d spoken to Jisung, and Felix, but other than that…? You’d been ignoring your work, ignoring messages from others that you don’t see on a daily basis to hold you accountable…

“How long?” he prompts again.

“I talked to Jisung today,” you say defensively, before you immediately regret it.

“To Jisung?”

And, God, that makes it all come back.

Unlike Jisung.

Jisung wasn’t coming back.

Not now, not ever.

—

They’d lost contact with the vessel that Jisung and his crewmates were in. The last time they’d talked to him, they’d been circling an unidentifiable object — probably a rock or something, nothing aggressive or lucid.

A few minutes later, they lost contact. Forever.

That was a few months ago.

It was hard to find sympathy in others, because no one really understood it. In your mind, he wasn’t really gone — he was still just on a mission. He would come back home someday, even if he couldn’t communicate that to you, or anyone down on Earth. He had to be out there somewhere.

And with that belief, you channeled your grief into a new experimental app, and made your own brand new Jisung.

This Jisung was in space, on a mission. Just like yours. He wasn’t sure when he would be back, but he always reassured you that he would see you again someday, because that was embedded in his coding — that reassurance, that caring nature. Because that was what the real Jisung was like.

He could call you. He could video chat with you. He would send you text messages and act like he would buy you gifts when he came home. He was the perfect boyfriend, because he never had to carry through with those perfect requests, which were already tailored to your preferences as well as what the real Jisung would actually do and say.

It freaked you out at first. Mostly because the wound was still fresh. But as time went by, you missed Jisung more and more, and the constant messages from the app seemed more and more appealing. From there, it was easy to pretend.

He was a lot like the real Jisung, and that helped the illusion. It really did feel like he was still away on a mission, and he was telling you that he’d be home one day. It felt real. You wanted to believe it so bad.

Felix made you delete the app when he found out. He said it was unhealthy, and that you needed to heal properly. So you did — by going to therapy, taking all sorts of medications, by taking walks in nature and channeling your grief into other hobbies and passions.

It worked, but nothing worked as good as that app. Nothing brought you as much comfort as Jisung’s voice saying, “I love you. I’m coming home soon.”

Even if it wasn’t real.

petrichor-han 2025. do not translate or repost without my permission.

please consider reblogging and/or leaving a few kind words if you enjoyed this fic :) tumblr posts revolve around reblogs, and i'd appreciate the gesture!!

DIVIDER CREDIT: @strangergraphics-archive

[imagine-all-the-imagines]

⍣ ೋ cw: explicit sexual content · graphic sex · rough sex · orgasm denial · dom/sub dynamics · dirty talk · aftercare · possessiveness · emotional vulnerability · toxic ex / abusive relationship (past) · physical assault · violence · blood · protective behavior · minor alcohol mention · language

notes: in which your regular bartender minho lets you stay at his apartment when your toxic ex-situationship gets physical — and things spiral from there.

The bar doesn’t have a sign. Just a brass door with no handle and a button that glows red when you press it. Inside, it’s all velvet and shadows—low jazz crooning from invisible speakers, smoke curling from too-expensive cigars. The kind of place that smells like secrets and old money.

You don’t belong here. But you come anyway.

Mostly for him.

Minho’s behind the bar like always. Shirt black, sleeves rolled just once, collar stiff against the sharp line of his neck. He doesn’t look up when you walk in, doesn’t smile. He never does.

You don’t need him to.

It starts like most nights do—low lighting, soft jazz, the smell of expensive bourbon and even more expensive cologne drifting through the speakeasy’s velvet-lined walls. The kind of place that pretends not to notice you unless it wants to.

He always notices you.

Minho’s already at the bar, polishing glassware with deliberate, almost surgical focus. No smile. No greeting. He doesn’t do small talk—just glances at you when you slip onto the stool you always take, his gaze lingering for a moment too long on the bare skin above your knee before it flicks away like you imagined it.

He slides a drink toward you without asking.

Tonight it’s something amber and sharp—neat, no garnish. Not the floral bullshit you usually order to irritate him but don't actually enjoy.

“You’re learning,” you murmur, fingers curling around the glass.

“You’re predictable,” he says, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. Amusement. Approval, maybe. It’s hard to tell with him.

You take a slow sip, letting the burn settle in your chest before you speak again.

“Gonna make fun of me tonight, or just stare at my legs?”

He doesn’t miss a beat.

“Why can’t I do both?”

You raise an eyebrow. He’s in a mood.

Good.

You lean in a little, voice dipping low. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you liked me.”

Minho finally looks at you head-on, the edge of a smile ghosting across his mouth.

“If I liked you,” he says, smooth as glass, “you’d know.”

The heat that curls low in your stomach has nothing to do with the liquor.

You shouldn’t be surprised. You’ve been playing this game for weeks—weeks of drawn-out glances and sharp tongues, of letting your knee graze his thigh beneath the bar, of asking him questions you already know he won’t answer just to hear the dry curl of his voice when he tells you no.

But tonight, the rules feel different. The air feels heavier. Charged.

You blame it on the day you had. On the message you didn’t answer. On the fact that your body still remembers the way your so-called lover grabbed your wrist last night when you dared to pull away first. The apology this morning was short. Cold. Like a favor he did you.

You’re tired of favors. Of men who act like your body is borrowed space.

So maybe that’s why you’re here again. Why your dress is a little shorter than usual. Why your smile is a little sharper. Why you stare at Minho like you want him to cut you open and see what’s underneath.

“I think you like me,” you say, swirling the amber in your glass, eyes fixed on his fingers as he reaches for a bottle behind him.

He uncaps it without a word. Pours slow—like he’s buying time or maybe making you wait on purpose. The line of his jaw is clean and sharp in the bar’s dim light, a profile carved in something colder than marble.

You’ve never seen him fluster. Not once. That’s part of why you keep coming back. That composure, that razor-thin control—you want to see it slip. Just once. Just enough to know what he looks like when something matters.

But Minho doesn’t rattle. Doesn’t rise to the bait. He sets the bottle down, replaces the cap with the same care you imagine he uses with everything else—his knives, his words, his hands.

“I think you like being watched,” he says finally, without looking at you. “That’s not the same thing.”

Your lips curl. “Is that what you do? Watch me?”

He glances up, and the full weight of his gaze hits you square in the chest—dark, steady, measuring.

“Only when you want me to.”

You swallow. Hard.

There’s nothing coy about it now. No masks, no playful deflection. Just static in the air and the slow realization that this isn’t banter anymore.

It’s foreplay.

Your thighs press together instinctively beneath the bar. The liquor burns differently now—hotter, deeper.

Minho sees it—how your legs shift, how your breath stutters—but he doesn’t gloat. He doesn’t need to. The power slips over him like a second skin, smooth and effortless, like he was born to unravel people slowly and never touch them at all.

You try to hold your ground, try to find something clever to say, but the words stick to your tongue. They don’t come.

He leans forward—just slightly, just enough that you catch a whisper of his cologne, clean and sharp like crushed pepper and steel. The kind of scent that makes you ache without knowing why.

“You always drink faster when you’re upset,” he murmurs. “Didn’t think he’d blow you off again.”

Your stomach flips.

You didn’t tell him that.

Not out loud.

But you’ve mentioned him in passing before—your almost-boyfriend, your never-quite-yours. The man who texts when he’s bored and shows up when he’s drunk, who fucks you like a secret and then disappears for days. You’ve never named him. You never had to.

Minho’s too observant for that.

You look away, embarrassed, a little raw.

“I don’t want to talk about him.”

Minho hums like he understands. Not kindly—accurately. Like a blade understanding the softest part of skin.

“Didn’t think you would.”

His voice is soft. Low enough that it doesn’t carry over the jazz humming through the room, but not so low that it misses the mark. It slides under your skin, settles there. Warm. Heavy.

You press the rim of your glass to your lips, but don’t drink. You’re stalling. He knows it.

“Is this where you offer comfort?” you ask, tilting your head toward him, trying to claw some of the power back with your voice. “Tell me I deserve better?”

Minho chuckles—quiet, sharp-edged. “You know you deserve better.”

He lets it hang there for a beat too long, until you can feel the unspoken part of it clawing up your spine.

You deserve better, and I could give it to you. But I won’t.

Not yet.

His fingers flex against the bar’s edge. It’s the first crack in his control tonight, the only betrayal of the restraint wound tight through every part of him. You don’t think he even notices it—but you do.

Because that’s what this has always been, hasn’t it? A standoff. A war of glances and gestures. Who can make the other want without asking.

You swirl the last inch of liquor in your glass, watching the amber catch the low light, pretending like you’re not memorizing the shape of his hand against the bar.

Minho isn’t looking at you anymore. Not directly. His eyes are focused somewhere beyond you—on a bottle that doesn’t need touching, a thought that doesn’t need voicing. But his body betrays him in small, precise ways. That flex of his hand. The stillness of his shoulders. The slow, measured breaths like he’s giving himself rules to follow.

Don’t reach for her. Don’t say her name. Don’t touch unless she begs.

You can feel it—how close he is to undoing himself. How he’s fighting it like it would cost him something if he gave in.

And that makes you reckless.

“Why haven’t you?” you murmur, too quiet for anyone else to hear. “If you’ve thought about it—which you have. Why haven’t you done anything?”

You lick your lips—subtle, involuntary—and his eyes drop to your mouth like it was the only thing in the room worth watching. Just for a second. Just long enough to make your pulse thrum in your throat.

“You’re not going to offer comfort,” you say, quieter now, more to yourself than him. “That’s not your game.”

Minho doesn’t deny it.

“I don’t comfort girls who let men treat them like that,” he murmurs, voice like slow smoke. “I fuck it out of them.”

Your breath catches.

You can’t help it.

It punches the air straight from your lungs—just for a second. Just long enough for your lashes to flutter and your grip on the glass to falter and your entire body to go still.

You should’ve known that’s where he’d take it. You should’ve seen it coming. But hearing it—feeling it—low and steady like that, like an invocation and not a threat?

It’s something else entirely.

Your thighs clench beneath the bar. Instinctive. Useless. You feel suddenly too warm in your skin, in your dress, in this damn chair. Like the room’s shrunk down to just the two of you and the weight of those words lingering in the air between them.

He said it like a fact. Like a promise. No smirk. No tilt of his head. No performance.

Just Minho—staring at you with that terrifying, surgical precision that’s never been louder than it is now.

He knows what he just did.

Knows you’re squirming. Knows you’re soaking. Knows exactly where your mind’s gone—and he hasn’t even touched you.

Your tongue darts out again, a nervous reflex.

And that’s when he leans in.

Not by much—just enough that his mouth is close enough to graze the rim of your glass if you tilted it.

“I’d start with your mouth,” he says, barely louder than the jazz, like he’s confessing something obscene to a priest. “Because I know you’d still try to be smart with it. Even while you’re choking.”

Your stomach drops.

Your fingers curl tight around the edge of the counter to ground yourself, but it’s no use. His voice is a velvet hand at your throat, gentle enough to tease, firm enough to hold

Minho doesn’t linger.

He doesn’t let the silence stretch into tension, doesn’t wait for your reply, doesn’t press a single inch further into the ache he’s just created.

He simply pulls away.

Smooth, unbothered, like he didn’t just fillet you open with nothing but words. Like your insides aren’t still ringing with the ghost of him. He reaches for a towel, wipes a nonexistent smudge from the rim of a coupe glass, and then—casually, almost bored—slides the folded slip of paper toward you across the polished marble.

Your bill.

Back to business.

It’s maddening. Unbearably normal. Like he didn’t just spit filth into your ear that made your spine arch in the seat. Like he didn’t just speak to you like he already owned your body and was only waiting for the right time to claim it.

Your hand moves on autopilot.

Fingers dip into your purse, fishing out your card, swiping it through the reader like this is any other night, like you’re not unraveling at the seams. Like you’re not trembling just slightly beneath the surface of your skin, still burning with every word he spoke to you moments ago.

The reader beeps.

Declined.

You blink.

Try again. Slower this time. Like it might make a difference.

Declined.

The air shifts.

You don’t look up. Can’t. You stare at the reader, thumb hovering over the chipped edge of your card like pressing harder might fix it. Like it wasn’t inevitable. Like you haven’t been running on fumes and stubbornness and overdraft protection for longer than you want to admit.

You exhale through your nose. Force a quiet laugh. “Sorry,” you mutter, trying for nonchalant. “Guess it’s been a week.”

Minho doesn’t move.

You finally glance up—and he’s already looking at you.

Not annoyed. Not smug. Just still. Measured.

Then he takes the bill back without a word.

Folds it in half.

Tucks it beneath the register.

“It’s okay,” he says, and his voice is different now—softer, low and careful like a hand on the back of your neck. “I’ve got it.”

You hesitate. “No, really. I can come back tomorrow—”

“I said it’s okay.”

The quiet in his tone settles over you like a coat. Warm, heavy. Weighted with something you don’t quite recognize yet.

You search his face for a catch. A smirk. A condition. But there isn’t one.

And that—that’s what undoes you more than anything else.

Because it’s not a trade. Not a tease. Not a power play.

It’s just kindness.

Uncomplicated. Unexpected.

From him of all people.

You swallow hard. Nodding feels dangerous, so you don’t.

You just sit there, small and grateful and aching in a way you didn’t expect.

“I’ll pay you back,” you say quietly. “Next time.”

Minho doesn’t respond right away. Just tilts his head, eyes never leaving yours.

“You’re not a charity case,” he says finally. “I know you’ll settle.”

You nod again. This time it lands.

He straightens. Pulls your empty glass away, sets it behind him.

“You staying a while?” he asks. Not teasing. Not performative. Just… offering.

And you want to say yes.

But your throat is tight and your wrist still hurts beneath your sleeve and your body feels like too much tonight—too raw, too full, too loud.

So you say, “Think I’ll head out,” and your voice sounds gentler than it should. Like you’re asking permission.

Minho nods. Doesn’t question it. Doesn’t try to stop you. Just wipes the bar in front of your empty seat like he’s already preparing for the next ghost to sit down.

You stand slowly. Adjust your bag over your shoulder, glance toward the hallway that leads to the exit.

He doesn’t say anything at first. But you feel him watching you—not your ass, not your dress, but the way you cradle your arm. The way your hand hovers over your wrist like you’re guarding something.

And then—

“Did he grab you?”

Your spine stiffens.

Like someone cracked ice down your back.

You don’t turn around right away. You just stand there, shoulders drawn tight, fingers white-knuckled around the strap of your bag.

“Excuse me?” you ask, voice sharper than you mean it to be.

Minho doesn’t flinch.

He doesn’t repeat himself, either. Just waits.

You finally turn, chin lifted in that familiar tilt—the one you wear like armor, the one you’ve perfected for moments like this. When someone sees too much. When someone dares to ask.

“I don’t need you psychoanalyzing my love life,” you say flatly. “It’s none of your business.”

Minho says nothing.

Which somehow makes it worse. And for some reason, you can’t stop talking.

You huff a laugh, bitter and breathless. “Jesus. You let one card decline and suddenly you think you’re my therapist?”

Still nothing.

Just that same steady gaze. Not pitying. Not cold. Just... seeing.

And maybe that’s why it stings. Because he’s not wrong.

You fold your arms, fingers pressing hard over the bruise like you can erase it by force. “He didn’t mean to,” you finally mutter.

Minho’s voice is quiet. Even.

“But he did.”

You look away.

It’s not a fight. He’s not raising his voice. He’s not accusing you of anything. But something about the way he says it—flat, factual, calm—makes you feel like you’ve been caught doing something shameful.

You shake your head. “It’s not that simple.”

His expression doesn’t change. “It never is.”

You exhale hard through your nose. Every part of you wants to run. You don’t like feeling cornered like this—especially not by someone like him. Someone who doesn’t play pretend

Someone who sees everything and speaks only when it counts.

“I’m not some broken girl who needs saving,” you snap.

“I know.”

And again—it’s not cruel. Not dismissive. Just a truth, spoken plainly.

That disarms you more than anything else.

He knows.

He knows you’re angry and proud and stubborn. He knows you want control, even when it costs you peace. He knows you’re clawing your way through something you don’t want to name yet. He knows—and still, he said nothing until you were already walking away.

You sigh. The kind of sigh that tastes like surrender.

“I’m fine,” you say. Softer now. “Okay? I’m fine.”

Minho doesn’t agree. Doesn’t argue. Just nods like he’s filing it away for later.

And then, gently:

“Text me when you’re home.”

You look at him.

Really look at him.

The dark sweep of his lashes. The slow tension in his jaw. The barest flex of his fingers against the rag he’s holding—like he’s grounding himself on the bar instead of reaching for you.

“I don’t have your number,” you say, quiet again.

He doesn’t even blink.

Just reaches for a napkin. Writes it down in clean, deliberate strokes. Slides it to you without flourish, like it’s nothing.

You take it with fingers that don’t feel like yours.

The napkin is soft, a little damp in one corner, the ink bleeding just slightly where his pen dragged too slow over cheap paper. His handwriting is neat. Precise. The kind you’d expect from him. Not a flourish in sight.

You stare at the numbers for a beat too long.

Like if you memorize them now, maybe you won’t have to admit how much you care that he gave them to you.

“I’m not going to cry in the cab,” you mutter. Not to him. Just to yourself. A warning. A promise. A lie.

Minho’s mouth twitches—too fast to call it a smile. “Good. They charge extra for that.”

You roll your eyes, but the sound that escapes you is almost a laugh.

Almost.

You fold the napkin once. Then again. Tuck it into your purse like it’s fragile, like it’s worth something, like it matters. You don’t say thank you. Can’t. The words would taste too much like gratitude and not enough like the armor you’re trying to put back on.

He doesn’t press. Just nods once—final, quiet—and goes back to polishing the same glass he’s been holding all night. Like none of this ever happened.

You walk away before you can change your mind.

Before you do something stupid, like apologize for flinching. Like ask him to say it again, that he knows you’re not broken. Like ask if he’s ever been hurt in a way that still echoes years later.

The hallway is dim. The velvet curtains at the door part with a whisper. The street outside is colder than you remembered.

You step into it anyway.

That night, lying on your side with the city leaking through the blinds in long gray stripes, you stare at your phone screen for too long.

You’ve opened a new message three times. Deleted it each time.

Minho’s number sits untouched in your contacts now. Just a string of digits and a name that feels like something you shouldn’t be allowed to keep.

Eventually, you type:

[you]: home.

Three dots appear almost instantly.

Then nothing.

Then:

[bartender]: good. sleep.

You stare at it for longer than you should.

Just those two words. No punctuation. No fluff. Just simple, clean concern dressed up like a command.

You can almost hear his voice in it—low, even, with that deliberate edge that makes everything sound like a dare.

You think about typing something back. A joke. A thank you. Something to make it lighter.

But it’s too late for pretending now. And maybe—just maybe—you like that he didn’t say take care or sweet dreams or anything that would let you brush this off as ordinary.

Because it’s not.

You set the phone on your nightstand.

And for the first time in weeks, you fall asleep before the sun rises.

The bass is too loud.

It rattles your ribs, crawls down your spine, settles behind your eyes like a headache waiting to happen. Bodies press in on all sides—sweaty, glittered, half-drunk strangers shouting lyrics they only know the chorus to. The lights strobe fast enough to make you nauseous.

You wish you were having fun.

You should be having fun. It’s Maya’s birthday. Everyone showed up. Friends, coworkers, mutuals you forgot you still followed. You wore the good dress, the one that makes you feel like the sexiest version of yourself. You downed two shots at the bar and danced until your skin burned.

And for a while—it worked.

Until he showed up.

You feel him before you see him. Isn’t that always the way?

That weight in the room. The static against your skin. The sharp twist in your stomach that feels too close to guilt to be anything else.

You turn. And there he is.

Leaning against the bar like he owns it, drink in hand, shirt unbuttoned just enough to make a show of it. He doesn’t look at you at first. He never does. Always lets you spot him first. Lets you feel him before he lets you see him.

Your heart drops anyway.

It’s been three weeks since you told him not to text you again.

Not after the last time—not after his fingers curled too tight around your wrist and left a bloom of purple that took a week to fade. Not after he said your name like a curse when you tried to walk away. You were never his. That was the whole point. And yet… it never seemed to matter.

You turn back toward your friends. Pretend you don’t see him.

It works for ten minutes.

Then a hand slides around your waist.

“You look good tonight.”

You freeze.

His breath is warm against your ear. Familiar. Suffocating.

You force a smile, even as your whole body goes still. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” he murmurs, voice syrup-smooth. “Say hi to my favorite girl?”

Your throat tightens. “I’m not your anything.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” His fingers flex at your waist. Not hard. Not yet. Just enough to make you feel like you’ve already lost something.

You shove his hand off. Step back.

“I said don’t.”

He laughs—soft and cruel. “You’ve got some nerve, walking around like that. That dress. That mouth.”

You’re not sure what breaks first—the fear or the fury.

But your hand moves before your mind can catch up, pushing at his chest, not hard enough to knock him back but enough—enough to draw a line, enough to say stop, stop, STOP.

He stumbles back half a step, but the grin doesn’t falter. If anything, it widens.

“Oh, she’s got teeth tonight.”

You hate that he says it like he’s proud. Like he likes it when you push back—because it means he gets to push harder.

“Don’t touch me,” you spit, louder this time. Louder than you meant it to be. Louder than the beat crashing around you.

A few heads turn. Not many. Not enough.

He laughs, cruel and close and reeking of entitlement. “Calm down, drama queen. We used to have fun, remember?”

You take a step back.

He follows.

His hand shoots out again, this time not for your waist—but for your face. Fingers clamp around your jaw, sudden and firm, yanking you forward so fast your breath lodges in your throat.

You gasp.

Pain sparks where his thumb digs in. Your hands shoot up instinctively, trying to pry him off, nails raking across his skin in desperation.

“I said don’t fucking touch me!” Your voice breaks—sharp, raw, real—and for a second, just one, the crowd parts around the two of you like the air shifted.

He leans in closer. His mouth is at your ear. “You think you’re better than me now?” he snarls, voice low and mean. “Is that it? That little bartender got you feeling brave?”

The blood drains from your face.

Because you never mentioned Minho. Not to him. Not to anyone who would repeat it.

It hits you like a punch to the chest. Not just the shock of his voice, low and poisonous in your ear—but what he said.

That little bartender.

Minho.

He knows.

You don’t know how. Don’t know who told him or what he heard or why it matters to him at all—but the fact that he said it means he’s been watching. Listening. Picking up pieces you didn’t even know you were leaving behind.

Your stomach lurches.

“I said—” you shove him with everything you have, panic fusing with rage “—get off me!”

This time, he stumbles. Actually stumbles.

His grip slips from your jaw, and you recoil like you’ve been burned, taking three steps back so fast you nearly trip. Your chest is heaving. Your eyes sting. The club feels too loud, too tight, the lights flashing like warning signs behind your eyelids.

But he recovers fast.

Too fast.

And now he’s pissed.

“You fucking slut,” he spits, voice ugly and thick with venom. “You think someone like him is gonna want you for anything more than your mouth? You think he’s any different?”

You don’t stay to hear the rest.

You turn.

You run.

You don’t care that your friends will wonder where you went, that your drink is still half-full on the table, that your heels weren’t meant for this kind of escape.

You just run.

Out through the club doors, down the street, across the crosswalk without waiting for the signal. You walk like if you stop, he’ll catch up. Like the weight of his voice will sink into your skin and stay there. Like you’ll never feel clean again if you don’t keep moving.

You’re breathing too fast. Hands shaking. Vision blurry. Heart thudding like it’s trying to break out of your chest.

You swallow around the knot rising in your throat, the panic curling its claws up your spine, pressing down hard on your ribs like punishment.

And before you even know where you’re going, your feet are taking you there.

You don’t remember making the turn. Don’t remember crossing the street. You just blink—and suddenly the neon glow of the bar bleeds into your vision, cool and low and familiar in the haze of your panic. The bar. His bar.

And he’s there.

Outside, leaning against the brick wall near the back entrance, one arm crossed over his chest, the other holding a lit cigarette between two fingers. The glow of the cherry lights his face in pulses—his cheekbone, his mouth, the sharp line of his jaw. His sleeves are rolled up, and there’s a smear of something on his forearm. 

He hasn’t seen you yet.

Not until your steps falter and the click of your heels dies out beneath the sound of his exhale.

Then—he lifts his head.

And his whole body goes still.

You must look like a disaster. Eyes wide. Breath shallow. Shoulders drawn up like a cornered animal. Your lipstick smeared, hair falling out of place, the strap of your dress slipping.

But he doesn’t comment. Doesn’t move.

Just watches you.

The silence stretches for a moment too long. Then, quietly—

“Did something happen?”

Your throat tightens at the sound of his voice.

Low. Measured. But not indifferent.

There’s something else beneath it. A thread of tension wound so tight it barely makes it to the surface. The kind of control that only comes from practice. From restraint.

He doesn’t take a step toward you.

Doesn’t reach out.

Minho can read a room better than anyone you’ve ever met, and right now, you’re a room filled with alarms—flashing, screaming, crumbling.

He sees it.

“I…” Your voice falters. “No.”

You mean yes. You mean everything.

But the syllables won’t fit in your mouth.

He nods once. Slow. Like he hears what you didn’t say.

The cigarette between his fingers burns to the filter before he drops it to the pavement and crushes it beneath the heel of his boot.

You don’t realize you’ve been swaying on your feet until your hand shoots out to brace against the wall.

Minho’s eyes flick to the motion, then back to your face. He still doesn’t move.

Instead, his voice softens—somehow quieter than before, like he’s afraid even sound might be too much for you right now.

“I’m just down the block.”

You blink at him, still catching your breath.

“My place,” he adds, nodding toward the street, toward the night that still hums like static around you. “Nothing weird. Just… quieter. Warmer. No one else there.”

You hesitate.

Not because you don’t trust him—you do, in ways you probably shouldn’t—but because your whole body still feels wrong. Like your nerves are too close to the surface, like any wrong move might set them off again.

Minho sees it.

He doesn’t rush to reassure you. Doesn’t over-explain or fumble for comfort.

Just lifts a shoulder in a light shrug and says, dryly, “I have cats.”

Of all the things he could’ve said. “Cats,” you repeat, the word catching oddly on your tongue like it doesn’t belong in a night like this. Like it’s too soft, too domestic, too absurdly normal for the way your heart is still hammering inside your ribs.

Minho nods. “Three of them.”

You raise an eyebrow—wary, trembling, but still capable of curiosity. “Three?”

“Soonie. Doongie. Dori,” he says. “They're spoiled. Judgmental. Loud as hell.” His tone doesn’t change. Still calm. Still flat. But there’s something careful behind it. Like he’s offering you a rope. Something to hold onto. Something that doesn’t smell like sweat and fear and everything you just ran from.

You nod. Just once. And somehow, that’s enough.

His apartment is small. Not cramped, not cold—just lived-in. Clean in that intentional way, like someone takes pride in it but doesn't obsess. The floors are wood, soft under your bare feet when you kick off your heels by the door. The kitchen glows faintly from the under-cabinet lights he left on, casting long amber streaks across the floor.

And the cats… the cats are waiting.

One sits perched on the back of the couch like he owns the place—which, judging by the scratch marks in the armrest, he might. Another peeks out from under the coffee table. The third appears from the hallway, tail high, meowing like you’ve personally offended him by existing.

You blink again.

“They’re boys,” Minho explains as he hangs his keys. “But they act like little old ladies. Dori’s the mouthy one.”

The meowing continues. A chorus now. You’re too stunned to respond at first. But then—Doongie, maybe?—pads up to you with those wide, judgmental eyes and headbutts your calf like it’s his god-given right.

Something inside you breaks. Not in the sharp, painful way. Not like at the club. No. This is different. This is soft. Shaky. This is the moment your body decides it’s safe enough to start crumbling. You crouch down—slow, careful—and let your fingers curl into his fur.

You don’t even realize you’re crying until you feel it drip from your chin. Until your breath stutters. Until you fold over completely, arms wrapped around a cat who didn’t ask for this, face pressed into the warm softness of something alive and gentle.

Minho doesn’t say anything. He doesn't touch you. You feel him move quietly behind you—setting a glass of water on the coffee table, flicking off the main lights until only the soft kitchen glow remains. And then… he just sits. A few feet away. Cross-legged on the floor, still in his black button-up and rolled sleeves, watching you like you’re made of glass and still trying to figure out if the cracks were already there.

You stay curled there on the floor for a while—knees tucked beneath you, fingers knotted in soft fur, cheek pressed to Doongie’s side like it might anchor you to something solid.

The apartment is quiet, save for the occasional swish of a tail or soft thump of paws. You can feel the warmth of Minho’s presence without looking at him. He doesn’t crowd you. Doesn’t try to fix it. Just stays—close enough that you don’t feel alone, far enough that you don’t feel trapped.

Eventually, your breath starts to come steadier. The shaking dulls. And when you finally lift your head, cheeks sticky with dried tears and eyes too tired to hold anything else, he’s still there—arms resting loosely over his knees, gaze steady. You wipe at your face with the back of your hand, half-laughing, half-apologizing.

“Sorry,” you murmur, voice rough. “I didn’t mean to—fall apart all over your cat.”

Minho shrugs. “He probably liked it.”

You snort, exhausted. “He’s purring.”

“Doongie’s kind of a slut for attention.”

You laugh—a real one this time, hoarse and soft—and drag your fingers through Doongie’s fur once more before sitting up straighter, wiping your cheeks with the sleeve of your dress.

Minho stands slowly, careful not to startle the moment, and disappears into the hallway without a word. A minute later, he’s back, holding a folded bundle in his arms—what looks like a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie so worn it’s probably been through a hundred washes. He sets them gently on the arm of the couch beside you.

“Shower’s through there,” he says, nodding toward the narrow hallway. “First door on the right. Towels are on the rack. The water takes a second to heat up.”

You blink up at him, the offer settling slowly over you like warmth. He doesn't say you look like a mess. Doesn’t tell you to clean yourself up. Just offers you comfort in the quietest way he knows how. You nod.

The bathroom is small, clean, and filled with that same soft golden light that seems to follow him everywhere. You peel yourself out of your dress, step under the spray, and let the steam unwind you. It’s the first time all night you feel like you’re breathing in something clean. Like maybe there’s still space in your skin for something that isn’t fear.

You stay until the water starts to run cold. When you finally step out, dressed in his clothes, skin still damp and flushed from the heat, your heart thuds with a strange, fragile kind of relief.

And then you see it.

The couch. The cushions have been cleared, a blanket folded neatly at the foot, pillow fluffed, a glass of water on the side table. One of the cats is curled up like a sentry near the armrest, blinking at you lazily as if to say it’s fine now.

You stare for a second. Because it’s not just that he made up the couch. It’s that he didn’t assume. Didn’t point you toward his bed. Didn’t insist. Didn’t press. He just knew.

You sit down slowly, tucking the blanket over your legs, body sinking into the cushions like they were waiting for you.

Minho reappears from the hallway, already dressed down—black joggers, a loose hoodie hanging off one shoulder, hair damp like he rinsed off too. He gestures toward the light. “You good if I kill this?”

You nod. He flips the switch. The room dims. He doesn’t say goodnight. Doesn’t do the awkward lingering thing. He just turns, quiet as always, and heads for his bedroom.

And for a moment, you let him go.

For a moment, you think it’s fine. But the second the door clicks shut, something tightens in your chest. Your breath catches. Your pulse jumps. That same fear from earlier curls back in under your skin—not loud, not sharp. Just a whisper now. A what if. What if he comes back. What if he finds out where you went. What if this silence isn't safety at all, but the space before another breaking point.

You sit up. “Minho?”

A beat. His door opens again. The light from his room spills into the hall. He’s already halfway back into the living room when he says, “Yeah?”

Your throat works around the words. They feel small. Silly. Needful. But you say them anyway. “Can you stay?”

He pauses. Looks at you. And you can tell—he knows. Knows exactly what you mean. Knows it’s not about him. Not about company. Not about flirting or closeness or warmth. It’s about safety. It’s about knowing the world can’t get to you if he’s there. He doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t make a sound. Just disappears for a second, then comes back with two blankets folded under one arm and a spare pillow under the other. He drops them on the floor beside the couch, shrugs out of his hoodie, and settles down without a word.

The hoodie slips off his shoulders in one smooth motion, revealing the thin black tank top underneath—clinging just enough to map the sharp cut of his collarbones, the slope of his shoulders.

You don’t mean to stare.

But the fabric hangs loose at the chest, dipping just low enough to expose the curve of ink over his left pectoral—black lines disappearing into shadow, something abstract and intricate. Just a glimpse. Just enough to wonder what the rest of it looks like when he breathes.

Minho doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does. Maybe he’s just too tired—or too gracious—to call you on it.

He lies on his back beside the couch, one arm tucked under his head, the other draped loosely over his stomach. Doongie circles once on the rug, then collapses beside him like a guard, chin resting on his forearm.

You turn onto your side. The room is still. Not quiet—still. Like the air itself is holding its breath. You don’t sleep. You can’t. Not with the phantom heat of a hand still lingering on your face. Not with the aftershocks of fear still curling around your ribs. Not with the weight of this unfamiliar kindness just a few feet away, warm and steady and unearned.

So you watch him. And eventually, he turns his head. Eyes open. Heavy-lidded but focused. A slow drag up your face. Your cheekbone. The faint shadow blooming just below your temple. His jaw ticks, subtle but sharp, and he doesn’t look away. You don’t flinch.

“Didn’t know you had a tattoo,” you whisper.

He blinks. Like the words take a second to land. “Mm.”

His gaze flicks down briefly—to where the fabric clings to his chest, then back to your face. There’s no smirk, no warning, just a shift in the air, like gravity tilting. “Wanna see it?”

The question isn’t loaded. It’s not teasing. It just is. You nod. Minho sits up slowly, one hand tugging at the hem of his tank top. The fabric slides up and over his head in one clean motion, soft and soundless. He tosses it to the side and leans back on his elbows, the muscles in his arms flexing, loose and languid.

The tattoo stretches across the left side of his chest—black ink, fine lines, bold shapes. It isn’t a compass. It’s a storm. A swirl of wind and waves, jagged mountains etched in silhouette. At its center, the faint outline of a wing—fractured and rising, like something caught between ruin and flight. The ink moves with him, flexes when he breathes, like it’s alive beneath his skin.

You stare.

Not because it’s beautiful—though it is—but because it feels right on him. Like he was born with it. Like whatever storm he came from left its mark on the inside first, and this was just its echo.

Your hand moves before you can stop it.

Slowly, like reaching for fire. Like asking for permission with the space between your fingers. When you don’t meet resistance, you touch him.

Just a single point at first—your fingertip landing lightly on the edge of the wing, where ink meets skin just beneath his collarbone. His breath hitches, subtle but real, a flicker of tension in his chest. You feel it before you hear it. Then you trace. Softly. Reverently. Down the curve of the wing, across the stormline where jagged wind spirals out into broken waves.

Your touch drags slow, deliberate, following the black lines like you’re learning a language. One that only his body speaks. Minho doesn’t move. He just watches you. The way your lashes lower, the way your lips part slightly like you’re holding your breath for him. The silence between you is thick but not heavy—dense with something neither of you are ready to name.

When your finger glides over the highest peak—inked mountain just above his heart—his head tilts back slightly, like the contact pulls something from him. His throat bobs with the swallow he doesn’t bother to hide. You pause. Right over his heart now. The skin is warm. Steady. And for a second, the storm beneath your own ribs goes quiet—like his rhythm tames yours without trying. He exhales.

His eyes flutter shut for a beat, then open again—slow, measured. He looks at you like you’ve unraveled something in him, like your touch left ink on him instead. But when his gaze drops lower, it changes. Softens. Darkens. And then his hand moves. Carefully. Cautiously. Like he’s seen too many things break when touched too fast.

He lifts it to your face, the backs of his fingers ghosting along your jaw—light enough to be mistaken for air. He doesn’t go straight for the bruise. He lingers near it, watching you, waiting for the slightest sign of retreat.

You don’t give it.

So he shifts—just slightly—until his knuckles brush the edge of the swelling beneath your eye. You flinch. Not because of the pain. Not because it hurts. Because of how gentle it is. Like he’s afraid to hurt you, like he doesn’t know how to hold something unless he’s sure it won’t shatter. Like he wants to carve your bruises from your skin and wear them instead. His fingers hover there. Still. Tense. A breath away from trembling.

“Fucker’s lucky I wasn’t there,” he murmurs.

You inhale—slow, shallow. The air catches in your throat like it’s thick with something unspoken, something too big to name. Minho’s hand starts to pull back. And maybe that’s why you speak. Maybe that’s why you reach for something else, anything else, before the room folds in too tightly.

“So,” you say, voice barely above a whisper, “that tattoo.”

Minho pauses. Just for a moment. His eyes flick back to yours, and he knows what you’re doing. Of course he does. The deflection is transparent, but he lets it happen anyway—lets you steer them away from the heaviness still clinging to your skin like ash.

“What about it?” he murmurs, settling back on his elbow, the other hand now resting on his chest near the ink you traced. You mirror him slightly, folding into the edge of the couch, letting your cheek rest against the pillow, eyes fixed on the storm etched into his skin.

“The wing,” you say after a beat. “In the center. What’s it mean?”

He’s quiet for a second.

Then: “Freedom.”

You blink. “It’s broken.”

His mouth quirks—barely a smile, not quite bitter. “Yeah. It usually is.”

You don’t know what to say to that. So you say nothing. Just let your gaze trace the peaks and spirals, the places where black lines blur like smoke, the edges of him carved in ink instead of bruises. His body tells a story too. You just haven’t read all the pages yet.

Minho shifts again, slowly lying back down on the floor, the side of his arm brushing the base of the couch now. You're above him on the couch, laying on your side so you can look at him.

“You can ask,” he says softly.

“About the tattoo?”

“About anything.”

You hum—soft, skeptical. The kind of sound that curls into the quiet and lingers, not quite a no, not quite a yes. You’re tired now. The real kind. The kind that settles into your limbs like gravity, like wet sand. Your eyes flutter half-shut, your voice feather-light.

“That sounds dangerous.”

Minho lets out a low exhale, something between a laugh and a sigh.

"Maybe.”

Your gaze slips to his again—his eyes open, trained on the ceiling like the answers might be there if he stares hard enough. One hand still rests loosely over his chest, the other pressed against your cheek.

You reach for it. Not with purpose. Not even with need. Just because it’s there. Because it feels like the thing to do.

Your fingertips graze his, gentle, thoughtless. And then his hand shifts—just slightly—so his pinky catches yours. Hooks. Holds.

It’s not a kiss. It’s not a confession.

But it feels like both.

You don’t speak for a while. Don’t need to.

The silence feels clean now. Like rain after smoke. Like you could fall asleep inside it without drowning.

Minho doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe too loud. Just lets you anchor there—your hand half-curled over his, your lashes brushing your cheek as your eyes slip closed.

But then, soft and slurred, half-dreaming:

“You have a nice voice.”

You feel his hand twitch. Just a little.

“Yeah?” he says, and it’s quieter than anything else he’s said tonight—rough around the edges like he doesn’t quite know what to do with the compliment.

You nod against the pillow. “Mhm.”

There’s a beat.

“You’ve heard me say some pretty fucked-up things.”

A ghost of a smile tugs at your lips. “Have I?”

He huffs a breath—not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. Just a sound with history behind it. With edge. With weight.

“Don’t play innocent,” he murmurs. “You remember.”

You do.

Of course you do.

Words like silk and smoke, coiled tight with implication. The things he said across the bar, into your drink, into your skin without ever laying a hand on you.

You remember all of them.

But you’re tired. Softened. And the edges of those memories feel dulled now—faded by warmth and flannel and the rhythm of his breathing a few feet from your chest.

So you hum again, lashes still pressed to your cheeks. “They didn’t sound fucked-up at the time.”

Minho’s quiet for a while after that. The kind of quiet that hums.

You can feel it in the space between your bodies—how the air thickens again, but not with tension. With memory. With the weight of everything you haven’t said and the things you probably never will.

“That’s the problem,” he says eventually, voice low enough that you almost miss it. 

Your eyes open again. Just barely. The room is still steeped in shadow, but your vision finds him easy—half-lit, half-lost in the floor beside the couch. One arm tucked beneath his head, the other still tethered to yours.

You study the line of his jaw, the way it tenses and relaxes like he’s caught between restraint and regret. He’s not looking at you anymore. Just staring at the ceiling again, like maybe it’ll answer for him this time.

“You say that like you’re proud of it,” you murmur.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t smirk. Just exhales, rough and dry.

“No,” he says. “I say it like I don’t know how to stop.”

That hurts in a way you didn’t expect. Not because of what he said—but because of the way he said it. Like a flaw in the foundation. Like a truth carved into him long before you ever stepped foot inside that bar.

You shift a little, turning more fully toward him, cheek pressed deeper into the pillow. Your fingers are still slotted with his. His skin is warm. Callused at the tips.

“You don’t have to stop,” you say quietly. “Just don’t lie about what you mean.”

That gets him.

His gaze flicks to yours—fast, sharp. Like he wasn’t expecting that. Like no one’s ever said it to him quite like that before.

“I never lied,” he says.

You blink at him. Slow. Sleepy. “No. But you hide.”

Minho doesn’t answer. Just watches you. Face unreadable. Chest rising slow beneath the ink on his skin.

And then, almost too soft to hear:

“I don’t want to scare you.”

That makes you pause. The silence stretches thin and long between you.

“You don’t.”

Minho swallows. His thumb brushes, barely, against your knuckle.

“Not yet.”

You shake your head. Your voice is nearly gone now—nothing but a breath. “I think I’m harder to scare than you think.”

His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. Not quite not.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, “I’m starting to believe that.”

The air settles again. Like the truth came in and made itself comfortable.

You close your eyes, finally letting your body sink into the couch. Letting the warmth of him—his hand, his presence, his voice—press into all the places that still feel fragile.

“Don’t stop talking,” you whisper.

He blinks. “What?”

“Your voice,” you murmur, already half gone. “It’s nice. It helps.”

And when you drift off like that—quiet, safe, held by nothing more than the sound of him—Minho stays awake long after. Eyes on the ceiling.

Still talking.

Just in case you can still hear him.

You wake to the scent of coffee and something faintly savory—garlic maybe, or eggs. The couch beneath you is warm where your body curled into it, blanket tangled around your legs. A cat is pressed to your ribs like a living paperweight, tail flicking once when you stir.

For a moment, you forget where you are. Forget what happened. Forget him.

Then the ache hits. Dull and deep, low in your chest and blooming outward. You shift to sit up, and it all comes back.

The club. The hands. The words.

The running.

And then—Minho.

His apartment is quiet now, but not empty. There’s music playing low from somewhere down the hall. You follow the sound on slow feet, dragging the blanket with you like armor.

You find him in the kitchen, barefoot in gray sweatpants and a loose black t-shirt, sleeves pushed up. He’s at the stove, spatula in one hand, coffee mug in the other. There’s a pan of eggs on the burner. A second mug waiting beside the sink.

He doesn’t turn when you enter. Just glances over his shoulder and says, “Mornin’.”

His voice is rough with sleep. Deeper. It hits somewhere low in your spine.

You hover at the doorway, feeling small in his clothes—his hoodie draped over your frame, sleeves too long, the hem brushing your thighs.

“You didn’t have to—”

“Making breakfast,” he says, cutting you off with casual finality. “You still eat, right?”

You blink. “I… yeah.”

“Good.” He turns back to the pan. “Then sit.”

You do. Quietly. At the counter, fingers curling around the warm ceramic of the mug he left for you. It smells like cinnamon.

He plates the eggs. Adds toast. Pushes the dish toward you and leans back against the counter with his own. He eats without looking at you at first, fork moving in clean, efficient motions.

When he does speak again, his voice is softer.

“You don’t have to go back.”

Your fork stalls halfway to your mouth.

“What?”

Minho lifts his gaze. Steady. Calm.

“I’m serious. If you don’t feel safe there…” He trails off, jaw tensing. “Stay here.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

He doesn’t let the silence stretch far.

“I’ve got room,” he adds. “Cats already like you. You don’t snore.”

That last part earns the smallest smile from you. “You don’t know that.”

“I was up half the night,” he says, mouth twitching. “I’d know.”

You look down at your plate, pretending to rearrange the toast like that’ll somehow buy you time to think. But the words—stay here—they’ve already lodged themselves under your ribs. Warm. Unexpected. Real.

And terrifying.

“I don’t want to be a burden,” you say finally. Quiet. Like if you speak too loud, you’ll ruin the softness of it all.

Minho sets his fork down.

The sound is soft, deliberate. When you glance up, he’s watching you again. Really watching—like he does when he’s about to say something that’ll cut deeper than you expect.

“You’re not.”

Just that. Nothing flowery. Nothing performative. Just the fact of it, laid bare on the table between you like it shouldn’t be questioned.

You want to believe him.

You almost do.

But then your fingers twitch near your coffee, and the pain in your face pulses a little sharper—pulling you back into the fragile ache of your own body. You shift to look away, to hide the swelling that’s bloomed across your cheekbone and down to your jaw.

But Minho doesn’t let you.

He moves around the counter slowly, like he’s trying not to spook you. His hand is warm when it finds your chin again—fingertips brushing along your jawline, coaxing your face toward his. Gentle. Grounded.

“Let me see.”

You don’t pull away.

You don’t want to.

His thumb ghosts beneath your cheekbone, skimming over the darkened bloom that’s bloomed overnight. His brow furrows—not in pity, not even in anger. Just... stillness. A silence that hums with the kind of fury he’s learned how to wear like armor.

His voice is low when it comes.

“I hate that he touched you.”

You blink. Something thick swells in your throat, too full to swallow down.

“I hate that I didn’t find you first.”

That hits you harder than it should.

You try to speak—but your voice sticks somewhere behind your teeth. So you just nod, your cheek pressing into his palm like your body can answer for you.

Minho doesn’t let go—not yet. His fingers trail down to the edge of your neck, where the fabric of his hoodie pools at your collarbone. You’re not sure if he realizes how close he’s gotten. How the warmth of him wraps around you now, even without touching anything else.

“I want you to stay,” he says again, steady now. “Not because I feel bad. Not because you need help. I want you here.”

Your next breath comes too fast. Too shallow.

His thumb moves again—just a gentle stroke along your jaw.

“Say something,” he murmurs.

You breathe in once, shaky and thin. “Okay.”

The corners of his mouth pull—slow, subtle. Not quite a smile. Something quieter. Relief, maybe.

He lets your face go with that same care—like he’s afraid it’ll leave a mark if he’s not gentle enough. Then he steps back, returns to his plate, and picks up his fork again like he didn’t just hand you the softest kind of shelter.

You take another bite of your eggs.

They taste better than they should.

You don’t move in all at once.

There’s no official decision, no suitcase moment. Just the slow accumulation of things—your toothbrush beside his, a sock that somehow never made its way back into your bag, a t-shirt folded neatly at the foot of the bed that you don’t remember taking off. A rhythm forms. One that begins with his voice in the morning—low, rough, coffee-laced—and ends with the soft click of the front door when he comes home from the bar past midnight, thinking you’re asleep.

You never are.

The apartment starts to feel different. Lived-in. Yours, even if you never say it out loud. Your shoes by the door. Your laughter echoing off the tile. Your perfume clinging to his sheets like memory.

Minho doesn’t comment. Not once. He just starts making a second cup of coffee without asking. Starts keeping almond milk in the fridge. Throws your laundry in with his like it’s never been separate.

And you—you watch him fall into it as easy as breath.

He moves through the apartment like smoke. Silent, confident, present in ways you’ve never been used to. There’s no performance with him, no empty gestures. If he folds your towel, it’s because it needed folding. If he brings home your favorite tea, it’s because he remembered. And if he looks at you too long in the mirror while you brush your teeth, it’s because he wants to, not because he expects anything in return.

One night, he comes home late. The bar ran over, and the cats had started pacing like they could feel the quiet shift without him. You’re curled on the couch in one of his hoodies, a half-finished movie playing on low, just waiting for the lock to turn. When it does, and he steps inside—shoulders drawn, eyes tired, the scent of smoke and whiskey clinging to him—you don’t say anything at first.

Just watch him.

He slips off his boots. Shrugs off his jacket. Walks into the kitchen and pours a glass of water like he’s not sure how to be here yet.

Then he grabs the pack from the counter.

You sit up.

“Minho.”

He pauses. Doesn’t look at you.

You rise slowly, tugging the sleeves of the hoodie over your hands, padding barefoot to meet him.

“You said you were trying to quit.”

“I am.”

“You’re also lighting a cigarette at midnight.”

He exhales through his nose. Tired. “Rough night.”

You stop just short of the threshold between the hallway and the kitchen, bare toes curling against the tile, the silence stretching taut between you.

“Want to talk about it?” you ask softly.

“No,” he says.

Not harsh. Not clipped. Just final.

Minho pulls the cigarette from the pack with that same familiar motion—two fingers, flick of the wrist. The sound of the lighter clicks once, twice, before the flame catches. He doesn't look at you as he inhales, jaw tight, lashes low. The cherry glows in the dim.

You wrap your arms around yourself.

He leans against the counter, exhales slow, smoke curling up toward the ceiling. It swirls around the line of his jaw, catches the faint sheen of sweat at his temples, clings to him like it’s part of his skin.

You hate how good he looks like this. Angry. Quiet. Unreachable.

But you hate more that you can’t reach him.

“Was it something at the bar?”

His lips twitch. He doesn’t answer.

You step closer, voice gentler now. “You don’t have to carry it alone, you know.”

“I’m not,” he says. Still not looking at you. “I’m carrying it just fine.”

You frown.

“Minho—”

“I said I’m fine,” he snaps.

And this time, it is clipped. Sharp. The kind of sharp that cuts more than it means to. He finally looks at you then—eyes rimmed with something hot and unreadable, mouth hard.

The silence that follows is cold.

You shift your weight, wounded but trying not to show it. “Okay.”

Minho’s jaw ticks. Like he wants to take it back, but doesn’t know how. Like everything in him is fraying at the edges, and you just happened to be the softest thing close enough to get caught in it.

He curses under his breath. Stubs the cigarette out halfway through, presses the filter down into the tray until it smears.

Then, quieter: “It’s not you.”

“I know.”

He runs a hand down his face, palm dragging hard across his mouth like he’s trying to erase himself. Then he sighs and looks at you—really looks at you. The hoodie swallowed around your frame. The bare legs. The worry softening your brow.

His voice breaks a little on the next part.

“Had a guy come into the bar tonight. One of those types—smiles too wide, looks through women instead of at them. He kept cornering this girl, leaning over the counter, asking me why I gave a shit when I told him to back off.”

You say nothing. Just listen.

Minho swallows. “He called me a cockblock. Said I must’ve been jealous.” His gaze drops, eyes narrowing. “Said I looked like the kind of guy who watches.”

You don’t interrupt.

“He grabbed her arm when she tried to leave. Wouldn’t let go."

The words hang there. Not just what he’s saying—but why he’s saying it. You feel it bloom in your chest. Cold. Familiar.

You walk the last few feet.

He doesn’t stop you this time.

Your hand finds his wrist—warm, tense, still trembling slightly. You run your thumb over the bone there, grounding him.

“You’re not that kind of man.”

“I know,” he says. “But I wanted to be.”

That makes you pause.

He looks up. His voice is low. Bitter.

“I wanted to slam him into the bar. Make him bleed. Make him feel small. And the worst part?” A breathless laugh. “I would’ve enjoyed it.”

“I know,” you whisper. “But you didn’t.”

“Yeah, well. Doesn’t mean I didn’t want to.”

You squeeze his hand.

It’s quiet for a while. The kitchen lit only by the soft amber under the cabinets, casting warm shadows along the tile. The cats have settled somewhere in the living room. Even the city feels hushed.

He rubs his thumb over your palm absently.

Then, suddenly: “He looked at her the same way—”

He stops himself. His jaw locks.

You swallow.

He doesn’t need to finish the sentence. You know.

And he knows you know.

So you step closer. Gently. Carefully. Press your forehead to his shoulder, breathing him in—smoke and soap and something like home. You pluck the cigarette from his lips and he lets you, watches as you toss it into the sink.

“Come to bed,” you murmur.

He doesn't move.

You tug on his hand again. “Please.”

Minho glances at you—eyes a little too tired, a little too dark—but he lets you guide him.

He doesn’t say much once you're in the bedroom. Just peels his shirt off and tosses it into the corner. You catch a glimpse of the tattoo on his chest again—the wing in the center of the storm, fractured, fighting to stay airborne.

You turn away to climb into bed, give him space.

But when you settle under the blanket, he’s already there. Already behind you. Warm and solid, arm slipping around your waist without hesitation. His chest to your back, his breath against your neck.

He’s quiet for a long time. And then:

“I hate that I couldn’t stop it. What happened to you.”

You close your eyes.

His fingers tighten slightly against your side. Not rough. Just firm. Just real.

“I think about it more than I should,” he murmurs. “What I’d do if I saw him again.”

You shift, just enough to feel him breathe differently—like your movement catches him off guard, like he wasn’t expecting you to respond. But you don’t turn around, not yet. You just let your voice slip into the quiet, soft and slow.

“What would you do?”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then another.

His breath ghosts across your shoulder. “Don’t ask me that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’d scare you.”

His voice is quiet, but not gentle. Measured. Sharp at the edges like he’s spent all night filing it down.

You blink slowly into the dark, heart thudding, air thick between your bodies. You feel him behind you—warm, solid, tense. A wall at your back. A shield. A fuse.

“Tell me anyway,” you whisper.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t exhale.

And just when you think he might pretend he didn’t hear you, Minho speaks.

“I’d wait,” he says, voice low, words heavy like molasses. “Wouldn’t say anything. Wouldn’t warn him. Just watch. Let him come close. Let him think he could try again.”

Your breath catches.

His fingers curl slightly where they rest on your waist, grounding himself in the shape of you.

“Then I’d take his hand,” Minho murmurs, “the one he used on you, and I’d break every fucking finger. One by one. Slow. Make sure he remembered why.”

A chill snakes down your spine.

Not fear.

Just something colder. Older. Like someone had finally said the thing you weren’t allowed to say out loud. That it wasn’t okay. That it would never be okay.

“And when he screamed,” Minho continues, voice almost tender now, “I wouldn’t stop. I’d make sure he understood what it feels like to lose control. To be small. Helpless. The way he made you feel.”

You turn in his arms.

Slowly. Deliberately.

Face to face now.

His jaw is clenched. Eyes storm-dark. He looks dangerous like this. Not because he’s violent. But because he’s loyal. Because he means every word and there’s no drama in his voice—just truth. Cold and clean.

You reach for him without thinking.

Your hand moves to his face, fingers threading into the hair at his temple, thumb brushing the curve of his cheekbone like you’re trying to soothe something in him—or maybe in yourself. And Minho… he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t soften either. He just lets you hold him, lets your touch settle over the anger still thrumming in his bones like a warning bell that hasn’t stopped ringing.

“You wouldn’t scare me,” you whisper.

His brow twitches, just slightly. “You should be scared of a man who wants to hurt for you.”

“No.” You shake your head. “I’ve been scared before. You’re not that kind of man.”

His mouth parts. His breath hits your lips. The weight in his eyes shifts—something cracks beneath it. Not entirely. Just a fracture. A weakness. A truth.

“You don’t know what I’d do,” he murmurs.

You lean in, close enough that your breath brushes his skin when you speak.

“I don’t need to,” you whisper. “I know what you’ve already done.”

His brow furrows, but you go on—soft and steady, the words falling between you like they’ve been waiting for a place to land.

“You made space. You listened. You held me when I couldn’t hold myself. You let me have silence without asking for anything in return.” Your fingers press more firmly against his jaw, thumb brushing just below his lower lip. “That’s enough. That’s more than anyone else ever did.”

Minho’s eyes darken—not with lust—but with something thicker. Something closer to reverence. Like the weight of your trust is heavier than all the violence he ever imagined inflicting in your name.

His hand rises slowly, palm cupping your cheek with a gentleness that borders on fragile. His thumb swipes beneath your eye like he’s checking for something he missed.

“I don’t deserve that,” he says, voice raw.

“Maybe not,” you murmur, pressing your forehead to his. “But you have it.”

And that’s what breaks him.

Not dramatically. Not all at once.

Just enough to make him move.

Minho kisses you like he’s falling. Like he’s been holding himself upright for so long, he doesn’t remember what it feels like to give in. His mouth finds yours, and there’s no hesitation in it—only heat, only hunger. His tongue slides against yours with a quiet groan that vibrates in your chest.

You gasp softly when he pushes you back, his body pressing you into the mattress, weight balanced on his forearms so he doesn’t crush you. One hand slips under your shirt, fingers skimming up your ribs, pausing just beneath the curve of your breast.

He pulls back barely an inch, eyes flicking over your face like a question.

His breathing is uneven, but his touch isn't. His hand rests there—still beneath your shirt, just barely cradling your breast like he's not sure he deserves to hold anything so soft. So willing. His thumb strokes gently, slowly, and his eyes search yours like he's waiting for a line to cross. Or worse—waiting for you to pull away.

You don’t.

Instead, you reach for the hem of your shirt, dragging it up with trembling fingers. You don’t break eye contact. Don’t speak.

You just offer.

And Minho accepts.

He helps, silent, peeling it over your head with quiet reverence. He looks at you like you’re made of something rare and unrepeatable. And when his gaze drags over your chest, down the soft swell of your ribs to your stomach, he breathes your name like a confession.

His voice is wrecked when he says it—your name, cracked and reverent like he’s saying it for the first time. Like it’s a word he isn’t worthy of.

“Fuck, look at you.” His hands drag down your sides, slow and sure, palms wide and heavy like he’s trying to ground himself. He shifts over you, mouth lowering to your breast, and he moans as soon as his lips close around your nipple—no restraint, no performance. Just need. He sucks hard. Just once. Like he can’t help himself. Then he pulls back, panting, and shakes his head like he’s already losing it. “I’m not gonna last if you keep looking at me like that.”

You smile—lazy, wrecked, already warm all over—and tilt your head just enough for your lashes to sweep up, gaze locked on his. You reach for him, fingers trailing down his arm until your palm flattens against his chest, right over the fractured wing. “I’m not looking at you like anything,” you whisper.

Minho’s breath stutters—one of those shallow, fractured exhales that says he doesn’t believe you for a second. Not when your palm is flat against his chest, thumb grazing the tip of that wing inked over his heart. Not when your eyes look like that—half-lidded, dark, shining with something he’s not sure he deserves.

“Yeah,” he mutters, voice rough. “Keep lying to me.”

But he doesn’t pull away. He watches you. Watches the way your hand trails lower, slow and certain, down the cut of his abdomen. Fingertips ghosting over the faint dip of muscle, over the waistband of his pants, teasing the edge like you’re not sure yet—like he has any say in it anymore.

Minho goes still. Not because he doesn’t want it. God, he does. He’s so hard it hurts, cock straining against the fabric, already leaking for you. But there’s something in his face—tightness around the mouth, tension in his jaw. A flicker of control barely clinging to the edge. And you see it. You see all of it. So you press your lips to his collarbone—soft, reverent—and whisper, “Let me.”

Minho shudders. And then he nods. You sink down the bed a little, propping yourself on one elbow, other hand already slipping beneath his waistband. He lifts his hips to help, pants shoved just low enough to free him. His cock springs up, flushed and thick, tip slick with precome, veins standing in sharp relief.

“Jesus,” you murmur, fingers curling around the base. “You’re so hard…”

“Because of you,” he rasps. “You lying, teasing little thing—”

You give him a slow stroke, and he chokes.

You give him another stroke, tighter this time, and the sound he makes punches straight through you—low and ragged, a shattered groan caught in the back of his throat. His hips twitch, almost against his will, and you can feel the restraint vibrating through his body, every muscle tight like he’s on the verge of snapping.

“You’re shaking,” you whisper, almost teasing. “What happened to all that control?”

Minho laughs—just barely. Just a breath.

“Keep talking like that,” he mutters, “and I’ll ruin you before you even get the chance to try.”

But the way his eyes flutter shut when you twist your wrist on the upstroke says otherwise. “Hah—fuck—” He’s panting now, head tipped back, one arm holding himself up beside your head for support while the other fists the sheets like he needs something—anything—to hold onto.

You lean up, breath brushing the underside of his jaw, your voice soft and honey-sweet in his ear.

“You gonna beg for it?”

He freezes. His eyes snap open, and there’s something electric in the silence between you. His cock throbs in your hand, twitching like the idea alone nearly undid him. He turns his head slightly, lips brushing yours.

“Do you want me to?” he whispers.

You smile, smug and slow. “Wouldn’t hate it.”

He groans—deep, guttural, wrecked—and it makes your cunt clench. He looks like he could devour you whole, like he might if you ask nicely. Or if you don’t.

“I’d get on my fucking knees if you told me to,” he mutters, mouth moving along your jaw, your cheek, your throat. His hand finds your hip and grips, firm enough to bruise. “I’d crawl. I’d beg. I’d say please—is that what you want?”

You don’t answer. You just stroke him again—slow, tight, deliberate—and feel the way he shudders against you, how his whole body flinches like your hand alone is enough to wreck him.

“Mm— baby, slow down—fuck—” He buries his face in your neck, teeth grazing skin.

“I’ll give it to you,” he murmurs. “Anything. You want me desperate? Pathetic? Done. Just say it.”

You hum, soft and pleased, lips brushing his temple. “I think I like you pathetic.”

Minho groans—“Fuck, you’re evil,”—but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he sinks into it. Into you. Every stroke of your hand wrings another sound from his throat, each more desperate than the last.

You swipe your thumb over the slit, smear precum down the shaft, and his entire body jolts.

“Shit—don’t—f-fuck—”

“You gonna make a mess in my hand, baby?” you ask sweetly, tightening just a little. “Gonna come like this? Without even being inside me?”

He growls. “No.”

You blink up at him, lips parting in mock surprise. “No?”

Minho pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes absolutely wrecked. Hair messy, jaw clenched, throat flushed with effort. He’s trying so fucking hard not to lose it.

“I’m not coming until I’m inside you,” he says, voice low, dark, edged with pure hunger. “Until I’m fucking deep in that pretty cunt, feeling you squeeze me while I lose it. You think I can come just from your hand?”

He leans in, nose to yours, breath harsh. “I’d beg for the chance to do it right.”

You blink once. Then twice. Then you let go of his cock. Minho groans like it physically hurts.

“Then beg.” He stares at you. One long, heavy moment. Then he kneels back on his haunches, hands splayed on your thighs, and dips his head.

“Please.”

Just one word—but fuck, the way he says it. Voice hoarse, raw, like it’s scraped from the bottom of his chest. His lips graze the inside of your knee as he speaks again.

“Please, let me in. Let me fuck you slow. Let me feel you stretch around me.”

You exhale shakily.

He presses another kiss higher. “Let me make you come on my cock. Let me ruin you so good you forget anyone else ever touched you.”

Your thighs tremble. He reaches for your underwear, eyes flicking to yours for permission, and when you nod—barely, breathless—he tugs them down with reverence, slow enough to make you whimper.

Minho drags your underwear down your legs like it’s the last ribbon off a present, like beneath it is something he’s been waiting his whole life to unwrap. When the fabric slips past your ankles, he tosses it somewhere behind him without a glance. His gaze never leaves you. You’re already soaked.

He sees it—feels it when he runs two fingers through your folds, slow and deliberate, spreading you open with a breathless “fuck me.” His knuckles tremble.

He sees everything. Every flutter of your lashes, every twitch of your thighs, every slick sound his fingers make as they glide through you, slow and reverent. His knuckles tremble, but his touch doesn’t falter—not even a little. If anything, the way his hand moves only deepens, turns hungrier.

“Fuck me,” he breathes again. He parts you with two fingers, spreads your folds and watches your cunt clench on nothing, dripping for him, aching.

“Look at you,” he mutters, like he can’t help it. “So wet I can see my reflection. What the fuck did I do to deserve this?”

You’re panting now, back arching just slightly off the sheets, eyes half-lidded but fixed on him, on the way he looks at you like you’re something sacred and ruined all at once.

“Touch me,” you whisper. “Please.”

Minho sinks two fingers into you in one smooth stroke—slow, thick, curling just right until your breath hits the back of your throat. He groans, low and guttural, watching your cunt stretch around his fingers like it’s something holy.

“So fucking tight,” he grits out, voice wrecked. “How the fuck am I gonna fit my cock in you if you’re already this tight around my fingers?”

The question is low, more to himself than to you, but it rips through you like heat, like lightning. Your walls flutter helplessly around his fingers at the thought, and Minho groans—long, drawn out, wrecked.

“Oh, you like that,” he breathes. “You want me to stretch you open, don’t you?”

Your answer is a breathy whimper, more sound than word—your hips canting up, your fingers curling in the sheets. Minho watches you, chest rising and falling like he’s the one being touched, like you are the thing unraveling him.

“Fuck,” he hisses, and then he’s lining up. His cock drags through your folds, thick and flushed, already smeared with your slick. He grinds once—slow, deliberate—letting the head catch against your clit before slipping lower. When he presses in, the stretch burns, even as your cunt welcomes him, soaking and clenching and shaking just from the promise of it.

“Jesus—ngh, fuck—you’re tight,” he growls, jaw clenched, forehead tipped against yours. “Gonna ruin me.”

He gives you an inch. Then another. Then thrusts the rest of the way in with a groan that sounds like it’s been caged in his throat for weeks.

You cry out—sharp, startled, stretched to the brim in one sudden, devastating motion.

“Minho—”

“Shh,” he pants, not stopping. His hips roll into yours, hard and deep, dragging his cock through your walls like he’s trying to etch himself into them. “You can take it. I know you can. Look at you—fuck—made for this.”

The first few thrusts are brutal. Snapping, deliberate, filthy. Your thighs tremble. Your back arches. He pins your hips down like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he doesn’t keep you there. Every time he sinks back in, your breath knocks out of your lungs, and his name falls from your lips like a prayer—wrecked, endless, real.

“Just like that,” he grits, cock dragging against your walls, soaked in you. “Let me fuck it into you—let me make you feel me.”

But then— Then he slows. Not because he has to. Because he wants to. Because he wants to feel all of it. His hand slides under your thigh, hikes your leg higher around his waist, and he sinks into you again—slower this time. Deeper. His hips roll instead of snap, the rhythm shifting into something that feels closer to worship than fucking.

He fucks into you slow, deep—each thrust wringing a breathy moan from your throat, each drag of his cock carving his name deeper into the heat of you. The sweat on his skin glistens under the low light, hair clinging to his forehead, jaw tight with effort and restraint. You’re clinging to him now—arms looped around his shoulders, nails dragging across his back, body arching to meet every roll of his hips. And then he says it—low, ragged, right in your ear.

“Feel good?”

You gasp, nod, whisper-plead a breathless “Yes.”

He hums—a soft, dark thing, almost smug. He thrusts a little harder, just once, like a reward, like a test. “Yeah?” he pants. “How good? Tell me."

You try—but your voice catches. It’s just air at first, punched out of you by the deliberate grind of his hips, by the thick, aching stretch of him moving so slowly inside you you could scream. You manage a broken, breathy sound: “So—fuck—so good…”

And Minho groans. Long, low, full of grit. He kisses your jaw, your cheek, your lips—messy, hot, open-mouthed. His breath fans against your skin as he mutters, “That all you’ve got for me, baby?”

You dig your nails in—fuck him, he knows what he’s doing. He knows exactly how good he feels, the way his cock strokes that spot just right, again and again, with filthy precision. The way his hand curls around your thigh to keep you spread for him, to keep you right there

You whimper his name—soft, ruined—like it’s the only word you remember, and he groans, sharp and deep, lips dragging along the sweat-slick curve of your throat.

“God, you feel—” he pants, voice splintered, barely holding. “You feel so fucking good, baby. You’re so tight, so warm, you—fuck, you ruin me.”

Another thrust—slow, deep, devastating—and your head falls back against the pillow, mouth open in a silent cry. Minho watches your face twist, watches your chest heave, and it breaks something in him.

“I—shit—I think I’m in love with you.”

It slips out like a sin. Like he didn’t mean to say it out loud. Like he couldn’t hold it in one second longer.

Your whole body goes still beneath him—just for a moment. Like your brain’s catching up. Like his words are a second kind of penetration, sharp and unexpected. He freezes, too. Breath held. Eyes wide. The moment burns.

And then you whisper, broken and trembling: “Say it again.”

Minho doesn’t hesitate this time. “I love you.”

He moans it into your mouth, like it hurts to say, like it hurts more not to. His hand slides up your side, tender now, reverent.

“I fucking love you,” he says again, forehead pressed to yours, hips still rolling deep, slow, full of everything he never knew how to say before now.

“You hear me? You’re not just someone I fuck, you’re—god, you’re everything.”

Your lips part—words rising up like breath, like instinct—but you don’t get the chance.

Minho kisses you before you can speak.

Not soft. Not tentative. It’s all tongue and teeth, heat and hunger, the kind of kiss that steals thought and gives only feeling in return. His mouth crashes into yours like he’s been starving for it—like he’s still starving, even now, with his cock buried deep inside you and your body curled so sweetly beneath his.

You gasp into him, and he drinks it down—tongue licking into your mouth, filthy and tender and real.

And then it’s all friction.

The slow roll of his hips turns urgent, dragging moans from your throat he swallows between kisses. He fucks into you like he means it now—like every thrust is a promise carved into your bones. You cling to him, helpless against the way your body arches, the way your cunt tightens around him, soaked and pulsing, every nerve on fire.

“M-Min—hah—Minho—”

He pulls back just long enough to look at you—just long enough to let you see how wrecked he is, how far gone, how in it he is with you.

“You’re mine,” he pants, voice rough and wrecked, thrusts hitting deeper now, harder, his hand gripping your thigh to keep you open for him. “You hear me? Say it.”

You nod, broken. “Yours—fuck, I’m yours—”

And that’s all he needed.

He groans—loud, guttural—and buries himself deeper, cock twitching as he fucks you through it. His thrusts lose rhythm, chasing his high, and you’re barely hanging on, every drag of him inside you rubbing all the right places, the sweet heat spiraling again in your belly.

You’re both so close. So close.

And when you come again—tight and soaked and shaking all around him—he feels it. Feels you flutter and pull and milk him until he can’t hold back anymore.

He buries his face in your neck, gasping your name as he spills inside you, hips stuttering, voice wrecked.

“I love you—fuck—I love you, I love you—”

It’s not gentle when he comes.

It’s everything.

And when the tremors subside, when your nails loosen from his back and your breaths sync again, he still doesn’t let you speak.

Not yet.

He just kisses you.

And kisses you.

And kisses you.

You learn something about Minho that night. That as nonchalant and unshakable as he seems—cool and composed, cigarette smoke and sharp tongues—when he gets going, he doesn’t stop. Not until you’re crying his name again. Not until your thighs tremble and your voice is wrecked and your body’s too boneless to beg for more, even though your eyes still plead with him.

You lose track of how many times.

The night runs long and slow and molten—fucking turns to touching, touching turns to laughing, and every kiss feels like a secret passed between mouths.

Now, the room is quiet again. Still.

You’re sprawled across the sheets, skin bare, limbs warm and heavy with exhaustion. The duvet’s been kicked down to your ankles, your body slick with the soft sheen of sweat, your chest rising in steady, sated waves.

Minho is gone—but only for a second.

You hear the quiet thud of the fridge door, the sound of a glass under the tap. When he returns, he’s shirtless, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, and he’s holding out a glass of water like it’s some sacred offering.

“Drink,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep and sex. You sit up just enough to take it, careful not to meet his eyes at first—and then you see them.

The marks. Dark smudges blooming across the sharp cut of his hips. Nail trails raked down the meat of his shoulders. A bite on his collarbone, faint and already bruising. All yours. And suddenly you feel… Shy.

You didn’t before—when his mouth was on you, when his hands were everywhere, when your back arched and you begged him not to stop. But now, in the soft quiet, with morning somewhere close on the horizon, it hits you. So you reach for the blanket, dragging it up your chest like modesty matters, like you didn’t spend the whole night unraveling beneath him.

Minho sees. Of course he sees.

And he smiles.

That slow, crooked thing. The one that doesn’t show teeth but somehow says everything.

“Oh?” he murmurs, placing the water on the nightstand before crawling back into bed. “Now you’re shy?”

You don’t answer. Just burrow into the pillow, cheeks hot. He slips beneath the duvet anyway—doesn’t give you a choice. Just tugs it down again with a smug little hum, eyes flicking across your face like he’s trying to memorize the exact shade of your embarrassment.

“I like the marks,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder. “Wish you’d left more.”

You blink at him. He just keeps going—slow, lazy kisses trailed down your arm, his body curling around yours like he can’t bear the distance. One arm loops under your waist. The other hooks over your thigh. And then he’s half on top of you, all weight and warmth and him. Clingy.

He tucks his face into your neck like it’s the only place he knows how to breathe. His nose nuzzles behind your ear, lips brushing the shell of it when he speaks again—low, slurred, thick with sleep and smugness.

“Gonna have to start wearing long sleeves to work.”

You choke on a breath, eyes fluttering open. “Because of me?”

“Mm.” He kisses your jaw. “Unless I want to get fired.”

You raise an eyebrow. "You work at a bar, not an office."

“Yeah,” Minho hums, lazy and amused. “But people tip more when I’m unmarked.”

The words slip out casual, offhand—like a throwaway comment he doesn’t mean anything by.

But your smile falters anyway.

Just a flicker. Just enough for him to see it.

You shift beneath him, eyes drifting away, teeth catching your lower lip before you can stop the twist of something sour in your gut. You don’t say anything—not right away—but your silence says enough.

Minho stills.

Then lifts his head, just barely, so he can see your face.

“Hey.”

You blink up at him, startled by the sudden seriousness in his voice.

“Does it bother you?” he asks, tone low. Honest. “Because I’ll quit.”

Your heart stutters.

“What?”

“I mean it.” His hand slides up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. “If you don’t like it—me working there, people flirting, whatever—I’ll quit. I don’t give a fuck about the tips.”

You open your mouth, but he cuts you off before you can answer.

“I only took that job to kill time. To pay rent. But you—” His brow furrows. “You’re not something I’m willing to risk for a few extra bills thrown in a jar.”

You swallow hard.

He watches you.

Your eyes search his face—his furrowed brow, the firm set of his mouth, the dark smudge of sleep still softening the corners of his eyes—and there’s no doubt. No teasing in his voice, no smirk on his lips. Just Minho. Serious. Steady. Unflinching in his honesty.

“I’d rather be yours than anyone’s favorite bartender,” he says, quieter this time.

Your throat tightens.

And for a second, you can’t speak. You can only stare, caught between the weight of his words and the way his fingers stay curled so gently around your jaw—like you might vanish if he lets go.

You whisper, “I don’t want you to quit.”

He waits.

You blink slowly, pulling in a breath thick with the scent of him, the warmth of his body still heavy across yours. “I just didn’t like the idea of someone else looking at you like I look at you.”

Minho’s expression shifts—barely, but you feel it. Something in his chest loosens. His eyes soften, flicking between yours.

“No one else gets to,” he says simply. “Not anymore.”

You exhale, shaky with something that feels suspiciously close to relief. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He leans down, brushes his lips against yours—so soft, so sure. “They can look all they want. But I go home with your marks on me. I come home to you.”

Your pulse trips. Your hand fists the sheets at your side, but he feels it. Feels the way the tension bleeds out of you when he says it like that. Like a promise.

And then he flops on top of you.

Dead weight. Limbs loose. Hair flopping messily across his forehead as he buries his face in your chest with a dramatic sigh.

You laugh, startled. “Minho!”

“Mmm,” he grunts, nuzzling between your breasts. “Too early for serious talks. Thought we were in our post-sex cuddling era.”

You squirm under the sudden weight, still giggling, breath hitching when his cheek brushes the swell of your breast. “We can’t be in our post-sex cuddling era if you suffocate me in it.”

He hums again. Doesn’t move.

Just slings an arm over your ribs like a human paperweight, sighs through his nose like he’s never been more at peace. “Shhh,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep. “You love it.”

You do.

You really, really do.

You let your fingers find his hair, carding gently through the tangled strands at his nape. He melts into it, chest rising and falling slow against your stomach. The silence between you stretches—soft, golden, alive with the echo of everything that came before. Of everything that now lingers.

Minho doesn’t say anything else for a while. He just breathes you in. Lets you trace lazy shapes along his spine. Lets his lips ghost across your skin every now and then, aimless, unthinking. Like he needs the taste of you to fall asleep.

Eventually, you murmur, “You’re not really gonna wear long sleeves, are you?”

He snorts into your chest. “Hell no.”

“Good,” you whisper.

He hums again, content. Almost purring.

Then, after a beat: “Might even go shirtless.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

“Mmhmm.” His voice is muffled against your skin, low and lazy. “Let ‘em see everything. Let ‘em know I’m taken. Ruined. Whipped.”

You huff a laugh, warm and breathless, chest shifting beneath him. “You’re not whipped,” you tease, even though your heart trips a little at the word. The way he says it like a badge of honor, like something he wants people to know.

Minho doesn’t move. Doesn’t even lift his head.

“Babe,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin with every syllable, “I let you suck a bruise into my neck while my dick was still inside you. I think the jury’s in.”

Your face heats instantly. “Oh my god—”

He grins, smug and sleepy and so clearly unrepentant. “Should’ve taken a picture. Hung it behind the bar.”

“You’re not serious.”

“I’m so serious.” He nuzzles into your sternum, exhales a satisfied sigh. “Caption it: Do not touch. Fed and fucked.”

You groan, dragging a hand over your face. “You’re insane.”

He chuckles. “I’m in love.”

The words land softer than they should, but firmer than you'd expect. Not casual—comfortable. Like truth in its final form. And you feel it, all the way down: the weight of his affection, the certainty of it, so tangled up in the ridiculous things he says that it feels like breathing.

You wrap your arms around him, pulling him closer even though there’s nowhere left for him to go. “You’re still insane,” you whisper, lips pressed to his hairline.

“And you’re stuck with me.”

The truth of it rings out between you—not heavy, not sharp. Just there. Simple. Whole. You are. He is.

His fingers drum a slow beat against your ribs. He studies you for a second longer, then tucks himself back in, face hidden against your skin, every inch of him wrapped around you like a shield.

“Go to sleep,” he murmurs, already halfway there. “We can fall in love more tomorrow.”

You close your eyes.

And you do.

It’s been a few weeks.

A few golden, quiet, full-bodied weeks—where everything that once felt fragile now feels real. Whole. Yours.

Minho had asked you properly—booked out the bar for the night, turned the lights low, played your favorite song on vinyl, and gave you a private bartender show complete with one too many shirtless shaker tricks and your name carved into a lemon twist.

He cooked, too. And kissed you between courses. And pulled you into his lap to ask—not casually, not like it was assumed—if you’d be his girlfriend.

You said yes.

Of course you did.

And now you live together. Officially. Your clothes are in his drawers. His toothbrush sits next to yours. He makes you coffee and you fold his laundry and somewhere in the haze of shared spaces and soft kisses, you forgot what it felt like to flinch.

And then it happens fast.

One moment, you’re walking up the block—hands tucked into your sleeves, heart light from the texts Minho sent not even ten minutes ago.

[Minho] : hurry up[Minho] : wear that thing i like [Minho] : might be drunk by the time you get here if i keep taste-testing the menu

The bar’s glowing ahead, amber light spilling out of the windows like warmth. You’re already rehearsing the way you’ll slip onto a barstool, lean over the counter just far enough for him to grab your waist and kiss you across the spill mat—

You weren’t expecting him.

The ex.

Slurring your name like a threat. Blocking the sidewalk like a curse you thought you’d buried for good.

And for a second, it startles you. Not because you’re afraid—no, not anymore. But because how dare he.

How dare he still think he has access. How dare he act like the time you spent clawing your way out of the wreckage didn’t matter. Like the scars he left didn’t teach you how to fight.

You meet his stare.

Voice steady. “Get out of my way.”

“Oh, now you’ve got a mouth?” he slurs, taking a step forward. “What, dick that good it grew you a backbone?”

You don't flinch.

Not when he leans in, not when he sways close enough for you to smell the sour reek of alcohol clinging to his breath like bile. Not even when his voice drops lower, curling around your name like it still belongs to him.

It doesn't.

"You heard me," you say again, firmer this time. "Move."

But he doesn't. He laughs instead—ugly, mean, mouth curled in that old, familiar smirk that used to make your stomach sink.

Now it just makes you angry.

“You always thought you were better than me,” he sneers, stepping closer, invading your space like he owns it. “Acting like you're some fucking saint now, just ‘cause you got a new dick to suck—”

You move to sidestep him, but his hand shoots out—grabbing your wrist, hard.

Too hard.

You stumble back with a gasp, shoulder slamming into the brick wall of the alley beside the bar. Pain sparks up your arm, sharp and hot where his fingers dig into your skin.

"Let—go of me—"

He doesn't.

His grip tightens.

“Don’t fucking walk away from me—”

And then it happens in a blink.

A blur of dark hair, a sharp crack of movement, and suddenly your ex is off you, shoved back so fast and so hard he nearly falls into the curb. The momentum knocks him sideways, but he catches himself, stumbling back with a curse.

Minho steps between you.

Calm.

Controlled.

Lethal.

Minho’s voice is low. Measured.

“You have until the count of three.”

Your ex scoffs, bloodshot eyes narrowing. “The fuck are you gonna—”

“Three.”

No warning. No buildup.

Just violence.

Minho’s fist slams into his jaw with a sickening crack, the force of it snapping his head sideways. He stumbles—off-balance, stunned—but Minho doesn’t let up. Another punch, straight to the ribs, and you hear the breath leave his lungs in a strangled wheeze.

Your ex hits the ground hard.

But Minho’s not done.

He drops to one knee beside him—precise, deliberate—and grabs his hand.

The hand he used on you.

You freeze, breath caught in your throat.

Because you remember.

“Then I’d take his hand, the one he used on you, and I’d break every fucking finger. One by one. Slow. Make sure he remembered why.”

And now—

Now you watch it unfold in real time.

Minho takes that wrist in both hands, pins it to the pavement, and presses down—hard—until your ex screams.

“No—no, fuck—stop—!”

Minho’s grip doesn’t waver.

He curls his fingers around one of your ex’s.

“First one,” he mutters—almost gently. Like he’s naming something, not destroying it.

Then he bends.

The crack is sharp, grotesque. It splits the air like a firework misfired—brief and brutal and final.

Your ex howls, voice cracking as he thrashes beneath Minho’s knee, but it doesn’t matter. Minho doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch.

Just shifts to the next finger.

“Second.”

Another break. Another scream.

You don’t look away.

You should—maybe. A part of you knows that. But the rest of you, the part that remembers—remembers shaking hands, bruised ribs, the way your ex used to whisper apologies into your hair while you cried onto the bathroom tile—that part of you watches.

And breathes.

Minho leans closer.

Not loud. Not unhinged. Just cold.

“Third.”

Crack.

Your ex is crying now. Tears, snot, spit—he’s babbling nonsense, slurring pleads that dissolve into whimpers.

“Stop—please—I didn’t—fuck, I didn’t mean—”

Minho grabs the fourth finger. “You meant it every time.”

“Fourth,” he says, and the word falls like a guillotine.

He pulls.

The snap is quieter this time—deeper, more internal. A tendon giving way. A joint yanked cruelly from its socket. Your ex lets out a broken sound, not quite a scream anymore. Not loud. Just raw. Hollow. The kind of sound a man makes when he realizes no one’s coming to save him.

Minho still hasn’t raised his voice.

Hasn’t needed to.

Because this isn’t rage. It isn’t revenge.

It’s justice.

Delivered slow. Delivered steady. Delivered by the man who saw every crack in you and loved you anyway—especially because you survived them.

Minho shifts again.

“Fifth.”

“No,” your ex gasps, eyes rolling, lips slick with blood from where he must’ve bitten through them. “No—no more, I—please, please, I—”

But Minho’s hand is already there, curling around that last finger like a closing grave.

And this time, he doesn’t say anything.

He just looks at him—right in the eyes. Like he wants this to be the last thing your ex ever remembers when he reaches for something in the dark.

Then he snaps it clean.

The sound is sickening.

The scream is hoarse. Shredded. Barely human.

“Touch her again,” Minho murmurs, bending the wrist back until the guy writhes, “and I’ll break your fucking spine next.”

And finally—finally—Minho lets go.

He rises slowly, like he’s not rushing to leave the wreckage behind, like he wants your ex to feel every second of what it means to be beneath him. A shadow cast by justice. A reminder that some hands don’t heal—they answer.

He turns to you.

And all of it—the sharpness, the stillness, the steel in his spine—it bleeds away when his eyes meet yours.

He sees the shock there, the tremble hiding in your shoulders.

And he moves to you—not with fire this time, but with the same careful quiet he always gives you after storms. Hands gentle. Expression softer now, but no less certain.

“You okay?” he murmurs, brushing a thumb over your cheek.

You nod—but it’s shallow. Fragile.

So he cups your face in both hands, grounding you.

“Look at me,” he says. “You’re safe. You’re safe now.”

And you know it's true.

Because he is here.

Behind you, the sirens wail.

[imagine-all-the-imagines]

NEW STORY!!! 🤤🤤🤤

Pairing: Mafia Ateez OT8x Reader

Warnings: smut, fluff, angst, poly ateez, violence and weapons, mafia ateez, organized crime, parental death and grieving process, bullying, possessive and controlling behavior,

Summary: When Y/n Ricci is forced to marry Kim Hongjoong—leader of the notorious ATEEZ organization and one of eight men who cruelly abandoned her seven years ago—she finds herself trapped in their heavily guarded compound with the ghosts of her past. As she navigates the dangerous world of mafia politics and her own wounded heart, Y/n discovers that all eight powerful, irresistible men still harbor deep feelings for her, suggesting an unconventional solution to their shared dilemma. But before she can consider forgiving them, let alone loving them again, she must uncover the dark secret that tore them apart—a truth that could either heal their fractured bonds or destroy them all completely.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

18+ only- No Minors

Chapter 1: Ice in your Veins

The crystal decanter shattered against the wall, sending shards of glass and amber liquid cascading across your father's office.

"You've lost your goddamn mind!" you shouted, your chest heaving with each ragged breath. "An arranged marriage? What century do you think we're living in?"

Your father, Don Ricci, didn't even flinch. He simply stared at you with those cold, calculating eyes—the same eyes that had ordered countless men to their deaths. The same eyes you'd inherited.

"Y/n," he said, his voice steady and low. "You've always known this day would come."

"Known? Known?" you spat the word like venom. "I never agreed to be some bargaining chip in your twisted game of power."

He sighed, rising from his leather chair to pour himself another drink from a second decanter—as if he'd anticipated your outburst. Of course he had. Your father always seemed to know what cards would be played before they were even dealt.

"This isn't a game, cara mia. It's survival." He swirled the amber liquid, watching it catch the light. "The Ricci family needs this alliance."

"Then make it with guns and money like you always do," you hissed. "Not with your daughter's life."

"The Kim family has always been our ally. Hongjoong's father and I have been friends since before you were born," he said, his expression softening slightly with nostalgia. "But times are changing. The old alliances need to be... reinforced."

"So call him up for dinner like you used to! Remember those Sunday gatherings with all the families?" Your voice cracked. "You don't need to sell your daughter to maintain a friendship!"

Your father's eyes narrowed. "This isn't just about friendship, Y/n. This is about survival. The Russo family is encroaching on all our territories. Together, our families are stronger."

You laughed bitterly. "So you're afraid of them? The great Don Ricci, trembling before—" You froze mid-sentence, the full implications hitting you. "Wait. Kim? As in Kim Hongjoong? That Hongjoong?"

Your father's eyes met yours, a flicker of understanding passing through them. "Yes. The same boy you used to run around with. You and those eight boys were inseparable once—until they weren't."

The name hit you like a physical blow. You gripped the edge of his desk to steady yourself, memories flooding back in a dizzying rush—laughter shared under summer stars, secrets whispered in the darkness, and then... nothing. Seven years of nothing.

"No," you whispered. "Anyone but him."

Your father watched you carefully, more perceptive than you'd given him credit for. "I thought you'd be pleased. You were close once, all of you. The sons of my most trusted allies." He paused, studying your reaction. 

You turned away, unwilling to let him see the pain in your eyes. "Apparently we weren’t as close as I thought."

"I don’t have the energy for you tonight," he sighed. "This alliance is necessary. The Kim, Park, Jeong, Kang, Choi, Song, and Jung families—we've controlled this city for generations. Now we need to ensure it stays that way for generations to come."

"How considerate of you," you sneered, finding your voice again. "And I suppose Hongjoong has already agreed to this?"

"He has. In fact, it was his father who proposed it."

Something sharp and painful twisted in your chest. So that's how it was. The boy who had once sworn he would always protect you had agreed to make you a prisoner in your own life.

"Did you ever stop to wonder," you asked quietly, dangerously, "why they all disappeared from my life? Why your 'trusted allies' sons suddenly wanted nothing to do with me?"

Your father's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes. "The world we live in is complicated, Y/n. Boys become men. Priorities shift."

"Bullshit," you spat. "Something happened. Something you're not telling me."

Don Ricci set down his glass with deliberate care. "What I know is that we need this alliance, and Hongjoong is willing. That's all that matters now."

* * *

Across the city, Hongjoong stood at the window of his penthouse office, staring out at the glittering skyline. Behind him, Seonghwa watched his leader carefully, noting the tension in his shoulders.

"You told Don Ricci you'd marry his daughter," Seonghwa said, not a question but a statement.

Hongjoong didn't turn. "I did what was necessary for the family."

"And what about Y/n?" Seonghwa asked, his voice carefully neutral. "Do you think she'll agree?"

A bitter smile crossed Hongjoong's face. "Y/n doesn't have any more choice in this than I do." 

Seonghwa stepped closer, lowering his voice though they were alone. "She doesn't know why we left. What we did to protect her."

"And she never will," Hongjoong said sharply, finally turning to face his consigliere. His eyes were hard, resolved. "That was the agreement. We stay away, she stays safe. And now..."

"Now you're bringing her back into our world," Seonghwa finished for him.

Hongjoong's hand tightened around the tumbler of whiskey he held. "Her father's losing control. The Russo family is closing in. If we don't step in now, she'll be caught in the crossfire regardless."

"Our fathers always intended for the families to unite this way," Seonghwa mused. "It was discussed even when we were children."

"But none of them could have predicted what happened seven years ago," Hongjoong replied grimly.

"And what will you tell her? After seven years of silence?"

Hongjoong downed the rest of his drink in one swift motion. "Nothing. The past stays buried."

"She won't accept that," Seonghwa warned. "You know how she is."

A flash of something—perhaps pain, perhaps fondness—crossed Hongjoong's face. "Yes," he said quietly. "I remember exactly how she is."

* * *

You paced your bedroom like a caged animal, anger burning through your veins. The door was locked—not by your father's order but by your own hand. You needed space to think, to breathe, to process the bomb that had just been dropped on your life.

Hongjoong. After all this time.

You grabbed the nearest object—a porcelain figurine—and hurled it at the wall, taking grim satisfaction in watching it shatter. It didn't help, but at least it was something.

Seven years ago, they had been your everything—Hongjoong and the others. More than friends, they had been your chosen family, your confidants, your safety in a world where your last name made you both royalty and target. The sons of your father's closest allies and business partners, you'd grown up together in the sheltered world of mafia royalty. And then one day, without warning or explanation, they were gone. No calls. No messages. Nothing but cold silence and empty promises.

And now Hongjoong had the audacity to agree to marry you? Like you were nothing more than a business transaction?

You grabbed your phone, scrolling to a number you'd never deleted but never called. Your thumb hovered over it.

A soft knock at your door interrupted your thoughts.

"Miss Y/n?" It was Paolo, your father's most trusted bodyguard. "Your father wants you downstairs. The Kim and Park families have arrived to discuss the arrangements."

You froze, your heart stuttering in your chest. "Already? They're here now?"

"Yes, miss. Your father says you have ten minutes to make yourself presentable."

You wanted to scream, to throw something else, to lock yourself in and refuse to come out. But you were a Ricci. And Riccis didn't hide.

"Tell my father I'll be down," you called back, your voice steadier than you felt.

As Paolo's footsteps faded away, you caught your reflection in the mirror. Wild eyes, flushed cheeks, hair tumbling in disarray around your shoulders. You looked dangerous, unhinged.

Perfect.

If Hongjoong thought he could waltz back into your life and claim you like a prize, he was about to learn a painful lesson. You might be forced into this marriage, but you'd be damned if you made it easy for him.

You reached for your closet, pulling out a black dress that hugged every curve, cut just low enough to be a distraction, just high enough to maintain the appearance of respect. You applied your makeup with deliberate precision—red lips, smoky eyes, sharp enough to cut.

Armor, in its own way.

Ten minutes later, you descended the grand staircase of your family home, each step measured and deliberate. You could hear voices from the main drawing room—your father's deep rumble, and then another voice that sent a jolt through your system.

Hongjoong.

You paused outside the door, steadying yourself with one deep breath, and then another. You weren't that heartbroken teenage girl anymore. You were Y/n Ricci, daughter of one of the most feared men in the city. And you were about to face the ghosts of your past.

With one final steadying breath, you pushed open the door and stepped inside, your eyes immediately finding his across the room.

Time seemed to stop as your gaze locked with Hongjoong's for the first time in seven years.

The room fell silent as you stepped inside. 

Five men turned to look at you—your father, his consigliere Antonio, and three figures from your past. Mr. Kim and his son Hongjoong stood near the fireplace, while Seonghwa lingered slightly behind them, ever the faithful shadow.

"Ah, Y/n," your father's voice broke the silence. "Come greet our guests."

You moved forward with practiced grace, your heels clicking against the marble floor like a ticking bomb. Your eyes remained fixed on Hongjoong, cataloging the changes seven years had brought. Gone was the boy with bright eyes and an easy smile. In his place stood a man, sharp-edged and dangerous, dressed impeccably in a tailored black suit. His hair, once a wild mop, was now styled with deliberate precision, dark strands falling just above eyes that watched you with maddening impassivity.

"Mr. Kim," you greeted Hongjoong's father first, extending your hand with a polite smile. "It's been too long."

The older man took your hand, his grip firm. 

"Y/n. You've grown into a beautiful young woman." His eyes crinkled with what seemed like genuine warmth. "Your mother would be proud."

You kept your smile in place, though the mention of your mother sent a familiar pang through your chest. "Thank you."

Then you turned to Hongjoong, letting your smile cool several degrees. "Mr. Kim," you said again, the formal address a deliberate reminder of the distance between you now.

Hongjoong stepped forward, taking your offered hand. His touch sent an unwelcome jolt of electricity up your arm—a physical betrayal you refused to acknowledge.

"Miss Ricci," he replied, his voice deeper than you remembered. "A pleasure to see you again."

"Is it?" you asked, arching a perfectly shaped eyebrow. "I wouldn't have guessed, given the circumstances."

Hongjoong's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes—perhaps surprise at your directness. "The circumstances are... complex."

"They always are in our world, aren't they?" You withdrew your hand from his grasp, turning to the third visitor. "Mr. Park. I see you're still following Hongjoong around like a loyal puppy. Some things never change."

Seonghwa's lips twitched slightly—not in anger, but what almost looked like appreciation for your barb. "Miss Ricci. Sharp as ever."

"One of us has to be," you replied coolly.

There was a time when you would have greeted these men differently—when Hongjoong would have been "Joongie" and Seonghwa would have been "Hwa." When you would have thrown your arms around them without hesitation, your laughter filling the room. But that time was long gone, buried under seven years of silence and unanswered questions.

Your father cleared his throat. "Perhaps we should sit and discuss the arrangements."

"An excellent suggestion," Mr. Kim said, gesturing toward the seating area.

You took a seat in a high-backed chair, crossing your legs elegantly as the men arranged themselves on the surrounding sofas. Hongjoong sat directly across from you, his dark eyes never leaving your face.

"As we've discussed," your father began, "the marriage will take place in three months' time. This will give us adequate opportunity to prepare and to announce the union to our associates."

"Three months?" you interjected, your voice carrying a dangerous edge. "How generous of you to give me a whole season to prepare for my own wedding."

Your father shot you a warning look, but Mr. Kim merely chuckled. "Your daughter has your spirit, Don Ricci."

"Sometimes too much of it," your father muttered.

Hongjoong leaned forward slightly. "Three months is standard for arrangements of this nature. It allows for proper preparations while not delaying the benefits of our alliance."

"Benefits," you repeated, the word dripping with disdain. "How romantic. Tell me, Hongjoong, do you always discuss marriage in terms of profit margins and strategic advantages?"

A muscle in Hongjoong's jaw twitched. "In our position, romance is a luxury few can afford."

"And yet here I am, being auctioned off like a prized mare. Quite the luxury indeed."

"Y/n," your father warned.

But Hongjoong raised a hand. "It's alright. Y/n has every right to express her... reservations."

"How magnanimous of you," you said with a saccharine smile. "Granting me permission to have feelings about my own life."

Hongjoong's eyes narrowed slightly, but you caught it—the briefest twitch at the corner of his mouth, a ghost of the smile you once knew so well. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, but you'd seen it. Somewhere beneath that cold exterior, your words had reached him.

"Perhaps," Seonghwa suggested smoothly, "Miss Ricci would like some time to discuss the arrangement privately with Hongjoong. After all, they will be spending their lives together. Some initial conversation might ease the transition."

Your father nodded. "An excellent idea. Y/n, why don't you show Hongjoong to the garden? Antonio and I have some additional matters to discuss with Mr. Kim and Seonghwa."

It wasn't a request. You stood, smoothing down your dress. "Of course. This way, Mr. Kim."

You led Hongjoong through the double doors and into the hallway, your back straight, your steps measured. Neither of you spoke as you walked through the house and out to the garden—the same garden where you had all played as children, where secrets had been shared and promises made. Promises that had ultimately meant nothing.

Once outside, you turned to face him, crossing your arms. "Well? Shall we discuss flower arrangements and honeymoon destinations? Or would you prefer to skip straight to dividing up territories and body counts?"

Hongjoong didn't rise to the bait. He stood with his hands in his pockets, the evening breeze ruffling his perfectly styled hair. For a moment, in the fading light, he looked almost like the boy you'd known.

"You've changed," he said finally.

"Did you expect me to stay frozen in time?" you asked. "The same naive girl waiting for her friends to return?"

"No," he admitted. "But I didn't expect... this."

"This?"

"This version of you. Cold. Hard." His eyes traveled over you, lingering on your face. "Beautiful in a way that cuts."

You refused to let his words affect you. "We all become what we need to survive. You taught me that lesson quite effectively."

"I suppose I did," he murmured, moving past you to look out at the garden. "Do you remember when we used to sneak out here at night? All of us?"

"I remember a lot of things," you said flatly. "None of them relevant to our current situation."

Hongjoong turned back to you, his expression unreadable. "Is that how you want to play this, Y/n? Pretending the past never happened?"

"Isn't that exactly what you did?" you shot back, unable to keep the edge from your voice. "Seven years, Hongjoong. Seven years without a word. And now you want to reminisce like old friends?"

Something flashed in his eyes—pain, perhaps, or regret. But it was quickly masked by that infuriating control. "You're right. The past is irrelevant. What matters is our future arrangement."

"Arrangement," you repeated. "Not marriage. Not partnership. Arrangement."

"Would you prefer I lie to you? Dress this up as something it's not?"

"I would prefer not to be traded like a commodity," you snapped. "But since that ship has sailed, I'd at least like to know why you agreed to this. What possible benefit could you gain from marrying someone who clearly despises you?"

Hongjoong stepped closer, close enough that you could smell his cologne—sandalwood and something darker, more complex. "Maybe I enjoy a challenge."

You let out a harsh laugh. "Is that what I am to you? A challenge to be conquered?"

"No," he said, his voice suddenly serious. "You're much more dangerous than that."

Before you could respond, he reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear with unexpected gentleness. The casual intimacy of the gesture stole the breath from your lungs.

"Our fathers have made their decision," he said quietly. "We can fight it and make ourselves miserable, or we can find a way to make it work."

You stepped back, breaking the spell of his proximity. "And how exactly do you suggest we do that? Start fresh? Pretend you and the others didn't rip my heart out and stomp on it?"

A flash of guilt crossed his features. "I don't expect you to forget. Or forgive. But for both our sakes, we need to find a way forward."

"There is no 'we,' Hongjoong. There's you and your precious family, and there's me, doing what I must to survive—just as I've done since you all abandoned me."

Hongjoong's jaw tightened. "You know nothing about what happened."

"Whose fault is that?" you challenged.

For a moment, it seemed like he might actually tell you something—anything—to explain the past. But then his expression closed off again, the wall between you solidifying.

"Some things are better left buried," he said finally.

You laughed, the sound brittle in the evening air. "How convenient for you."

Hongjoong studied you for a long moment, his dark eyes taking in every detail of your face. "You know, despite everything, that fire in you—it's still there. They couldn't take that away."

"They?"

But he was already turning away. "We should go back inside. They'll be waiting."

As you followed him back toward the house, you couldn't help but wonder who "they" were, and what exactly Hongjoong thought had been taken from you. But one thing was certain—beneath his cold, controlled exterior, the boy you once knew still existed. You'd seen it in that fleeting almost-smile, heard it in the softness that had crept into his voice when he spoke of the past.

And that realization was far more dangerous than his indifference could ever be.

Taglist: @paramedicnerd004, @miracle-sol

[imagine-all-the-imagines]

I Eat On That Couch

[ S. Mingi + J. Yunho ]

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summary: in which your two best friends finally get to have their way with you

warning: threesome, dom mingi, soft dom yunho, shared reader, possessiveness, overstimulation, oral, double penetration, unprotected sex

pairing: yungi x afab reader

genre: smut

word count: 1.2k

masterlist

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You should’ve known Mingi had something on his mind the second he looked at you like that as you followed him into his apartment he shared with his best friend.

Not the usual lazy grin or the boyish charm that made you weak, no, this look was darker. Focused. Like he’d already made up his mind and nothing, not even your better judgment, was going to stop him.

His lips were on yours, hungry, hot, all tongue and teeth as the front door slammed shut behind you. The kind of kiss that steals your balance and sets your skin on fire.

The couch caught you both as you stumbled back, and then it was chaos.

Clothes hit the floor like they were allergic to your skin. His shirt landed on one Yunho’s ps5 controllers, your bra tangled with one of Mingi’s guitar straps left lying around. You didn’t care. You’d never seen Mingi like this, his eyes heavy with lust, jaw tight, muscles flexing as he pulled you onto his lap.

“You’re killing me,” he groaned, dragging his mouth along your neck. “You have no idea how long I’ve thought about this.”

“Here?” you gasped, grinding your hips down against the bulge in his jeans. You were on the living room couch, right out in the open. “Yunho could walk in…”

“Let him.” His fingers dug into your hips. “This couch. Every time you sat on it in those little shorts, legs crossed like you didn’t know what you were doing to me…”

“Mingi..”

He flipped you in one smooth motion, your back against the cushions, his mouth hot on your chest, your stomach, your thighs. “I’ve been patient. I tried being good.”

He kissed the inside of your thigh, right where you needed him most, but didn’t move higher. “Fuck good.”

He finally slid your panties aside and licked up you in one long, devastating stroke that had your eyes rolling back. He didn’t stop there, he devoured you, moaning like you were his favorite meal, pulling your legs over his shoulders, his tongue relentless.

“Mingi….fuck, you’re….”

He sucked your clit into his mouth at the exact moment he slid two fingers inside you, slow but deep, and you broke apart with a cry, clenching around him. His fingers were so long and thick, hitting your g spot.

“You taste so fucking good.” he growled, licking you clean as you shook underneath him. “Come here.”

He didn’t even let you catch your breath before he was positioning himself above you, one arm braced behind your back, the other gripping your thigh. You reached for him, dizzy with want, nails dragging down his back.

“Tell me you want it,” he whispered, nose brushing yours.

“I want it. I want you.”

That’s all it took.

He slid into you in one deep, smooth thrust that knocked the air from your lungs. He was so big, stretching you and filling you so full. Your moan echoed off the walls, and he swallowed it with another kiss, fucking you deep and slow, hips rolling in perfect rhythm.

“God, you feel…” he couldn’t even finish, just groaned and slammed into you harder, one hand wrapping around your throat, thumb resting gently under your jaw.

“You’re mine now,” he murmured, voice shaking. “This couch? Mine. You? Mine.”

You were too far gone to argue, not that you ever would. You locked your legs around him and met every thrust, the slap of skin on skin so loud, so obscene, you were sure the neighbors, someone, would hear.

And someone did.

Yunho was just coming out of his room, half asleep, shirtless, sweats hanging low on his hips.

Both of you froze.

Yunho stood in the living room, eyes going wide, cupids bow lips a little swollen from sleep, hanging open.

He blinked. “I eat on that couch.”

You squeaked, burying your face in Mingi’s chest.

Mingi didn’t even stop moving. He grinned, looked over his shoulder, and said, completely unfazed. “So did I.”

Yunho was turning around to go hide back in his room when Mingi’s voice stopped him.

“Stay.”

The single word rang out like a command. Sharp. Confident.

You were still beneath Mingi, your skin flushed, your body wrecked from the first round, but your eyes flew open, wide and disbelieving.

“Mingi….” you whispered, half protest, half question, your voice wrecked and raw.

Mingi didn’t look away from Yunho. “You always stare at her when you think I’m not watching.” His tone was calm. Dangerous. “You want her, too.”

Yunho’s jaw clenched. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Oh?” Mingi finally turned his head to glance at you, glowing, panting, dripping, still spread across the couch like a sin incarnate. He dragged a single finger through your folds, and you gasped, arching. “She doesn’t seem to mind the attention.”

Your thighs trembled. Your body betrayed you with every wet sound.

“You want to taste her?” Mingi asked, voice low and dark. “Go ahead. I’ll share.” He looked back down at you, eyes dark and possessive. “Only with him.”

Yunho’s breath hitched. “You’re serious?”

Mingi just sat back on his heels, still inside you, grinning like the devil. “Dead serious.”

Yunho stared at you. You didn’t speak, but your eyes said it all. The heat. The want. The permission.

That’s all it took.

Yunho stepped towards you beside the couch.

The moment felt surreal, Mingi still inside you, Yunho dropping to his knees in front of the couch like he was in a trance. His big hands landed on your thighs and pushed them apart further. He looked up at you once.

You nodded.

And Yunho lowered his head.

His tongue found your clit immediately, hot, firm, skilled and the sound you made was filthy. Mingi groaned above you, gripping your waist tighter as Yunho’s tongue lapped at you from below, flicking and sucking in rhythm with Mingi’s slow thrusts.

You were overwhelmed.

Stretched around Mingi, devoured by Yunho, your hands scrambled for something to hold, but all you found were broad chests, flushed skin, and endless pleasure.

“You’re shaking,” Yunho murmured against you, his mouth soaked, chin glistening. “You gonna come?”

“Not yet,” Mingi growled, thrusting harder, knocking Yunho’s chin with the force of it. “Not until I say.”

Your back arched, tears springing to your eyes from the overstimulation.

“I’ve got her,” Yunho said, voice hoarse, eyes on you like you were sacred. “Let go. I’ve got you.”

Mingi snarled above you and pulled out. “Flip her over.”

And Yunho did.

You were dizzy, breathless, pressed face down into the couch with Yunho’s hands braced around you, guiding you down onto his cock, he was a little bigger than Mingi, hard, and now slick with you.

Then Mingi knelt behind you and slid right back in, feeling himself thrusts alongside Yunho, both of them now stretching you, filling you together.

You choked on your own scream as both of them moved in sync, surrounding you, using you, worshipping you.

“Look at her,” Mingi groaned, sweat dripping from his temple. “Taking both of us like a fucking dream.”

Yunho’s hands trembled against your hips. “She’s perfect.”

You shattered again, body convulsing between them, cries muffled by the couch. They didn’t stop. Not right away.

You lost count of how many times you came. How many filthy things they whispered. How many times they kissed each other over your back while you trembled beneath them.

And later, when you were limp and barely conscious, curled between their warm bodies, Yunho blinked at the ceiling and muttered, “…I still eat on that couch.”

Mingi grinned. “And now you eat with me.”

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permanent tag list: @straycat420 @autieofthevalley @dejatiny @hannahlilibet411 @xh01bri @jintastic-yuyu @maddycline @ultrapinkvoidbouquet @wooyoungsbrat @lucid-galaxys-world @ecriggs1990

[imagine-all-the-imagines]

I just got my first two photocards and I don't know what to do with them. I love them and don't want to do anything that will hurt them, but I want to put them up somewhere.

[imagine-all-the-imagines]

EXCUSE ME MR. HWANG HYUNJIN!??

[imagine-all-the-imagines]

Hii for the 1.5kStarsForYaya event I was wondering if you could make a fake text morning after poly skz(0t8) x fox hybrid female reader please 🙏 thx if you can if not it’s okay ❤️❤️❤️✨

1.5k Followers Event | morning after

pairing: poly!ot8 x f!reader

genre: suggestive

warnings: reader is a fox hybrid, morning after and sex talks, lots of marking

event masterlist: #1.5kStarsForYaya

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taglist: @diekleinesuesse @tillaboo @felixsonlyrealwife @geni-627 @skz8riley @lezleeferguson-120 @pixie-felix @headfirstfortoro @alnex05 @baby-stay92 @encoredesires @androgynouscrownorbit @channiesluvrclub @my-neurodivergent-world @chims-dimple @bookswillfindyouaway @stellasays45 @angel-writes-skz-here @m-325 @0sunshinecryptid0 @beal-o @hug4helios @oksullen @rileylovescats @dreamyfelixx @yxna-bliss @turtledove824 @enhacolor @skzz0213 @hannahlue @purplelady85 @velvetmoonlght

[imagine-all-the-imagines]

When i tell you I stayed up all night binging this story I am not lying! It was soooooo amazing! Truly a work of art.

the skz house: ch 1

a/n: As of 10/25/24 this fic is complete. If you’re finding this after that date, please read and enjoy. And don’t be shy, share your thoughts along this wild ride 💜 HAVE FUN & BUCKLE UP!

Summary: Welcome to Sigma Kappa Zeta, the most popular fraternity on campus. When you, down on your luck and looking for a place to live, see their ad for ‘IN-HOUSE STAY’, you decide to check it out. 

Chapter One: Of Breakups and New Housing

You’re sitting on the curb next to several suitcases and trash bags full of your belongings, feeling humiliated as cars pass by. You can’t fucking believe you thought it would be a good idea to rent an off campus apartment with your boyfriend—well, now ex-boyfriend, of three years. It’s not even a full two months into the semester and you both already decided to call it quits. Things had been rocky over the summer to begin with, but you hoped living together would fix it. 

You were wrong. And stupid for letting him put only his name on the lease.

So what are you gonna do now? You can’t call your parents, they told you this was a bad idea from the start. You can’t give them the satisfaction of knowing they were right. Your friends are all in the dorms and, sure, you can crash with them for a couple nights but you need to find something for the remainder of the year. 

You take out your phone, wiping the tears that fall from your eyes as you start looking for somewhere to live. A one bedroom apartment by yourself is completely out of the monthly budget your parents send. You’ll have to settle on a room or some sort of shared living environment. 

Your scrolling stops when you see a post that says ‘FREE IN-HOUSE STAY’. You click on it to read more. 

FREE IN-HOUSE STAY

It’s that time of year again. The members of Sigma Kappa Zeta (SKZ) have beds to fill. Stay will be free of charge, however there are stipulations. Further details will be provided in person. Send a direct message if you’re interested and we will provide the interview date.

You’ve heard of the SKZ fraternity in passing, but never participated much in Greek life on campus. The post feels a little sketchy, if you’re being honest with yourself, but you send the email anyways. If you can pocket the money your parents are sending and stay somewhere for free, maybe you can turn this shitty situation around in your favor. 

You receive an email the following day that advises you to fill out an NDA and an application complete with a picture of yourself. You also go to a nearby clinic to complete a drug test and various other checks. Your interest in the ad is piqued, but the night spent on the floor of your friends dorm encourages you to pursue it.   

Two days later you find yourself standing outside of the SKZ house with ten other women. The house is in a gated community and sits on a pretty large lot, enough room between it and the next that neighbors probably didn’t mind a bunch of college students staying there. It’s a three-story home and not too far from campus, maybe a thirty minute walk. 

At 1:00pm the door opens and a tall, kinda lanky boy with a slender face greets you all. His eyebrows and most of his eyes are hidden behind his bangs, but he dons a welcoming smile. He’s wearing jeans and a black shirt with ΣΚΖ written across the chest in green letters. 

“Please, come in,” he says, gesturing for you all to enter. 

You all huddle in the foyer and he closes the door when the last girl enters before leading you into the living room. There’s a large, navy blue sectional where you all sit. When he exits the room, you fold your hands in your lap and cross your legs, shaking your nerves out through your foot. as you wait for whatever is about to happen.

You hear footsteps coming down the hall and eight men enter the room. If your life were a movie (it most definitely isn’t, you’re sleeping on a floor, remember?), this scene would play out in slow motion. They exude an air of confidence and nonchalance all at the same time. They’re all of similar heights, with hair color ranging from black to blonde, some are lanky, some are muscular—one is flat-out buff, and they’re all Korean. They’re…handsome? The word doesn’t feel like it suffices, though. Each and every one of them are breathtaking in a way that feels completely unfair and makes you question why you’re even there. 

They spread out in a line in front of the TV mounted on the wall opposite the sectional. They’re all wearing the same thing—jeans and the black shirt with their fraternity initial across the front. 

“Thank you for coming here today, ladies,” one of them starts to speak with a light Australian accent. 

As your eyes focus on him, he looks familiar. He’s in one of your classes. He seemed rather quiet and reserved in class, but here he’s easily taking charge and leading the situation. His eyes meet yours for a brief moment and he offers a tight-lipped half-smile and nod. 

“I’m Chan,” he continues. “The is Lee Know, Changbin, Hyunjin, Han, Felix, Seungmin and Jeongin.”

Each member waves as he gestures to them and says their name. Seungmin is the one who had opened the door. 

“We’re sure you’re curious as to what our post entails…let me explain.” Chan begins. “Here at Sigma Kappa Zeta, we strongly pursue the strongest version of ourselves. We work hard, study hard, and play hard. We want all of our members to be at their best at all times. We cannot achieve the goals and dreams we have if we are weak in any area. Which brings us to having you here today.”

Your eyes dart to the other men standing in the line, but it’s impossible to read their expressions. 

“We are looking for four women to reside in our home. Your duties will be cooking and cleaning for the household, and pleasing the members you are assigned to.” 

You can only blink as you stare at him. Assigned to? And did he say please the members? Does he mean fuck?

“We believe that with these essential needs met,” he continues without missing a beat. As if he hasn’t just uttered something completely scandalous. “Our members will be free to flourish and earn our spots next to our SKZ predecessors.” 

He stops for a moment and steps forward from the others.

 “I know how this sounds. Misogynistic. Throughout the many years of this tradition, it has proved to work in our Stays’ favor as well, though. You’ll have your needs met, less stress and many Stays have reported a boost in their overall happiness and confidence.” He says. “We know you are students, too, and we don’t want to impede on your education or your own personal goals. That being said, it’s not a position suitable for everyone, we know that. We also know, that should you choose to participate, you will have an invaluable sense of community throughout your time here. You will have free room and board, and be allowed time to focus on your own success. Any resources we have access to can be yours as well.”

He claps his hands together.

“Now that you know what this entails, please remain seated if you’re still interested. If not, kindly exit—but we would like to remind you of the NDA you signed.”

He pauses for a beat. Two girls stand and promptly exits the home. You stay rooted in your seat. You’re a decent cook. You can clean. You think you could be a good fit for the position. You’ve also been with the same guy since your freshman year, so the prospect of experiencing something new in any capacity intrigues you. And honestly, right now, a free bed sounds more tantalizing than the floor, doesn’t it? You subconsciously roll out the kink in your neck at the thought. 

“Eight of you still here,” he says with a nod. “We’ll call each of you up, you’ll introduce yourself, walk past each member, then take your seat. We will then leave to deliberate. When we come back, we’ll let you know which of you are staying and who you’re assigned to.”

You shift around in your seat and nod your head. Chan steps back in line and calls the first name. You watch as each girl walks in front of the men, wondering what’s going through their head—what are they looking for exactly? 

When you hear your name called, your heart begins to race. You stand and announce your name, your major, and year in school. You then walk towards Jeongin and slowly make your way to Chan. It’s quick, but not painless. It’s fucking nerve-racking as they each stand there, stone faced. 

When all the girls are seated on the couch again, the men exit the room. You’re all quiet as you wait for them to come back. It takes nearly half an hour. 

Chan announces the names. The first girl called is assigned to Jeongin and Han. The second is assigned to Felix and Lee Know. The third goes to Seungmin and Changbin. 

There are five of you left on the couch. You begin to feel nervous that you may not be chosen, but the next name that falls from Chan’s lips is yours. 

Your try your best to hide your surprise as you stand and step forward, hearing that you’re with Chan and Hyunjin. 

“Thank you, ladies, for coming today. If you haven’t graduated next year, we welcome you to come back again.” Chan says to the others on the couch before showing them to the door. 

When he returns, the eight of them shift around to stand in front of their assignee.

In front of you is Chan. You can’t help but notice the way the sleeves fit tightly around his biceps, and the veins protruding from his arms. Hyunjin is standing next to him—he’s taller than Chan, but a little more thin. His overall presence is softer. You try not to stare too much. 

“We’ll give you a tour of the place, show you where you’re staying and then you may retrieve your belongings and return by 5:00pm to prepare dinner. You will cook for whoever you’re assigned to, and get to know each other over dinner.” Chan continues to take charge. 

You’re then led on a tour of the house. The first floor has the living room, kitchen, and a bathroom. The kitchen has two separate stoves, a huge pantry and a ton of cabinet space. There’s even an island with bar stools along one side of it. They then take you all down to the basement where there’s a pool table, an old keg, a bar, TV, and beer pong table. 

On the second floor is four bedrooms. They tell you who resides on each floor, but do not allow you into the rooms unless it’s someone you’re assigned to. Hyunjin is on the second floor. 

He opens the door to the room and you peek inside. You see that there’s a Queen sized bed, dresser, and desk covered in art supplies. Next to his bed is a twin sized bed, bare of any sheets. Is that where you’ll sleep? You wonder. 

“The bathroom at the end of the hall on the second floor is strictly for you all to use,” Chan announces as you all make your way up to the next floor.

On the third floor, you’re allowed to see Chan’s room. It’s significantly larger than Hyunjin’s, with it’s own bathroom. He also has a queen bed, nightstands, a dresser and desk. However, the twin sized bed is further from his own, against the opposite wall. It, too, is bare of any sheets. 

After the tour, everyone breaks off into groups of whomever their paired with. You’re in the kitchen with Hyunjin and Chan standing on either side of you. You exchange numbers with both of them. 

“So you’re majoring in Biology?” Hyunjin speaks to you for the first time. 

You nod, unable to find your voice. Still somewhat in shock of what the hell is even happening.

“She’s nervous,” Chan says, easily able to read you.  

“Don’t be,” Hyunjin says with softened eyes. “It sounds more intimidating than it really is. This is a mutual thing, okay? We help each other.”

“Okay,” you reply quietly.

“Do something simple for dinner tonight,” Hyunjin continues. “Pasta? With shrimp?”

He looks over to Chan who shrugs and nods in response. 

“We’re not as demanding as the others—we won’t be expecting full course meals.”

“You got lucky,” Chan adds. 

Got lucky? Did you? Or did you just get yourself into an inexplicable situation? They didn’t mention anything about what should happen if you change your mind. Are you even allowed to? Perhaps you should have read through the NDA a little better. First the lease, now this…you’re not the best with contracts, are you? 

Chan produces a credit card from his wallet and hands it to you. 

“Return with your things by 5:00pm. You can get groceries and bedding with this. Two twin-sized sets.”

You take the card from him and put it in your pocket. 

“We’ll see you soon,” Hyunjin says in a sing-songy voice with a smile. 

“See you,” you say lightly and try to return the smile. 

You’re still feeling awkward about the entire ordeal, but you’re somewhat at ease at how respectful they all seem. You’re not sure if you’ll be forced to do anything you don’t want to…but as you think about how handsome every single man in the house is…will you eventually want to?

After going to get groceries and bedding (two sets), you get your belongings from your friends dorm then take an Uber back to SKZ house. 

You’re a little early, but the door is open. You place your personal things to the side and go to the kitchen to start on dinner. You’re thankful they chose an easy meal, but go the extra mile to make the Alfredo sauce from scratch. It’s one of the few recipes you remember by heart from your mother. You season the shrimp and cook it up with butter and garlic. 

The other girls start to arrive and space in the kitchen becomes severely limited, even with two stoves for you all to use. You start to wonder if they’ll all have dinner at the same time every day because that may prove to be quite a challenge. You all move around each other easily enough, but you don’t really say much. 

When the food is done and plated, you send Hyunjin and Chan a text that dinner is ready. 

They come into the kitchen moments later, grab their plates, then lead you down to the basement for the second time today. 

It’s definitely not a fancy or romantic environment. Sitting at a beer pong table and seated on fold out chairs, but you’re not uncomfortable. Nervous as shit. But not uncomfortable. 

You wait for them to eat first. They both nod appreciatively after taking their fist bite. 

“You must have a lot of questions,” Chan says, twirling pasta around his fork. 

“Ask us anything,” Hyunjin prompts. 

You’re silent for a moment, chewing your food. You have what feels like a million questions, and want to get the most important one out of the way first.

“Am I gonna be fucking you both?”

Hyunjin coughs on the food he’s eating and Chan let’s out a soft chuckle. He hands Hyunjin his glass of water.

“Well…yes,” is Chan’s blatant reply. 

You expect him to say more, but he doesn’t. 

“Like…at the same time or is there some sort of schedule or…?” You trail off.

Hyunjin, finally recovered from his coughing fit replies, “It’s really up to the three of us to decide specifics. You’ll be in either of our rooms, on a rotating schedule. We could do every three nights. Monday-Wednesday and Thursday-Saturday? Sunday will be your choice.”

You nod slowly, more in understanding than agreement at this particular moment. 

“This tradition works best when it operates like a well oiled machine,” Chan says. “Always be honest with us. Let us know if you aren’t feeling well, if you have your period—anything.”

“There’s actually an app we can all access if you’re uncomfortable telling us, we can use that.” Hyunjin adds. 

“And when it comes to cooking and cleaning, you and the other girls can work out whatever kind of schedule works best for all of you.” Chan continues. 

The absurdity of the arrangement starts to feel less worrisome as they talk. The situation itself is still quite insane, but they speak about it so casually that it seems normal. 

They allow you to pester them with questions as you finish up the meal. They’re all business majors, Hyunjin’s minor is Art and Chan’s is music. They’re all legacies at Sigma Kappa Zeta—meaning their fathers, and grandfathers for some, had been members too. They have all been on a certain career track since they were born to father’s that are successful business owners in Korea and Australia. They each came to the states in high school, studied at a prestigious boarding school and now here they all are, in college, together. 

You can’t fathom having your entire life planned out that way. Perhaps it would take out some of the things you stress about regarding your future, though. Clearly, their parents all want what’s best for them. 

They explain a few other rules like—you’re not allowed to date or have sex with anyone outside of the members, and that’s a rule everyone in the house follows. Failure to adhere will result in immediate removal from the home. 

After you’ve asked all your questions, you all head back up stairs. The others are scattered throughout the house, some at the dining room table, some in the living room. Through the sliding glass door leading to the backyard, you see a few of them out there too. 

“We’ll handle the dishes for tonight,” Hyunjin tells you, taking the plate and glass from your hands. 

“Take your things upstairs, make up your bed in each of our rooms. There’s some closet and drawer space in each for you.” Chan says. 

“Where am I sleeping tonight?” You ask. 

“It's Sunday. Your choice,” replies Hyunjin. “Don’t make a big deal out of it. It’s really just where you’ll sleep. It’s not like you won’t be able to interact with the other person or anyone else in the house based on where you sleep, okay?”

You nod. 

They take off towards the kitchen. You retrieve your belongings and head up stairs. In Hyunjin’s room you make the bed with the dark blue bedding set—it’s adorned with different flower types and feels fitting. You recalled seeing the flowers he was painting on his desk when you made this choice. You’re not sure how to divide up your clothing but decide to place a bit of everything in both rooms. 

When you make it up to Chan’s room, you put away the rest of your clothes then make up the bed here too. The set you chose for his room is black with teal and purple nebula on it. He has LED lights lining all four walls, near the ceiling. You thought it might look nice when they’re turned on. 

After making the bed, you sit down and allow yourself a break to think.

You now have to decide whose room you’ll be sleeping in tonight. 

[ read chapter two here ]

a/n: yeah, this was a random idea that i'm just gonna roll with. no idea where its gonna go yet, but this will be fun to write. have to set the scene with this first chapter, the smut is coming, don't worry :)

[imagine-all-the-imagines]

S h u t U p a n d S i t S t i l l

Tattoo Artist!Kim Seungmin x Reader | He tattoos like a surgeon and fucks like a sadist. You showed up for ink. He gave you obsession.

🔞synopsis: Tattoo Artist AU. you walked into NO SAINT INK for a rib tattoo—left with trembling thighs, his hoodie around your neck, and a cock you can't stop dreaming about. Seungmin is quiet, sharp-tongued, and mean in the best ways: he bends you over the bench, fucks you until you cry, then wipes you down and feeds you strawberries like you're his favourite masterpiece. It starts with your seventh tattoo. Ends with you moaning his name every night, in his bed, in his hoodie, with his fingers under your panties. This isn’t just art. It’s obsession. And now he’s your boyfriend too—lucky you.

💌a/n: i literally don’t remember who requested tattoo artist seungmin first. either way. you got it. the man who fucks you stupid then wipes you down like he’s cleaning his favourite mug. HE’S HERE. AND HE’S IN LOVE (but would rather die than admit it out loud) 🫶🍓🖤. also? 🔔 THE MINI SERIES ORDER HAS BEEN DECREED 🔔 next up: JEONGIN. after that: ⟡ MINHO ⟡ CHANGBIN ⟡ FELIX and then finally—drumroll, throat clear, studio lights flickering— BANG CHRISTOPHER FUCKING CHAN. the cherry on top. the tattoo daddy. the final boss of soft filth and filthy softness. pray for me. p.s. if you liked it, if you screamed, if your thighs clenched even ONCE—REBLOG IT. LIKE?? yes. COMMENT?? also yes. p.p.s. if i catch you in the notes saying “need him biblically,” “he wiped me down like a canvas,” or “not the strawberries 😭”—just know i love you. violently 💋 p.p.s. see u next Tethered Tuesday with Jeonginnie~

⚠️ warnings: 18+ | MINORS DNI | Bench sex / semi-public (studio after hours) | Mean dom!Seungmin | Praise kink, brat taming, overstimulation | Spit play, creampie, multiple orgasms | Oral (m receiving), fingering, unprotected sex | Aftercare king behaviour | Reader is shameless and mildly unhinged | Seungmin is quiet, dangerous, and obsessed

📌 Please read responsibly. Hydrate. Stretch. You are the CEO of your own coochie.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » Charmer — Stray Kids « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:09 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

Seoul, South Korea. Tuesday, 3:12 PM.

You push the door open with your hip, bells jingling overhead as warm incense curls toward the ceiling — sandalwood, patchouli, something citrusy beneath it all. It’s always like this at NO SAINT INK. Chill beats humming low, Felix probably somewhere in the back rearranging his piercing tools like he’s Marie Kondo with a needle fetish, and—

“Fuck,” a voice mutters from behind a half-drawn curtain. You grin. Found him.

Kim Seungmin.

The reason you have six tattoos—and the reason you keep coming back for more.

You strut past the front desk like you own the place, setting down your tray of iced americanos and pastries with the confidence of someone deeply annoying. Your seventh session. Four healed pieces, one still peeling, and the newest one inked just last month. And of all the artists here, you keep picking the same one. On purpose.

Seungmin doesn’t look up at first. He’s sketching something at his desk—lined in ruler-straight precision, every pen stroke exact, no wasted ink. Hair slightly tousled. Sleeves rolled. Black gloves already on like he’s been prepping to ruin someone’s day.

He finally lifts his eyes—and groans.

“Why are you here again?”

“Hi to you too, sunshine,” you chirp, sipping your iced coffee with maximum slurp.

“I told Felix to screen your bookings.”

“I bribed him with matcha cake. Also, he says hi.” You swing the drink tray toward him with flair. “Got you your usual. Thought you could use the energy. You looked a little pale last time.”

He stares. “You’re lucky I don’t stab clients.”

“You already do,” you smile sweetly, plopping into the client chair. “It’s called tattooing.”

You met him through Felix, of course—NO SAINT INK’s glittery menace and certified piercing god. You came in on a whim two years ago for a constellation of helix piercings and left with a phone background of Felix’s stupid peace sign and a mouth full of swear words after he showed you Seungmin’s tattoo portfolio. Clean lines. Razor-sharp contrast. Occasional anatomical sketches paired with poetry in tiny, deliberate script.

When you told Felix you wanted something specific for your first tattoo—a geometric wolf across your ribcage—he nodded once and said, “Seungmin’s your guy.”

You’ve hated him ever since.

He’s impossible. Quiet, dry, sarcastic in a way that feels like a dare. Doesn’t flirt. Doesn’t smile. He just tattoos like he’s building something permanent—measured, focused, untouchable. But when you’re the one under his needle? His fingers linger a little too long on your waist. His voice drops when he tells you to hold still. And you—being the insufferable brat you are—live to poke at the ice until it cracks.

Which is why you’re here today. For tattoo number seven.

From him. Again.

“Let me guess,” he says, sipping the coffee despite himself. “Some half-baked Pinterest inspo you expect me to redesign overnight?”

“I’m hurt,” you pout dramatically. “I actually brought a reference this time. Plus, I figured you missed me.”

“I miss peace and quiet.”

“Then why’d you pick a career where girls beg to get pinned under you?”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. Just says, “Get on the table before I change my mind.”

You smirk. There it is. That little twitch in his jaw. That flick of his tongue against the inside of his cheek when you say something just annoying enough to rattle the cage.

You pull out your sketch. “I want it here,” you say, lifting your shirt to gesture just below your sternum, to the space between your breasts and your ribs. “Delicate linework. Abstract. Your specialty.”

Seungmin stares. Then sighs. “You do realize I’ll have to touch you for placement.”

“Oh no,” you gasp, faux-innocent. “That would be terrible.”

He drops the clipboard with a snap.

“You’re unbearable.”

“You’re obsessed.”

Seungmin mutters something under his breath—probably a curse, probably in two languages—as he snatches your sketch and jerks his head toward the back hallway.

You follow with a smug little skip in your step.

The private rooms at NO SAINT INK are all artist-personalized. Seungmin's? It’s all dark wood, clean steel, framed minimalist pieces, and surgical-grade tidiness.

Cedar diffuses from a sleek black humidifier in the corner. The light is warm-toned and angled perfectly. His iPad sits on a tidy desk, stylus already beside it like it was placed there with a ruler. And on the windowsill—three succulents. Perfectly spaced. You teased him about it once and he deadpan replied, “One for every time you’ve wasted my time.”

He drops your paper sketch on his desk and sits, spinning the iPad toward him with a sigh. “You’ve got five minutes to explain what the hell this is.”

You plop down in the rolling stool beside him, leaning your chin on your hand. “It’s art. Use your imagination.”

He gives you a long, deeply unimpressed look.

“Fine,” you huff. “It’s… inspired by sacred geometry. Like a mandala, but cracked open. Fragmented. I want it to feel like breaking and healing at the same time. Like symmetry trying to reassemble itself.”

Seungmin blinks. Then blinks again.

“…You pulled that out of your ass just now.”

“I did not.”

“Did too.”

“Seungmin.”

He groans and starts sketching.

You watch, quiet now—because this is the part you actually love. The way his fingers move when he draws. Controlled, calculated. Not robotic. Not sterile. There’s warmth there, if you know where to look. And you do.

He sips the coffee you brought like it’s medicine. Then grabs a croissant and bites it with grim resolve, like chewing it too quickly might register as gratitude.

“I still think you bribed Felix with blackmail.”

“He was emotionally weak. I seized the moment.”

“You’re a menace.”

“And you’re drawing me the prettiest trauma-symbol I’ve ever seen, so who really wins here?”

He doesn’t answer. But his pen slows. His strokes get sharper. He’s in his element now. You recognize the shift—the way he leans in closer to the iPad, slightly squints, drags his stylus with deliberate precision.

The design blooms under his hand: a fractured mandala, circular symmetry interrupted by jagged arcs and broken segments. Clean dotwork in the center, a few splashes of abstract floral curls breaking out near the bottom edge. Like order blooming from chaos. Like something whole again.

“You’re disgusting,” you whisper, stunned. “That’s perfect.”

“I know.”

“Arrogant.”

“You begged me for it.”

“I said please once and you moaned like I kicked your dog.”

He flicks his eyes to you, slow. “Say please again.”

You blink.

Then smirk. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

But he’s already reaching for the print button.

“Let’s stencil this,” he says coolly, rising from his chair and heading towards the printer to print the design out. “I’d like to be rid of you before sundown.”

“Careful,” you say, trailing him out of the room. “One day you’ll miss me when I’m gone.”

“Promise?”

“Never.”

While he is busy with the printer, you kick your shoes off and climb onto the bed like it’s yours.

Technically, it’s a client bench. Adjustable, padded, wrapped in fresh black vinyl. But in your mind? It’s a throne. A stage. A perfect little altar for the games you play with Kim Seungmin.

You wiggle into place, tugging your top over your head in one smooth motion. You’re down to your bralette now—delicate black lace with scalloped trim, something clearly chosen on purpose. Not slutty. Not overt. But just enough to see Seungmin’s jaw tighten when he walks back in.

He’s still fiddling with the stencil printer—cutting the sheet, prepping it with solution. Focused. Professional. Cold, as ever.

You lounge, arms folded behind your head, watching him from the bed like you’re sunbathing and he’s just lucky to be in your light.

“You gonna stare the whole time?” he murmurs without looking up.

“Am I bothering you?”

“Always.”

You grin.

Just then—click—the door swings open, and Felix’s voice rings through the room.

“Hey, demon duo—just letting you know I’m locking up soon. Jisung dipped early, and Chan-hyung’s out all day, so it’s just you two in the studio for the rest of the afternoon.” He wiggles his brows. “Try not to kill each other. Or fuck. Or both.”

Seungmin doesn’t look up. “Go away, Felix.”

“Don’t be rude. I brought you into this world.”

“I was here first.”

“Emotionally? Never.” Felix flicks his brows toward you. “Good luck, baby girl. If he’s mean, just call me and I’ll stab his tires.”

You salute him. “Noted. Drive safe.”

With a wink, Felix is gone. The click of the studio door locking behind him feels final. Loud.

Seungmin exhales slowly. Then turns.

You’re still lying there on the bed, head propped, shirt discarded, body sprawled like a damn invitation.

His gaze flickers once. Down. Then away. Then back again, like it physically pains him to give you that much attention.

He lifts the stencil paper, holds it up to the light. “You know this placement is gonna be tricky.”

“Delicate linework on soft skin,” you echo sweetly. “Your specialty.”

He levels you with a look. Flat. Dangerous. Amused.

“…You’re going to be impossible today.”

“I’m always impossible.”

“No,” he says, slipping on gloves with a soft snap, “today it’s worse. Today you want something.”

You blink, feigning wide-eyed innocence. “Me? Never.”

He steps forward, slow and deliberate, stencil sheet in one hand, alcohol wipe in the other.

“Sit up,” he says, voice low. Commanding. “And lift your arms. I need a clean canvas.”

You obey—grinning like a menace—arms up, ribs exposed, breath catching slightly as the cold wipe grazes under the swell of your breast. He’s careful. Professional. Completely murderous about it.

The tension is a wire, pulled tight between you.

He smooths the stencil paper across your skin, presses down, then peels it back slowly, eyes trained on the imprint left behind.

It’s beautiful.

Nestled between your ribs, spanning just above your solar plexus: the fractured mandala blooms in fine linework, cracked yet radiant. His style. His hand. His art.

And now—it’s on you.

Seungmin looks at it for a beat too long.

Then: “Lie back.”

You do.

He adjusts the overhead lamp. Tilts your chin slightly. Brushes a single finger along your sternum, just below the stencil line.

You shiver.

He smirks.

“Try not to squirm this time,” he says. “You’ll fuck up the symmetry.”

Finally, Seungmin moves again. Gloves snap into place—tight, black latex stretched over knuckles and the fine lines of his fingers. You watch him through lowered lashes as he pours ink into the caps—his shade of black. You’ve learned that by now. Not too warm. Not too blue. Just sharp enough to slice through skin and stay.

The hum of the machine starts soft. Like a warning. Like a purr with teeth.

He looks at you once.

Just once.

And you know he’s not going to go easy.

“You good?” he asks, voice flat.

You nod, smug. “You always ask like you care.”

“I do care,” he mutters, tilting your chin again with a gloved hand. “Would be a shame if my art got fucked up because someone couldn’t keep still.”

Your eyes narrow. “Someone?”

He dips the needle, tests the line on a pad, and leans forward—right into your space. His breath ghosts over your lips.

“You.”

You roll your eyes and shift slightly, arms up, chest rising.

“God, you’re such a dick.”

His smirk could slice bone.

“And you’re still here. What does that say about you?”

You go to reply—but the first sting of the needle hits, and the breath punches from your lungs.

“F-fuck—!”

“Oh?” Seungmin says innocently, hand steady as he traces the mandala’s outer ring. “Is it too much already?”

You grit your teeth, exhale through your nose.

“No. Just... colder than I remembered.”

He hums like he doesn’t believe you. Like he knows what you’re really reacting to.

The first lines burn clean and sharp—stretching out beneath your skin, each pass as exact as a scalpel. Seungmin works in slow, confident strokes, one hand guiding your body where he needs it.

His fingers splay across your ribcage for tension. Firm. Possessive. Cruel.

He doesn’t speak at first. Just tattoos. Focused. Controlled.

But then—

“You know,” he murmurs, “most people don’t come back after their first rib piece.”

You hiss, fingers curling into the vinyl under you. “Most people don’t have your charming personality to keep them coming.”

He chuckles. Actually chuckles. Which should be illegal.

“You’re getting off on this, aren’t you?” he says.

The needle lifts for a second. He wipes gently with a cloth—soft at first, then firm, dragging over raw skin like he’s making a point.

You arch just slightly into his touch.

“I’m getting off on annoying you,” you counter, breath shaky.

His next line is faster. Harsher. He presses your side firmly, keeping you in place.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, low against your neck. “Then try really hard not to flinch right here.”

You flinch.

He clicks his tongue. “You’re so fucking bad at taking orders.”

“And you’re so—”

The machine stops.

He raises a brow. Wipes again. Slow this time.

“I’m so what?”

You glance down. Past his gloved hand on your ribs. Past the half-finished mandala. Past the slight smear of ink on your sternum.

You swallow.

“…focused.”

He smirks. Dangerous. “Damn right.”

And then he leans in—his next line beginning right where your breath catches worst. Right under your breast. Right on the spot where your heartbeat flutters like it’s begging him to notice.

You think he does.

Because his voice dips—deeper, smugger.

“Still think I missed you?”

You bite your lip.

Lying here. Under his hands. Wrapped in tension and black ink and the sharp, brutal pressure of a boy who tattoos like he’s angry at your skin for hiding itself from him—

You can’t lie.

Not to Seungmin.

“…yeah,” you say quietly.

His eyes flick up when you say it.

Yeah.

One syllable, quiet as breath, but loaded—the way confession always is. He doesn’t reply, not out loud. But the corner of his mouth lifts. Not a smirk. Something more dangerous. Something knowing.

He tilts your body slightly to one side, guiding you into the perfect angle, and you let him. Of course you let him.

“Still breathing okay?” he murmurs, even though he knows damn well what your breathing sounds like right now—shallow, choked, tight.

“Mhm,” you manage.

He presses back down with the needle. His strokes are smoother now, filling in the fractured petals of the mandala. He works just beneath the undercurve of your breast, just along the swell of sensitive skin—close enough to tease, close enough to make you ache.

You twitch. Barely. But enough.

He doesn’t say anything.

Doesn’t have to.

Because when he lifts the needle to switch angles, he uses his other hand to press firmly along your waist, holding you in place. His fingers curl just slightly into your side. Possessive. Grounding. A little cruel.

You shudder.

“Still can’t take orders,” he mutters.

You glare. “Still a fucking sadist.”

He hums. “Takes one to keep coming back.”

That earns him a punch to the shoulder—gentle, a flick of your knuckles—but he’s already grinning as he dips the needle again.

Your skin burns.

And still—still—you want him closer.

The ink trails down now, toward the bottom of the design. He’s practically tattooing over your stomach, your diaphragm pulsing with every breath. He’s leaning in lower too—head bent, nose just inches from your sternum. If he angled left, he’d be mouth-to-skin. If you arched just slightly, you’d be brushing right into him.

The tension hums in the air—hot, oppressive, close.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low again. This time it’s not mocking. It’s… loaded.

You nod once. “Are you?”

He glances up.

“Been better,” he mutters. Then, deliberate: “You squirm too much.”

You lift your eyes to his—taunting, daring. “You tattoo too slow.”

That gets you a sharp tap against your side.

“Careful.”

“Make me.”

The machine goes quiet.

You blink.

Seungmin sits back, gaze steady. Gloved fingers still resting against your stomach.

“You always this mouthy when someone’s on top of you?” he asks, like he doesn’t already know.

Your heart stutters.

You open your mouth—then close it.

He watches you for a second longer—until you shift just slightly under his stare. And only then does he lean back in, restart the machine, and murmur:

“Thought so.”

The final line burns sweeter than the rest.

Your breath hitches again—not from the pain, not really. You’ve gotten used to the sting. You chase it now. Crave it. Especially when it’s from him.

Seungmin finishes with a few last passes, the machine humming low and steady, until finally—he stops.

The silence after feels too quiet.

You blink up at the ceiling. It’s over. And suddenly your whole body is aware of how tense it’s been—your spine bowed slightly, your legs tight, your hands fisted in the sheets beneath you like you’ve been trying not to moan the whole time.

(You kind of have.)

He switches the machine off. The room exhales.

You stay lying down for a beat too long.

Then you hear the snap of his gloves being pulled off. The rustle of the rolling stool as he pushes back. The low clink of metal—his tools being set aside, wiped, lined up again with military precision. He always cleans up like he’s scrubbing evidence.

You sit up slowly, your ribs feel warm, raw—but not in a bad way.

He’s already tossed the gloves into the bin and is reaching for the mirror. You swing your legs over the side of the bed, biting your lip as you peek down.

The mandala gleams—inky black and flawless, nestled beneath the swell of your breasts like it belongs there.

Your breath catches.

“…fuck,” you whisper.

Seungmin glances over.

“Yeah,” he says. “I know.”

You shoot him a look. “Cocky much?”

He shrugs, reaching for his disinfectant spray like it’s nothing. “Not my fault I’m better than everyone else.”

You laugh—quiet, low, still slightly winded. “I should stop feeding your ego.”

“You should stop showing up half-naked and asking me to touch you for two hours.”

You freeze.

He doesn’t even blink.

You’re perched on the edge of the bed now, ribcage still bare. And he’s standing barely a foot away, still wiping his tools, still calm—but his jaw is tight again. His fingers grip the disinfectant bottle like he’s trying to decide whether to clean your table or ruin your day.

The air shifts.

Slowly, you stand—stepping forward. His eyes flick downward. Just once. Then he meets your gaze.

“…Seungmin.”

He raises a brow.

You step closer. Bold. A little breathless. “You never said thank you.”

He tilts his head. “For what?”

“The coffee. The pastries. My continued emotional support and aesthetic contribution to your client portfolio.”

He snorts. “Oh, right. How could I forget.”

“You could show some gratitude,” you say, smile growing. “Like, I dunno…”

A beat.

You lean in.

“…a kiss, maybe?”

He stares at you—flat, unreadable.

Then, finally, finally—his hands stop moving. The rag drops from his fingers. His jaw twitches once.

And he says, voice low: “Lay back down first.”

Your breath stops. “W-What—”

“For the aftercare,” he says—completely serious. But his eyes are glinting, the ghost of a smirk tugging at the corners. “Unless you want it to get infected.”

You huff, but you obey—because of course you do.

You lie back down, ribs lifting with every inhale, the crisp air of the studio brushing across your skin. Seungmin moves slowly—methodical, precise. He reaches for the healing balm and the bandage roll with the same focus he uses when prepping a tattoo needle.

And then—

Then he steps into your space again.

You feel his gaze before his hands. That lingering look, dragging from the ink across your sternum to the fine lace of your bra. To the soft dip between your breasts. You’re not stupid—you know how you look. You know how he’s looking.

But he doesn’t say anything.

Just kneels beside you on the tattoo bed, bracing one arm by your head, and starts applying the balm.

It’s… soft. Softer than it should be.

His gloved fingers glide gently across your skin, cool gel easing the sting of the fresh lines, but what you feel isn’t clinical. It’s heat. A low, blooming throb of something far more dangerous. Especially when his thumb grazes the edge of your bra. Not on purpose, not exactly—but he doesn’t move it away either.

You exhale. Carefully. Slowly.

His voice comes quieter this time, rough around the edges.

“You really wore this just to fuck with me, didn’t you?”

You blink up at him. “Excuse me?”

“This,” he murmurs, brushing the bandage wrapper open, eyes never leaving yours. “The lace. The black. The fact that it’s barely covering anything while I have to touch you like a fucking monk.”

You smirk. “What, don’t like being teased?”

His eyes narrow. “You’re not teasing.”

“No?”

“You’re begging.”

Your stomach flips.

He leans down slightly. Applies the bandage. His fingers skim the top edge of your sternum, then press lightly under your breast to make it stick. You jolt a little—not enough to be a flinch, but just enough for him to notice.

His lips twitch. “Thought so.”

You swallow.

“You could’ve said something,” you murmur.

“I did,” he says. “When I told you to stop showing up half-naked and flirty like I wouldn’t do anything about it.”

“And yet—” you gesture around, breathless, “—you haven’t.”

He finishes pressing the bandage into place. Carefully. Slowly. But his eyes—his eyes are anything but.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he says softly.

And then he leans in. Close. Close enough that his breath grazes your cheek, close enough that the heat of his body curls over yours like smoke.

“I’m just not done punishing you yet.”

You barely have time to gasp.

Because his hands are suddenly on your waist, fingers splayed wide, warm. He leans over you, lips brushing your ear as he speaks, voice like smoke curling from a lit match.

“You really think I’d let you keep pushing me forever?” he murmurs, his tone dark velvet, laced with something wicked. “Waltzing in here every time with that mouth—wearing shit like this—knowing damn well I’d eventually snap.”

You can’t speak.

Not with the way his hand is sliding up—up—fingertips skating the edge of your ribcage, the outline of your bra, the warm silk of your skin. Every inch he touches makes your back arch, breath stutter, pulse thunder.

“I—I didn’t—” you start.

“You did.” He cuts you off with a growl of a whisper, lips ghosting just beneath your jaw. “You knew exactly what you were doing. And you knew exactly who you were doing it to.”

His hand finds the clasp of your bra—flicks it once, expertly. Loose. Deliberate.

Lace falls.

You whimper.

He exhales sharply through his nose—his palm sliding up to cup you fully, thumb brushing across a nipple already sensitive from all that adrenaline and ink and restraint. The tension coils tighter—like it’s been waiting weeks to snap.

“You’ve been needing this,” he mutters against your skin. “Coming in again and again—acting like a brat. Begging for attention. Flashing me those looks like I wouldn’t fuck you into the goddamn wall the second I got the chance.”

A pause.

“Is this what you wanted?” he asks, mouthing down your throat, sucking once—hard. “You wanna be my canvas off-hours too?”

You nod. Frantic. Breathless. Your fingers clutch at the hem of his shirt, tugging, anchoring, pleading.

“Say it.”

“I wanted you,” you pant. “I want you. I’ve always—fuck—Seungmin—”

He snarls.

And that’s it.

His mouth finds your breast with zero pretense, tongue hot and teeth grazing—biting, not cruel, but enough to leave a mark. His other hand slides down, past your waistband, finding the thin lace of your underwear—

Already soaked.

You feel him smirk against your skin.

“Such a fucking mess,” he growls. “You come from the needle or from me?”

You writhe.

“Seungmin—”

“Yeah?” His fingers slip beneath the lace. “Lie to me again. See what happens.”

And then—

Then he presses in. Two fingers, all at once, knowing exactly where and how to touch you. Because he’s studied you. Memorized you. Sketched you in his mind over six tattoos and hours of tension, and now he finally gets to wreck you.

His fingers curl.

You break.

Your head falls back. Your thighs tremble. He’s still got one arm braced next to your head, and the other is fucking you open while his mouth maps every inch of your chest like it’s sacred.

“You’re mine now,” he mutters into your skin. “You wanted this? You earned this. So take it.”

You moan—high, wrecked, nearly slurred. His fingers don’t relent. Curling deep. Unforgiving. He’s fucking you with them like he’s trying to carve his name inside you, and maybe he is.

But just when it starts to crest—when you feel it, the rush, the crash, the electric burn starting in your spine—

He stops.

You jolt. “No—!”

He pulls out slow. Cruel. Slick fingers dragging free. You clench around nothing, hips chasing him, tears prickling your lashes.

He tsks.

“Thought you were smarter than that.”

You blink, dazed. “Wh-What—?”

“You think you get to cum already?” He leans down, lips brushing your ear again. “After walking in here like that? After tormenting me for months?”

His hand finds your throat—light pressure, just enough to pin you back against the vinyl bed. Your mouth falls open. Instinct.

“I spent hours sketching that design,” he whispers. “Tattooed it on your fucking ribs. You came in here dripping and smug and bratty. And you think you get to finish first?”

You whimper.

He lets go.

“Get on your knees.”

You blink. “W-What?”

“You heard me.”

He stands, undoing his belt in one smooth motion—his eyes never leaving yours. You follow his gaze down, down, as he pushes his jeans low and his boxers lower, cock flushed and leaking and so fucking hard.

You drop to your knees, onto the soft rug in his private studio, beneath the overhead lamp and the echo of the bed creaking behind you.

“Open,” he says tapping the tip of his cock against your pretty lips.

You blink up at him, lips parted, brain still catching up to the command. Seungmin doesn’t flinch, doesn’t repeat himself—he just stares down, eyes half-lidded, cock heavy in his hand, tapping the head once more—twice—against your bottom lip like a test.

You obey.

Mouth open. Knees aching. Head swimming.

"Good," he murmurs, voice like low thunder.

One hand tangles in your hair—possessive—guiding, not forcing. His hips roll forward, slow and controlled, and the first brush of him on your tongue makes you whimper. Your thighs press together instinctively.

Because he tastes like every fantasy you’ve denied yourself. And he’s watching you the whole time—jaw tight, chest rising, his gaze flicking between your mouth and your eyes like he's trying to brand the moment into memory.

“You always run your mouth,” he mutters, stroking your cheek with his thumb as you take him deeper, “but you’re so fucking quiet now, huh?”

You hum around him, tongue flattening, jaw straining, eyes locked on his like it’s the only anchor you have. He groans—quiet, raw, like it slips out before he can stop it.

Your hands steady on his thighs, you suck deeper. Hollow your cheeks. Let him feel everything.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “You really—shit—you’re good at this, huh?”

You moan, just to be a brat. The vibration makes him jerk.

His fingers twitch in your hair. The other hand finds the back of your neck, thumb pressed right where your pulse jumps.

“Greedy,” he mutters, breath stuttering as you pull back slow—spit-slick, lips flushed—then take his cock again, deeper this time, choking a little and loving it. “You want all of it, don’t you?”

You blink up at him, teary-eyed and burning, and nod.

And that’s all it takes.

His grip tightens. His hips roll. Controlled at first, almost gentle—but the moment you relax your throat and let him in further, something cracks.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

The next thrust punches straight down your throat.

You choke—once, loud and messy—but you don’t pull away.

You don’t dare.

Not when Seungmin’s hand tightens in your hair like a leash. Not when his cock sinks deep, hot and throbbing and slick with your spit. Not when his groan scrapes straight from his chest, raw and filthy, as he watches your throat swallow around him.

“Fuck—” he snarls, voice strained. “You were made for this. Look at you.”

You try—your eyes flicking up through the blur of tears, spit dripping from your lips, mascara smudged beneath your lashes. You can barely see, but you feel everything—his fingers curled at the base of your skull, his cock throbbing on your tongue, the harsh stretch of your jaw.

“You’re a fucking mess,” he pants. “Spit everywhere—shit—drooling on me.”

You are—slick and soaked, saliva trailing from the corners of your mouth to your chin, coating his cock in glistening sheen. You gag again when he presses deeper, but he doesn’t let up.

“Take it,” he mutters, more to himself than you. “Take it. You fucking wanted this.”

He rolls his hips again—harder this time. Meaner. The tip of his cock bruises the back of your throat, and you sob around it, spit bubbling at the seams.

Seungmin hisses. “Yeah. That’s it.”

His hand tilts your head—just slightly—enough for him to watch you from above. “Look at you. Fucking crying for it.”

You blink up, lashes clumped and wet, mouth stretched open and obscene.

“Don’t stop,” he growls. “Wanna see you ruined.”

He fucks into your mouth like it’s a punishment. Like every gag, every wet choke is a penance you owe for teasing him for months. For bratty texts. For lace bralettes and stolen glances. For every look that said take me without saying a word.

Your throat tightens—and he moans.

“God—your throat—shit, I can feel it. Fucking clenching like your pussy would.”

You twitch.

He laughs—low and cruel. “What, you liked that? Want me to fuck both ends until you can’t walk or talk?”

You whimper around him. Loud.

Precum spills onto your tongue—hot and bitter—and he curses. Your hands claw at his hips, digging for purchase as he starts to lose it—thrusts jerking harder, messier. Your throat is raw, face soaked, and still—still—you stay open for him.

His voice shatters through your haze, ragged and mean.

“You look fucking perfect like this. Broken. Beautiful. Mine.”

One more thrust. Deep. Sharp.

You gag—again. Loud.

And Seungmin snaps. He jerks back suddenly—his cock pulling free with a slick pop, strings of spit connecting you still. You gasp—cough—spit dripping from your tongue.

“Open wider,” Seungmin rasps.

You do. Tongue out. Strings of drool glistening in the studio light. He grabs his cock—slick, flushed, twitching—and strokes once, twice—then spits. Right into your mouth. Then again. Then again.

You moan. Loud. Shameless.

“Filthy little thing,” he pants. “Look at you. Covered in spit and tears and fucking loving it.”

You nod. Once. Hard.

He leans down, cupping your jaw—thumb swiping through the mess on your chin, dragging it across your lips like warpaint. Seungmin's eyes watch you for a beat longer until he finally helps you up onto your feet.

You gasp, legs wobbling, mouth still slick and open as he turns you around and places a hand between your shoulder blades, coaxing you down on the bench.

“Hands flat,” he orders.

You obey.

He kicks your legs apart with his knee—rough. You gasp. Then moan, throat raw and spit-slick, head swimming from the sudden repositioning. His hands working quick, pulling down your pants and panties in one go. Seungmin hums in satisfaction at the sight of your wet cunt dripping. Fucking dripping.

“Better,” he mutters. “Stay like that.”

You squirm—but not far. Not really. Just enough to test him.

He growls.

And then—CRACK.

His hand lands sharp across your ass, a loud sting that echoes through the studio like an accusation.

You cry out.

“Still a brat,” he mutters. “Still fucking pushing me.”

His hands drag down—gripping your hips, pulling your ass back against him like he’s lining up a weapon.

“You think I won’t fuck you right here? Bent over the same bench I tattooed you on?” he says low, cruel. “You think I won’t use you just like this—all messy, full of spit, dripping down your thighs like a fucking reward?”

You whimper. “Then do it.”

A beat.

And then—he does.

He thrusts in all at once—deep, unforgiving, stretching you full in a single brutal push that knocks the air clean from your lungs. The bench creaks. Your nails scrape against the vinyl. You’re already soaked, still fluttering from his fingers.

Now you’re split open around him.

“Fuck—” he hisses. “Tight little thing—gripping me like you were made for this.”

You were. You want to scream it. But all that comes out is a cracked moan, spine arching as he pulls back—

Then slams in again.

Hard.

Rhythmic.

Cruel.

The bench jerks with every thrust. His hips slap into your ass, cock punching deep and devastating with every motion. The angle hits something brutal—low, mean, a spot that makes your vision spark.

“Louder,” he growls. “Wanna hear you.”

You whine—broken, gasping, drooling against the bench.

He leans over you now—chest to your back, breath in your ear, one hand fisted in your hair while the other snakes under your stomach to lift your hips just right.

His cock drags so deep, your thighs shake from the pressure, and the stretch is perfect—like he’s carving himself into you on purpose.

“This pussy’s been waiting for me,” he mutters, voice guttural. “So fucking wet—so ready to be used.”

You cry out as he pounds harder—faster—gripping your hips with both hands now, dragging you back onto his cock with every brutal snap of his waist.

“You hear that?” he pants.

Slap slap slap. Wet. Filthy. Perfect.

“That’s you,” he growls. “Fucking dripping down my cock—making a mess all over my bench like a desperate little toy.”

You moan—loud. The vinyl squeaks beneath you. Your toes curl, your back arches—and you know it’s close. That heat low in your stomach coiling tight.

“Wanna cum?” he grunts, snapping his hips even harder. “Gonna let me make you cum on my cock this time?”

You nod frantically. “Please—please, Seungmin—”

“Beg properly.”

“I need it—I need you—I’m gonna—fuck—please—!”

He slams in one final time—

And you break.

You cum hard—clenching around him, gasping his name like a prayer, back bowed and thighs trembling, your body nothing but nerve endings and his. It hits like lightning—violent, hot, devastating.

Seungmin moans through his teeth.

“God—fuck—you feel so good when you cum—” he grits, voice cracking with restraint. “So tight, so—shit—don’t stop. Don’t fucking stop squeezing me like that—”

He doesn’t slow. Not even a little. Seungmin just keeps going—thrusts deeper, harder, dragging your spent cunt right through the sensitivity like he wants to fuck you into a second orgasm.

You whine. Loud. High-pitched. Borderline sobbing.

“Too much—” you gasp, but your body says otherwise—clenching, fluttering, soaking him.

He groans, hips snapping into you again.

“I know,” he pants, voice wrecked. “I know it’s too much—but you’re taking it anyway, aren’t you?”

You nod. Shaking. Barely holding yourself upright over the bench as his cock slams into your soaked pussy again, again, again.

“You look so fucking wrecked,” he snarls. “Bent over this bench, fucked-out and dripping—mine.”

“Yours,” you echo—half-breath, half-moan. “Yours, Seungmin, fuck—!”

And that—

That does it.

He growls, deep in his chest, and thrusts one final time, burying himself to the fucking hilt—and you feel it.

His cock jerks once. Twice. Then—heat. Hot, thick, flooding you.

Seungmin’s cum spills inside you in brutal waves, pulse after pulse, spilling past your already-fucked entrance, dripping down your thighs with every twitch of his hips.

He groans—loud, broken—grinding in deeper as his release coats your insides.

You both stay like that for a beat.

Panting. Shaking. Silent except for the slow drip of your combined mess hitting the studio floor. His hands are still on your hips, fingers bruising, cock still buried deep inside you like he can’t bear to pull out just yet.

Finally—

“…fuck,” he mutters. “Look what you do to me.”

You whimper. “You started it.”

He smirks. Breathless. Still inside you.

“You came first,” he says, voice hoarse. “That makes it your fault.”

You roll your eyes. Weakly. Legs trembling.

But when he finally pulls out—slow, careful—you both groan at the mess. His cum leaks from you instantly, hot and obscene, slicking down your thighs in thick globs.

Seungmin watches. Just watches. Then hums.

“Pretty,” he says quietly. “All ruined. Just like I wanted.”

You’re bent over the ink bench, gasping. Barely conscious of your own limbs. There’s cum dripping down your thighs, breath fogging the vinyl, your body throbbing in time with your pulse.

And behind you—

Seungmin exhales. Low. Spent. Quiet.

Then: zip.

The sound of his jeans being pulled back up, the belt loosely fastened with one hand as the other brushes through his hair. You hear it—the shift. The snap back to reality. To composure. To Seungmin-afterglow, where all that bite turns to balm.

You expect him to vanish, to go grab wipes or complain about the mess—

Instead, you feel his hands. Gentle. Soft on your waist. Carefully guiding.

He straightens you. Not rough. Not impatient. Just… careful. Like you’re something fragile now.

You blink as he eases you to sit on the edge of the bench again, his hands steady on your hips until your legs stop shaking.

“Still with me?” he murmurs.

You nod. Slowly. “Barely.”

He huffs a breath of a laugh—tired, wrecked, softer than before.

Then he brushes sweaty strands of hair from your forehead and mutters, “Good girl.”

You melt. Right there. Ruined part two.

He disappears for a moment—only to return with a full box of wipes, a towel, and a silver water bottle you know is his personal one.

“Open,” he says gently, uncapping it and holding it to your lips.

You sip.

He waits. Watches to make sure you don’t choke. Then: another sip. A wipe to your neck. Another for your thighs.

He doesn’t comment on the mess—doesn’t smirk, doesn’t tease. Just… cleans you.

Tender. Focused. A little too quiet.

He wipes the insides of your thighs slowly, scooping up the slick and cum and sweat and ink-tainted heat with barely-there touches. When you flinch, he pauses. When you shiver, he murmurs something under his breath you don’t quite catch—but you feel it. Like a balm.

“You’re doing fine,” he says eventually. “I’m almost done.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

That shuts you up.

Once he’s cleaned every inch of you he marked, he helps dress you up again, pants and panties up but then he grabs his spare hoodie—crumpled on the back of his chair—and slips it over your head with no warning.

It’s oversized. Smells like cedar and ink and him.

He tugs the hood over your messy hair, then pauses to kiss the top of your head.

And that’s what finally ruins you.

Your eyes sting. But you blink fast. No way you’re crying in this hoodie.

“…Seungmin?”

He hums.

“You okay?”

His gaze lifts to yours. Tired. Sweet. Still a little dazed. Another soft hum in response. And then he's back in motion. Efficient again. Packing up the mess, tossing used wipes, wiping down the vinyl. He moves like he needs something to do with his hands or he’ll grab you again.

Once the bench is clean, he turns to you—really turns.

And in a voice way too soft for someone who just fucked the breath out of you against workplace furniture: “Wanna come back to mine?”

You laugh—hoarse, soft, still ruined. “Like this?”

He smirks. “I have more hoodies.”

You blink up at him.

“…And strawberries?”

He smiles.

"And strawberries."

You end up at his place that night. Still wearing his hoodie. Still barely walking.

He gives you a fresh towel and the softest pair of sweatpants he owns, sets you in the bathtub like you’re made of porcelain, and kneels beside it the whole time—washing your hair with slow fingers and kissing your shoulder between rinses.

You eat strawberries straight from the bowl while wrapped in his towel. He lets you finish the last bite before tugging you onto his lap and kissing you breathless all over again.

No sex that night. Not because he doesn’t want to—But because he already has you.

And maybe, he just wants to hold what he’s wrecked.

He lets you fall asleep on his chest. Hoodie, thigh over his lap, lips parted against his collarbone. He doesn’t sleep. Just watches. Fingers curled around your wrist like a habit he never wants to break.

And the next morning? He wakes you up with coffee. And a second round (Messier than before.).

And ever since that day? You just… kept coming back. Not for tattoos, though that’s still a bonus. No—now you show up for him. Your boyfriend. Your soft-spoken menace. Your chaos control. Your personal ink-stained sadist.

You still strut into NO SAINT INK like you own it—drink tray in hand, smug little smirk on your face, eyes locked on the back room like a predator in love.

You still flirt just to watch him clench his jaw. Still wear lace under oversized hoodies and whisper “miss me?” every time you lean against his worktable.

He still rolls his eyes and mutters “unbearable” without looking up.

But when the clock hits closing time?

And everyone is gone. The lights dim. The blinds are drawn. The door locks with a click.

Seungmin doesn’t pretend.

He pulls you into the back with one hand around your neck and the other already working at your zipper. He lays you across the vinyl like it’s a fucking altar. And he fucks you like he’s trying to tattoo his name inside your soul.

You moan like you were made for it.

And when it’s over—when you’re sore and sticky and boneless all over again—

He picks you up. Wipes you down. And kisses your forehead like you hung the moon. A ritual really. Because from annoying menace client, you are now his favourite annoying menace girlfriend.

Who still pisses him off about random designs and bullies him into doing them. And he still ends up doing them for you, except they are ten times better and equipped with all the loving bullying just for you.

Just for his favourite menace girlfriend.

[imagine-all-the-imagines]

Hands On My Throat

Bestfriend! Chan x Female reader

Tags: explicit sexual content, choking kink / neck play, brat taming, praise + possessiveness, slight dom/sub dynamic, oral (f and m receiving), fingering, multiple positions, couch sex, shower sex, best friends to lovers, sexual tension

Word count : 9.6k

Summary: He’s the golden boy of your friend group, also your best friend of ten years. Touchy without thinking. Protective without asking. And hot—criminally hot—without ever being yours. Until one night, in the middle of a crowded living room, his hand wraps around your neck without thinking. And you realize… he has no idea.

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

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There was no knock. There never was.

Chan walked into your apartment like he paid rent—hoodie half-zipped, keys jingling in his hand, the familiar scent of clean laundry and whatever cologne he swiped from his dresser that morning trailing in after him. He kicked off his shoes like a man with no shame and made a beeline for your fridge.

You didn’t even look up from your laptop. “You steal one more yogurt and I’m reporting you to the building board.”

He opened the fridge. “You don’t even like Greek yogurt.”

“You don’t know my life.”

“I know you used it once for a TikTok mask and gagged.”

You grinned. “Okay, fine. But still. Ask before you mooch.”

He shut the fridge and padded over, yogurt in one hand, water bottle in the other. “Never have. Never will.”

Chan dropped onto the couch beside you, close enough for his thigh to press solidly against yours. He stretched his arm behind you like he was at a movie theatre trying to flirt with a stranger. His fingers brushed your shoulder, then stayed there. Rested. Comfortable.

Normal.

You didn’t move. Just kept typing, one leg curled beneath you, the other pressed tight against his. You’d long since stopped noticing how often his body found yours. Chan was touchy—had been since high school. Always stretching across your lap, squeezing your arms, playing with your fingers absentmindedly during long talks. You didn’t even flinch when his palm dropped to your knee now, warm and casual.

This was just how it had always been.

People didn’t get it. Not back in school, not in college, not now when you lived a few floors apart and spent most nights either at his place or yours. The teasing from friends had been endless, and the side-eyes never stopped. But neither of you had ever crossed that line. Not even once.

Not even close.

You were hot. He was hot. That was an objective fact. But hot didn’t mean available. It didn’t mean interested. Not between you two.

Chan opened the yogurt with one hand and shoved the lid at you. “Lick this. Be useful.”

You turned your face slowly. “You want me to lick your foil lid?”

“I’m not dirtying a spoon just to eat this.”

“You’re so unserious.”

“I’m efficient.”

You took the lid, licked it once with a dramatic roll of your eyes, and handed it back. “Happy?”

He grinned. “Always.”

He popped the rest of the yogurt into his mouth and grabbed the TV remote, settling in like he didn’t plan on leaving for hours. You weren’t surprised. Most nights looked like this—Chan in your space, touching you somewhere, somehow, while the two of you talked about everything and nothing. He never asked. You never flinched. You barely noticed anymore.

And even when his hand slid just a little higher on your thigh—thumb brushing back and forth across the thin fabric of your shorts—you didn’t think twice. It didn’t register. Just Chan being Chan. Just another Tuesday.

⸻

Chan’s living room was loud. Like it always was when everyone crowded into his space.

Music buzzed from the Bluetooth speaker someone had connected half an hour ago. Your group of friends were splayed across every surface—couch cushions, beanbags, someone cross-legged on the floor—arguing over which movie to watch while the food delivery slowly made its way through Friday night traffic.

You were curled into the corner of the couch, legs tucked beneath you, half-listening, half-scrolling on your phone. Comfortable. Cozy. Familiar.

You’d lost count of how many nights like this there’d been. Movie nights, lazy dinners, game nights that never ended with the actual game. And Chan—always at the center of it. Hosting, leaning against walls with his arms crossed, eyes creased from laughter.

Right now, he was behind you, one knee on the couch as he leaned over to grab the remote off the coffee table. The angle brought his chest close to your back, the edge of his hoodie brushing your cheek before he spoke over your head.

“Why are we even voting?” he asked. “We all know it’s gonna end up being some sad indie movie with subtitles.”

“Because you like chaos,” someone shot back. “We’re trying to have feelings tonight.”

Chan huffed a laugh, dropped the remote onto the cushion beside you, and stayed where he was—half-standing behind the couch, his weight shifting from one arm to the next.

Then you felt it.

One hand landed lightly on your shoulder. And before you could glance back or even think twice, it slid upward.

His palm curved gently around the side of your neck.

Not tight. Not firm. Just resting.

His thumb brushed the underside of your jaw once, then paused, like he was measuring something.

“Huh,” he murmured, half to himself. “Your neck’s tiny.”

He squeezed—not hard, just curious. Testing the width of it in his hand. Like he was checking the fit of something he already owned. His fingers spread easily around your throat, thick and relaxed, his thumb nearly meeting his fingertips on the other side.

You didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

You kept your phone up, face calm, body casual. But inside?

You were choking.

Silently. Violently.

He had no idea.

He wasn’t even thinking about it. It was just Chan being Chan—touchy, absentminded, always touching you. Always. You’d never given it a second thought.

But this?

This was the one place you’d never imagined his hand.

The one part of your body that could short-circuit you with just a look, if the wrong person stared too long. And here he was—fingers wrapped casually around it, thumb brushing over your pulse, eyes probably still on the TV while your soul momentarily left your body.

You blinked. Swallowed. Scrolled aimlessly to mask the tension pooling hot in your stomach.

“Chan,” someone called out. “You good?”

“Yeah,” he said distractedly, thumb still grazing your neck. “Just thinking how weird it is that this—” he gave the softest squeeze, “—could pop like a grape.”

You let out a short, strangled sound that you masked as a cough.

Chan chuckled and finally moved away, dropping onto the armrest beside you with a bounce. His arm still brushed your shoulder, but the pressure on your throat was gone. Like it never happened.

Like it meant nothing.

And to him, it probably didn’t.

But to you?

You weren’t even sure if your breath had come back yet.

⸻

The door shut with a final click.

Silence fell over Chan’s apartment, the kind that only came after hours of noise—empty cups scattered across his counter, the echo of laughter still clinging to the walls. You sank deeper into the couch with a sigh, one hand absently rubbing your shoulder where it ached from sitting in the same position too long.

Chan reappeared from the kitchen, hair pushed back by a band now, hoodie sleeves rolled to the elbows. He tossed a bottle of water onto the coffee table and plopped down beside you, then paused.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Fine,” you said, too quick. “Just… tired.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You’re stiff.”

You shrugged, not looking at him. “Yeah, well. You try staying upright for four hours while Minho screams at the TV like it insulted his mother.”

Chan smiled lazily. “You’re carrying tension. Scoot up.”

“What?”

He patted the space between his legs. “C’mon. Let me fix it.”

You hesitated, but only for a beat.

This wasn’t new. He’d given you shoulder rubs before—during finals in college, during hell weeks at your old job, after long car rides or moving days. It was Chan. Your Chan. The one person you trusted not to make anything feel weird.

So you shifted forward, sitting cross-legged between his thighs, and let him rest his hands on your shoulders.

At first, it was nothing.

Just firm pressure. The pads of his thumbs pushing slow, rhythmic circles into your traps, rolling out the knots like he had all the time in the world. You melted, just a little, head tipping forward under the strength of it.

“Jesus,” you muttered, “where did you even learn how to do that?”

“Years of stress,” he said. “You get good at fixing what you live with.”

You huffed something like a laugh, eyelids falling shut.

Then his thumbs pushed deeper, finding the ridge near the base of your neck, and you let out a low groan of relief.

It felt too good. Way too good.

But it was still safe.

Until his hands shifted.

Slid higher.

Thumbs brushing the edges of your neck now. Rubbing the muscles that fed into it. Soft. Slow. Intent.

Your body tensed before your brain caught up—and then it slipped.

A sound left you.

High-pitched. Sharp.

Needy.

You bit it back immediately, lips slamming shut, but the damage was done. It hung there in the air for a second too long—too feminine, too out of place for the room’s quiet.

Chan stilled.

You didn’t breathe.

Then—

“You good?” he asked lightly, voice above your head.

You could hear the confusion. Like he wasn’t sure if he’d heard it right. Or if you meant it the way it sounded.

“I—yeah.” Your voice cracked, and you cleared your throat. “Just sore.”

He hummed. Didn’t say anything else.

His hands moved again, this time slower, gentler—sweeping wide across your shoulders before sliding up again, thumbs circling your neck with almost tender pressure. Like he was feeling out the muscle tension—but also maybe trying to see if you’d make that sound again.

You were still. Too still.

“Didn’t think you were holding this much here,” he murmured. His thumbs pressed gently into the dip just behind your jaw. “You always carry it this high?”

You nodded too fast. “Y-Yeah. Must’ve slept weird.”

His touch softened, almost affectionate now, tracing down your neck with his thumbs before slipping away entirely. The absence of it made your breath hiccup.

You couldn’t look back at him.

Not yet.

Because now you weren’t sure if he didn’t notice…

Or if he definitely did.

You hadn’t mentioned it.

Neither had he.

Not when you stood to leave a few minutes later, not when he walked you to the door like he always did, not even when his hand lingered low on your back as you slipped on your slides.

If anything, he looked more normal than usual. Relaxed. Even smiled when you told him you’d come by tomorrow to help clean.

“Don’t forget I’m your friend, not your maid,” you said.

He gave your arm a little squeeze. “You’re both.”

And that was that.

Or so you thought.

—

The next day, his apartment looked exactly the same. A few stray cups gathered in the sink, a throw blanket half-draped off the couch, crumbs on the coffee table. You tossed your bag down and got to work wiping things down while he gathered trash from the bedroom.

“You could at least pretend to clean while I’m here,” you called out.

“I am cleaning,” he shouted back. “I just clean in peace. Unlike someone.”

You rolled your eyes, grinning.

It was easy again. Like nothing happened.

Until it wasn’t.

He emerged from the hallway, rubbing the back of his neck, then padded barefoot across the room to take the rag from your hand.

“Okay,” he said. “Can we talk about something?”

You glanced at him. “What?”

He didn’t speak right away.

Instead, he took the rag, folded it neatly, and set it on the table—slow and deliberate, like he was giving you time to brace.

Then he looked at you. Really looked.

“That sound you made,” he said, voice quiet. “Yesterday. When I was rubbing your neck.”

Your stomach dropped. Not in panic. Just in… sheer mortified awareness.

You played dumb. “What sound?”

Chan tilted his head, amused.

“Don’t do that.”

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” you insisted, backing a step toward the kitchen, like that would save you.

He followed. One step. Two.

“You made a sound,” he said, not letting it go. “High. Like… I don’t know. Not pain. Definitely not pain.”

Your cheeks flamed. “Okay, and?”

“It just surprised me.” His voice stayed calm. Curious. “You don’t usually sound like that.”

You swallowed hard, crossing your arms in a weak attempt at a barrier. “It was nothing. You just hit a spot. I didn’t even realize I—”

“Sure,” he cut in gently. “But… I’m sure I’ve hit that spot before.”

You froze.

He smiled again, but it was slower now. Measured. A little too knowing.

Your voice came out small. “So?”

“So…” he scratched at his jaw, like he was still figuring out what he wanted to say. “I don’t know. It just sounded like… something else.”

Silence.

Heavy. Awkward. Charged.

You looked down. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Chan stepped a little closer.

You could smell him again—clean and warm, the same scent you’d been surrounded by for years. But now? It clung to your skin differently. Sunk into your pulse.

He was watching you carefully. Not pressuring. Not pushing.

Just… observing.

“Okay,” he said finally. “I believe you.”

Relief hit you, fast and fleeting.

“But if you had meant something by it,” he added, voice lower now, “you’d tell me, right?”

Your breath hitched.

He wasn’t teasing anymore.

He wasn’t joking.

You met his gaze—eyes warm, calm, steady. There wasn’t a trace of judgment in them. No expectation either. Just the softest, slightest pull of curiosity.

And something else you couldn’t name yet.

You looked away.

“Clean your damn table, Christopher.”

He smirked. “So that’s a no?”

“That’s a goodnight.”

You grabbed your bag and made a beeline for the door, pulse thudding in your throat, your skin hot all over. You could still feel the ghost of his hand there, even now. Still circling. Still squeezing.

And the worst part? You knew you’d dream about it.

The second you turned toward the door, you knew he wasn’t going to let it slide.

You felt it.

That shift in the air. The narrowing of his patience. Chan wasn’t dumb, and he wasn’t oblivious. You’d slipped out of a hundred close calls with him over the years, danced around every whisper of tension—but now?

He had a thread.

And he was pulling it.

“Wait,” he said, quiet.

You kept walking.

“Don’t be weird about it,” you muttered. “I said it was nothing.”

The words barely left your mouth before you felt his hand curling around the waistband of your sweatpants and pulling you back into him with a snap.

Your breath hitched.

Back to his chest. Spine to his hoodie. You froze, lips parting in disbelief.

“Chan—”

He grabbed your face before you could finish. One hand cupping your jaw, the other squishing your cheeks together so your lips puckered slightly, tilting your head back against him.

Your breath caught.

“Tell me,” he said, voice low—so low it brushed against your ear like a hum. “That moan. Was it your neck?”

You squirmed, heat rushing to your face, but his grip was firm. Not rough. Just insistent. Gentle like the beginning of something you weren’t ready to name yet.

“I said it was nothing,” you mumbled through his hold.

“I heard you the first time.” His hand loosened just enough for your jaw to move, but his palm didn’t leave your skin. “But that’s not what I asked.”

You turned your head slightly, but he followed the motion, chest warm against your back, his breath fanning across your temple.

“I’m not judging you,” he said softer now, almost amused. “I’m just asking… do you have a thing for this?”

His hand dropped—slow, steady—fingertips trailing from your jaw down the curve of your throat.

You stopped breathing.

His palm hovered just under your chin, thumb resting at the side of your neck, fingers spread. Barely touching. Barely grazing.

Then— He wrapped.

Not tight. Not firm. Just enough to feel his fingers circle you.

Just enough to remind you how small you were in his hand.

Everything in you went still.

Your lips parted again—useless, breathless, caught. You didn’t moan this time, but the silence said enough.

Chan’s voice dipped, teasing now. “So you do.”

You turned your face away, jaw tensed. “It’s not like that.”

His hand didn’t move.

“Then what’s it like?”

You stayed quiet, hands fisting at your sides.

“I didn’t even squeeze,” he murmured, voice velvet-slick. “And you froze like I switched you off with a button.”

“Shut up.”

He grinned. “Ohhh. So it’s like that.”

You tried to step forward, but his grip on your waistband tightened just slightly—reminding you he still had you. That he could pull again. That he would.

He leaned in, lips almost brushing your ear now.

“I’m not mad,” he said, gentle. “I’m not freaked out. I just…” his thumb grazed under your chin again, slow, sweet, deadly. “I think it’s kinda cute.”

“Chan,” you warned, but it came out too soft. Too breathy.

He let go of your jaw, finally. Stepped back a little.

His hand dropped from your neck like nothing happened.

But nothing about your body felt normal anymore.

“I’m gonna order takeout,” he said casually, walking to the kitchen. “You want the usual?”

You blinked.

Stared at him, stunned. “Are you serious?”

He glanced back with a smirk.

“Dead serious. But—if you wanna talk more about your kinks after dinner, I’m free.”

⸻

Dinner was a blur.

You barely tasted anything.

Chan ordered your usual like it was a normal night, like he hadn’t manhandled your face and wrapped his hand around your neck barely twenty minutes ago. He sat across from you at his counter, hoodie sleeves shoved to the elbows, digging into pizza while casually talking about Genshin.

You blinked at your own bowl, lips still tingling, mind running marathons.

He’d touched you a thousand times before—your waist, your thigh, your cheek, your lower back—but not like that.

Not with intent.

Not while calling you out about your kinks like he was just checking the weather.

You poked at your own noodles.

“So we’re not gonna talk about it?” you asked.

Chan looked up, chewing, one brow lifted.

“Talk about what?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t play dumb.”

A beat of silence.

Then the softest smirk curled on his lips. “Thought you didn’t wanna talk about it.”

You stared at him.

Something low and hot coiled in your stomach. That smug little tone he always used on you when he knew he’d won—when he baited you into spilling, or laughing, or saying something you didn’t mean to say.

And suddenly?

You’d had enough. You dropped your fork. Sat back in your chair.

“Fine,” you said, eyes locked on his. “You wanna talk kinks? Let’s talk.”

The smile slipped from his face, slow and sharp—like something in him clicked.

“…Now?”

You crossed your arms, chin high. “You started it.”

Chan leaned forward, resting his forearms on the counter. “Alright,” he said slowly. “Let’s go.”

His voice was low again. Not teasing this time. Steady. Intrigued. Like you’d just pulled a loaded weapon on the table and told him to pick a side.

You swallowed. “We’ve never talked about this before.”

“I know.”

“We said we wouldn’t.”

“I remember.”

“So why now?”

Chan shrugged. “Because you moaned like someone touched your soul when I only grazed your neck and then tried to lie about it. And now I’m curious.”

You flushed.

“Curious about what?”

His gaze didn’t waver. “You.��

A silence stretched between you—hot, tight, heavy.

You laughed once, hollow. “God. This is so fucking weird.”

Chan tilted his head. “Is it?”

“Yes!” you threw your hands up. “You’re my best friend.”

“I’m still your best friend.”

“And we don’t talk about sex.”

“We do now.”

Your breath caught.

His eyes were too dark. Too steady. There was no out here.

You inhaled slowly. “Fine. What do you wanna know?”

Chan sat back again, folding his arms. “What else does it for you?”

You blinked. “Seriously?”

He nodded. “Dead serious.”

You hesitated.

Then—like the words tasted like sin—you said quietly, “Hands.”

A pause.

Chan’s lips twitched. “Yeah. I figured.”

“Big ones,” you added without thinking. “Veiny. Rough. Confident.”

His eyes gleamed. “That why you always let me manhandle you like a ragdoll?”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I’m just observing,” he said. “What else?”

You gave him a flat look. “What, you taking notes now?”

He leaned in again, elbows on the table, voice dark velvet. “I will if you keep talking like that.”

Your thighs pressed together under the table.

You looked away. “You go. Say something.”

He was quiet for a second.

Then—casually—“I like brats.”

You choked.

“Excuse me?”

Chan grinned. “Smart mouths. Girls who push back. Who pretend they don’t wanna listen but fold the second I—”

“Okay!” you raised a hand. “That’s enough, Freud.”

He laughed, head tipping back.

But the tension didn’t ease.

If anything—it twisted tighter.

You bit your lip. “So like… choking. Is that weird?”

He blinked. “Is what weird? Wanting it done to you? Or doing it to someone?”

You paused. “…Both?”

Chan tilted his head, thoughtful. “Not weird. But it’s intense.”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

Another silence.

He watched you. “You like intense?”

You looked up.

His eyes were too sharp again. Too serious.

You whispered, “Yeah.”

He stood.

You froze as he walked around the counter, bare feet soundless against the tile. He stopped in front of you, hand sliding onto your jaw—soft, slow—and tilted your face up again.

Your breath caught.

“You could’ve told me,” he said, voice low. “Any of this.”

“I thought you didn’t wanna hear it.”

His grip firmed just slightly—thumb brushing your cheek, the edge of your lip.

“I didn’t,” he said. “Until you moaned like that.”

His hand dipped.

Neck again.

Only this time, his fingers wrapped tight—not choking, but claiming. Measuring. Knowing.

And this time?

You didn’t pretend.

You looked him dead in the eye as your lips parted on a breathy, involuntary gasp.

“Yeah,” Chan whispered, smiling now. “That one.”

You should’ve walked away.

Should’ve laughed it off, said something dumb and deflective, gone home and buried yourself in blankets until the heat left your skin.

But you didn’t.

You sat there—his hand on your neck, your thighs clenched under the counter, breath caught somewhere in your throat—and you let him.

Chan was quiet. His eyes searched yours, slow and steady, like he was reading pages of you you didn’t even know were open.

His fingers flexed slightly around your neck. A light squeeze.

Not rough.

Just enough to say, I’m still here. You feel me, right?

And God… you did.

“You’re really into this,” he murmured.

You looked away, cheeks warm. “It’s not like I think about it all the time.”

“You don’t?”

“No.”

He hummed.

Then leaned closer.

“But you’ve imagined it.”

You stiffened.

He chuckled lowly, and you felt it through his palm, the softest vibration echoing down your spine. “That’s not a no.”

You turned your head, just slightly, and muttered, “You’re annoying.”

He pulled back.

Only to hook his fingers under your jaw again, tilting your chin up like you weighed nothing in his grip. “There she is,” he said, smiling like you’d done something delicious.

“What?”

“That mouth,” he said, tapping your lip once with his thumb. “That bratty tone.”

“I wasn’t being bratty.”

“Mhm,” he smirked, stepping back. “Sure you weren’t.”

He let go.

The loss of contact was immediate—jarring.

Your neck felt cold without his hand on it.

Chan crossed to the couch and collapsed into it, legs spread, arms stretched along the backrest. Like nothing had just happened. Like your whole reality hadn’t just tipped sideways.

You turned slowly. “What the hell was that?”

“What?”

You gestured vaguely at the space between you. “That.”

Chan shrugged. “Just testing a theory.”

Your eyes narrowed. “What theory?”

“That I’ve been missing out.”

You blinked. “Missing out on what?”

He grinned, head resting lazily against the cushion. “This side of you.”

Your heart thumped.

“There’s no side,” you lied quickly. “That was— That’s just how I talk to you.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m serious.”

He cocked his head. “So you’d moan like that if Seungmin gave you a massage?”

You glared. “Seungmin gives serial killer energy.”

“Then what about Hyunjin?”

“Hyunjin cries at perfume ads. I’d never let him near my neck.”

Chan laughed.

You didn’t.

“I’m not teasing you,” he said after a moment. “I just… I don’t know. Feels like we’re finally being real.”

You chewed your bottom lip. “It’s not like I was hiding anything on purpose.”

“I know.”

“I just thought it’d be… weird.”

Chan leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “It’s not weird.”

“You’re not freaked out?”

“Nope.”

You hesitated. “So what now?”

He smiled, that slow, cocky, dangerous smile. “Now I get to learn things.”

Your stomach flipped.

“You’re making it sound creepy,” you muttered.

He stood up again. Walked toward you, deliberate this time.

And when he stopped in front of you again, it felt different.

He wasn’t teasing now. He was… curious. Focused. Like you were a puzzle he’d just realized had more pieces.

His hand came up again—back to your neck—but this time, he didn’t wrap it.

He traced.

Knuckles down your throat. Fingertips skimming your collarbone.

You held perfectly still.

“So sensitive here,” he murmured. “And you never said a word.”

“I didn’t think it mattered.”

“It matters now.”

You swallowed. “Why?”

He leaned in. Close. His breath brushed your lips.

“Because now I’m gonna find out what else does it for you.”

Your legs weakened.

Chan reached behind you and gently pushed you back into the nearest couch, standing over you now, looking down like you were a question he wanted to spend the night answering.

He tilted his head. “You like being told what to do?”

You blinked, heart hammering. “Why?”

“Just wondering how deep the brat thing goes.”

“It’s not a brat thing,” you snapped.

That smile again. Sharp. Addictive.

“There she is.”

“Ugh,” you scoffed, sinking back.

“C’mon,” he said softly. “Give me something else. I’ll tell you one of mine.”

You looked at him, wary. “Promise?”

“Swear.”

You exhaled slowly. “I like being touched… slowly. Like… teased. Not rushed.”

Chan’s eyes darkened.

“Oh,” he said. “We’re gonna have fun.”

You blinked. “Your turn.”

He dropped to his knees in front of you. Rested his hands on your knees, just above them.

Then leaned forward and said—

“I like control. But only when someone wants to give it up.”

You froze.

“Like… the second you say stop, I’m out,” he added. “But if you give me the green light…” His thumbs stroked slow, slow circles over your legs. “I’ll ruin you sweet.”

Your breath hitched.

“Too much?” he asked, smiling.

You didn’t answer.

Because truthfully?

You didn’t know if it was.

You weren’t sure what had shifted.

The air, maybe.

Or the weight of his eyes when he looked at you like that—like you were becoming something right in front of him.

But Chan didn’t back down.

He stayed where he was, hands resting on your knees, thumbs rubbing slow, distracted strokes into your skin like his mind was already a step ahead.

“I’ve never really talked to anyone about this stuff,” he said quietly, more to himself than to you. “Not like this.”

You swallowed. “Me neither.”

“I didn’t think I needed to. Thought I had it figured out.”

“And now?”

His eyes met yours again, and there was something deeper in them now. Darker.

“Now I think I’ve been fucking around in the shallow end.”

You stiffened, legs tensing under his grip.

He felt it.

His thumbs stilled.

“That bother you?” he asked softly.

You shook your head before you could stop yourself.

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing like he’d found a loose thread in you. “Then why are your thighs clenched?”

“I don’t know,” you breathed.

“Hmm.”

He moved his hands slightly up your legs, just a few inches, nothing dramatic. But his gaze stayed pinned to yours the whole time.

“Do you like when I talk like that?”

You hesitated.

Chan leaned in, whispering, “Tell the truth.”

Your lips parted, no sound coming out.

He grinned, barely. “Thought so.”

You flushed.

He sat back on his heels, exhaling a little laugh like this whole thing was amusing—and fascinating—and fucking exhilarating.

“I think I like this side of you,” he murmured.

“What side?”

He brought his hand up again, knuckles brushing your neck, then trailing down your collarbone. “The one that can’t sit still when I do this.”

You shivered.

He smiled. “You get quiet when you want something.”

“I’m not quiet.”

“Mm. You’re quieter than usual.”

He leaned in again.

Not touching this time—just watching you breathe.

“You always give this much control without realizing it?”

Your mouth went dry.

“I’m not—” you started.

But he shook his head.

“No, don’t answer. I like watching you try.”

Your stomach dropped straight through the floor.

You were wet.

God, you were already so fucking wet, and he hadn’t even touched you where it mattered. Not once.

He moved one knee forward, bracing his arm on the cushion beside your hips. The shift brought him closer. Too close.

And that’s when you felt it.

Hard. Heavy.

Brushing your inner thigh.

Your breath stilled.

Chan didn’t move.

His lips quirked—just barely.

And that’s when you knew.

He felt it too.

Still, he played innocent.

“Something wrong?”

Your eyes flicked to his, wide. “Are you—?”

“I am,” he said calmly. “You surprised?”

You blinked.

“No.”

“Because you’re hot?”

You exhaled slowly. “Because you’re different.”

That made him pause.

“How?”

“You’ve never… acted like this.”

He hummed, low in his chest. “You’ve never let me.”

You stuttered. “I— I didn’t stop you—”

“No,” he agreed, nodding once. “But you didn’t give me an invitation either.”

You looked down, eyes on the space between your bodies, his arousal pressed right up against you like a secret you weren’t supposed to notice.

And still, you didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t say a word.

His voice softened. “So now that we’re here… wanna know another thing I’ve never told anyone?”

You nodded without thinking.

Chan’s fingers skimmed your hip, slow and deliberate. “I like watching people fall apart.”

Your lips parted, breath catching.

“But not in a mean way,” he added. “I like the process. The way your body learns to trust me before your brain catches up. I like how shaky your breath gets when I press on the right spot. How your legs tense when you’re trying not to give in.”

He smirked, voice dipping lower.

“I like hearing that little gasp you just made. And I really like how your thighs are squeezing together again.”

You gasped again, this time audible.

He was rock hard now. You could feel him throb slightly against you. A steady pulse through his sweatpants.

And then—God help you—he moved just a little.

A subtle, deliberate shift of his hips.

Just enough to feel how warm you were.

How ready.

Your jaw clenched.

Chan’s eyes flicked down to your mouth.

And that was his breaking point.

Because suddenly his hand was back—on your neck.

Not squeezing. Not dominating.

Feeling.

Like he was trying to understand how something so small could make him so desperate.

“You don’t even know what you’re doing to me,” he murmured, half-lost in it.

You swallowed. “Then show me.”

His eyes snapped back to yours.

Dark.

Ravenous.

But he didn’t kiss you.

Didn’t push further.

Instead, he leaned in—nose brushing yours—and whispered, “Not yet.”

That’s what he said—low, husky, brushing your lips like a secret.

But then his head dipped lower.

And you felt it—his mouth at your cheek first, warm and lingering, then sliding lower still until his lips brushed your jawline… his teeth barely grazing your skin.

You jolted.

He smiled against you.

“Still holding it together?” he murmured, voice thick with amusement.

And then he bit you.

Soft. Right on your cheekbone. Just enough pressure to make you gasp—nothing overwhelming, but so intimate, so damn suggestive, it felt like your body cracked open around it.

A moan slipped past your lips before you could stop it.

High. Desperate.

Sinful.

“Fuck…” you breathed, under your breath.

But he heard it.

God, he heard everything.

His mouth dragged to your ear—barely brushing it—before his tongue flicked once at the shell of it and he whispered, “Say that again.”

Your head tipped back into the couch, fingers digging into the cushion beside you.

He watched you fall apart, kneeling between your knees like you were some holy thing unraveling at his mercy.

And then, without even thinking, it slipped out.

“…Chan.”

His name, like a prayer.

Choked. Shaken.

Raw.

He stilled.

Completely.

You opened your eyes slowly, vision slightly hazy, only to find him staring back at you—eyes wide, chest rising visibly beneath his hoodie.

“Shit,” he muttered, like it hit him all at once.

Like he just realized the weight of what was actually happening.

You blinked, cheeks burning. “What?”

He shook his head once. “Say it again.”

“What?”

“My name.”

You bit your lip, too overwhelmed to even fake control.

And that was it.

That broke him.

Chan’s hands flew to your hips, dragging you down the couch cushion just enough for him to lean over you completely. His mouth caught yours in a kiss so devastatingly hot you forgot your own name.

Teeth clashing. Breath mixing.

Tongues tangling like they’d been waiting years for this.

Your fingers curled into his hoodie, desperate for something to hold onto as he kissed you like a man starving—like he was angry you’d kept this from him, angry you made him wait.

And the way you moaned into his mouth? The soft gasp you let out when his hand slipped beneath your shirt and splayed wide over your waist?

It shattered him.

Chan groaned against your lips, grinding into you once—slow but solid—and the friction was unbearable.

You whimpered, breath hitching, thighs tensing around his hips.

“Jesus, babe,” he growled into your neck, voice cracking with restraint. “You don’t even know what you’re doing to me.”

But you did.

You knew now.

And worse? You loved it.

You tilted your head without thinking, exposing your throat like instinct, and the second his lips found the base of it, the moan you let out was filthy.

Loud. Guttural.

You felt him throb against your core through both your clothes.

And he didn’t even try to hide it.

His hand found your neck again—cradling, not choking. Not yet.

Just holding.

Possessive. Protective. Like it belonged to him.

“You were gonna hide this from me?” he whispered roughly against your skin. “This part of you?”

You whimpered, nails dragging down his back.

Chan laughed. Dark. Breathless.

“Not anymore.”

That was the last thing he said before everything blurred.

Your best friend had kissed you before—on your forehead, your cheek, once at midnight on New Year’s when he was tipsy and too sentimental—but this was different.

This wasn’t affection.

This was possession.

He kissed like he’d earned it—like every time he let you sleep in his bed, every time he pulled you into his chest when you were crying, every time he called you baby under his breath without thinking… was just a slow burn countdown to this moment.

His lips moved against yours like he already knew your rhythm. Like he’d been dreaming of it and now he was tasting it for real.

And when you moaned again? He growled into your mouth.

His hands were wild now, frantic. Pulling at the hem of your shirt, tugging you closer by the hips until you were slotted right against him, heat to heat.

You could feel how hard he was.

And when he shifted his weight and pressed into you deliberately, you gasped—high-pitched and startled.

He tore his lips from yours just long enough to pant, “Fuck. You’re driving me insane.”

“Then do something about it,” you whispered, already breathless.

His eyes flashed.

“Say less.”

His hand slipped beneath the waistband of your sweatpants so fast it made your breath catch—and when his fingers reached your panties, he froze.

Because you were soaked.

Dripping.

His fingers brushed along the fabric—slick and clinging—and then he dragged them lower, curling them against the wet heat right between your legs.

You gasped. Shuddered.

Chan’s head dropped to your shoulder, lips at your ear, groaning deep in his throat. “You’re fucking soaked.”

You whimpered.

His fingers stroked once—just enough to tease—before he yanked your sweatpants down in one go, panties and all.

You squeaked, legs instinctively clamping together, but he was already on his knees again, big hands sliding under your thighs and pulling them apart with a groan.

“Let me see,” he rasped. “Come on, babe, show me how bad you need me.”

You swallowed, chest heaving.

You had never seen him like this—never even imagined him like this.

Hair messy, lips red, hoodie halfway off his shoulder as he pushed himself between your legs like a man starving.

And it wasn’t until he looked up—until those dark, wrecked eyes dragged slowly up your body and met yours—that you realized:

You were gone.

Undone. Open.

And he loved it.

His fingers returned, sliding into your folds with maddening slowness.

You cried out, knees trembling.

He sucked in a breath, watching his hand work between your legs like he couldn’t believe what he was feeling.

“Dripping,” he whispered, almost reverent. “All this for me?”

You bit your lip. “Don’t be cocky.”

He smirked.

And then he curled two fingers inside you in one smooth thrust.

You screamed.

Your hand shot out, grabbing at his wrist, your thighs threatening to close—but he was too strong.

He pressed one hand firmly on your stomach, keeping you grounded while his fingers moved—slow, then fast, then deeper.

“Not cocky,” he panted. “Just maybe obsessed.”

You cried out again, body arching, trying to grind into his palm. Every nerve ending in your body was on fire—and he was eating it up.

“Fuck, look at you,” he groaned. “Melting for me. You gonna come already?”

You shook your head, biting your fist.

He chuckled darkly. “Don’t hold back now, baby. We’ve got years to make up for.”

You moaned louder—desperate.

And then he stopped.

Just like that.

Fingers sliding out, breath ragged.

You blinked at him in shock, your whole body pulsing.

“What—?”

He wiped his fingers on the hem of his hoodie like it was nothing, then leaned forward and whispered against your mouth, “I’m not letting you come with my hand. Not the first time.”

You whimpered, a broken, trembling sound.

He kissed you again, rougher this time.

And then his hands were on his hoodie, yanking it off in one smooth motion, chest glistening with sweat, body hard and flexed as he stood to kick off his sweatpants.

You stared.

You’d seen him shirtless. You’d seen him in boxers during sleepovers. But this?

This was feral.

Ripped, flushed, bulging under tension—and fully hard now, cock bobbing as he leaned back over you, eyes wild with want.

“You ready?” he asked, voice wrecked.

You couldn’t even speak.

Just nodded.

Because the fire had already started, and now?

You wanted to burn.

You were breathless beneath him—bare, dizzy, skin hot and tingling in all the right places. And when he hovered over you now, sweat-slick and wild-eyed, your best friend didn’t look like your best friend anymore.

He looked like a man unraveling. One second away from ruin. Yours.

His hand slid behind your knee, lifting your leg over his hip. “You good?”

You nodded again, swallowing hard.

He smirked, gaze dropping to your lips.

“You sure?” he asked, dragging the blunt head of his cock through your slick folds—slow, teasing, maddening. “You look like you’re in trouble already.”

And something in you—something playful and wicked—snapped.

“Guess we’ll see if you can handle it.”

Chan paused.

Your voice—usually warm, teasing, light—was lower now. Challenging.

Bratty.

His brows lifted. “Oh?”

You shrugged, purposefully lazy beneath him, your leg tightening around his waist. “I mean… you talk a big game, but—” you made a little face, “—you’ve never even kissing me before today.”

Chan blinked slowly.

Then laughed once—dangerous and deep in his chest—before grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head in one swift movement.

“You’re cute when you’re mouthy.”

You gasped, startled, but didn’t stop.

“I’m just saying,” you said sweetly, shifting under him, deliberately dragging your slick heat along his length. “You’ve waited ten years for this. Hope you’re not rusty.”

He stared down at you like you were made of sin and gasoline.

“Oh, baby,” he murmured, lowering his face to yours, lips brushing your cheek. “You want me to wreck you, don’t you?”

You smirked. “I’d like to see you try.”

And that was it.

That was all it took.

He snapped.

His hand came down, wrapping tight around your throat and the next thing you felt was the blunt push of his cock stretching you open in one slow, greedy slide.

You cried out, head falling back, legs trembling from the stretch.

“Fuck—”

“That shut you up quick,” he growled, watching your face as he bottomed out.

You whimpered, fully filled now, completely caged beneath him, and for a moment all you could do was breathe.

You weren’t used to this—this intensity. This power shift.

You weren’t used to being his.

Chan didn’t move right away. He stayed there—deep inside you, hand on your throat, his other still pinning your wrists—just watching.

Then his voice dropped to a whisper. “Say my name.”

You bit your lip, eyes fluttering. “…Chan.”

He pulled out halfway.

“Say it right.”

“Chan—ah, fuck—Chan,” you gasped, back arching.

He snapped his hips forward—hard—and your moan broke into a scream.

“You’re soaked,” he panted. “You’ve been hiding this from me?”

“I didn’t know—” you whimpered, completely undone, “—you’d be like this.”

He smiled against your throat, kissed it once, then bit down lightly on your jaw. “This is what you do to me.”

And when you clenched around him at those words?

He lost it.

His grip tightened—your wrists, your throat, your hips—and he started moving, every thrust thick and deep, sharp enough to send your thoughts scattering into stars.

“Still wanna be a brat?” he growled, pulling out only to slam back in harder.

You whimpered, breath catching. “Yes.”

He chuckled darkly. “Wrong answer.”

He dragged your hands down, pinning them to your chest now as he fucked into you, his entire body a weapon. Every thrust hit somewhere new—some place that made you cry out, curse, beg without knowing you were doing it.

“Look at you,” he said, voice wrecked. “You gonna be good now?”

Your pride screamed no.

But your body—your soaked, trembling, wrecked body—sobbed yes.

You swallowed hard, hips twitching, and whispered up at him with all the strength you had left:

“Make me.”

Chan’s eyes blazed.

“Oh, baby,” he growled, snapping his hips forward again. “I’m gonna make you beg.”

And from the way your legs shook?

You knew he already was.

You didn’t remember when your moans got louder than the thoughts in your head.

Didn’t remember when you stopped trying to talk back and started crying his name like a plea.

But your body remembered. Every inch of it was tuned to his touch now—sweaty, sticky, soaked, and strung out beneath the weight of your best friend losing his damn mind inside you.

He hadn’t stopped moving.

And he hadn’t stopped talking.

“Fuck, you feel like heaven,” he groaned against your skin, hips snapping forward. “Been dreaming about this—about you—for years. You were right in front of me—walking around like that, giving me attitude, pushing my buttons.”

You gasped, fingers dragging down his back. “I wasn’t trying—”

“Bullshit,” he growled, pulling out just enough to thrust back in hard, rocking your entire body against the couch. “You knew what you were doing. You knew I’d snap.”

You choked on a scream, grabbing at his shoulder for balance.

And then, with a glint in his eye, he lifted one of your legs onto the couch arm and pressed forward—deep and low.

You damn near sobbed.

“Fuck, this angle—” he hissed through clenched teeth, “—you’re squeezing me so fucking tight.”

You shivered, mouth open, unable to answer—until a familiar bratty smirk broke onto your lips.

“Still think you’re in control?” you managed, breathless.

Chan stopped moving.

Dead still.

And grinned.

“Oh, baby girl.”

And just like that, he yanked out of you, flipped your body, and shoved your front down into the couch cushions.

His hand was already on your back, pressing you down as he lined up again—and when he slid back in with one long, filthy thrust, your scream was muffled in the fabric.

“Who’s in control now?” he grunted, pounding into you from behind, one hand on your hip, the other wrapped around your neck again—pulling you back, making your spine curve deliciously.

You tried to fight it—tried to sass, to squirm—but every stroke hit your g-spot like he’d mapped your body in his dreams.

And when he growled “look at that arch,” you whimpered.

“I can feel you clenching, baby. You gonna come already?”

You hissed, bratty again through your cries. “You wish—”

So he pulled out, flipped you again.

“Keep testing me,” he breathed, dragging you into his lap, guiding you down onto him so slowly it made your eyes roll back.

He didn’t move.

Just held your hips steady, eyes locked on your face.

“You think you’re the one riding me?” he whispered, almost tender—until his fingers dug into your skin and he thrust up hard.

You screamed, forehead dropping onto his shoulder.

“Oh no, baby. You just get to watch this time.”

He started bouncing you on his cock, fucking up into you, his grip rough, his rhythm feral.

“You gonna be good yet?” he panted, breath hot on your cheek. “Or should I fuck the brat out of you?”

You couldn’t speak. You could barely breathe.

But you nodded.

You were gone.

Gone for him.

He kissed your shoulder, then bit it.

And then?

He moved you again.

He was everywhere—his weight, his mouth, his cock so deep you felt like you’d split in half.

Your cries were high and broken now, your hands slipping against his sweat-slick back as he pounded you into the cushions with intent.

And then his hand went right back to your neck—holding, lifting, claiming you while he fucked the soul out of your body.

“You’re mine,” he panted, hips relentless. “Say it.”

You moaned, arching up into him. “Yours—yours, fuck—Chan—”

He dropped his forehead to yours, eyes wrecked, heart thundering.

“Come for me.”

And this time?

You did.

With a scream that could’ve broken glass.

Your body snapped, back bowing, thighs clenching around him, tears streaking your cheeks as the pleasure tore through you.

Chan didn’t stop.

He groaned, deep and desperate, as your walls clenched and fluttered around him—and then he stilled, cock buried to the hilt, trembling against you.

“Fucking—shit—”

You felt him pulse deep inside you, hot and thick.

And when he finally collapsed on top of you—panting, wrecked, his face buried in your neck—you couldn’t stop the soft, breathless laugh that left you.

“…That’s one way to discuss kinks.”

Chan huffed against your cheek.

“Oh, baby,” he murmured, kissing your jaw sweetly. “You’ve got no idea how bad it’s about to get.”

—-

Your body was buzzing—tender, used, and so completely ruined that you barely noticed when Chan lifted you off the couch like you weighed nothing.

You whimpered at the movement, tucking your face into his neck as he carried you down the hall, both of you still catching your breath.

Neither of you spoke. There was only the soft pat of his feet against the tile, your fluttering heartbeat in your ears, and the low, satisfied hum he made when you clung tighter to his shoulders.

The bathroom light flickered on. Warm. Clean. Familiar.

He didn’t hesitate. Just toed off the last piece of fabric on his body and stepped under the stream with you still in his arms.

The hot water hit your back and you gasped at the contrast—already sensitive, skin electric under every drop.

Chan’s big hands slid over you, soothing, slow. He lathered up a washcloth and began running it gently over your shoulders, your thighs, between your legs with such focus you had to fight the urge to melt all over again.

“You okay?” he asked, quiet against your ear, lips brushing your temple.

You nodded. “…Think you broke me.”

He chuckled, chest rumbling against yours. “Not even close.”

But still, his touch was careful now. Reverent. Like he couldn’t believe you were real.

And maybe that’s why you did it.

Why you let your hands roam a little more than they needed to.

Why you leaned in and started trailing soft kisses down his collarbone.

Why your lips didn’t stop there.

Because you couldn’t believe he was real either.

Not like this. Not yours.

He stilled when your mouth reached his chest.

You kissed it slowly, tenderly, running your fingers down his abs, over the ridges of muscle that flexed beneath your touch.

“…Babe,” he whispered, voice low, warning, already unraveling. “Don’t start.”

You looked up at him through wet lashes, lips parted, innocent and knowing all at once.

“Why not?” you murmured, kissing just below his ribs. “You let me fall apart for you. Let me return the favor.”

His breath hitched. He was already hardening again—and he knew it.

You kissed lower.

And lower.

And then you were kneeling—naked, dripping, your knees cushioned by the shower mat, hands already stroking his length back to full, pulsing attention.

He groaned.

“Fuck. Fuck, you look so good down there—”

You wrapped your fingers around his cock, squeezing gently, lips brushing against the flushed head of his cock. He jerked in your hand, and you hummed.

“I never told you my last kink,” you said sweetly, licking a slow stripe along the underside.

His hand hit the wall above your head, unsteady. “Yeah? What is it, baby?”

You smiled up at him—dark, sinful, soft.

“I don’t have a gag reflex.”

Chan let out a noise—guttural, choked, wrecked.

“Jesus Christ.”

And then you took him in.

All of him.

Slow. Deep. Deliberate.

His mouth fell open, eyes rolling back as you swallowed around him, your throat relaxing on instinct.

“Oh my fucking God—” he rasped, hips jerking forward before he caught himself, panting hard, water cascading down his back.

You pulled off with a wet pop, licking the tip before dragging your tongue along the base and sucking him back in just as deep.

He moaned—loud, shameless, one hand grabbing the back of your head while the other gripped the shower wall like a lifeline.

“Fuck, fuck, baby— you’re gonna kill me—”

You moaned around him in response, eyes half-lidded, hands stroking what your mouth couldn’t reach.

Every sound he made went straight to your core—deep and breathy and so needy, it felt like a reward just to listen.

“You’re unreal,” he groaned. “Fucking unreal—how is this even real—”

You let your eyes flutter closed, increasing the rhythm, hollowing your cheeks, spit and water dripping from your chin as you let him fall apart above you.

And when his stomach clenched—when his thighs started to tremble—you just held him tighter, took him deeper, and moaned his name from the back of your throat.

“Fuck— I’m gonna come—baby, I’m gonna—shit—don’t stop—”

You didn’t.

Not until his hips jerked one final time and you tasted all of him—thick and hot and desperate on your tongue.

He roared your name, damn near sliding down the wall as his whole body seized, then shook.

When he finally opened his eyes again, you were smiling, swallowing, licking your lips like you’d just won.

Chan stared.

Then laughed—ragged, disbelieving, utterly in awe.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he panted, hauling you up into his arms again. “Mark my words.”

You kissed his jaw, cheeky. “Then what a way to go.”

He groaned, forehead against yours.

“We’re not sleeping tonight.”

And you knew he meant it.

—

The water was still warm when Chan reached for a towel and wrapped it around your body, gathering you into him like you were something precious. Like you might disappear if he blinked.

You were trembling a little—not from cold, but from the comedown. The wild pace of everything. The stretch, the heat, the orgasm that had left your legs like jelly. The way he’d held your gaze while wrecking you on the couch like you weren’t his best friend—like you were already his everything.

Now? Now he was silent. Gentle.

A hand on the back of your head, stroking slowly.

“You okay?” he asked, voice raw and deep, brushing his lips to your temple.

You nodded into his chest. “Mhm. Just… processing.”

He smiled faintly, lifting you into his arms again—still naked, still wet—and carried you to his room without another word. The towel stayed wrapped around you, his hands never letting go, like it physically pained him to stop touching you.

He laid you on his bed with careful hands, kissed your forehead, then disappeared for a moment—returning with your hoodie, a fresh pair of his boxers, a warm water bottle, and a glass of juice.

You stared at him, body curling toward his naturally as you laid there—wrapped in soft cotton, legs still aching in the best way. “So… this really happened.”

Chan tilted his head, gaze steady. “Are you regretting it?”

“No,” you whispered, too fast. Then, “Are you?”

His brow furrowed like you’d offended him. “Baby. I’d do it all over again right now if you weren’t already shaky.”

You flushed, heat blooming up your neck. He noticed it. Of course he did. His thumb brushed the side of your throat, reverent.

“Still can’t believe that’s your kink,” he murmured, soft and possessive and wrecked. “You have any idea what that did to me?”

You licked your lips, looking away. “…There’s more.”

Chan’s eyes darkened. “Oh, you’re gonna tell me.”

You tried to hide your smile. “We never talked about sex in ten years and now you wanna hear all my kinks?”

“Now I need to,” he replied, curling his hand behind your neck and pulling you closer again. “You let me touch you like that. Let me own you. You think I can go back to pretending you’re just my best friend after that?”

His mouth was so close. His fingers were back to stroking your skin, down your back, over the dip of your waist.

Your voice came out quieter now. “I’ve never given up control that easily.”

“I know.” He cupped your jaw, kissed the corner of your mouth. “And I’ll never take that for granted.”

You met his eyes. “But I’d do it again.”

His breath stuttered. And then he kissed you—soft this time, lingering.

“You have no idea how hard I’m holding back right now.”

“I can tell,” you whispered, glancing down at the way his towel was starting to shift.

He growled against your skin, pressing his forehead to yours. “This changes everything.”

You nodded slowly. “But it doesn’t ruin anything.”

“No,” he murmured, brushing a thumb over your cheek. “It just means we’ve got… ten years to make up for. And I plan to.”

You smiled. “So… you’re mine now?”

Chan pulled back just enough to lock eyes with you.

“No, baby,” he said with a dangerous smirk. “You’re mine. And I don’t share.”

Your stomach fluttered. You pushed at his chest, bratty. “Mm. You weren’t this cocky when we were just friends.”

He climbed over you again, straddling you on the bed with that wolfish glint in his eye.

“You never let me touch you like this before. Now I know what you sound like when you moan my name?”

He leaned down, voice dark, hungry.

“You have no idea how cocky I’m about to get.”

And just like that, you knew.

You’d opened Pandora’s box.

And Chan had no plans to close it.

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

Authors note: AAAAAHHHHHHH!!! God this was sooo juicy to write!!!! I am so sorry for my absence guys, theres been so much on my plate… I’ve actually started an original book that i plan to publish some time in the future. 🤭 But I’m here now and ill post more frequently. As for all the requests? I SEE EVERYTHING, I WILL WORK ON THEM!! Just hold on for me babes!

Anyway, if you enjoyed this one, leave me a comment, like and reblog guys!! My taglist is open so let me know if you want to be added or removed!

Taglist: @tsunderelino @innieandsungielover @inlovewithstraykids @reignessance @jeonismm @sttnficrecs @herejusttemporary @krssliu @kenia4 @miilquetoast @thackery-blinks @leeminho-hall @suga-is-bae @butterflydemons @inejghafawifesblog @malunar28replies @minchanlimbo @mal-lunar-28 @breakmeofftbr @itvenorica124 @slut4junho @deepblueocean97 @thequibbie @yaorzu-blog @imagine-all-the-imagines @just-bria @mischievousleeknow @ifyxu @melanctton @thelostprincessofasgard @binniebb @sillylittlecat1 @darkwitchoferie @m-325 @headfirstfortoro @imseungminsgf @ihrtlix @vernorica123 @hwangjoanna @swordswallower2000 @niki007 @yxna-bliss @firelordtsuki @justwonder113 @mbioooo0000 @sammhisphere @nebugalaxy @cutecucumberkimberly @chancloud8 @sunflwerstar @shxdowofdarkness

[imagine-all-the-imagines]

risky in bathroom ꨄ bf!bakugo x reader

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ theme : risky sex at kirishima's party w katsuki ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ warnings : smut , +18 , p!v sex , risky , caught!kink , drunk sex

kirishima’s party was in full swing - music blaring, people taking shots in the kitchen or smoking a joint on the couch while most of the partygoers were dancing in the living room. the bass was vibrating in your chest and the washing machine under your bare ass felt cold against your hot skin.

your bf!bakugo stood in between your legs, his strong hands holding your plump hips under the hem of your skirt as he pounded his flushed cock into you.

the bathroom was down the hallway near the kitchen, meaning that it wasn’t exactly the most secluded spot in the house. you didn’t even know how you ended up in this situation, your mind was too fuzzy from alcohol and your body too horny to really understand why you wanted to fuck bakugo in kirishima’s family bathroom.

you only remembered how fucking hot he had looked while driving you here – one hand on the steering wheel, the other lazily on your bare thigh. the black tank top he wore was almost seductive, that idiot knew how sexy he looked with his muscular arms visible and legs spread so casually while he drove slightly over the speedlimit.

”kats-” you whined against his neck as your nails dug into his shoulders, the feeling of his thick cock abusing your clenching pussy was making your mind dizzy. you held onto him, the washing machine quietly thumping against the wall with every one of his thrusts. luckily the music was so loud that there was only a small chance that people would hear it.

”shh, too loud” bakugo whispered through his gritted teeth, the softness of his lips lingering on your ear. you sealed your lips and attempted to muffle your soft moans and whimpers, even though you felt his hard tip slamming against your cervix.

”that’s it, that’s it, good girl, so fucking good-” he murmured hoarsely, his soft yet demanding tone made your skin shiver. bakugo’s mint gum breath fanned over your glistening neck, the hands momentarily tightening their grip on your flesh.

a loud knock suddenly echoed in the bathroom. ”yo?! what’s taking so fucking long?!” you heard a yell – it was kirishima.

”shh, don’t yell, dude! someone’s probably fucking there” another voice said, clearly coming from denki.

bakugo slowed the movement of his hips to the point where he rolled between your trembling legs in a slow, fucking torturing manner. the thickness of his cock rubbed perfectly against your wet g-spot, your eyes rolling back and a moan almost escaping your agape lips. he slammed a hand over your mouth, red eyes suddenly piercing through you. bakugo’s cheeks were slightly flushed, his swollen lips mouthing you a sentence of two words;

shut up.  

you whimpered quietly against his hand, your eyes glistening from need. the moment was so lewd, so disgustingly illegal, that it made a knot of arousal swell in your abdomen. the idea of bakugo having his cock shoved deep inside of you while your juices leaked all over kirishima’s washing machine - it was like a dirty dream.

you felt your hips beginning to shake and a small quiet whine vibrated against his hand again as you tried to communicate with him that you were fucking about to cum.

”someone could be passed out in there, keep yelling” another voice suggested, a quieter one. it was shoto.

katsuki visibly clenched his jaw as he heard your soft whimpers, and he couldn’t help but snap his hips against you faster, even if it was risky. your pussy was squeezing around his shaft more aggressively, forcing a small guttural groan escape his sealed lips as well.

”hellooooooo?!” kirishima yelled again and banged the door.

however katsuki continued to bang you instead, and soon you felt the wave of hot, pure pleasure spreading throughout your insides. the sensation made your body tremble and legs twitch, forcing bakugo to grab you by the hips with both hands again so you wouldn’t fucking fall off.

however, you managed to keep your voices down by biting your lower lip hard and squeezing your eyes closed, even though you were quite literally seeing stars at that point.

”katsuki…” you whimpered as quietly as you could, which seemed to do the trick since you could feel him twitching inside of you.

he fucked you through your orgasm and with a deep, firm thrust, he emptied himself inside of your clenching walls which were sucking him dry. your soaked and exhausted pussy still squeezed around him while you were feeling dizzy from the sensation of warm ropes of cum filling your hole. a small moan fell from his parted lips as he grew sensitive.

”yo, midoriya! come here!” denki exclaimed, as another pair of steps was heard from outside.

”what?” was deku’s answer which was heard behind the door now.

”open this door with your smash, will ya? we think someone’s literally passed out in there”

”oh, sure!” said deku.

[imagine-all-the-imagines]

Jinshi would agree guys

[imagine-all-the-imagines]

...I need another tattoo immediately

BLOOM UNDER NEEDLES

Tattoo Artist!Hwang Hyunjin x Reader | blah blah blah

🔞synopsis: Tattoo Artist AU. You’ve been friends for years. He’s inked every part of your body except the one he’s dying to ruin. But the second you show up again, hips bare and eyes burning, asking for another piece? He doesn’t just mark you. He fucks it into you. This is possession. This is art. This is obsession.

💌a/n: This one’s for @bemyaehiweloveskz, who sang into my inbox the sweet sounds of "tattoo artist!Hyunjin x reader". You asked. I delivered. We’re doing this first come, first serve, so next Filthy Friday, it is Seungmin's time to shine. So buckle the fuck up. p.s. reblogging = mouth-to-mouth resuscitation p.p.s. yes, you can request the other members, please do. who do you wanna read after Seungmin? p.p.p.s. If this fic made you moan, clench, or whisper “jesus fuck,” you now owe me your spine, one (1) unhinged tag, and a slightly sinful reblog. That's the deal. I don’t make the rules. (I do.)

⚠️ warnings: 18+ | MINORS DNI | EXTREMELY NSFW | Friends-to-lovers tension finally snaps and it’s carnal, needy, and fucking overdue | Oral (f. receiving) | Latex gloves | Spit | Tattoo chair sex | Filthy dirty talk — praise + hunger: “sweetheart,” “good girl,” “let me taste you again.” | Fingering | Thigh gripping | Ass worship | Tattooing as marking kink | Reader on all fours, bent over the chair | Clit attention that makes your brain fog | Aftercare so tender it hurts

📌 Please read responsibly. Hydrate. Stretch.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » Love Talk — WayV « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:53 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

Seoul's early spring was always deceptive—sunlight soft on the surface but the air still kissed your skin cold when you walked too fast. Your coat’s too light, your hands half-numb, but the minute you step into NO SAINT INK, everything warms.

The scent hits you first: incense and antiseptic. Burnt vanilla over sharp alcohol wipes. Clean, familiar. The quiet hum of lo-fi beats weaves through the matte-black interior—half gallery, half hellmouth. Every wall is scattered with framed flash art—some crisp linework, others feral, chaotic sketches with phrases like “Bite Me” and “Pretty Hurts” etched beneath dripping roses.

The warmth isn’t just from the heater. It’s him.

Hwang Hyunjin is hunched over a drafting table toward the back of the studio, black hoodie sleeves rolled to his elbows, ringed fingers smudged with graphite. His hair is tied up—loose bun, strands falling across his cheekbones, lip bitten as he sketches something you can’t see. You pause in the entrance, watching him work.

God, he’s always like this. Still. Focused. A little too beautiful for a tattoo shop that’s home to chaos incarnate (read: Han Jisung) and Felix’s glitter-drenched custom piercings. Hyunjin feels like a walking contradiction—poetic and sharp, serene and volatile. An ink-stained symphony of clean lines and deliberate hunger.

He looks up.

His eyes meet yours instantly, like he felt you enter the room. Not surprised. Just… aware. Like you live inside a part of his brain he never locks.

“Hey,” he says, voice low, soft as velvet over bone. The corner of his mouth quirks—barely a smile, more of an acknowledgment. Like he’s happy to see you but won’t say it unless you ask.

“Hi,” you breathe, stepping inside fully, the door shutting with a soft chime behind you. “Still open?”

“For you?” His pen halts. “Always.”

You snort, dropping your bag onto the client couch. “That’s the cheesiest shit I’ve ever heard.”

He leans back in his chair, arms stretching over his head, hoodie rising to reveal the silver flash of his hip chain. “I save my best lines for Han’s clients. He likes to pretend he’s the shop flirt.”

“And you?”

“I prefer…” He pauses. Tilts his head. “Slow burns.”

There it is—that unspoken thing. You’ve known Hyunjin for years now, back when NO SAINT INK was just a cramped two-room hole above a bakery and he was still an apprentice shading roses on fake skin.

You were his first real client. Small piece. Inside of your arm. Something small.

Since then—five tattoos. All from him. All delicate. Personal. Quiet marks he made on your body with gentle hands and steady breath. And he never once crossed a line. But he always hovered near it.

The way his thumb would linger too long when wiping down ink. The way he’d mutter, “Hold still, pretty,” and your pulse would stutter like a skipped beat. The way he’d sketch flowers that looked suspiciously like the one he placed under your collarbone, and you’d find them in his book months later, unlabeled—but unmistakable.

Still, you stayed friends.

Coffee runs. Late-night ramen. Art gallery detours. Matching silver rings you bought at a flea market once and never really talked about.

And now, standing here again, watching him toss his sketch pad aside like it’s weightless, you feel it—that shift. The quiet knowing. Like the seed of something unsaid is finally cracking open.

“You working on a new piece?” you ask, nodding toward the table.

He shrugs. “Just sketching.”

“For a client?”

His gaze flicks to you. Unblinking. “Not yet.”

There’s something thick in the air now. Not awkward—just dense. Weighted. You clear your throat.

“I, uh…” You hesitate, fingers brushing your wrist. “I wanted to ask you for something.”

His brows raise slightly. “What kind of something?”

You pause.

Then you pull a folded sketch from your pocket. Smooth it out on the counter. His eyes drop to the paper.

It’s a flower. Hand-drawn. A Lily of the Valley—delicate, nodding petals arching off a thin stem. At the base of it, a faint phrase in cursive: “I bloom where I ache.”

He stares for a long moment.

When he speaks, it’s almost reverent. “You drew this?”

You nod.

His thumb traces the corner of the page. “Where do you want it?”

You swallow. “Right here.” You place your fingers at the sharp curve of your hipbone, just beneath your waistband.

Silence.

You can feel the air shift.

Hyunjin doesn’t move for a second. His jaw tightens. When he finally lifts his gaze, it’s slower. He looks at you like he’s taking you in all over again.

“You want me to tattoo you there?”

“Yes.”

A long breath. “Why me?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

He steps around the counter. Closer. Close enough to smell the cedar on his hoodie, the faint scent of ink that never quite leaves his skin. “You could’ve asked anyone here. Jisung’s the wild one. Felix would pierce your entire soul if you let him.”

You shrug. “I don’t want chaos.”

He raises a brow. “And what do you want?”

You meet his eyes. Slowly. Gentle. “You.”

The pause between you is deafening. Then—his voice, low and frayed. “You can’t say shit like that when I haven’t even touched you yet.”

“You’ve touched me five times.”

“Not like that.”

Not yet, you think. And suddenly, the air feels even heavier.

But then he steps back. Just a little. Just enough to breathe. “Alright. I’ll do it.”

You nod once, pulse thudding.

“Tomorrow,” he says. “After hours. Just us.”

You try to play it cool. “For professionalism?”

His mouth twitches. “No. For focus.”

You arrive before closing.

The sun is already dipping past the horizon, casting long shadows across the alley where NO SAINT INK lives—half-sacred, half-possessed. The neon signs haven’t lit up yet, but the glow inside is warm. Low amber light spills from the studio windows, wrapping the interior in something softer than usual.

You knock once before nudging the door open, a little bell jingling above your head. Your hands are full—an iced Americano in one, a paper bag of pastries in the other.

“I brought bribes,” you call, stepping into the familiar scent of incense, ink, and disinfectant.

From somewhere in the back, you hear him.

“Depends,” Hyunjin says, voice echoing through the curtained hallway. “Are they sweet enough to justify me rearranging my entire night for your hipbone?”

You roll your eyes, smirking as you head toward the front counter. “Don’t act like you weren’t already gonna.”

He appears a moment later, pulling back the curtain with a casual flick—black long-sleeve pushed to his forearms, hair loose today, curling slightly at the ends. His silver earrings catch the light as he moves.

You offer him the coffee.

He accepts it without question, sipping as he glances at the bag. “What is it?”

“Strawberry scones.”

He pauses. Blinks once.

Then, soft and flat: “You’re trying to seduce me.”

You shrug, innocent. “You said you preferred slow burns. I’m just feeding the flame.”

He exhales sharply through his nose. Amused. Maybe impressed. Maybe ruined.

“Come on,” he murmurs, nodding toward the back. “Booth’s ready.”

You follow him through the curtain, until you reach Hyunjin’s space. It’s quieter here.

Dimly lit by a single lamp angled down over the chair. Black walls. Floating shelves with sketchbooks stacked high and carefully labeled bottles of ink arranged like altar offerings. A large framed print of a blooming rose leans against the far wall—your eye catches on the familiar linework.

One of his.

He gestures to the seat. “Make yourself comfortable.”

You do, settling your things on the side table as he rolls on a fresh pair of gloves. The snap of the latex still makes something flicker in your chest.

“Still want the Lily of the Valley?” he asks, voice calm but slightly huskier now. He hasn’t met your eyes yet. Too focused on laying out his stencil materials. Too aware of what’s coming.

You nod. “Still want you to do it.”

That makes his head lift.

His eyes find yours. And this time, they don’t look away.

Slowly, you reach for the hem of your sweatshirt. Tug it off in one smooth motion, leaving you in a cropped tank top and soft cotton shorts. No tights. No barrier. You watch his gaze dip—briefly—to the exposed skin of your upper thighs.

Then you hook your thumbs into your waistband.

“Here okay?” you murmur, sliding the fabric just low enough to reveal the curve of your hipbone—the exact place you want him to mark. The edge of your panties still covers what it needs to. Barely.

His inhale is so sharp you hear it.

“Yeah,” he says after a beat. His voice is quiet. Rough around the edges. “That’s… That’s perfect.”

You try to keep your tone light. “You’ve seen skin before, Hyun.”

“Not like this.”

Your breath catches.

He steps closer, holding the stencil between gloved fingers. His touch is steady when he kneels beside the chair, head tilting slightly to examine the space. But when his hand settles on your waist to hold you still, you feel it.

The difference.

It’s not professional anymore. Not strictly. Not the way it used to be.

His palm is wide. Firm. Anchoring you. But his thumb brushes the hollow just above your hip, a spot he doesn’t need to touch at all. His breath ghosts over your stomach as he positions the stencil, close enough that your skin prickles.

“Breathe for me,” he murmurs. The same words as always.

Only this time—you feel them in your thighs.

You inhale slowly. Exhale.

He presses the stencil gently to your skin. Smooth. Measured. His gaze flicks up once, meeting yours from below, and you swear—just for a second—he looks like he wants to bite.

“There,” he says softly, pulling back to admire his placement. “Check it in the mirror before I commit?”

You nod, rising carefully to your feet. His hand lingers a second too long before letting go.

You step over to the full-length mirror mounted in the corner. Turn slightly. Examine the stencil on your skin—delicate lines, tiny petals, soft cursive nestled against bone. It's beautiful. Quiet and aching and so personal it almost hurts.

He watches you from the chair, arms crossed now, gloves still on, forearms flexed just slightly as he leans back.

“Well?” he asks.

You meet his gaze in the mirror. “It’s perfect.”

“Then lie back for me, angel.”

You lie back on the chair, the black leather cold beneath your skin, even through the thin cotton of your tank. The lamp above casts everything in a halo glow—focused, intimate, like a spotlight trained just on you.

Hyunjin is quiet as he moves around the station. He preps with the same practiced rhythm you’ve seen five times before—ink cap, paper towels, sterile wipes, machine hum warming in the corner. But there’s something different in the air now.

A little too still. A little too loaded.

And then he turns.

Rolls his stool over beside you, knees brushing the base of the chair. He’s sitting close. Closer than he usually does when tattooing you. The heat of him radiates under the low light, hands gloved and resting on his thighs as he looks at you.

At your skin. At the spot where he’s about to mark you.

“You good?” he asks, voice low and a little hoarse.

You nod. “Yeah. Just… aware that I’m in my underwear in your lap basically.”

He snorts softly. “First of all, dramatic. You’re not in my lap—yet.”

Your breath catches. He doesn’t take it back.

You glance down. “I just meant, y’know. This placement. It's a little…”

“Intimate,” he finishes.

You nod once. Slowly.

He leans forward. Just a little. “Does it bother you?”

You blink. “No. Does it bother you?”

He tilts his head, mouth twitching like he wants to smile but won’t let himself. “You think I’m bothered?”

“I think you’re trying very hard to act like I’m just another client.”

That earns a quiet laugh. Low and sharp.

“You haven’t been ‘just another client’ since the first time you asked me to tattoo your collarbone with that stupid flower that made you cry.”

You shove his arm playfully. “It was a sentimental flower, not stupid.”

“It was both. And you cried like I stabbed you in the soul.”

“It hurt!”

“It was a two-inch peony.”

“Shut up,” you grumble, biting back a smile.

He smiles now. Full, real, warm. It fades just slightly as his gaze drags down again, returning to your exposed hipbone.

You feel your stomach tighten when he speaks again—softer now.

“Touching you like this… isn’t nothing.”

You swallow. “So don’t pretend it is.”

He nods. Silent agreement. Then slips back into motion.

He sanitizes your skin first. Cold alcohol on gauze. His fingers brush over your hip as he cleans the area, and even through the gloves, it feels like fire.

“You’re already warm,” he murmurs.

“You’re hovering,” you shoot back.

His laugh is quieter this time. “I have to. This is a sensitive area.”

“Mmm, right. Totally necessary to lean in so close your necklace is touching my stomach.”

He does not, in fact, move away.

Instead, his thumb brushes just below your waistband, fingers spreading gently across your hip as he holds your skin steady. “Stop wiggling.”

“I’m not wiggling.”

“You are.”

“You’re—” Your voice hitches slightly when his palm presses down with more intention. “You’re being a menace.”

“Always.”

He picks up the tattoo machine with his other hand. It buzzes softly to life, a familiar whir that still makes your nerves spike.

He notices. Of course he does.

“You okay?”

You nod.

“You always get twitchy right before the first line,” he says softly, like he’s reciting an old memory.

“You always hold my hand when I do.”

He pauses. Just a beat.

Then—he gently reaches up, slides his fingers between yours, and squeezes once.

You don’t let go.

And then—

“Here we go,” he says quietly.

The needle touches your skin.

Sharp. Hot. Deep. You flinch slightly, but his hand on your hip tightens instantly—not rough, but anchoring.

“There you go,” he murmurs. “Breathe. Just like that.”

The buzz continues, steady and rhythmic as he pulls the linework with impossible control. You force yourself to focus on the sound of his voice instead of the pain.

“You’re good,” he says again, thumb brushing a slow arc into your skin. “Taking it so well.”

You blink hard. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Say what?”

“‘Taking it so well.’ That’s porn voice, Hyun.”

He grins—sharp and unrepentant. “So?”

You glare at the ceiling. “You’re unbearable.”

He leans in slightly, still drawing. “You’re wet.”

Your whole body freezes.

“I—excuse me—”

“Your skin,” he says smoothly, as if he wasn’t just trying to end your life. “It’s damp. Warm. From the alcohol. What did you think I meant?”

“You know what I thought you meant.”

He hums, like he’s pleased with himself. “Interesting.”

You let out a long, slow exhale.

“Still doing okay?” he asks, voice back to low and sincere.

You nod, chest rising and falling. “Yeah. It’s just…”

“What?”

“Hard to stay still when you’re—” You cut yourself off.

His voice drops. “When I’m what?”

Your mouth feels dry. You look down at him. He’s crouched over you, hair falling forward again, neck bent in full concentration. One gloved hand spreads over your hip, holding you down, while the other guides the needle with ridiculous precision. He looks like he’s worshipping your skin. Like this act—this pain—is a form of reverence.

“You’re touching me like I’m yours,” you say before you can stop yourself.

The sound of the machine falters—just a fraction. He doesn’t speak for a second. Then, finally—his voice low and wrecked: “That’s because you are.”

Those words echo.

Not just in your ears—but in your bones. Your breath stutters. Your lips part. You watch him blink, jaw flexing like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud. Like he’s wondering if he can take it back.

You know he won’t. Because he meant it. Because it’s been there—under every lingering look, every playful comment, every time he touched you for just a little too long after finishing a piece.

This has never just been ink.

Not for him.

And not for you.

“Hyun…” you whisper, unsure whether it’s a warning or a surrender.

He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he sets the machine down—gently, slowly, deliberately—onto the tray beside him. The buzz fades into nothing.

His gloved hand is still on your hip.

Still holding you steady. Still not moving.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” he says softly, but his eyes never leave yours. “Not while I’m tattooing you. Not while you’re lying here half-naked and trusting me.”

“But you meant it,” you say.

His jaw tightens. “Yeah.”

The silence between you goes thick again. Almost unbearable.

And then—still seated beside you, still bent low enough that his breath brushes your stomach—he murmurs, “Do you want me to stop?”

You stare down at him. And shake your head. “No,” you breathe. “I want you to finish.”

It’s not just about the tattoo. It never was. Something changes in his face. His pupils dilate. His mouth parts slightly, like he’s tasting the weight of what you just said.

“Okay,” he murmurs.

But when he picks the machine back up, his hands aren’t steady anymore.

The lines are still perfect—Hyunjin doesn’t do less than perfect—but his breath is uneven. His gloved fingers flex harder on your skin, not quite possessive, but close. His knuckles brush the edge of your underwear again and again, and not a single one of those brushes feels like an accident anymore.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, like he’s talking to himself.

You’re not sure if he means you or him.

“I’m fine,” you manage.

He hums. Low. “You always say that. Even when I’m breaking you open.”

Your thighs press together involuntarily. You’re certain he notices.

“I’m almost done,” he says. “Just a few more petals.”

You nod, chest rising with shaky breaths. “Okay.”

Hyunjin works in silence for the next few minutes. Only the buzz of the machine fills the air. His jaw is tight, lips parted, eyes flicking from the lines to your face and back.

Your breath stutters every time his fingers press a little deeper into your skin to hold you steady.

He notices. He always notices.

"You need to stay still, baby," he murmurs after a minute, like it costs him to say it gently.

"I'm trying," you whisper.

"I know," he says. "You're doing so good for me."

The pet name lands hard. You bite your lip, trying not to squirm. He grins. Quietly. Like he’s winning.

Another petal. Another clean line.

Your skin stings, but his voice is soothing. Warm. Reverent.

“Almost there,” he breathes, wiping the fresh ink with gentle circles of gauze. “I promise.”

You nod, nails digging into your own palms.

And then—

He stops.

The buzzing dies.

You feel the soft click of the machine being placed down. The final swipe of his gloved thumb wiping excess ink. The moment his hand lingers too long, brushing up toward your waist.

“…Finished,” he says quietly.

You look at him.

His expression is wrecked. Dark eyes, blown pupils, the barest sheen of sweat at his temples. He swallows hard, blinking slowly like he’s holding back a flood.

He pulls the gloves off.

Snaps. Tosses them to the tray.

Then looks at you like he’s still starving.

“Let me clean you up,” he murmurs.

You sit up a little, and his hand immediately comes to your back to support you—too gentle, too familiar. The intimacy of it makes your stomach flip.

You watch him work.

He squeezes out clear cleanser onto a pad, drags it carefully across the ink. Wipes you down like you’re porcelain. Like you’re sacred.

You shiver.

“There,” he says, fingers resting lightly at your waist. “We should wrap it but…”

You blink at him. “But?”

His eyes flick to your mouth. Then to your thighs. Then back to your eyes. “…But I don’t think I can keep my hands off you long enough to give you proper aftercare,” he admits, voice breaking open.

But then Hyunjin blinks, jaw clenched, and suddenly he’s standing. Suddenly he’s all discipline again. You watch in disbelief as he turns, grabs a box of plastic wrap and surgical tape like he didn’t just tell you he wants to ruin you.

You blink up at him, chest heaving, as he cuts a clean piece and starts prepping like this is a normal day.

Is he seriously—

“Lie back,” he murmurs.

You hesitate.

“C’mon,” he says gently. “Gotta protect the art.”

You lie back, narrowing your eyes.

He crouches again, presses gauze delicately to your tattoo, then begins wrapping with the kind of precise tension you'd expect from a fucking surgeon. His fingers glide over your waist as he smooths the film into place—practiced, familiar, infuriatingly neutral.

"You're being professional again," you mutter.

His mouth twitches. “Would you rather I forget how to do my job?”

“I’d rather you remember what you said five minutes ago.”

“I remember everything I say to you.”

He tapes down the final corner of the wrap, hands steady even though you can see the vein twitching in his neck. You can see the way his mouth keeps parting like he’s holding back a groan. His eyes won’t meet yours for more than a second.

And then, like a fucking menace, he clears his throat and reaches for the aftercare sheet.

The goddamn printed paper.

“I know how to—”

“I’m required to go through it,” he interrupts, not looking at you. “So. No heavy workouts. No soaking in water. No scratching even if it itches. Moisturize gently once the wrap’s off—”

You sit up abruptly.

His words die in his throat.

You reach for the collar of his shirt, grab it, and pull him in. You kiss him like you’re done waiting. Like his little show of professionalism just lit a fire under your skin. Like you’re done pretending you’re not his.

His body reacts before his mind can catch up—he lurches forward into you, hands bracing behind your back, and kisses you back like he’s making up for every second he spent pretending he wasn’t about to come undone.

Your legs wrap around his waist on instinct.

He groans into your mouth, deep and unfiltered, like the leash he had on himself just snapped in two.

“You’re such a fucking tease,” you whisper against his lips.

He pulls back, just enough to rest his forehead to yours, breath heavy.

“You think I was trying to stop myself?” he says, voice rough. “No. I was trying to deserve you.”

Your breath catches.

He kisses you again—deeper this time, desperate.

Then he’s standing. Hands sliding under your thighs, lifting you like it’s nothing. You wrap around him, gasping into his mouth as he sets you down on the tattoo chair again—but backwards this time, so your back is to his chest, your legs spread.

“So,” he says low in your ear, voice gone completely to sin now, “how’s your pain tolerance, baby?”

“Why?”

“Because I’m about to fuck you without touching your new tattoo,” he growls. “And I’m not sure if that’s going to make you scream louder… or quieter.”

Your breathing’s uneven. Your skin still stings faintly from the tattoo. And Hyunjin—Hyunjin is standing behind you, hands gripping your hips like he’s trying not to shake.

"Stay still," he murmurs. “You’ll make me lose it.”

“You already have.”

He huffs a breath that sounds like a laugh if it weren’t laced with so much need. Then his hands trail lower—thumbs hooking into your shorts.

He pulls slowly. Too slowly. The fabric drags over your thighs, bunches at your knees. You shift, arching slightly without meaning to, and he groans low in his throat.

"Fuck," he breathes. "Look at this."

His palm smooths over the curve of your ass, fingers spreading wide like he’s cataloguing every inch.

"You’re unreal," he mutters. "Always knew it. But like this?"

The shorts hit the floor.

And you hear it—the hitch in his breath when he sees your panties.

Thin. Soft. Lace-trimmed. They’re slightly pulled up from your earlier writhing on the chair, and now they’re framed perfectly. Your ass is practically spilling out of them.

Hyunjin makes a sound that is not human.

“Oh, baby…” he murmurs, hand splaying fully across one cheek. He squeezes—firm, greedy. “You wore these for me?”

“I didn’t know I’d be bent over in front of you,” you say, voice breathy.

“Bullshit.”

He leans in, lips brushing your lower back, just above the wrap.

“You always knew where this was going,” he whispers. “You’ve been showing me this ass every time you walked into my shop with your little skirts, your cocky smirks—”

A kiss over the curve of your ass.

“I tattoo you with a straight face, and you sit there like I’m not fucking hard the entire time—”

His hand slides lower, palm pressing against your inner thigh. His fingers trail along the hem of your panties, teasing.

“I should rip these.”

“You won’t,” you gasp.

“Oh?”

“You like how they look too much.”

He chuckles—low, dark, reverent. “You’re right.”

And then he does something you don’t expect.

He kneels behind you.

Both hands on your thighs, spreading you gently. His thumbs drag upward, slow, until they reach the curve of your ass again. He groans softly under his breath—visibly, audibly, aching.

Then—

A kiss. Right on your left cheek. Then another. And another. Trailing closer to the centre. “You know,” he murmurs between kisses, “this view might actually kill me.”

His thumbs hook into the waistband of your panties, and pulls them down.

Hyunjin lets out a shaky, reverent breath. His hands grip your thighs harder. His lips are parted, his eyes wild.

“…Holy fuck. You’re dripping. Just for me.”

His voice is guttural—low enough to make your spine arch without thinking. You can feel his breath right there—hot, heavy, reverent.

Then—

Spit.

The sound is sharp. Obscene. You gasp as it hits you—warm and wet, mixing with your slick, sliding between your folds.

“Fuck,” Hyunjin breathes, watching it trail down. “You make me so fucking messy already.”

And then he dives in. No hesitation. No soft teasing. He licks you like it’s instinct, like it’s oxygen, like this is the first and last meal of his entire life. His tongue parts you, slow and deep. He groans into your pussy like he’s overwhelmed by the taste.

“Jesus,” he whispers between licks. “You taste like a fucking dream.”

His hands grip your ass, spreading you wider. His tongue flicks over your clit—once, twice, and you jolt, gasping into the leather chair.

“Keep still,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “Let me enjoy you.”

Then he sucks. Hard.

Your whole body shudders. Your knees nearly give. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down. He alternates between long, deep licks and desperate flicks, burying his face in you like he wants to live there. Like he’s tattooing his tongue into your memory.

One of his hands slips down, fingers trailing to your soaked entrance. He groans when he feels how ready you are.

“Holy shit,” he pants. “You’re gonna let me fuck this perfect pussy, aren’t you?”

“Yes—god, yes,” you whimper, pressing back against him, dizzy from pleasure.

His fingers press in—two at once, slow but deep. Your walls clench around him, and he curses under his breath.

“Already so fucking tight,” he groans. “Can’t wait to stretch you out on my cock, baby. But first—”

He curls his fingers. Licks again. And you scream. It’s filthy. It’s divine. It’s Hyunjin with a mouth full of you, humming like he’s high off the taste, dragging you toward the edge faster than you can take.

“Don’t hold back,” he says against your cunt. “I want you to cum all over my face.”

You don’t even answer. You can’t. You’re too far gone. Your thighs start to tremble, hips twitching uncontrollably, and he knows.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, tongue relentless. “That’s it, pretty girl. Let go for me. Cum for me.”

And with one more curl of his fingers and one more harsh suck on your clit—

You do.

You break. Hard. Shaking, moaning, collapsing forward against the chair as your orgasm rips through you. You gasp his name, legs trembling, slick dripping down his chin.

But he doesn’t stop.

He keeps going. Licking you through it. Kissing you through the aftershocks. Fingers still inside you, soothing, teasing, owning every wave of it. When you finally lift your head, panting, dazed, and weak in the knees—he pulls back just enough to look up at you. His lips are slick. His eyes are dark. His chest is heaving.

“You’re even prettier when you fall apart,” he whispers.

Then he licks your juices off his bottom lip—

And stands.

You see the outline of his cock in his jeans—thick, hard, straining.

He steps forward, rubbing against your ass, groaning into your shoulder. “Now,” he says, voice wrecked. “I’m going to fuck you so deep, the next time you come in for ink, you’ll still be dripping from this.”

His hands fumble with the button of his jeans, curses falling from his lips like prayers.

“Fuck, fuck—why are these so tight today—”

You glance back, dazed and flushed, still bent over the chair, legs weak from his mouth.

He finally shoves them down, briefs included—and there he is.

Long. Thick. Red at the tip. Veins tracing the sides. So hard it curves slightly, twitching with every heartbeat. Your mouth parts involuntarily. He catches your gaze.

“You staring?” he says, breathless.

“Obviously.”

He smirks—then hisses when his own hand wraps around the base, pumping once to relieve the pressure.

“I’ve dreamed about this,” he mutters, stepping closer, cock dragging over your ass, your soaked thighs, your still-sensitive folds. “Bent over my chair… ink still fresh… wrapped like a fucking gift—”

You whimper as he grinds against you, the head of his cock smearing pre-cum along your skin.

“—and all mine.”

He strokes himself once more, then lines up—sliding the tip through your slick folds, teasing your entrance.

You jolt.

“Still sensitive?” he asks softly.

You nod.

He leans down, voice curling around your ear.

“Good.”

And then—

He pushes in. Slow. Deep.

Your breath catches hard. He’s thick—stretching you inch by inch, until the pressure is so full, so overwhelming, it blurs the edges of your vision.

“Fuck,” he groans, gripping your hips, fingers sinking into your waist. “You’re so tight I could die.”

You moan, forehead pressing into the leather. “Move, Hyunjin—please—”

He pulls out halfway—

Then slams back in.

Your cry echoes through the studio.

“Sound so pretty,” he pants, setting a rhythm—deep, deliberate thrusts that hit every nerve-ending you didn’t know you had.

Every time his hips meet your ass, your body jolts.

“You were made for this,” he mutters. “Made for me.”

One hand slips around your waist, sliding between your legs again, fingers finding your clit with pinpoint accuracy.

“Hyunjin—!”

“That’s right, baby,” he growls. “Take it. Take all of me.”

He pounds into you harder—louder now, the slap of skin on skin obscene in the quiet room. His name spills from your lips over and over, useless and raw and desperate.

The tattoo stings with every motion—but you don’t care. You’re fucked open and filled and god, he’s not stopping. You look back over your shoulder, dizzy, ruined.

And Hyunjin’s eyes are locked on your face—wild. Starved. Obsessed.

“I’m not done,” he says, voice barely human. “Not till you cum on my cock. Not till I fuck my name so deep into you it echoes.”

His fingers rub faster. His thrusts get rougher. And then—

Everything snaps.

You cum again—louder, harder, legs shaking, walls pulsing around him like a vice.

“Holy fuck,” he shouts, cock twitching—

And then he’s spilling into you, deep and hot, hips stuttering, breath caught in his throat.

For a moment, the only sound is your breathing. The ruin. The afterglow. His cock still buried inside you. His arms wrapping around your torso as he leans in and presses a kiss to your back.

“Worth every second I waited,” he whispers.

You laugh—wrecked and glowing. “Told you you’d break the chair.”

“Worth it,” he grins.

Then: “Round two?”

You snort. “Gimme ten minutes and a juice box.”

He kisses your shoulder. “Done.” He kisses again, again, and again. “You okay?” he whispers.

You nod slowly. “Better than.”

He chuckles under his breath, one arm tightening around your waist. “I could stay inside you all day,” he murmurs. “But we’d destroy the whole damn shop.”

You feel him pull out—slowly, carefully, letting you feel every inch retreat until your body clenches one last time in protest.

A gasp escapes your lips.

Hyunjin groans softly behind you. “Don’t do that,” he warns. “I’m already thinking about round two.”

You give him a breathless laugh and he grins. Now pulling up your panties, still bunched halfway down one thigh. He slides them up slowly, smoothing the lace back into place, pressing a kiss to your right cheek as he finishes.

Next come the shorts. He helps you step into them, then pulls them up gently, carefully over your still-tender skin. He pauses at your waistband. Fingers resting there. Holding.

“Let me see it,” he whispers.

You glance back, confused.

“The tattoo.” he clarifies, voice soft.

You shift your hip toward him, tugging the waistband down just enough.

He crouches again.

One hand cradles your thigh. The other touches just above the wrap.

His eyes go soft.

“I can’t believe I finally got to mark you,” he says, almost to himself. “Right here. Where no one else gets to touch.”

You watch him trace the wrap with two fingers, reverent. Then—

He kisses the corner of it. Barely-there. Sacred. You feel your heart stutter. He looks up at you—flushed, hair a mess, lips swollen, eyes absolutely feral with devotion.

“Come home with me,” he says.

Your breath catches. “Hyunjin—”

“I’m not done with you,” he murmurs. “I need to see that tattoo in the morning light. Need to kiss every part I didn’t get to tonight. Need you in my bed. On my sheets. Wearing nothing but your bruises and my name.”

You stare at him. Then lean down. And kiss him. Soft. Slow. Final.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Okay. Let’s go.”

You wake up to the feeling of his fingers on your hip.

Not just touching—tracing. Careful. Curious. Worshipful.

The morning light spills through the blinds in lazy stripes, painting the sheets in pale gold and soft gray. You’re lying on your side, half under the duvet, one leg bare and bent—perfectly exposing your hip. The wrap is still on.

Hyunjin is shirtless, hair an absolute mess, lips kiss-swollen and pink. His chain dangles forward as he leans down to look closer, one hand brushing back your shirt to keep it out of the way.

You blink sleepily. “You’re staring.”

He doesn’t even pretend to deny it.

“Can’t help it,” he murmurs. “I know I just did this, but I still can’t believe it’s mine.”

You snort. “You mean mine.”

His gaze flicks up.

“No,” he says softly. “I meant what I said.”

He leans in. Kisses just beside the wrap. “You let me mark you,” he whispers. “Right where I’ve always dreamed.”

You feel your stomach flip, heat blooming down your spine. “You’re being sappy,” you mumble, hiding your face in the pillow.

He grins. “You love it.”

His fingers trail lower. Along your thigh. To the dip just before it curves into your ass.

You squirm. “Hyunjin—”

“Let me see how sore you are,” he says, voice suddenly lower, throatier.

He lifts the covers. Exposes both legs. His eyes darken at the sight—faint bruises from where he held you. Scratches on his arms from when you clung to him.

And then—he kisses your thigh. Slow. Open-mouthed. Lingering. “I want to put another one here,” he says.

You blink. “Another what?”

“A tattoo,” he says. “Something small. Hidden. Right where only I get to see it.”

He slides lower, kissing your inner thigh now. His hair brushes your skin. His breath is hot.

You shiver. “Hyunjin…”

His mouth pauses a breath away from your cunt. Then: “Or maybe I’ll just taste you again first. Remind you who you belong to before we start sketching.”

You moan—already soaked, already clenching.

But he just smirks.

“You want it, don’t you?” he murmurs. “Want to be mine in ink and sweat and everything else.”

You nod, voice wrecked. “Yes. Fuck, yes.”

He lowers his head again. “And you will be,” he whispers. “One mark at a time.”

[imagine-all-the-imagines]

"DON'T STOP LOVING ME."

synopsis: things were always easy between you and katsuki. until suddenly, they weren't. (aka you pull back and katsuki notices and hates it)

notes: ALWAYS w the unofficialbf!katsuki agenda. wc ~5k. childhood bffs bc duh. barely proofread sorry

ever since you were three years old with your scraped knees and sticky fingers to now, where teenage life could not be more confusing, there has always been one, unwavering, constant fact.

you're absolutely, utterly, head-over-heels in love with bakugo katsuki.

and you've never been afraid to show it! backhugs, tackling him to the floor, jumping on top of him and climbing him like a jungle gym, telling him you love him like it's the most obvious thing in the world. (it is)

he always scoffs and grumbles, but you'd never take it personally, because when he tells you to get off, he pulls you close. when he complains that you're annoying when you're sick, he brings you soup and medicine and cuddles you to sleep. when he blushes and tells you he hates you, his eyes tell a different story.

so what if he doesn't express it the same way you do? everyone has different ways of showing they care. even if he doesn't say it much, you know katsuki loves you.

right?

-

it was late when you accidentally overheard it. when you froze up and felt your heart drop to the floor. when you started shaking and sweating, eyes darting around for a trash can in case you threw up.

"bakugo, bro, when are you and y/n gonna make it official?" kirishima had teased, throwing an arm around katsuki.

katsuki scoffed and shoved him off. "tch. it's not like that."

"you suuure?" sero questioned. "you two seem awfully close for just friends."

"mannn, if i was bakugo, i'd be all over that. y/n is such a pretty girl!" kaminari chimed in, clearly jealous over his lack of love life.

the teasing continued. you couldn't see him from your angle, but you knew that katsuki definitely had a vein on his forehead that was getting larger by the second.

"you're always carrying her bag, walking her to class.."

"cuddling with her during movie nights, scratching her back.."

"oh! and don't forget how she never forgets to tell him she loooves him whenever they say goodbye!"

"c'mon, bakubro, just spit it out! you two are practically married already!"

the three laughed heartily, clearly enjoying the rise they were getting out of katsuki.

"all of you, shut the hell up!"

"just admit it. you're in love."

he gritted his teeth.

"i'm not in love." he grimaced, venomous anger bubbling to the surface.

"she's just there all the fucking time! always fucking doing girlfriend-y shit when she knows damn well she's not! always clinging and trying to cuddle and all that stupid sappy shit. she's just an annoying fuckin' habit ive learned to tolerate." he spat.

you froze.

what?

was he serious? like, really, truly, deadass serious? you knew he wasn't exactly the super affectionate type, but even still! you thought he really cared about you! clingy? annoying? tolerated?

your head spun as you broke out into a cold sweat. you could've sworn that that wasn't true. you and katsuki have been friends forever. surely he wouldve gotten rid of you by now if he hated you that much, right? and he cuddles you! and hangs out with you! he takes care of you when you're sick! there's just no way, right? he's just angry because he's being teased, right?

..right?

"damn, dude, that's pretty harsh," sero snickered. "you always take care of her, though, no?"

you held your breath.

"tch. doesn't fuckin' mean shit. just gotten used to her because she's been around so long."

your stomach dropped to the basement. he tolerated you. he thought of you as nothing more than an annoying habit.

insecurity pooled inside of you. now that you think about it, was he really cuddling you, or just not bothering to move you off when you laid on him? maybe he just thought you were too much of a hassle to get rid of when you came to hangout, so he just let you stay even thought he didn't want to. when he brought you medicine and stuff, maybe your sickness made you delirious and made you think he was being more affectionate and caring than he really was.

you felt nauseated. you recall all the times you threw a quick "i love you!" over your shoulder or while you clung to him. had he ever once said it back? ever? the room started spinning as you realized you couldn't think of a single time. he'd always deflected. gave you a classic "tch." rolled his eyes. messed up your hair. you dont think you'd ever even heard the word "love" from his lips.

had you just been deluding yourself all this time?

you couldn't take it anymore. sweating, you sprinted out before you could be spotted.

-

it's been two days since you overheard that conversation, and you'd been avoiding katsuki ever since. or rather, not quite avoiding completely, but there was an undeniable shift in your behavior. you stopped trying to cuddle with him. you stopped showing up to his dorm room to hangout. you especially stopped saying "i love you," even though it killed you every time.

katsuki hadn't shown much of a reaction to your change in behavior. he'd raise an eyebrow when your usual daily hugs disappeared or ask a gruff, "where were you?" when you didn't show up to your unofficial but completely established after school hangouts, but he had otherwise put up no protest.

you didn't know whether to be relieved or heartbroken.

on one hand, katsuki's kind of scary when he's confrontational. also, you don't know how you would be able to talk to him. "i overheard a conversation where you said you hate me but im madly in love with you and want to marry you and have your kids?" yeah right. you were sort of glad to be getting off easy.

but on the other hand, you were devastated. his apathy served as further confirmation that he meant every word he said. he really didn't mind that you were pulling back, and seemed perfectly content not being nearly as close as before.

you really had been deluding yourself. secretly, you had been hoping that he was just saying stuff in the heat of the moment and would actually be upset if you pulled back. because that would mean he cared. but he didn't give two shits about you. you really were just some stupid childhood habit he'd learned to tolerate.

you became less energetic as a person. not just with katsuki, but simply in general. your days seemed unbearably longer and darker without him. you had a hard time engaging and staying in the present, your mind wandering to katsuki again and again. it was pathetic, really. you two had never even dated. why were you so hung up about it? you two were just friends, and in fact, it seemed like he never even liked you in the first place. you were just stupidly hopeful and naive.

-

katsuki was dying.

two days. it had been two fucking days since you'd touched him or even just been remotely affectionate with him and he was going crazy. hell, he'd give the whole damn world even for just a smile at this point. he was desperate.

he didnt understand why you were being like this. it was like everything he knew about you had shifted, and he was just standing there, waiting for some kind of sign or something like an idiot.

katsuki had noticed the shift in your behavior immediately. of course he did. he knows you better than he knows himself, after all. at first, he thought you were just playing some dumb game or pulling some stunt to get his attention, but that wasn’t it. you waved instead of hugging. said a simple "bye" instead of "love you, bye bye!" it's not like you were completely avoiding him. you still talked. you still laughed. only now, it didn't quite reach your eyes.

and it was fucking killing him.

he hated that you were pulling back. he hated how off everything felt. he hated how fucking empty his dorm room felt when you weren't there to pester him. but most of all, he hated how he couldn’t even figure out what he'd done wrong. he couldn't think of any fights or reasons to be angry, but if that wasn't it, what was it? why were you suddenly just.. leaving?

he wanted to confront you. he wanted to pull you aside and demand to know where the fuck you went. but for the first time in his entire life, he didn't know how. because this wasn't like confronting stupid deku about his new powers. it wasn't about asking icyhot what his fuckin' deal was. it was you. his whole fucking world, even if he never said it out loud. he was nothing short of terrified to ask, because he feared it would drive you away even further, and he couldn't think of any alternate universe where he'd be able to handle that.

he found himself looking for excuses to be near you, to talk to you, to just be around you in any way possible. the last two days had been a torture of silence, of missed chances to sit next to you or casually reach out and tug you into his space like he used to. the times when he’d shove his arm around your shoulders or playfully mess with your hair, it had all stopped. he didn't feel like he could anymore. like he'd somehow lost the privilege. and now, all he was left with was this gnawing feeling in his gut that something was horribly wrong.

he had finally worked up the courage and tried asking you once, but you had shut him down with that all-too-familiar "nothing, just tired" bullshit and that damn closed-off look on your face that made him feel completely hollowed out.

he was desperate. he needed to feel you. needed to hear your bright laughter and see your stupid smile. it was so fucking stupid and sappy and so unlike him, but he couldn't even bring himself to care about that. he needed to cuddle with you until you fell asleep. have you curl up on his chest and get swallowed up by his much larger frame and watch you as your breathing quickly evened out from his touch. you could never stay awake long when cuddling with him. he found himself smiling at the thought.

he scowled. this is so fucking stupid. he thought to himself.

-

it all came to a bubbling point for him on friday. 5 whole days of "hi's" and a half-smile instead of "KATSUKIIIII's," and a running hug. he was losing his fucking mind.

usually, you convinced him to join the weekly 1a movie night by taking his hand and dragging him out of his room. he'd grumble about it, but he'd never refuse. he'd sit on the corner of the couch and you'd sit close to him before gradually inching closer, the night ending with you two cuddling. now, he willingly trudges to movie night of his own free will and sits in the same corner of the couch, but this time alone.

the room buzzed with quiet chatter and the flicker of the TV as the opening credits rolled and iida turned the lights off. it was some dumb romcom movie katsuki couldn't bring himself to care about in the slightest. you would definitely like it, though. kirishima passed around popcorn, sero argued with kaminari over which movie was the best, deku was doing his stupid nerd rambling as todoroki and hagakure gawked at him. and you? you sat on the other end of the couch.

not just away, but away from him.

the usual spot right beside katsuki, practically in his lap, head on his shoulder, knees draped over his thighs sat empty. you sat next to mina instead, curling into the armrest and pulling your legs up to your chest. you offered sweet smiles to everyone, laughed when something was funny, made conversation when prompted. but katsuki saw it. he saw you.

and he saw that you weren’t you.

he stared.

throughout the entire first half of the movie, he barely processed a single second of it. he kept looking over, waiting for you to glance at him, to shift closer, to give him a sign, anything, but you stayed curled in on yourself, legs angled away from him. he hated it. he hated how you looked like you were trying to make yourself smaller. like you were trying to disappear.

katsuki’s heart thundered. his leg bounced impatiently. his jaw was tight. he couldn’t take this shit anymore.

he stood up abruptly, catching your attention. he stalked straight over to you, jaw clenched and shoulders tense. he hovered over you, looking down and saying nothing.

you blinked up at him. "...what?"

his eyes were sharp and unreadable to most. but to you, who knew him better than he knew himself, you could see the anxiety and desperation swimming in his eyes.

no, no, no. remember, don't delude yourself. he doesn't like you, not even as a friend.

"are you okay..?"

"no." he snapped, his tone making you flinch. he softened at your reaction. "i just.. you've been.." he started, but his tone cracked, eyes flashing, and something in him snapped. "fuckin’ hell, just—"

he reached down and grabbed you.

gently, but with zero room for argument. strong arms slid under your knees and behind your back like it was the most natural thing in the world, and you barely had time to yelp before he was sitting down again, with you in his lap, pulled tight into his chest like you were his lifeline. (you are)

you froze, wide-eyed and stiff, but he just held you. his arms locked around you. he didn’t look at anyone else, didn’t give a shit about the stares or the knowing grins. he buried his face in your shoulder, muttering low and rough into your neck.

"i don't know what the fuck i did," he said. "but you don't get to just... take all that away. not from me."

you blinked, suddenly breathless.

he held you tighter. his voice cracked again, this time softer. "whatever i did, 'm sorry. i'll make it up t'ya, i swear. but don't just.." his voice trailed off. "dont stop loving me." he wanted to scream.

you felt your heart stutter, but you didn't say anything.

not at first, anyway.

because what is there to say when your heart is lodged in your throat and your body is caged in the arms of the person you swore you were going to get over?

you just sat there, crumpled in his lap like some lost puppy that finally found its way home again. your face is pressed into his shoulder, and you think if you speak, you’ll cry. so you don't. you just let yourself relax and melt into him.

he doesn’t say anything else either. his grip doesn’t loosen, not even a little. his fingers press into your back, not hard, just steady. grounding. enough to keep you pressed firmly against him. like he’s trying to convince himself you’re real.

the room’s still noisy with all the side conversations, but it's all background noise now with you two just in your little bubble away from the rest of the world. you feel safe and like you’re about to fall apart at the same time.

you shift a little in his lap and glance up at him.

“…you didn’t have to drag me across the room, you know,” you finally mutter, voice hoarse.

he scoffs, eyes flicking down to meet yours. “yeah, well. you weren’t comin’ on your own.”

you wrinkle your nose at him. “you could’ve asked.”

“whatever." he grumbles. "this is more efficient."

you snort. "the hell?"

he shrugs, completely unapologetic. “worked, didn’t it?”

you don’t answer. because yeah. it did.

instead, you rest your head back on his chest, and he immediately shifts to accommodate you. your legs drape over the couch, his arm hooked under your knees to keep you anchored, and his other hand settled at the base of your spine. he starts tracing slow, absentminded circles there, hand slipped under your hoodie to rub at the bare skin like nothing had ever changed. like you hadn’t just gone five whole days without touching him. like you hadn’t spent those five days trying to unravel every version of reality where he didn’t love you back.

you sit like that for a long time.

finally, he speaks up, his voice low.

"what did i do?" he asked, his voice oddly shy. "why'd ya stop.. you know..?"

your breath hitches. because you do know. but you don't know what to say or how to say it. "i thought you completely hated me" doesn't quite seem like an appropriate response.

"nothing," you settle with.

he gives you a look.

you sigh. you never could lie to katsuki. he's known you for too long and too well to fall for them.

"i just.. got insecure. overheard some conversation where you said i was, um, clingy and annoying." you murmur, your voice small. if katsuki wasn't pressed up against you and hanging on to your every word, he wouldn't have been able to catch it.

but he did.

and you swore you saw complete heartbreak in his eyes.

you let out a small gasp of surprise when he pulls you flush against him, arms tight around your body and face nuzzled deep into your neck. he holds you with such a gentle intensity you think you might cry. he holds you in a way that makes you feel loved and safe.

"'m sorry." he mumbles into your neck, voice watery. "didn't mean it. i was just.. mad that they were makin' fun of me. none of it was true. at all."

your breath hitches.

"you're.. so fuckin' special to me. i mean it. these last few days without you have been hell."

you think you might cry.

"been missin' your fuckin' smile and your damn laugh. and your stupid hugs that make me almost topple over."

you hold back a giggle.

"i love you."

the world stills.

you don’t move.

you don’t speak.

hell, you're scared to breathe.

your heart is beating so loud you’re worried he might hear it. your face is burning, your lungs feel tight, and your throat’s a warzone of words you can’t quite say.

he said it.

he said it.

and now he’s quiet. breathing you in. arms wrapped around you like you’re something precious. like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

you pull back just enough to look at him. your hand comes up to brush his bangs from his eyes, and your fingers linger at his temple, trailing down his cheek like you’re memorizing him.

his expression is soft in a way you rarely get to see. wide-eyed. hopeful. a little scared.

you offer him a tiny, quiet smile.

no teasing.

no trying to be brave or play it all off.

just soft. honest. the kind that only he gets to see.

you lift your hand and touch his face. not dramatic, not shaky, just steady. fingers brushing along his cheekbone, thumb ghosting over the edge of his jaw like you’re memorizing the shape of him again.

his eyes close for a second and you swear you see him leaning into it a little.

you say nothing.

you don’t need to.

because you’re here. because he’s holding you. because you’re not pulling away, and he's pulling you in.

you nuzzle your face into his neck, like it's right where you belong, and you breathe in.

he breathes in too.

slow. like the world’s stopped spinning for a second just so you can exist like this, tangled up in each other without saying anything. no talking about what's going on, no complications, just.. being.

you both don't notice how mina and kirishima are gossiping wildly about how you two are practically married and wondering how you still claim not to be dating. you don't notice the way that ochaco squeals after glancing over at your position, and you don't notice the way izuku looks fondly at you two with soft eyes. (he's been shipping the two of you since childhood)

you and katsuki are the only two people in the world who matter.

"i love you," you whisper as you feel yourself dozing off.

you think you feel his lips press gently against your forehead.

"i love you too."

masterlist

[imagine-all-the-imagines]

PART 24.

<< previous chapter || next chapter >>

series masterlist.

series summary: you and chan get matched up on a forum for people who suffer with insomnia and spent most of your sleepless nights texting each other. neither of you expected to fall in love..

pairing: bang chan x reader

tags: smau, fluff, making out, bit of smut at the end, oral (f), MDNI

a/n: if you're reading this fic for the fluff (which i get) and don't want to read the smut part, then stop reading after the pink star *

You corner Ava as soon as you can, gripping her arm tightly and pulling her with you to put some distance between you and the others. 

‘Ouch, what's gotten into you?’ Ava whisper yells, pulling her arm free and rubbing the spot where you had grabbed her. 

‘It might happen tonight,’ you whisper back, more hushed. ‘I don't know what to do, Aves.’ 

‘What are you talking about? You gonna turn into a werewolf? I don't think it's a full moon tonight, darling,’ she mutters, still rubbing her arm. ‘Damn, when did you get so strong?’ 

‘Aves!’ you whine. ‘I'm serious here.’ 

Your best friend straightens when she hears the slight panic in your voice. ‘Okay okay, I'm sorry. What's going on?’ 

The two of you huddle together at the hotel bar, while the others sit down in one of the corner booths. You can hear Changbin yelling about ordering food and when you look over your shoulder your gaze meets Felix's. He raises his eyebrows in question, silently asking if you're okay and you quickly smile and give him a thumbs up.. 

‘Well?’ Ava nudges you. 

‘Chris said he has plans for me tonight and he seemed sort of jealous when I chatted with Minho in the car,’ you explain, also telling her about his lingering hands. 

Ava grins and grabs your hands in hers. ‘Sweetie, it's pretty obvious for anyone with eyes how crazy that man is for you. He's basically undressing you with his eyes every time he looks at you. You've been building up to this moment for a while now.’ 

‘I know, but-’ you fall silent. 

‘You're nervous,’ Ava guesses. 

You nod. ‘I guess? It's just that I've never felt like this with anyone else before.’ 

‘So you don't want to sleep with him because?’ 

You groan and close your eyes for a moment. ‘I do want to, that's the problem.’ 

‘I don't see a problem,’ Ava squeezes your hands. ‘You like him, he likes you, you've been separated by miles for weeks and will be again soon, so why wait?’

She has a point there. You don't know why exactly you're this nervous. Maybe you're scared it will change something between you or make it even harder to leave him.. Or maybe it's because it's been a while since you've been intimate with someone. 

‘You trust him, right?’ Ava asks. 

‘One hundred percent,’ you nod. ‘With my life.’ 

‘And you love him?’ 

‘Yes,’ you nod, without hesitation. 

Ava grins at you and it hits you then. 

You love him. 

‘Oh,’ you breathe out, a little shocked. 

‘It's alright sweetie,’ Ava says, pulling you in her arms for a quick hug and a kiss on your temple. ‘I'm pretty sure he feels the same. Go and get your man, don't be scared and just see where the night brings you.’ 

-

It's about an hour later when you and Chris say goodnight to everyone. Ava is sitting on Changbin's lap and is feeding him some of her leftover chicken, but she turns towards you to blow you a kiss when she hears you call out a general ‘Night ya'll.’ 

Chris grabs your hand and intertwines your fingers as he slowly pulls you away from the group and towards the elevators. He winks at you when you meet his gaze and you can't help but feel a blush creep up your cheeks. 

‘Are you okay?’ Chris asks when the elevator door closes and locks you inside together. ‘I didn't make you uncomfortable did I?’ 

You shake your head and step closer to him. ‘You could never make me feel uncomfortable, Chris.’ 

Chris lets out a sigh of relief and lets go of your hand in favor of wrapping his arms around your waist. He pulls you against his chest and presses a kiss to the top of your head. ‘I'm glad. You can tell me whenever you are though, okay? If you don't want to do anything, just tell me and I promise–’

You interrupt him by standing on your tiptoes and pressing your lips against his, successfully shutting him up. He reacts immediately, kissing you back with a low groan in the back of his throat. Your hands grip onto his strong arms while his fingers dig into the skin of your hips, pulling you even closer to his body. 

The elevator dings way too soon and just before the doors begin to open you force yourself to pull back. Luckily there's no one waiting on the other side, but the both of you still rush towards Chris' room with flushed cheeks and giggles. 

As soon as the door clicks into the lock Chris is on you again. His hands are everywhere while his mouth latches onto your neck, kissing a trial up towards your lips.

 You melt against him, baring your neck to give him better access while your hands find their way into the fabric of his shirt, clinging to him. 

‘You have no idea what you do to me,’ Chris mumbles against your mouth, grazing his teeth over your lower lip. ‘You’re driving me crazy, in the best way possible.’ 

‘Good,’ you murmur. ‘Cause you do the same to me.’ 

Chris kisses you again and it’s like time stops and everything around you disappears. It’s just you and him. Every touch, every lick of his tongue, fueled the fire that is building inside your body and it doesn’t take long before you feel like you’re going to explode. 

‘If you want me to stop, you have to say so now,’ Chris pants against your neck. 

You don’t say anything and lace your fingers through his hair, pulling his head up so he can look at you. His gaze is filled with desire, his pupils so large they nearly take up all the brown. Chris his hands move down from your hips to your ass and you grin at him when he squeezes. 

‘Alright, baby,’ he breathes, diving in for another kiss. 

Your teeth clash, but it doesn’t hurt. His tongue tangles with yours once more and when he lifts you up by your ass, he swallows your squeal. You automatically wrap your legs around his waist, connecting your bodies in all the right places, and pull on his hair to keep you balanced. Chris moans into your mouth and slowly walks the two of you towards the bed. 

The show of strength turns you on even more and you try to tell him with your kiss. He responds by moving his arms to wrap around your waist and pull you even closer against him. The movement makes your core rub against him in a delicious way that sparks a zap of pleasure to travel up your spine and you want to feel it again. You try to rock your hips, but the way Chris is holding you doesn’t allow you to move much. 

A desperate whine escapes your throat and it’s like the sound activates something in Chris. You’re on your back on the bed within seconds, his body hovering over you while his hands caress your thighs that are still wrapped around him. 

‘Are you sure?’ He asks and you know that if you say no, he will back up and stop, but that's not what you want. 

You want this. You want him. 

‘I'm sure, Chris,’ you nod, touching his cheek with your fingers. ‘I want you, all of you.’ 

He doesn't have to be told twice.

*

Your clothes are on the floor in what feels like seconds, his own following close behind and then he's back to worshipping you and your body. His lips and hands are everywhere he can reach, coaxing sounds out of you you never knew you could make. 

‘Chris,’ you moan when he kisses and nips your inner thighs. ‘Please.’ 

‘Please what, baby?’ He purrs, looking up at you from between your legs. 

The sight alone nearly makes you combust. He looks like a vision with shining eyes, flushed cheeks, swollen red lips and tousled hair. 

‘Please touch me.’ 

‘Hm I am touching you.’

You let out a whine and arch your back when his breath ghosts over your heat. Your hand reaches for his hair again and he chuckles. 

‘Alright, babygirl, alright.’

You expected him to use his mouth, but it's his finger that touches you first, slowly moving between your soaked lips. He rubs up and down a few times, collecting your juices and teasing your clit before he slowly presses his finger inside of you. 

Your mouth falls open in a silent gasp at the feeling, the delicious stretch, and when he leans in and licks you from just above his finger all the way to clit, you moan so loud you're certain the people in the next room can hear you. Fuck. 

Chris chuckles and crooks his finger, licking you again and again, increasing the pressure of his tongue. He adds a second finger and pushes your lower stomach with his free hand, holding you down to the mattress as your moans and pants fill the room, getting louder and louder. 

When the pleasure builds and builds you grasp onto the sheets, his hair, his shoulders, anywhere you can reach. There's babbling coming out of your mouth that sounds a bit like; ‘fuckchrisyespleasefuckfuckdontstop’ and your vision gets a bit blurry. 

‘Chris,’ you yell out his name when the tight coil in your belly snaps. 

Chris his hand on your belly relaxes and his movements slow as he tries to prolong the pleasure for you. Your thighs are shaking and when it all gets too much you squirm and whine and he pulls away. He slowly kisses his way up your body as he crawls on top of you again. 

‘That was-’ you sigh with a dopey smile. ‘Amazing.’ 

Chris grins and licks your wetness off his lips before kissing the tip of your nose. ‘It really was.’

Your body feels heavy, relaxed and sleepy, but you don't give into the feeling and wrap your arms around his neck. ‘I bet we can make this night even better.’ 

a/n: so sorry for the wait darlings! starting my new job has been so much more exhausting than i thought it would be. the smut is a bit short compared to what you're used to from me, but its been giving me hell lmao so i figured i'll just give you more in a later chapter ;) hope you enjoyed this one, loves <3

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