junrenjun

[junrenjun]

💌⊹°˖➴ don't wake me, i'm dreaming of home yang jeongin x f!reader x kim seungmin

summary: “Hey,” Jeongin protests, “boys and girls can be friends …” Jisung raises an eyebrow. “… and … boys and boys …” “Girls and bisexual boys in kinda codependent threeway friendships where they all spend more nights sleeping in the same bed than in their dorm rooms–“ Jisung trails off, and Jeongin groans. He grabs the fox plushie Seungmin won for him at the fair last year and hurls it into Jisung’s general direction before burying his burning face in his pillow. He doesn’t see his friends like that … right?

word count: 13.1k words

author's note: I did not plan to write this, but then I answered an ask and my love @stayconnecteed came into my inbox excited about seungyang and my brain just ... ran with it. I love this. where hyunibini was difficult to write, this poured out of me. I adore them. they mean the world to me. enjoy!

EDIT: I wrote a prologue! 🌃⊹°˖➴ in my dreams, i never have to be alone

warnings: college!au; codependent besties to lovers; a little bit of angst; mxm action, as usual; unprotected sex; panic attack? he's going through it; side minsung bc I'm me; mention of past vomiting and nauseau, not graphic at all

skzms masterlist // ko-fi

Jeongin takes the steps up to Seungmin’s third floor apartment two at a time.

His knuckles rap against the door in an anxious pattern, and he stands back, rocking back and forth on his heels impatiently. He’s met with silence, then more silence. It doesn’t usually take Seungmin this long to open the door – and Jeongin knows he’s home. He always goes straight home after your and his social media management lecture.

He’s just about to take out his phone to text him when he hears faint noises from inside. He takes a step closer.

There’s whispering, but who it is or what they’re saying, Jeongin can’t make out. Something thuds to the floor. Then footsteps approach the door.

Jeongin steps back just in time before the door is ripped open.

“Jeongin!? W-what are you doing here?”

Jeongin raises an eyebrow at Seungmin.

“What do you mean what am I doing here, I practically live here.” Seungmin blinks, shifts his weight from one foot to the other, his hand still in a death grip around the doorframe.

“Just … didn’t know you were coming …”

“Well, neither did I, but I was in the area because I was at that coffee shop next to the Sigma Kappa Zeta frat, you know, the one where I forgot my charger last time. So I went there to pick it up and guess who I run into?! Bang Chan! And Felix, you know, the blonde, smart one from our business class – I think they’re hooking up by the way, there’s definitely a vibe there – and we got talking and– wait, you’re not listening are you?”

Seungmin had been nervously staring at him throughout his whole monologue, until a noise from behind him startled him into half turning around.

“N-no, I was listening, it’s just, uh, not the best time.”

Everything clicks into place for Jeongin very suddenly.

“You’ve got someone in there.”

He doesn’t word it like a question. It’s obvious now, the nervous tap of his foot, the way he’s holding the door closed, the … oh wow, the slowly darkening love bite on his collarbone, still glistening wet against his milky soft skin. Something in his guts twinges.

“Y-yeah, sorry,” Seungmin mumbles, runs his hand through his newly cut, short, black hair. It makes him look more grown-up, less than the boyish Seungmin from a year ago. Did he cut it before or after he started hooking up with people. When did he even find the time?! You and Jeongin basically lived at Seungmin’s apartment, and never had much more than the odd one-night stand with someone who wasn’t scared off by the fact that you were constantly glued to one another.

With a bitter taste in his mouth, Jeongin realises that that may not have been true.

“Ha, I can’t believe it,” Jeongin scoffs out, tries to swallow the awkward wobble in his voice, “I didn’t know you had it in you, Seung.”

Seungmin smiles awkwardly, shifts his weight again. Jeongin can basically feel the impatience rolling off of him. He wants him to leave. Ouch.

“Well, then I will just call Y/N and tell her about how I just secured us the Lee Felix for our group project …”

“That’s great, Innie, you go call her,” Seungmin says lamely, and Jeongin’s face starts burning. This is so awkward.

“Well, see you tomorrow. And, uh … have fun!”

He turns on his heels and speedwells down the hallway before he can embarrass himself any further. Have fun?! What the fuck is wrong with him.

His face is still burning when he pushes the door open to his room. He must be more flustered than he thinks because he accidentally slams it into the wall so hard it makes his roommate nearly jump out of his skin.

“Jesus, you need to start skipping the gym, Innie, you don’t know your own strength,” Jisung squawks from where he’s pretzeled onto his computer chair, one sweats clad leg clutched to his chest, some music project or another open on his old MacBook.

Jeongin just grumbles in return, toes his shoes off and throws himself onto his bed.

Jisung, ever as observant, swivels his chair around and gives Jeongin a sympathetic smile.

“Rough day?”

Jeongin sighs.

“Not … not really, just …” he sighs, sits up, “I just made a fool out of myself in front of Seung. He … had someone over.”

Jisung’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Like … had someone over had someone over?”

Jeongin nods. Jisung makes a face, like he’s impressed.

“Damn …”

Jeongin scoffs. Protectiveness flares up in his chest.

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

Jisung blinks at him.

“I’m not surprised that he has someone over, he’s really cute,” Jisung mumbles, and Jeongin feels the need to growl. Jisung barks out a laugh. “He’s not my type, don’t worry. It’s just …”

He falters, but Jeongin fixes him with another glare and Jisung pulls his other leg up, hugs them both against his chest until he looks tiny, swallowed up his chair, before he speaks.

“I just kinda figured … what with you and Seungmin and Y/N always being glued together …”

Jeongin stares at him blankly. Jisung sighs, like Jeongin is a child who doesn’t get it.

“I figured something would happen between all of you.”

“Hey,” Jeongin protests, “boys and girls can be friends …”

Jisung raises an eyebrow.

“… and … boys and boys …”

“Girls and bisexual boys in kinda codependent threeway friendships where they all spend more nights sleeping in the same bed than in their dorm rooms–“ Jisung trails off, and Jeongin groans.

He grabs the fox plushie Seungmin won for him at the fair last year and hurls it into Jisung’s general direction before burying his burning face in his pillow.

He doesn’t see his friends like that … right?

At least he didn’t in the beginning, when they all met during fresher’s week, sneaking away from the club to smoke a joint on the swings of the dark, empty playground in the nearby park. Or maybe he deluded himself back then, in an effort not to lose the only friends he had made so far, even if Seungmin’s big hands were warm and his smile bright and boyish, your legs were soft under his fingertips when he helped you climb up to the slide, your hair smelling like smoke and perfume. Fuck.

When he looks up, Jisung is still watching him, but he has his legs crossed underneath him now, his bag of weed paraphernalia on his lap as he pours some of the ground buds into a translucent paper.

“So, where were we? Codependent, sexually charged threeway best friendship …”

Jeongin growls for real this time, kicks his leg out in Jisung’s direction.

“Shut the fuck up, or I’ll tell Minho that you ripped a picture of him out of the campus paper and jerk off to it as if Instagram doesn’t exist.”

Jisung screams, blindly grabs for the fox plushie and throws it at Jeongin so hard the little plastic button nose actually hurts when it hits his cheek.

“You wouldn’t dare! And don’t judge me, it’s a good picture. Plus, it’s lofi. And I can’t accidentally like a 6 month old photo on his instagram as I cu-”

Jeongin’s eyes widen and Jisung goes pale.

“Which has definitely never happened!”

Jeongin cackles, loud and dirty. It makes Jisung pout at him.

“You know, I could just introduce you to him? I see him at practice three days a week.”

Jisung huffs out a sad laugh. He turns, rummages around in his drawers for a lighter, cracks a window open and lights his joint before he responds.

“Sure, because the captain of the best college field hockey team in the state and college heartthrob Lee Minho is really desperate to be friends with, let alone date, a reclusive, anime nerd music student. I’ll spare myself the humiliation, thanks.”

Jeongin sighs, but Jisung has already passed him his joint and turned back around.

“He’s pretty weird, you know, I have a feeling you might be just his type,” Jeongin mumbles around the joint in his mouth. He inhales the sticky flavour deeply.

Jisung doesn’t even turn around, only scoffs.

“Maybe you’d charm him with your big brown eyes, your decently sized dick and your loser rizz,” Jeongin muses. That at least pulls a giggle out of Jisung, which is enough for Jeongin. He smiles at the back of Jisung’s head and gets up to place the joint in the ashtray next to Jisung’s laptop, before he falls back onto his own bed.

He lets Jisung’s clicks, the dim echo of his music that filters through his headphones, slip into the background and pulls out his phone, opens your group chat. He scoffs when he sees it’s still named after that stupid old meme you and Jeongin quoted every day last week, until Seungmin threatened to kick you out of his bed and apartment at 3am.

wait a minute, who ARE you? 🤔 from: me guess who just secured us THE lee felix for our principles of business group project you’re welcome

from: thing 1 🧍‍♀️ no way that’s incredible we’ll ace this

from: me ikr 😎

from: thing 3 🧍🏻 boomer ass emoji choice but ok

from: me shut up, you ungrateful child we’re meeting him on thursday I told him we could meet at yours, seung, hope that’s alright but basically we have two days to sort out our shit

from: thing 3 🧍🏻 sure but two days before your big game? Is that a good idea?

from: me it was the only day he could do it’ll be fine

At least that’s what Jeongin told himself.

from: thing 1 🧍‍♀️ maybe it’ll be a nice distraction we got your back

from: thing 3 🧍🏻 what she said

from: me anyone wanna get breakfast tomorrow?

from: thing 3 🧍🏻 have to meet my advisor at 9, but I can do after

from: thing 1 🧍‍♀️ 👍

from: me 👍

Jeongin sleeps like shit that night. He could blame it on many things – the leftover weed fumes in the room, Jisung’s snoring, the guy yelling in the quad at 3am, or maybe it’s his tiny, uncomfortable dorm bed and the absence of two warm bodies next to his.

But whatever it is, it means that he takes much longer than usual to peel himself out of bed, and by the time he makes it to the good cafeteria in your dorm building it’s already 10.

So he expects you and Seungmin, already there, sitting at your table the one in the back corner, next to the window that looks out over the Main Street because the three of you love spending hours sitting there between lectures, chatting, eating protein bars, and people watching.

But something makes him slow his pace, makes him take a detour to grab himself a coffee before he makes his way over, even though he never does that.

At first glance, he can’t tell what’s so off about the picture. You and Seungmin are sitting in your usual seats, you in the corner, leaning against the windowsill, Seung in the seat next to you. Your legs are slung over Seungmin’s, a habit you’ve always had. You always say it’s more comfortable and Jeongin would never admit it, as loudly as he usually proclaims that he hates skinship, but the fact of the matter is that nothing in this world calms him down more than the weight of your arm around his lower back, or your leg slung over his, or your hand on his arm. And the same for Seungmin, if he’s being really honest. Like as long as one of you is somehow touching him, he feels calmer. Jeongin often feels like somewhere along the way you all fused together, and now it’s like you’re sharing a body; pulling collars and jewellery into place, fixing each other’s hair, wiping bits of mascara from your cheek, pulling your hair into a ponytail before bed.

So it’s not that Seungmin’s hand, the one that he’s not using to prop up his chin on the table, is under the table, resting on your inner thigh, but something about the way his whole body is turned to you as you talk …

Maybe that’s what it is – the fact that you’re so attuned to each other, when usually, one of you turns the moment he steps in the room, like you can somehow feel his presence; making Jeongin’s heart feel fuzzy with romantic ideas of red strings and soulmate-ism (that he would rather die than tell you or Seungmin about; though Jisung tickled them out of him one night when they couldn’t sleep and smoked so much weed Jeongin felt like he was floating. He’d thrown up right after his confession).

Or maybe it’s the soft, private little smile on Seungmin’s lips, the way his eyes are glued to your face. Or the way his hand is further up your thigh than usual, his thumb rubbing strong, insistent circles into your inner thigh. Or maybe it’s you, sitting up, arching your back a little, leaning more into Seungmin’s space, saying something that makes Seung’s smile turn into a smirk, makes him angle his head ever so slightly, as if he wants to lean in …

Jeongin slams his backpack onto the bench opposite you and both you and Seungmin jump, though as soon as you see him a big smile spreads over your face. Seungmin leans away from you, blinking his eyes as if he was just woken up from a trance.

“Ah, Innie, finally!” you squeal, “we texted you like five times, we thought you were still asleep or something.”

Jeongin makes a non-committal noise as he places his mug on the table. Your casual reaction makes him feel off-kilter.

“Oh, he’s rude this morning,” Seungmin deadpans, and Jeongin sends him a glare. Seungmin’s eyes sparkle up at him. Out of the corner of his eye, Jeongin watches the trajectory of Seungmin’s thumb over the inseam of your jeans. Up, down, up, down.

“Shut up, dog,” Jeongin grumbles, “Jisung worked on music until like 3, and then when he finally did go to sleep he started snoring like crazy. I barely slept.”

Seungmin hums, something between sympathetic and sarcastic.

“Why didn’t you call me? You could’ve come over.”

Jeongin freezes, stares at Seungmin, but the latter’s face, as usual, gives nothing away. His thumb still going up, down, up, down on your inner thigh.

Jeongin blinks, shrugs, avoids your eyes, gets up without another word to finally get himself some food because his mind is swirling and there’s a bitter taste in the back of his mouth. What is Seungmin doing? He knows Jeongin knows he had someone over, but did he want you to know? Why did Jeongin assume you didn’t know …

Well, he thinks as he scoops a big spoonful of scrambled eggs onto his plate, up until yesterday he thought there were no secrets between you. But then Jeongin had accidentally disturbed whatever that was last night, and now he wasn’t so sure. Did you have secrets like this? Was he the only one without secrets? He never thought to keep anything from you, the three of you, that was kind of his whole world …

The thought makes his head hurt and his stomach cramp painfully, and he decides to shove it to the back of his mind for the time being, as he loads more eggs and a general helping of sausages onto his plate. He has practice this afternoon, he’ll need all the protein he can get.

The thought of practice, of the big game on Saturday — it’s enough to dwarf all his other worries. Especially when he comes back to the table and your leg is no longer in Seungmin’s lap, and you reach a hand out to lace with his before he eats, smiling so warmly, that he thinks maybe he just made all the tension earlier up with his sleep-deprived brain.

Under the table, Seungmin’s foot comes to rest against his calf, rubs up and down comfortingly.

“Stop scowling,” Seungmin remarks, “you’ll look ugly with wrinkles.”

Jeongin flips him off half-heartedly.

“When’s your practice today?”

Jeongin swallows a big mouthful of eggs.

“Whole afternoon. From 2 to, like, 6.”

You nod, your brows knitting together in determination. He loves when you do that, it’s adorable.

“Okay, then Seungmin and I will make sure we’ve got everything prepped for our meeting with Felix tomorrow. For the group project.”

Jeongin makes a noise of protest, but Seungmin glares at him, and you wave him off.

“We don’t have any classes this afternoon. Plus, you have enough to worry about, what with your scholarship riding on the game on Saturday.”

The reminder makes a cold shiver run down Jeongin’s spine. He tries his best not to think that way, but he has a terrible feeling about it all. Seungmin reaches out, tugs an errant strand of hair out of his face. His fingertips brush Jeongin’s forehead on their retreat.

“And you’re sleeping at mine tonight,” he announces. There’s no room for argument in his tone, his big, brown eyes staring right into Jeongin’s. “You always smoke weed with Jisung when you’re at yours, and my brother will kill you if he finds out you smoked the week before the game.”

“And weed makes you antsy,” you add, taking a sip from your coffee, grimacing when you find it cold, “and you’re already anxious enough about the game.”

Jeongin’s heart does a little somersault in his chest, heat bleeding out until his whole body is tingling with it.

“How would Minho know,” he mumbles, shoves more food into his mouth, hoping it will get him out of having to say anything else. Seungmin shrugs, sighs dramatically.

“He always knows, he’s scary like that.”

“Promise you’ll come to Seung’s after?” you ask, studying Jeongin with your stupidly intelligent eyes.

Jeongin nods, but you keep watching him for a second, like you’re trying to figure out if he’ll try to get out of it, to retreat into himself. You know him so well, it makes him feel sick.

But by the time he has made it through his classes, through Minho giving them all a stern talk about Saturday that gives him so much anxiety he develops a headache and then puts them through the most gruelling practice Jeongin has ever had to endure, he feels like there’s nothing left of him any more. Like if he retreated into himself now, he would just disappear.

So he gives himself 10 minutes in the locker room showers, lets 5 hot tears sear their way down his cheeks, and allows himself to acknowledge that all he wants is to sink into your and Seungmin’s safe arms.

He all but sleepwalks his way all the way to Seungmin’s apartment, and he thinks he only comes back to himself when the door opens, and he’s greeted by the image of you, in Seungmin’s hoodie, face bare and feet tucked into fluffy socks, and your face softens into one of understanding before you softly drag him inside.

The smell of Seungmin’s apartment hits him like home, as does the sound of the TV, chattering and sound effects from some variety show, the smell of Minho’s seolleongtang, the one he makes sure Seungmin has at least five servings of in his freezer at all times, wafting from the kitchen where the microwave is buzzing quietly.

“Jesus, what did Minho do to you?” Seungmin exclaims from the sofa, his voice teasing, but his concern still shimmers through.

Jeongin just shrugs, waves him off, toes off his shoes and drops his backpack on the floor right by the entrance, something Seungmin usually tells him off for. He stays quiet today. Jeongin must really look like shit.

You’re by his side again immediately, gently leading him into Seungmin’s kitchen, sitting him down at the little table. He meets your eyes, soft, worried, looking him over like you’re scared he’s hurt, before you trail a soft hand down the side of his neck and squeeze his shoulder.

“Let me get you some food.”

The microwave dings, and you busy yourself scooping some noodles into a bowl, adding slices of meat and spring onions, pouring the reheated seolleongtang. Jeongin just watches how you move around Seungmin’s kitchen, quietly and confidently. Watches how you pull the sleeves of Seungmin’s sweater over your hands so you don’t burn your fingers on the bowl as you get it out of the microwave. How you pull them up before you start assembling his food. How your hair falls into your forehead, how your bottom lip juts out as you focus.

He’s still watching when you turn around, the finished bowl between your sweater paws and a smile on your face, and place it in front of him, before turning back to get him a spoon and some chopsticks.

“Here you go,” you mumble, smile at him again, “eat up. We can make more if you need it.”

Jeongin turns around, spots the empty bowl in front of Seungmin, perched precariously on the coffee table that’s littered with books and paper, then turns to you, and he realises.

“Was this supposed to be yours?”

You’re already back in the kitchen, rummaging around the freezer for another one of Minho’s ubiquitous Tupperwares.

“Don’t worry, we got more,” you smile, “plus, Minho will be pleased if he checks Seung’s freezer next time and sees that most of them are gone.”

Seungmin grumbles behind Jeongin, but Jeongin’s heart still feels like it’s rabbiting in his chest.

“You know it’s his love language,” you just remark, and Seungmin sighs. “Let him take care of you, you know he needs it, too.”

It’s an easy remark, and you never shy away from naming the emotions both him and Seungmin are often too scared to. And this one they all know is true. Without parents, with their grandmother gone, Minho and Seungmin are on their own now. And if you asked Jeongin, he’d say they’re doing well. They take care of each other. And by extension, Minho takes care of Jeongin and you. Because he knows you’re important to Seungmin. Even though he usually pretends to be upset, complains that he has to meal prep twice as much because you always eat it all. Luckily, Minho has a colossal sweet spot for you. You don’t need to do much but smile and bat your eyelashes, and he forgets why he was mad in the first place. Jeongin always jokes that Minho would have a massive crush on you if he wasn’t so incredibly gay, which never fails to make Seungmin gag and glare at him.

Seungmin just grumbles behind him and Jeongin goes back to eating, a comfortable silence falling over the room. The TV still running in the background, the microwave buzzing as it heats up your serving of broth, you quietly humming as you cut up more spring onions. This is exactly what he was yearning for when he was in the showers earlier, and he basks in it.

Until he remembers the night before, that Seungmin invited someone else in, hooked up with them maybe on the very couch he’s lounging on right now, back against the armrest infuriatingly nonchalant with his stupid new haircut and his oversized t-shirt riding up, revealing a sliver of his stomach over the waistband of his sweats. How did Seungmin even meet someone to hook up with?! Was it someone from his clubs? Someone he met in one of the few classes you didn’t have together? Did Jeongin know them? You and Jeongin were here all the time. This was your rightful place, who was some random person to butt in, to make the vibes all wrong.

You must’ve seen him scowl into his now empty bowl because you walk over to him gently, run a hand through his hair. Jeongin melts instantly.

“Wanna talk about it?” you ask, quietly, “did Minho say something? Is it about the game?”

Jeongin scoffs. How ironic. He just shakes his head.

“Just wanna … turn my brain off for the night.”

You smile at him again. Warm. Sweet. Like molten honey.

“Sounds good to me.”

You slap his hands away when he tries to clean up his bowl, shoo him towards the sofa where Seungmin is waiting, patting the spot next to him. Jeongin collapses into it, lets Seungmin tug him in between his legs, deposit his head against his solid chest, his hand in Jeongin’s hair. He’s still angry, probably, but then Seungmin hums, a deep rumbling that reverberates from his chest through Jeongin’s entire body, and Jeongin lets his eyes slip shut, just for a minute. Though by the time he hears the water in the kitchen shut off and seconds later feels the sofa dip with your weight and feels your hand trace over his spine, he’s already half asleep.

When he wakes up the next morning, he instantly feels better. Sure, his body aches with soreness from practice, but the sun shining in through a crack in the curtains is making the dust dance in the light, and he can feel Seungmin’s warm body pressed against his lower back, the quiet sound of your breathing on the other side of the bed. He lets it lull him back into a lazy doze, half awake, half asleep, until movement behind him jostles him awake again an hour later.

There’s shuffling, tugging at the duvet, Seungmin’s ass pressing into his back. Jeongin hears your voice, barely above a whisper, murmuring something, then he hears as much as he feels Seungmin’s answering chuckle, his body shaking, a hoarse morning thickness in his voice.

He’s about to turn around, to announce that he’s awake, when there’s a shifting and then a wet noise, a quiet hum, then another, almost like …

Arousal lances through Jeongin’s body so fast it makes him nauseous.

You’re kissing. You and Seungmin are kissing right behind him. Holy fuck. Holy fuck?! When did this happen?! When …

Jeongin feels Seungmin stretch, body shifting against Jeongin’s back, the knowledge that Seungmin’s body is touching his as he’s kissing you making his rapidly hardening cock twitch in his boxers, and then he hears it again. The wet slide of tongues, a maddening hitch of your breath, a whisper of a high-pitched moan that makes Jeongin physically shudder, Seungmin humming, deeply in his chest, just like he had last night when Jeongin was resting on his chest but now into your lips. Your lips.

Holy fuck. It had been you last night. It was you who Seungmin was hiding in his apartment, you who he was messing around with, your spit glistening on the love bite that you sucked into his skin …

“Seung, stop,” Jeongin hears you whisper. You sound out of breath. Jeongin has to squeeze his eyes shut. He’s so hard it hurts, and his heart is thudding in his chest.

Seungmin mutters something unintelligible, and you say his name again.

“Come on. Maybe … maybe he’ll wake up,” Seungmin rasps, and Jeongin can hear the aroused excitement lacing his voice.

There’s more shifting behind him.

“No, not like this,” you murmur, “not now. After the game.”

They’re talking about him. Jeongin tries to control his breathing, but his heart is hammering so loud he thinks Seungmin might be able to hear it. But thankfully, Seungmin seems to be busy enough trying to kiss you again, if his warmth disappearing and a noise of protest, and then the soft sound of another kiss is anything to judge by.

But you don’t seem happy with it. You throw the covers back and get up and Jeongin screw his eyes shut as fast as he can.

“Seung, I said no,” you hiss, and then you’re stalking towards the door.

Seungmin behind him sighs, then gets out of bed as well, padding after you. Jeongin hears him say your name and an apology before the door to the bedroom falls shut, and Jeongin sucks in a breath and shoves his hand between his legs, pressing the heel of his palm against his aching cock.

He would question why the fuck he’s as hard as he’s never been before, but right now, he’s pretty preoccupied with the thought that his two best friends are fucking. Oh my god, you and Seungmin are fucking. Or is it more …

The throb between his legs is replaced but a slowly settling sense of heartbreak.

He doesn’t know what’s worse, if it’s just casual or if it’s serious. Because even if it’s just fun, it’s risky, isn’t it?! He would never … He would never risk your friendship like that. But you … clearly that wasn’t a concern for you. God, how had he not seen it. Had there been signs? How long had this been going on?

His whole body feels heavy with it, the heartache, the disappointment. He hears your and Seungmin’s voices in the kitchen, the hum of the coffee machine coming to life, and suddenly, he feels like he wants to cry.

Seungmin had wanted Jeongin to wake up. The thought alone … it’s so cruel. Or did he just think it would be the easiest way to break it to him? Is that what you meant when you said ‘not like this’ and ‘not now’? Were you planning on telling him then, after the game? The fact that you’re together, that from now on, it was no longer Jeongin and Seungmin and Y/N but Seungmin and Y/N. And Jeongin. If he’s lucky.

Fuck, is he going to lose his best friends? Is he going to lose this? Because surely, if they’re together, they won’t want to share a bed with him every night. He’ll have to spend every night back at his dorm, with Jisung.

Oh my god. He’s losing his best friends.

Through the tears burning on his eyes, he hears his phone buzz on the nightstand, where someone, probably you or Seungmin, plugged it in to charge last night.

from: Lee Felix hey we still on for 1?

Then, another one pops up.

hockey LEGENDS in the making 🏑 from: Minho 👹 you may have a day off today but if any of you fuckers so much as look at a drink or a joint or I see you’re online after midnight I am benching you, understood? Saturday is a big game, I need you all in tiptop condition

Jeongin curses, presses his heels into his eyes until he can see stars and the sting of tears disappears.

He can’t freak out about this right now. He has to focus on passing his class. And the game. The fucking game that not only will decide their national ranking but will also determine whether Jeongin can keep the scholarship that is the only reason he’s at college at all. They need to win that game. If they don’t, there’s a 80% chance Jeongin will not be able to come back in the fall.

He takes a few deep, steadying breaths, just how Chan taught them, back in his first year, before their first big game. Something about it regulating the nervous system and adrenaline or whatever. But thankfully, even if Jeongin doesn’t remember, Chan was onto something because it works. He gets his bearings, shoves his heartbreak into a neat little box and compartmentalises it into a far corner of his brain, and picks up his phone.

hockey LEGENDS in the making 🏑 from: me aye aye captain

to: Lee Felix yeah! I’ll send you the address right now

When he pads into the kitchen, there’s sunshine and fresh air streaming in through the open window, Seungmin is sitting at the table, scrolling through his phone, and you’re cutting up strawberries at the counter. You smile at him through the makings of a perfect day. He swallows down the nausea that threatens to overwhelm him.

“Hey, handsome,” you chirp, “there’s coffee in the machine.”

He forces a smile onto his lips, makes his way over next to you to pour himself a cup. There’s at least a foot of space between you, but it feels like he can feel the heat of your body in his soul. He’s trying so hard not to spiral, he doesn’t notice you’ve stepped closer to him until your hand settles on the small of his back.

When Jeongin turns, you’re hovering right in front of him, your eyes big and dark, your lips parted, glossy.

“Hey,” you murmur. You blink, smile at him again. Your one hand is still on his waist, the other is holding one of the strawberries you were cutting. Droplets of juice run down your finger.

“Want a piece?” you ask, your voice nothing more than a murmur, and Jeongin’s body reacts as if on autopilot.

His lips part and your heavy gaze falls down, glued to his mouth as you bring the piece of strawberry to his lips. And it’s like everything happens in slow motion, his tongue lolling out only the slightest bit, the taste of the fruit lacing his tongue, your finger dragging over his bottom lip, leaving a residue of juice his tongue darts out to chase on instinct. The brush of it against your fingers is barely there, but you watch it with a rapt attention, before your gaze flutters back up, your glassy eyes meeting his, your smile a nervous, shaky thing. You stumble back, return to your spot at the cutting board, and leave Jeongin reeling. He remembers he has to chew.

When he turns his head, Seungmin is staring straight at him.

“Well, that was easier than I thought!” Felix giggles, clapping his hands happily.

Three hours is all it took, one, for you to finish the entire group part of the project for your class and, two, to realise that Lee Felix is not only smart, but also incredibly good company.

To be honest, Jeongin has to credit you and Seungmin for just how easy today was. Because you did a lot of work yesterday while he was at practice; all the prep, most of the research, and even the bare bones of the powerpoint were ready by the time Lee Felix rang the doorbell and strolled into Seungmin’s apartment in his incredibly fashionable light wash jeans and a cropped band tee.

And really, the vibes were just right – the door to the balcony open, letting in the balmy late spring air. Bowls of salty and savoury snacks and the strawberries you were cutting earlier, as well as soda and water and coffee, at the ready, lofi music playing on the TV. Jeongin can’t help himself from being a little bit dramatic about how much all of it clashes with his mood.

Unfortunately, despite it all, you are his best friends. And you notice everything.

When you finish your work and Jeongin is still scowling, you heave a dramatic sigh before you turn and let yourself fall backwards, plopping your head right into Jeongin’s lap. Your legs kick out, and Jeongin distantly notices Seungmin wrap a hand around your ankle. He’s too distracted by you, staring up at him, with a gentle smile, before you reach up, running your fingers through his bangs. Your fingertips leave warm, tingling trails over his scalp.

“What’s going on? Worried about the game?”

Jeongin huffs out a humourless laugh, grimaces.

“The field hockey team? You’re on a team with Chan-hyung?” Felix asks, as he pops another piece of strawberry into his mouth.

Jeongin nods, your hand still trailing through his hair.

“Yup,” he lets the p pop in an effort to sound casual, as if he hasn’t been an anxious wreck for the last three weeks leading up to this game, but Felix doesn’t need to know that, “it’s important for the competition, as you know, but it’s also pretty much going to determine if I get my scholarship renewed for next year.”

Felix whistles through his teeth and Jeongin shrugs at him. Your warm palm wraps around the side of his neck, thumb swiping over his cheek, and he can feel himself blushing. The touch, the affection, is nothing out of the ordinary, and it always flusters him a little, but with a stranger right there, watching you and him so intently, it makes his stomach churn with a special kind of pride and something else he’s too afraid to name.

Felix just watches you and Jeongin, and smiles.

“I’m so glad you guys worked it out,” he hums, his eyes fond and friendly. When Jeongin just blinks at him, he laughs.

“You know, after the party … the jacuzzi …” he vaguely motions between Seungmin and you, wiggles his eyebrows, “which was really hot by the way.”

“Y-you saw?” Seungmin chokes out, and Felix giggles.

“Yeah, but just me and a couple of guys from the frat,” he reassures him, oblivious to the way your hand has frozen on Jeongin’s face, the way Seungmin has paled and Jeongin is just staring at him. “But you did kinda fuck in a jacuzzi at a frat party, so I’m assuming the exhibitionist part was intentional.”

You wince, scramble out of Jeongin’s lap in a pretence of laughter. It’s so fake it hurts.

In a fucked up way, Jeongin is suddenly very grateful you guys were making out in the same bed as him this morning, because if this had been the first time he heard of it? Being blindsided by the news in front of Lee Felix? He may have done something stupid.

“Anyways, I was kinda happy to see it. I always wondered if there was something going on between the three of you, since you’re always stuck together. I’m glad you finally worked it out, I think you’re all very cute together.”

Jeongin’s mouth tastes like blood.

He looks over at Seungmin, but Seungmin avoids his eyes and so do you. There’s a big fake smile plastered onto your face, aimed towards Felix, who is now packing up his stuff. It’s cracking at the edges, your hands shaking where they’re folded in your lap.

“Thanks for all your help, Felix,” you force out, your voice shakier than Jeongin has ever heard it. But Felix has the benefit of not knowing you, so he doesn’t notice, only sends you a blinding smile back.

“No worries, I’m sure we’ll get a good grade for this one! And if you ever wanna work together again, let me know. This was fun!”

And with that, he gracefully gets to his feet. Jeongin gives him a weak smile, waves his hand, but Seungmin barely manages to mumble out a goodbye. He seems to be frozen in panic on the other side of the table. You jump up, chatter with Felix all the way to the door, a slightly manic edge to your voice, until you chirp one last goodbye and the door falls shut.

The silence is deafening. Jeongin needs to get the fuck out of here. He’s on his feet before you’ve even made your way back into the living room. He slams his laptop shut, basically rips the charger out of the wall.

He hears you say his name, but he ignores it. He doesn’t look at you when he pushes past where you’re hovering in the middle of the room to shove both into his backpack that’s still sitting in the hallway.

With a curse, he realises his phone is still in the living room. He makes to push past you again, but this time you take a hold of his arm, your usually soft fingers digging into his skin almost painfully. When he catches your gaze, you look terrified.

“Jeongin, Innie, please,” you plead, “please, can we talk about this? I swear, we were going to tell you, we just–“

“I heard you this morning.”

It breaks out of him before he can stop it. Your eyes widen.

“I heard you this morning. I heard you kiss, right behind me. I heard you talk about me.”

“Innie, baby,” you whisper, and Jeongin scoffs. The sound makes hurt flash across your face.

“It’s fine, congratulations, I guess,” he spits, venom dripping from every word. He rips his arm out of your grip, stalks over to grab his phone off the sofa. Seungmin is still sitting there, his eyes glued to the carpet in front of him, his face an unhealthy shade of white. It almost hurts more, the fact that he’s not saying anything. Fuck, Jeongin’s heart hurts.

You take two steps towards him, but stop when Jeongin looks at you. Jeongin feels crazed.

“It’s not like that, I swear,” you try, pleading with with him, “can we please … we just didn’t want to bring this up before the game, but …” Jeongin shuts you up with a wave of his hand, a shake of his head.

“Yeah … I really can’t deal with this right now. So … ha … do me a favour? Just … leave me alone. Don’t contact me before the game. I really … I need to keep my scholarship. I can’t be distracted by this right now.”

“But …” you try one more time, and Jeongin snaps.

“Can you at least do that for me? Is that too much to fucking ask?” he yells, his whole body trembling. Seungmin flinches where he’s sitting, and even you take a few steps away from Jeongin, your eyes wide. You nod, jerkily. There are tears running down your cheeks. The sight of them makes Jeongin sick to his stomach.

Jeongin shoves his phone in his pocket, grabs his backpack from the floor, and he leaves. Slams the door shut behind him and takes the steps down two at a time, fuck the risk of tripping. He wishes he would, wishes he would break his ankle or something so he can’t play and lose his scholarship, so he can’t return, has to start over somewhere else, somewhere where he hasn’t lost the only two people who have ever meant anything to him …

He barges into his dorm room. Jisung jumps when he crashes through the door, but as soon as he sees the tears on Jeongin’s face, he’s on his feet, wrapping him into a hug.

Jisung drags him out of bed the next day. He forces him into his hockey uniform, presses a protein bar and a water bottle from their fridge into his hand and walks with him all the way to the hockey field, where he stops, places his hands on Jeongin’s shoulders.

“Okay, I know you don’t want to talk about what happened, but whatever it is, it’s going to be okay, okay? You’ll figure it out,” he says, with all the conviction he can muster in his tiny body, “and now you need to focus on the game. I don’t want to have to find a new roommate who will tolerate all my shit next year.”

Jisung’s attempt at a joke, the lopsided grin on his lips, it makes Jeongin huff out a weak laugh.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Minho walk onto the field and spot them. When he makes his way over, Jisung starts shaking like a leaf, but to his credit, he doesn’t budge from Jeongin’s side.

“Hi?” Minho asks, his eyebrows raised, scanning over Jeongin’s body like he’s checking for injuries, before he lets his eyes fall on Jisung. Jisung gulps. “You are?”

Jisung blinks rapidly, sticks out his hand halfway, then seems to think better of it and drops it by his side again.

“I-I’m Jisung, I’m Jeongin’s roommate,” he mumbles out, his cheeks a bright shade of pink. Minho watches him for a second, then sighs, sticks out his hand. He’s smiling, barely noticeably, but Jeongin can tell. Incredible. Somehow, Jisung has managed to charm Minho.

“Hi Jisung, I’m Minho.”

“I know,” Jisung whispers, almost too quiet for even Jeongin to hear. He cautiously shakes Minho’s hand, but when he tries to pull it back, Minho doesn’t let him. Jisung’s big eyes shoot up, but Minho just smiles at him, waits until Jisung relaxes and smiles back, before he lets go of his hand.

If Jeongin wasn’t so heartbroken, he would laugh. He can’t believe this is really happening. He wishes he could tell you and Seungmin about it. His heart aches dully.

Jisung next to him seems to remember why he’s here.

“Uh, J-Jeongin’s not feeling well today,” he stammers out. He does his best to look determined, as he pushes Jeongin in front of him by his shoulders like Jisung’s his dad and Jeongin is his sick kid. “So, please go a little easy on him today, okay?”

Jeongin half expects Minho to freak out, to ask if he’s sick, if he can play tomorrow, to ask what the fuck is wrong with him for getting himself sick so close to the game, scream about what he’s meant to do without his best defender – but Minho just grimaces, sighs.

“Don’t worry, I got it from here,” he says, not unkindly, giving Jisung a smile that makes Jisung’s face flush even more, “thanks for bringing him, Jisungie.”

And with that, Minho takes Jeongin by the shoulder, leads him away from a violently blushing Jisung who barely manages to mumble out a “b-bye” and leads him into the field.

“So,” he starts, once they’re out of earshot of Jisung, “do you want to tell me why my brother texted me earlier, asking me to tell him if you showed up to practice?”

Jeongin scoffs out a humourless laugh.

“I really don’t.”

Minho just looks at him. It’s the same look Seungmin gives him when Jeongin refuses to talk about what’s bothering him, one that always feels like they’re x-raying his insides, and he finds himself wishing for your soothing presence to whisk you away from them, stroke his hair until whatever it is bubbles out of him. But you’re not here, and Seungmin isn’t here, only Seungmin’s older brother, staring him down with eyes that remind Jeongin so much of his he has to look away.

“Listen, it’s fine, I’m fine, there’s nothing keeping me from playing tomorrow, so there’s no reason for you to worry, okay?” Jeongin announces. He shakes Minho’s arm off his shoulder, though he regrets it as soon as he does. He seems to keep doing the wrong thing these days. Minho is still looking at him.

“Okay,” he finally says, “but just for the record, I care about you, okay, Jeongin-ah? So even if I don’t worry about the game, I will still worry about you, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

Then he cuffs Jeongin in the shoulder, so hard it hurts, and turns on his heels.

“Jisung’s bisexual, by the way,” Jeongin half yells after him, “and very, very single. His major is music, and he loves watching anime and eating sweet things. He gets a little nervous sometimes, but he’s the sweetest guy I’ve ever met. I’ll text you his number.”

Minho doesn’t react, only lifts his hand to flip Jeongin off over his shoulder, but Jeongin can see the tips of his ears turn red. His world may be falling apart, but maybe he can at least do Jisung a favour.

And he doesn’t know what gets him through practice and back to the field the next morning, early, for warm-up. If it’s the burn of his muscles, Minho’s iron will that he transfers onto all of them, or the threat of him losing his scholarship so close to the end of his degree. Or it’s his desperate need to be distracted because whenever he lets himself think too much, his heart starts aching so badly he wants to reach into his ribcage and rip it out.

But he can’t do that, so instead, he puts one foot in front of the other. He stretches, so his muscles don’t tear. He warms up his body so he’s lithe and agile. He slips into his shoes and regrips his stick. He hears when they turn on the music on the field, hears the bleachers slowly fill, hears chattering and shouting and laughing. He watches his teammates, all engaged in some form of pre-game ritual – Minho on his back on a bench, meditating, Chan doing jumping jacks, muttering to himself. Coach comes in and announces that it’s 30 minutes before the games starts.

20 minutes. Jeongin forces down a protein shake, almost throws it back up.

10 minutes. Minho looks at him, asks him if he’s okay and Jeongin brushes him off.

2 minutes. They’re walking onto the field under an overcast sky that threatens rain any minute, and Jeongin doesn’t even bother looking at his opponents’ faces.

1 minute. He scans the bleachers and there you are. You and Seungmin. Dressed in the team colours, cheering, staring right back at him. Jeongin thinks he can’t breathe. He doesn’t look your way again.

10 seconds. He tries to breathe.

The referee blows the whistle.

And God, he does his best. He’s focused, he runs. He tries to stay out of his teammate’s way. He throws himself into his defence with his whole body, ignores the throbbing pain when a ball slams into his thigh. He fights for it, he does.

By the first quarter, it’s 1-1. By the second quarter, they’re behind by 1. By the third quarter, the rain has started, and they’re behind by two. Minho manages to score one last goal in the last quarter, 3 minutes before the end, but it’s not enough. The final whistle blows, and they lost.

He distantly notices his team, most of them dejectedly talking to each other, milling around by the benches or talking to their friends in the audience, but Jeongin can’t move.

And it’s like the safe, dull bubble of adrenaline and focus Jeongin has been submerged in for the last two days pops and reality slams into him with such overwhelming clarity it punches the air out of his chest.

He can hear the opposite team yelling, celebrating, can smell the thick, clean smell of the dirt and grass trampled under his feet, can feel the cold rain as it gets heavier, starts dripping down his forehead, his hair, soaks him to the bone.

They lost. They lost. What is he going to do?! There’s still a chance they will recognise his efforts and give him his scholarship, he only has a year left after all, but the advisor was honest. “There aren’t many scholarships to go around. We have several sports teams, all of which have players worthy of this scholarship. If you don’t win, there are no promises I can make you. I’m sorry.”

He swallows the bile in his throat, but he lets the tears run. Nobody can tell anyway, with the way the rain is now pouring out of the rapidly darkening sky.

He has nowhere to go. How did he lose everything so fast?

There’s no one close enough to hear him when a single sob fights its way out his body. He swallows the rest of his tears, shoves it all down as far as he can, but his chest convulses, nonetheless, the adrenaline wearing off quickly, leaving him fighting to breathe. His ears are ringing so loudly he barely notices when two hands find his face, two others anchor him by the waist.

“Innie,” your voice, cuts through the fog. When he looks up, your face is right in front of his. You’re soaked through, make-up running down your cheeks, hair sticking to your forehead when you let it fall against his.

Jeongin tries to fight it, tries to put distance between you, but he finds himself trapped by Seungmin’s strong hands on his waist, solid, but soothing.

“Baby, it’s going to be okay,” you murmur, and it makes another sob escape him.

Seungmin’s hands tighten on his waist, one arm slipping around his middle to press Jeongin against him, and Jeongin realises that he’s not crying because they lost. No, he’s crying because he’s been in love with his best friends for years and the thought of losing you is worse than any gap year he might have to take, any job he might have to get to keep himself afloat next year. Because deep down, he knows that as long as he had you and Seungmin to come home to, he thinks he would’ve been fine. But he can’t do this on his own.

He doesn’t break down there and then, something in him making him stay strong as long as he’s out here, with half the school watching, but he heaves another dry sob. His head falls to your shoulder, and you shush him quietly, run a hand through his soaking wet hair, before you step back and take his hand.

“Let’s get you home, okay? You need to warm up.”

He hadn’t even realised he was shivering, his uniform clinging to his body like a freezing cold second skin.

Jeongin peels himself off Seungmin, who makes a sound of protest, but Jeongin just waves him off and starts walking in the direction of the exit. From across the way, he catches Minho’s eye. Minho looks concerned, his brows furrowed, but Jeongin waves him off, tries to give him a smile that he knows doesn’t reach his eyes. But Minho nods, points at his phone, mouthes something about calling him tomorrow, before he disappears into the changing rooms with the rest of Jeongin’s team.

You didn’t talk about it, but they’re already halfway to Seungmin’s apartment when Jeongin realises where they’re going. The walk is silent, you and Seungmin trailing behind Jeongin, not daring to take his hand when he just pushed Seung away so roughly. Jeongin tries not to acknowledge how badly he wants to hold your hand, how desperately he aches for your reassuring touches, the warmth of your hands, the solid grip of Seungmin’s. But you just … walk.

When the door of Seungmin’s apartment finally falls shut behind them, when he has shoved off his shoes, dropped his stick, Jeongin doesn’t know what to do. He stops in the hallway, watches as a drop of water drips down from a strand of hair and onto the linoleum like he’s not in his body, just a third party, forced to look through his eyes at the mess he’s made of his life.

“Innie,” you murmur behind him. The sound comes through him as if his ears are stuffed with cotton wool. “C-can I touch you?”

He raises his head, meets your eyes; your big, warm, loving eyes that hold his entire world. He’s shivering again, he realises, his whole body trembling, with cold, with pain, with god knows what. You look so worries. He nods shakily.

You take his hand, lead him through the living room, into Seungmin’s bedroom and into the ensuite. Seungmin is right behind you, a hand hovering over Jeongin’s back, fingertips brushing against his when Jeongin stumbles on a shoe he can’t see because his damn eyes are still blurry with tears.

Once you’re in the bathroom, Seungmin steps around him, and into the shower, turns on the water.

“Let’s get you out of these clothes, okay? You’re freezing,” you hum, and Jeongin just nods. He dimly realises that, somewhere between the field and here, he has stopped resisting – has stopped pretending like this isn’t the only place he will ever find peace. He trusts you, he always has. He fears that that will never change, that he’ll let you do anything, even if it means falling in love with Seungmin and breaking his heart.

So he doesn’t resist when you tug first his jersey, then his undershirt over his head, leaving him bare. He doesn’t try to contain the shiver when you let a palm run over his chest. He feels a hand at his feet, realises it’s Seungmin, lifting his foot to peel his socks off before he gets up and pulls his own soaking wet shirt over his head. Jeongin’s breath catches in his throat, his eyes roaming over all the newly exposed skin, more than he has ever had the privilege of seeing. Miles and miles of silky white skin, dusty brown nipples, a smattering of thin hair over Seungmin’s pecs.

Seungmin steps closer. His deft fingers find the waistband of Jeongin’s gym shorts, hooking into them as he looks Jeongin right in the eyes, and Jeongin almost forgets to breathe.

“Don’t worry, you can keep your underwear on, but you need to get out of these clothes, or you’ll get sick,” Seungmin murmurs gently, and Jeongin just nods, blearily, lets Seungmin shove his shorts down, help him step out of them. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees you shove your jeans down your legs, and Jeongin thinks he might pass out. It’s too much, so much skin, so much of your bodies that he’s been trying not to think about for the last two years …

Seungmin shucks his own jeans and socks off and takes Jeongin’s hand, leads him into the shower, makes sure he doesn’t trip, steps under the hot stream and drags Jeongin against his chest. The sensation of the warm water on his ice cold shoulders makes Jeongin gasp and Seungmin hums, rubs his hand up and down his arm, turns him around until he can wrap his arms around Jeongin’s middle again.

But when he turns, Jeongin comes face to face with you. You, water running down your face, down the column of your throat and then down your body that’s naked except for your underwear and Jeongin can’t help but look. You say his name again, delicately, softly, and he looks up. Meets your eyes. He’s helpless. He’s in love.

Seungmin’s fingers scrape over Jeongin’s abdomen, presses himself closer against Jeongin’s back. You take a step forward, until your chest is pressed against Jeongin’s, and Jeongin’s body sings, but doesn’t dare breathe. He doesn’t dare hope that this is what he thinks it is, that there is a chance …

Your fingers find his face, cradle it into your hands like it’s the most delicate thing in the world, whisper his name, again, like a prayer, and then you’re kissing him. Love shivers through his body like someone electrified his veins.

Your lips are soft. Cold but rapidly warming from the water. Your fingertips trace the shape of his face and Jeongin gasps into the kiss like he forgot how to breathe, his hands helplessly pawing at you, every new inch of skin he has never felt before making his stomach swirl with need. But then Seungmin starts pressing kisses over the span of his shoulders, warm lips dragging over wet skin, fingers still lingering over his stomach, and your tongue presses into his mouth and Jeongin’s mind empties. His eyes roll back into his head.

“Jeongin … Innie …” Seungmin rasps into his skin, voice shot. He presses a featherlight kiss behind his ear before he leans closer, breathes his next words right into Jeongin’s ear. “Baby … you were always meant to be a part of this.”

Jeongin keens into your lips, throws his head back against Seungmin’s shoulder, who wastes no time peppering kisses over Jeongin’s cheeks and jaw, before he gently, controlledly, spins Jeongin around in his arms, your arms replacing Seungmin’s around his middle, your lips Seungmin’s on his shoulders. Seungmin’s hands are more insistent when he grips Jeongin’s face, presses his forehead against his, but Jeongin couldn’t pick a favourite way if he tried. Seungmin dips forward, brushes his lips over Jeongin’s and Jeongin can’t do anything but hold his breath, wait patiently, helplessly, for whatever Seungmin is going to do with him.

“Baby, we love you,” Seungmin murmurs, hoarsely, before kissing Jeongin for real and Jeongin sobs out a moan. One of his hands surges forward, grabs Seungmin by the waist, pulling him flush against him, until he can feel his hard cock rubbing against his, sending sparks of bliss searing through his veins. He has no idea when he got hard, but of course, he has. How could he not. He licks into Seungmin’s hot mouth, reaches his other hand behind, blindly reaches for you, drags you closer, too, until Jeongin can feel nothing but you, you, you. This, right here, is everything he has ever wanted. He knows it now.

If this is a dream, he hopes he never wakes up.

But it’s too real to be a dream, even he knows that, and it only drives him more insane. The hot water cascades down his chest, Seungmin’s fingers dig into his jaw, prying his jaw open to lick into him deeper, to devour him from the inside out, his hips rutting grinding into his subtly, your fuck your now bare tits are pressing against his back, your hand travelling down, scratching your nails down the barely there bumps of his abs, until … until …

Jeongin moans pathetically into Seungmin’s lips when your hand slides between him and Seungmin, wraps around his cock over his boxers, palming him until his breathing is so heavy he can barely kiss Seungmin any more.

When you tug at his hips, pull him, so his back is resting against the tiles, he lets you, Seungmin following, reattaching his lips to Jeongin’s, kissing him like he can’t get enough, something that’s simultaneously so unlike and so much like him, it makes Jeongin smile madly into the kiss.

He’s so distracted he only barely registers his boxers being pulled down, soft fingers digging into his skin, lips pressed to his thighs, travelling up, lingering on the thick, dark blue bruise left by the hockey ball, until something mind-numbingly hot and wet wraps around his cock, and he has to dig his nails into Seungmin’s waist where he’s holding him close to stop himself from coming right then, his whole body shuddering violently with the pleasure that races through him.

Seungmin pulls back with a wicked grin on his slick, swollen lips, smoothes his palm over Jeongin’s shoulder, down his chest, follows Jeongin’s eyes as they travel down and–

Jeongin has to screw his eyes shut, his head thudding back against the shower wall, and take a steadying breath. Seungmin giggles, kisses his jaw, noses down his neck. When Jeongin chances another look down at you, he moans pathetically and nearly cries. You’re smiling at him, somehow, still, even though you’re on your knees – for him, he thinks breathlessly – your pretty, sweet lips wrapped around Jeongin’s cock, fingers holding him by the base, your other hand splayed over his thigh. His hand is shaking when he reaches down, cups your cheek, wipes away a stray tear that escapes the corner of your eye from the stretch.

You blink, and then you swallow him down further, and he can feel it not only in his cock but also the hand holding your face, and it drags moans out of him he never thought he was capable of. Blearily, he brings his free hand to his mouth, trying to quiet himself down, so Seungmin’s neighbours can’t hear, but Seungmin won’t have it. He tugs his hand away, replaces it with his lips.

“Shh,” Seungmin mumbles, “none of that. Let us hear you.”

The words, the domineering rasp in Seungmin’s voice – it’s so fucking hot, Jeongin nearly loses it, his cock throbbing in your mouth.

“I w-won’t last,” he stutters, sucks in a breath and moans again with an extra delicious bob of your head that makes your tongue drag along the underside of his cock just right.

“You don’t have to,” Seungmin murmurs, presses a wet kiss against the corner of Jeongin’s mouth, “we just want to make you feel good.”

He swipes the pad of his thumb over Jeongin’s nipple and Jeongin melts, collapses against Seung’s shoulder, holds onto him for dear life and just takes every ounce of pleasure, lets it burn through him until there’s nothing left except you and Seungmin, right here, in this moment.

It doesn’t take long for him to feel the familiar tug of his orgasm in the pit of his stomach, and it’s like you can tell, because you pull your sinful lips off his cock, climb to your feet with the help of Seungmin’s helping hand, and pull Jeongin into a dizzying kiss. He can taste himself when he licks into your mouth, salt and musk and something else, and he briefly wonders what it would be like to taste Seungmin there.

Seungmin’s hand wraps around his cock, all long fingers and tight grip and jerks him off, hard and fast, just how Jeongin likes it, like he somehow studied Jeongin’s brain and figured it out, and it doesn’t take a minute before Jeongin is coming, spilling hot and thick all over his hand, over the shower wall, legs nearly buckling, desperately gasping out loud moans that you swallow, leaving him heaving out desperate breaths in the aftershocks, his whole body alight with tiny fireworks of pleasure.

When he finds his ability to speak, he tries to speak, to mumble something about you not getting off, but Seungmin kisses his words off his lips, saying something about this being about Jeongin, not them. Seungmin chuckles when Jeongin promises you he’ll let you sit on his face, let Seungmin ride him as hard as he wants the next morning, a sweet rasp to his voice when he murmurs “I’ll hold you to it.”

He doesn’t put up a fight when Seungmin turns him around to shampoo his hair while you carefully wash his body, both of your hands so gentle, so soft on him that it makes tears prick at his eyes, but his exhaustion is too overwhelming, his orgasm having only made the heaviness of his muscles more prominent. You deposit him against the shower wall and he watches, with a lazy grin, as you and Seungmin wash each other, as the simple act of it devolves into hot kisses, then wandering hands, Seungmin’s hand between your legs, his cock in your hand. His own cock kicks valiantly because God, you look better together than he could’ve ever imagined, and the noises Seungmin pulls out of you make all the porn he’s ever watched pale in comparison. You pull Jeongin in for a kiss before you come, allow him to swallow your moans just like you swallowed his as you shake through your high, before Jeongin kisses Seungmin instead, batting his hand away and stroking him until his calm, collected Seungmin comes all over his hand with a choked moan, hips twitching, fucking his – long, beautiful – cock into Jeongin’s hand.

When you’ve both come down, Seungmin presses a soft kiss to Jeongin’s temple, you press one to his lips, and then Seungmin shuts off the shower. You wrap Jeongin in a towel, rub him dry, and everything else is as it always is, this part the same domestic bliss it has always been, except while you brush your teeth you tuck yourself under his free arm, your head resting against Jeongin’s shoulder, and Seung’s foot is hooked around his leg where he’s perched next to the sink.

When he crawls into bed, he lets out a deep guttural groan, one that makes you giggle and Seungmin nudge him with his foot.

“Move over,” he mumbles, and Jeongin throws him a look. Usually Seungmin sleeps in the middle, wedged in between you and Jeongin, feeding on your cuddles in a way he would kill you if you ever told anyone else. When Jeongin doesn’t move, Seungmin digs his fingers into Jeongin’s side, until Jeongin screeches and scoots into the middle of the bed, right into your waiting arms.

You wrap yourself around his back and nuzzle your nose into the hair at the back of his head and hum happily. Jeongin wraps his arm over yours, pulls you closer, relishes in the giggle you breathe into his skin, and watches Seungmin get into bed, turn to him and pull the covers up to his nose. He looks adorable. Jeongin has never been so in love.

He lets the big smile that wants to take over his face, do just that, and the flush that creeps up Seungmin’s ears, the rapid blinking of his big brown eyes – they only make him smile more, until Seungmin is so flustered he huffs and turns around and turns the light off. That makes Jeongin bark out a laugh.

They settle into silence, but Jeongin can’t sleep. His whole body is thrumming with everything, a quiet, gnawing worry in his heart, about what will happen with his scholarship, though the simple knowledge that this, this home he has built with his best friends, isn’t going anywhere, is making him feel like maybe he will be okay. But it’s still all so new, so confusing, yet it feels so right …

You say his name quietly into the darkness, and he turns around.

Seungmin immediately cuddles himself into his back, which makes Jeongin smile.

He can just about make out the contours of your face, the sparkle of your eyes in the dim light.

“I just wanted to … It doesn’t feel right not to acknowledge it,” you mumble, pat around the sheets until you find Jeongin’s hand, lace your fingers with his.

“We never meant to exclude you, I need you to know that. That thing at the party … it just … happened. One second we were giggling and messing around in the jacuzzi and the next we were kissing and it was so sudden and so intense … but then it kept happening and it felt so right, but …” you take a deep breath and Jeongin squeezes your hand. Seungmin’s hand slips under Jeongin’s shirt, fingers caressing the skin of his stomach, “we didn’t know how to bring it up and you were so stressed about the game and,” you chuckle sadly, “and we were scared you wouldn’t feel the same, or think we were weird and then what … we’d have to figure out how to do this without you. Maybe we’d lose you altogether.”

Jeongin sighs, lets his hand trail you up your wrist, your arm, until he traces it over the soft swell of your cheek, relishes in the way you lean into his touch.

“I thought I was losing you,” he mumbles, and you sigh, press closer, until your breath is on his lips and his heart is in his throat.

“Never, Innie, never.”

You press a kiss to his lips, and before you can go back in for more, he realises he never said it back. The thing that he has known all these years, but never allowed himself to acknowledge.

“I love you, too,” he rasps out, and you freeze in front of him, where you were just going to kiss him again, “b-both of you. I think I’ve been in love with you since the day we met. I thought you could never feel the same.”

You laugh, light as air, right into his lips, and suddenly Seungmin is hovering over him, staring down at him incredulously.

“Why didn’t you say anything?!” he asks, and to his credit, he sounds almost angry, “you dumb boy, why didn’t you say anything?!”

Jeongin stares up at him, only manages to shrug helplessly.

“We … were flirting with each other. With you. I felt it then, Y/Nie did, too. But you …” Seungmin takes a steadying breath, “you didn’t respond. You were all standoff-ish, recoiled when we touched you. So we didn’t … so we … fuck, Jeongin …”

Giddiness fizzes through Jeongin’s veins so fast it makes him lightheaded.

He pulls Seungmin down, slams his lips against his, before he flips him over kisses him into the pillows until he’s panting, before dragging you closer to kiss you, too.

He’s in love with his best friends. They love him back.

He gets the email about his scholarship two weeks later, at the dinner turned frat party Chan’s frat hosts for the hockey team and their friends.

He wasn’t even going to read it then, but he knows he won’t be able to relax if he doesn’t. He nudges your leg with his toe and you turn immediately. He turns his phone, you read the title of the email and your eyes widen. You nudge Seungmin and mumble it to him and he stares at Jeongin with big eyes, motions for him to read it. So Jeongin does.

“Dear Mr Yang, after having seen your dedication to the field hockey team of blablabla … oh my god,” his breath stutters. Both you and Seungmin and also Felix, who is sitting a few feet away, next to Chan turn their head to him.

“What?! What is it?”

Jeongin looks up and grins.

“We are pleased to count you as one of our scholarship recipients for the next academic year!”

You squeal, scramble up, fling yourself into Jeongin’s arms, nearly knocking him off his chair in your enthusiasm. Felix squeals, too, claps his hands happily and Chan hollers the news into the room until Jeongin is surrounded by his team, though his hand is solidly caught in yours.

Seungmin somehow finds his other side, his hand slithering up Jeongin’s spine and making itself at home at the back of his head, before he tugs Jeongin in to kiss his temple. He doesn’t kiss him in public. Something about it being too personal, just for them. It makes Jeongin’s heart skip a beat.

“I knew they would see just how much you do for the team,”

Seungmin mumbles, and Jeongin beams.

He has his scholarship. He’ll be able to graduate. Summer is about to start and he will spend it on a roadtrip to the coast with his two best friends, who he is also allowed to snuggle and kiss and who love him more than he knows. His whole body is fizzing with happiness.

“Where’s Minho?” he asks into the room and Chan looks around, then shrugs.

“Kitchen, probably.”

Jeongin extricates himself from the group, makes his way to the kitchen.

“Minho! Guess what! You won’t have to find a new defender next– oops“

Whatever Jeongin expected to see when he pushes the door to the kitchen open, it’s not this.

Minho is … kissing Jisung. Scratch that, he’s making out with Jisung, who is perched on the kitchen counter in tight jeans, his legs possessively wrapped around Minho’s waist, Minho’s hands somewhere under Jisung’s cute little cropped sweater. Jeongin swears there is eyeliner smudged around Jisung’s eyelids. When Minho pulls away, he does so with a sigh. He wipes his mouth nonchalantly, but his ears are burning, and he blinks at Jeongin almost nervously.

Jeongin laughs. He can’t help it. He looks at Jisung and he looks so happy, sitting pretty with Minho between his legs.

“You don’t have to find a new defender. I got my scholarship extended for next year,” Jeongin announces with a grin. Minho’s mouth falls open, and then he takes two big steps towards him and pulls Jeongin into a bear hug. Jisung squeals, jumps off the counter and throws his arms around them both.

“Yay, congrats, Innie!” he yells.

Minho peels himself off Jeongin and Jeongin laughs, reaches out to ruffle Jisung’s hair.

“You’re just happy you don’t have to find a new roommate.” Jisung scoffs, cuffs Jeongin in the arm.

“Not like you’re ever home anyways.”

And Jeongin can’t argue with that.

Jisung mutters something about celebrating, skips out of the kitchen in the search of a keg or something bubbly to drink, leaving Minho and Jeongin alone.

“Congrats, Jeonginnie,” Minho says, pats Jeongin’s shoulder again.

“Thanks, Dad,” Jeongin grins, and Minho rolls his eyes. There’s a brief moment of silence.

“So, …” Jeongin starts, “you and Jisung, huh.”

Minho huffs out a laugh, turns around, busies himself throwing away a stack of paper plates from dinner. His ears turn red again, and he avoids Jeongin’s eyes. Lee Minho is flustered. Jeongin never thought he’d see the day. Jeongin gives him a stern look, crosses his arms over his chest.

“I hope your intentions for him are good,” he intones in a fake, fatherly baritone.

Minho groans, throws a balled up paper towel in his direction. It doesn’t even reach Jeongin.

“No, but seriously, are you serious about him? Because I don’t know what he told you, but I can guarantee you, Han Jisung is not one for casual.”

Minho turns back to Jeongin, crosses his arms over his chest.

“Well, I don’t know if you know this, but neither am I. So, yes, I’m serious about him. I like him a lot,” he sighs, but he’s smirking, “him and his big brown eyes and his decently sized dick and his loser rizz.” Jeongin breaks out into a full belly laugh.

“Oh my god, I can't believe told you about that.”

Minho grins.

“And just for the record, his dick is more than just decently sized,” he smirks, waggling his eyebrows at Jeongin and Jeongin fakes a gag. “Gross, didn’t need to know that,” he shudders.

He hears Jisung yell something from the cellar, then Chan answering and his heavy footfall down the steps. Jisung must have found something worth lugging into the living room.

“Hey, aren’t you meant to be the one giving me the shovel talk? Since I’m dating your brother and all?” Jeongin suddenly asks, and Minho scoffs, but there’s no bite to it.

“I hate to break it to you, but you, Y/N and Seung have been dating in every sense except for the name since the day I met you. Plus, you’ve always been disgustingly gone for each other.”

Jeongin can’t help the blush that creeps up his neck.

“Also, which of you is going to break up, hm? I’m pretty sure none of you could live without each other at this point.”

Hearing Minho talk about them like that makes giddy love bubble up in Jeongin’s chest. And he’s probably grinning like a maniac, if Minho’s amused laugh is anything to judge by.

“See? Case in point,” he announces. Somewhere in the living room there’s a thud, then loud cheering. Minho grabs a stack of solo cups from a cupboard and makes for the door.

“Now let’s get back out there before they start celebrating without you.”

skzms masterlist // ko-fi star dividers just for me by the lovely @lunarvue - thank you, my love!!

🔖 general taglist: follow and turn on notifications for my library account: @skzms-library 🔞 I monitor ages over there, just like I used to do with my taglist. I will block minors and ageless blogs, and you'll have to message me again to get unblocked. so just have your age in your bio before you follow!

[junrenjun]

T h e   L e t t e r   C.

Tattoo Artist!Bang Chan x Reader | Ink-stained hands. Hoodie mornings. He marked you with his initial and fucked you like he meant forever

🔞synopsis: Tattoo Artist AU. One letter. One fucking letter. You sit on his counter in his hoodie, typing invoices, and Chan can’t stop staring — at your bare skin, at the way you’ve never let anyone touch you like that, at the way you’re about to let him mark you. His initial, on your ring finger. C. It’s supposed to be quick. Clean. Just a tattoo. But Chan’s a menace with veiny hands and a filthy mouth, and you’re his — his girl, his wife-to-be, his baby mama before either of you even realize it. Tattoo ink, sweat, messy kisses, and him whispering filth against your skin like he’s worshiping you. And later? Sunlight, pancakes and a velvet ring box.

💌a/n: WOW. WE FUCKING DID IT. The last fic of the Tattoo Artist AU is HERE, and holy shit, what a way to close it out. Yeah. I wrote this grinning like a menace the whole damn time. Thank you for riding this ink-stained, veiny-handed rollercoaster with me, you whores and sluts — you’ve been feral, loud, and absolutely unhinged in the BEST way, and I love you for it 💋. Chan’s fic had me extra soft and disgusting in love because he’s so domestic while still being THE filthiest man alive. So yeah, I hope you love this sticky-soft mess as much as I loved writing it. p.s. Reblog like your life depends on it, sluts🖤 p.p.s. Next stop: SQUID GAME AU because clearly I clearly can't stop. p.p.p.s. No, I’m not normal about this man and no, I won’t ever be. Thanks for asking.

⚠️ warnings: 18+ ONLY | MINORS DNI | Established relationship / long-term domestic filth | Tattoo scene (consensual, soft Chan being meticulous) | Oral (f. receiving), fingering, overstimulation | Protected? LMAO nope. Breeding kink. Creampie. Pregnancy. Wrap it up in real life whores | Praise, possessiveness, soft feral Chan energy | Counter sex (shop & kitchen), messy kisses, filthy dirty talk | Chan being clingy, soft, and lovesick to the point of feral | Proposal + pregnancy reveal (domestic fluff overload)

📌 Please read responsibly. Hydrate. Breathe. Thank your tattoo artist. Sit on his lap later.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » Be Together— BTOB « 0:58 ─〇───── 4:25 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

You’d known Bang Chan long before the words NO SAINT INK ever got painted across the front window.

Back then, it was just an idea — a rough sketch in one of his notebooks, coffee stains on the corner, his messy handwriting scrawled next to crude machine diagrams. He was still working out of a cramped backroom studio at the time, doing flash tattoos for cheap just to save enough for something bigger. He’d talk about it constantly, eyes lighting up in that way they always did when he believed in something too much to let it go.

"One day, I’ll have my own shop. Not just a shop — a family. A place people feel safe walking into. Somewhere that feels alive."

You’d smiled at him from across that coffee-stained notebook, already half in love with him then.

And somehow, you became part of it all before you even realized what was happening.

You weren’t a tattoo artist — you weren’t even in that world at first. You’d met through mutual friends, hit it off instantly, and before long you were the one keeping him company during late-night sketch sessions, organizing his invoices when he couldn’t figure out his own system, and ordering takeout when he forgot to eat.

Chan had this way of making you feel like you’d always belonged in his life. He’d tease you endlessly, call you his “unofficial business manager” even when you weren’t actually on his payroll. Somewhere between long nights spent helping him research licensing laws and drunken 2 AM confessions about your dreams, you’d fallen for him.

The first time he kissed you was on the shop floor of what would later become NO SAINT INK — back when it was still just an empty building with peeling paint and dust on the windows. You’d been sitting cross-legged on the bare floor, laughing about how ugly the place looked, and he’d just leaned in, kissed you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Guess we’ll make it pretty together, huh?" he’d said after, forehead pressed to yours.

The years after that were a blur of paint-stained clothes, takeout containers, and the kind of exhaustion that only comes from chasing a dream. You helped him sand down tables, choose paint colors, set up booking systems, and — maybe most importantly — keep his books balanced when the shop finally opened and started booming.

By the time he’d hired Jisung, Minho, Seungmin, and the rest of the crew, you were already his. Not just his girlfriend — you were the person who made this entire world possible for him.

He’d tell you that all the time.

"This place wouldn’t exist without you." "You’re the only reason I haven’t burned out." "You’re my home, you know that, right?"

And you believed him because you felt the same. You lived together now, shared a quiet little apartment above a bakery a few blocks away, and most nights ended with you curled against his chest while he sketched designs in bed.

The thing about Chan was that even after all these years, even after all the late nights and busy schedules, he still looked at you like he couldn’t believe you were real.

And yet... Despite living with one of the most talented tattoo artists in the city, you didn’t have a single piece of ink on you. Not one.

Everyone at NO SAINT INK teased you about it. Jisung had made it his personal mission to convince you to let him do a little flower on your ankle. Seungmin swore you were secretly afraid of needles. Minho had bet Chan a week of free lunches that you’d cave eventually.

But Chan?

Chan loved it.

"You’re perfect like this," he’d murmur sometimes, brushing his fingers over your bare skin. "Untouched. Mine to mark first, whenever you let me."

And you’d roll your eyes, laugh it off, because you weren’t avoiding tattoos out of fear — you just hadn’t found anything that felt right. You’d promised yourself that your first tattoo would be something that mattered. Something permanent, like a milestone in your life.

You didn’t know it yet, but tonight would be that milestone.

The shop was quiet now, just the low hum of the lights and the soft tapping of your fingers on your laptop keys. You were perched on the counter, cross-legged in one of Chan’s hoodies, glaring at the screen as you typed in numbers.

"Channie, do you seriously need to order this much black ink? You’re going through cartridges like water."

Chan, leaning against his workbench with his arms folded, just grinned at you — that soft, amused grin that made his dimple peek out.

"You know I’m still not over the fact you don’t have a single tattoo? My own girlfriend — living with me, dating me for years… and still pure. Untouched."

You glanced up, arching a brow. "Well, you never had the time to do it, Mr. Overbooked Shop Owner."

He tilted his head, smirk deepening. "Oh, I have time tonight. I want to be the first, baby. The only."

You closed the laptop, heart thumping for reasons you couldn’t quite explain.

And then you said it.

"Then… give me your initial. Right here."

You held up your left ring finger.

"C."

Chan froze. His eyes widened slightly, his playful grin faltering into something softer, almost stunned. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. "You’re gonna kill me, you know that? My initial, on your finger… you’re actually trying to ruin me, huh?"

You watched him carefully — the way his fingers flexed against his folded arms, the way his mouth opened just slightly like he wanted to say something but couldn’t.

"Chan?"

He blinked, snapped out of it, and his grin returned — softer now, almost shy around the edges. "You’re serious? You actually want my initial? On your finger?"

You shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal, though your heart was hammering against your ribs. "Why not? Seems fitting. You’re the one drowning in ink all day, anyway. Might as well leave your mark on me properly."

The look he gave you then? Wrecked.

"You have no idea what you just did to me, baby." He his hand came up to gently hold your wrist, thumb brushing your ring finger as if he was already tattooing it in his mind. You rolled your eyes and turned back to your laptop, typing a little too quickly to hide your own flustered grin. "Yeah, well, you can have your emotional breakdown later, Mr. Clingy. I need to finish these numbers before you overspend on needles again."

Chan didn’t move away. Of course he didn’t — he never did.

Instead, he dragged one of the rolling stools closer and sat right next to you, his knee bumping yours. He was always close, always touching — even now, he leaned his arm against your thigh as if the contact grounded him.

But his mind was clearly elsewhere.

You heard the soft rustle of paper, and when you glanced down, Chan had already grabbed a fresh sheet from his sketchpad.

"What are you doing?"

"Shhh," he murmured, already grabbing a nearby pencil. His brows furrowed in concentration, lips pressing together. "Cursive or block? Thin line? Micro script or thicker strokes? I want it to look perfect."

You snorted. "Chan, it’s literally just the letter C."

"Not just a letter," he shot back, not even looking up, pencil already gliding over the page. "It’s going on you. It’s… fuck, it’s going to be on your hand, angel. Everyone’s gonna see it. It has to be right."

You bit your lip to hide the smile pulling at your mouth, watching as his fingers moved quickly, sketching out variations of the letter like he was designing a whole damn mural.

You’d seen Chan sketch a million times before, but this was different — he was dialed in, hyper-focused.

Chan’s tattooing style had always been clean precision combined with emotional storytelling. Somehow he always made it perfect. His line work was razor-sharp, soft where it mattered and it was needed, even his boldest designs felt delicate. His specialty? Fine-line realism mixed with abstract accents. Imagine feathers that looked like that they could blow away in the wind, roses with petal tips melting into geometric shading, animal portraits with splashes of watercolor ink behind them. His signature touch? Hidden details only the person having the tattoo would notice. They could be tiny initials woven into a flower stem, microscopic constellations tucked into shading, and so on. They were always meaningful but discreet.

And right now, Chan was pouring all of that into a single letter.

"Your hand is small, so micro-script will suit you better. But if I make the serif too sharp, it’ll look harsh, and I don’t want harsh on you," he murmured half to himself, scratching out a version before starting again. "Cursive feels more… personal. But if I make it slanted too much, it might age weird. No, no, I’ll—"

"Chan."

"Hmm?"

"You’re overthinking a single letter."

"I’m tattooing my fucking initial on my girlfriend’s finger, babe. I’m allowed to overthink."

You laughed, shaking your head, but you didn’t stop him. Honestly? Watching him obsess over it like this made your chest ache in a way you couldn’t explain. Chan finally glanced up, brown eyes soft, voice dropping lower. "You trust me with this? Really?"

"I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t."

His jaw tightened for a moment, and he gave you a look that made your heart flip. "Okay, honey," he said quietly, thumb brushing your knee. "Let me mark you."

You watched him as he switched from the paper sketch to his iPad, pulling it closer with a determined little huff. His brows furrowed in concentration, his lower lip caught between his teeth as he dragged his Apple Pencil in smooth, decisive strokes.

It was ridiculous, how serious he looked — this was one letter, and yet he was treating it like he was designing a full back piece for a celebrity client.

"Stop staring," he muttered without looking up, voice soft, teasing.

"Can’t help it. You’re cute when you’re obsessing."

Chan’s ears flushed, but he didn’t break focus, swiping through brushes until he found the exact weight he wanted. "Not cute. Perfect. This has to be perfect."

"For a C."

"For my C," he corrected immediately, glancing up with that look that always made your stomach flip — the one that was soft and wrecked all at once, like he couldn’t believe you were real. You tried not to smile too much, leaning back slightly and pretending to focus on your laptop. But your fingers hovered over the keys instead of typing, watching as he tilted the screen toward you.

"Okay, look — final version. Clean cursive, micro-script, no harsh edges. Soft curves to match your hand. What do you think?"

The letter was delicate, elegant — a tiny looping C that looked like it had been written by hand just for you. Which, of course, it had.

"It’s perfect."

The corner of his mouth lifted, just slightly, but his eyes softened in that way they always did when you said something that got to him.

"Perfect on you, yeah," he murmured, hitting print before you could respond.

The little thermal printer by his workbench spat out the stencil sheet, and Chan moved, slipping it into his setup like he’d done a thousand times before — except this time, every motion felt slower, more deliberate, because it was you.

"Save your work, honey," he said suddenly, glancing at your still-open laptop.

"I—what? You’re really doing this right now?"

"You think I’m gonna let you change your mind? Not a chance." He grinned, soft but sure, already pulling on his black nitrile gloves. "Come on. Let me mark you before I lose my mind."

You couldn’t help laughing, shaking your head as you hit save and closed the laptop. The reality of it was starting to hit you now — you were about to let Bang Chan tattoo you.

Not just any tattoo — his initial. On your ring finger.

He offered you his hand like you were going somewhere far more serious than just across the shop. His palm was warm and he squeezed your fingers gently as he guided you toward the main studio room. The air in there was cooler and smelled like disinfectant and ink — Chan’s world, his kingdom.

He motioned for you to sit on the padded chair, pulling his rolling stool close. Of course he was close, always close, his knee brushing yours as he adjusted the footrest for you.

"Comfy?" he asked softly, his usual teasing tone replaced by something almost reverent.

"You’re acting like I’m about to get a whole sleeve."

"You’re letting me put my initial on your hand, angel. That’s bigger than a sleeve."

You rolled your eyes, but your chest felt warm in a way you couldn’t ignore.

Chan pressed the stencil gently to your ring finger, his thumb brushing the side of your hand as he smoothed it down. His touch lingered even after he peeled the paper away, leaving behind the faint purple outline of the letter.

He stared at it for a long moment, quiet, his gloved fingers tracing the air above it without touching.

"Looks good on you already," he whispered, mostly to himself before moving away to start preparing.

Chan snapped on a fresh pair of black gloves, the sound sharp in the quiet room. You watched him move through his setup with practiced precision — disinfecting the area, lining up his ink caps, adjusting the needle depth like muscle memory. He was in work mode now, but his eyes kept flicking back to your hand like he couldn’t believe this was real.

“Won’t take long,” he murmured, voice softer than usual. “But I want it clean. No rushing.” He glanced up at you, the corners of his eyes soft, before bending back to his work.

The machine buzzed to life, low and steady, and Chan adjusted his stool closer until his knee pressed against yours. He rested your hand gently in his gloved one, thumb brushing over your knuckles before he spoke again.

“Tell me if you need a break, okay? Even if it’s just for a second.”

“Chan, it’s one letter. I’ll survive.”

He smirked, head tilted, dimple flashing for half a second. “Doesn’t mean I won’t take care of you.”

And finally, he lowered the needle to your skin. The first sting made you inhale sharply, and immediately Chan glanced up, the machine pausing mid-line.

“Too much?”

You shook your head quickly. “No, keep going. Just… feels weird.”

His mouth quirked slightly, a soft, amused look flashing across his face before he focused again. His left hand steadied yours while his right moved with quick, sure motions — the way he always tattooed, precise but fluid. Watching him like this was different. You’d seen Chan tattoo other people countless times, but there was something about the way he worked on you — the way his thumb kept rubbing slow circles against your palm, how his eyes softened every time they darted up to check on you.

“You’re doing good, honey,” he said quietly over the hum of the machine. “Almost done with the outline.”

You couldn’t help smiling. “I told you I’d survive.”

Chan huffed a quiet laugh, leaning closer as he wiped the excess ink away. His gloved thumb lingered for a second longer than necessary before he dipped back into the cap.

Every line he pulled felt heavier than usual. Not because of difficulty — this was easy work for him — but because of what it meant.

You. His name. On your ring finger.

His mind kept flashing with thoughts he couldn’t say out loud:

My initial. On her hand. Forever. She’s really letting me do this. She’s mine. She’s really mine.

And worse — he kept thinking about the little velvet box hidden in his desk drawer at home, about how he’d been planning to propose soon anyway. Now? He had to actively fight the urge to pull the ring out tonight.

“Done,” Chan finally said after another careful wipe, voice quieter than usual. He switched off the machine and set it aside, holding your hand up gently like it was something fragile.

The tiny cursive C sat perfectly on the side of your ring finger — simple, clean, elegant.

You tilted your head, smiling softly. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” he echoed, still staring at it. He didn’t let go of your hand, his gloved fingers tracing just above the fresh ink, not daring to touch it yet. His throat worked as he swallowed.

“Chan,” you said with a laugh, “you’re staring at it like you just won an award.”

He looked up at you then, and his expression made your heart skip — soft, overwhelmed, a little wrecked.

“Feels like I did,” he said simply.

He finally peeled off his gloves, tossing them into the bin, but his hands were back on you immediately, holding your wrist like he needed to ground himself.

“Gonna clean it and wrap it,” he murmured, his voice dropping lower now. “Then… then I’m probably gonna kiss you stupid, just warning you.”

You laughed, cheeks warm. “You’re ridiculous.”

Chan’s grin turned into something softer, hungrier. “You just let me put my name on you, baby. You have no idea what that does to me.”

He reached for a clean pad of gauze, his hands moving with that same tattoo-artist precision — but his eyes never left yours. He dabbed gently at the ink, careful not to press too hard, and you could feel how soft his touch was, how deliberate.

“Does it hurt?” he asked quietly.

“Barely,” you said, smiling. “You’re good at this, you know.”

His mouth twitched into a small, crooked grin. “Better be. I’m not letting my first piece on you heal ugly.”

He set the gauze aside and grabbed the ointment, squeezing out the smallest amount before rubbing it across the fresh ink with slow, tender strokes. His fingers lingered, spreading the balm with feather-light movements, and for a moment, it didn’t feel like he was working — it felt like he was touching.

You tilted your head at him, amused. “You do this for all your clients, or am I getting special treatment?”

Chan didn’t even look up, his thumb brushing over your hand with an almost possessive weight. “No one else gets this soft. No one else gets me like this.”

When he finally wrapped the finger with clean film, he pressed a kiss to the bandaged spot before he could stop himself.

“There,” he murmured against your skin, his voice low and reverent. “My C. Looks right on you.”

You laughed softly, trying to tease the tension away. “Chan, it’s literally a letter. You’re acting like—”

But before you could finish, his hands were on your thighs, sliding up slowly as he stepped between your knees. His gaze locked on yours, darker now, his usual soft warmth edged with something else entirely.

“Like what?” he asked, voice dropping, rougher now.

You blinked up at him. “Like… like you’re losing your mind.”

He leaned closer, his forehead nearly touching yours, his hands gripping your waist now. “That’s because I am, honey. You don’t get it, do you?”

“Get what?”

His thumb brushed over the bandaged finger, lingering. “You just let me put my name on your ring finger. My initial. Forever. And you’re sitting here acting like it’s casual.”

You opened your mouth to say something, but Chan cut you off with a quiet, frustrated groan, his lips brushing your jaw as he spoke again.

“You’re mine, angel. Always were. But this? Fuck—this is proof. You marked yourself for me, and now I can’t stop thinking about how much I want to…”

He trailed off, pulling back just enough to look at you, his eyes blown wide and hungry.

“Want to what?” you asked, heart hammering.

“Worship you. Ruin you. Both,” he said, voice low and trembling slightly, like he was barely holding himself back. “Can I?”

You didn’t even get to answer properly — the second your hand slid up his chest in silent permission, Chan kissed you. Hard.

He grabbed your hips, pulling you forward on the padded chair until you were right against him, his hands gripping like he was terrified you’d slip away. His mouth moved against yours with the same obsessive precision he tattooed with — deep, focused, possessive.

When he finally pulled back for air, he pressed his forehead to yours, breathing hard. “You have no idea how bad I’ve wanted this. Years, angel. Years of staring at you in my hoodies, doing my books, taking care of me… and now you’re sitting here with my letter on your finger—fuck, you’re perfect.”

One of his hands slid under the hem of your hoodie, warm against your skin, his thumb brushing teasing circles on your waist. For a moment, he stared. Stared at you before suddenly, picking you up with ridiculous ease, sitting you back on the counter where you’d been earlier, his hands gripping your thighs possessively. His kisses turned messier, desperate, his mouth moving from your lips to your jaw to the spot below your ear that made you gasp.

“That’s it,” he murmured against your skin, his voice rough, his words spilling out in a low, feral growl. “Gonna make you feel how much I love you. Gonna make you remember this every time you look at that little C.” Chan’s hands were firm on your thighs as he stepped between them. His mouth was everywhere — hot, urgent kisses along your jaw, nips at your neck that made your breath hitch.

“Chan—” you gasped between kisses, trying to catch your breath as his hands slipped under your hoodie again, palms spreading over your waist. “Wait, what if Minho’s upstairs? He’s gonna hear us—”

Chan pulled back just enough to look at you, his grin crooked and sinful, his breath already rough. “Nope. He isn’t. He’s out with Jisung and Felix—fuck knows where, probably terrorizing someone at karaoke. We’re alone, angel. Completely alone.”

Your protest died in your throat when his fingers curled into the hem of your hoodie, tugging it upward.

“Then—Chan—”

“Then nothing,” he interrupted, voice low, almost a growl. “You’re mine tonight. All mine.”

And with that, he pulled the hoodie off in one smooth motion, tossing it carelessly to the side. His hands were immediately back on you, tracing the curve of your waist like he couldn’t decide whether to worship or devour you.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his eyes drinking you in. “Every time I see you like this, I wonder how I got this lucky. My girl. My everything.”

You opened your mouth to say something, but the words melted into a soft gasp when his lips found your collarbone, kissing down slowly, deliberately, as if he was marking you everywhere.

His hands roamed everywhere — palms sliding over your back, fingers squeezing your hips, his thumbs brushing circles on your thighs like he couldn’t stop touching you for even a second.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured against your skin, his breath hot where his mouth pressed against your neck.

“I’m not—”

“You are,” he cut in, smirking against your skin, his voice dropping lower. “You’re worked up just from me touching you.”

You tried to roll your eyes, but it came out more like a whimper when his hand slid higher, fingers brushing under the band of your bra.

“Chan,” you warned, though your tone was anything but serious.

“Yeah?” His grin was pure trouble as he finally slid the strap off your shoulder. “Something you need, honey?”

His fingers hooked into the waistband of your leggings, tugging teasingly.

“Gonna take these off,” he said, his voice low and rough, eyes flicking to yours for permission even as his hands moved. “Need to see you. Need to feel you.”

“Chan, we’re in the shop,” you tried again, though your body betrayed you by lifting just enough to help him pull them down.

“Exactly,” he murmured, leaning close enough that his lips brushed your ear. “Our shop. My walls. My counter. I’ve wanted you here since the day I opened this place, honey.”

You let out a shaky breath, and that was all he needed. He slid your leggings down, tossing them aside with the same careless ease he’d discarded your hoodie. Now you were perched on the counter in just your bra and panties, his hands everywhere — gripping your thighs, sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing over every inch of exposed skin.

Chan looked wrecked already, his breathing uneven, his eyes dark as he dragged them over you slowly. “God, you’re perfect.” he whispered, almost to himself.

Then, with one smooth motion, he hooked his fingers into your panties and tugged them down.

You gasped, heat rushing to your face as he slid them off your legs, tossing them to join the growing pile of your clothes on the floor. His hands came right back to you, spreading over your bare thighs like he was claiming you.

“Fuck,” Chan groaned under his breath, his eyes dragging down between your legs, lingering, his jaw tightening. “You’re already dripping for me.”

Your breath hitched, but before you could answer, his long, veiny fingers trailed upward slowly, teasing, skimming along the inside of your thigh without giving you what you wanted yet. Chan leaned in close, ips pressing hot kisses to the soft skin just below your hip.

Fingers finally sliding higher, brushing you lightly, and you gasped, your hips jerking instinctively. “Shh, baby,” Chan murmured, his free hand gripping your hip to hold you still. “Let me take care of you.”

Those hands — god, those hands. Large, warm, veiny, the same hands that just minutes ago held a tattoo machine with precision now moving over you with something close to worship.

One hand stayed firm on your hip, grounding you, while the other moved slowly, teasing, his long fingers sliding against your soaked folds. He groaned low, almost like he was in pain, when he felt how wet you were.

“Fuck, you’re so wet for me already,” he rasped, his thumb brushing gentle circles over your clit while his fingers teased lower, slipping just barely inside before retreating. “So good for me, angel. Always so good for me.”

Your head fell back slightly, a soft whimper slipping out, and Chan’s mouth curved into a wrecked grin against your thigh.

“That’s it,” he murmured, kissing higher, closer to where you needed him. “Give me more sounds, honey. I want to hear you.”

Two of his fingers finally slid into you, slow but sure, curling just right as his thumb pressed to your clit. You gasped, your hands gripping the edge of the counter, and Chan’s breath hitched at the way you clenched around him.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he groaned, his forehead dropping to your thigh as he moved his fingers faster, deeper. “You feel so perfect. So tight for me.”

Chan couldn’t stay away for long. His mouth moved from your thigh to your hip, kissing, nipping, his breath hot against your skin. Then he looked up at you, eyes blown and desperate.

“Wanna taste you,” he murmured, his fingers still moving inside you, his thumb circling slow, deliberate patterns on your clit. “Can I?”

You nodded breathlessly, and that was all he needed.

He pulled your hips closer to the edge of the counter, his fingers didn’t stop, but now his lips were on you — kissing your inner thighs first, soft, reverent kisses before finally leaning in to press his mouth against you. The first flick of his tongue made you moan, and Chan groaned against you, the sound vibrating where his mouth moved.

“God, you taste so good,” he rasped between licks, his pace quickening as he sucked lightly on your clit. “My perfect girl. All mine.”

His hands gripped your thighs tight, holding you in place as he devoured you, his fingers thrusting in time with his mouth. Every time you whimpered, his groans got louder, more desperate, like he was addicted to every sound you made.

“Gonna make you cum just like this,” he mumbled against you, his words hot and filthy. “Wanna feel you fall apart for me, baby. Come on, angel — give it to me.”

Chan's tongue sucked your clit into his mouth, groan vibrating against your cunt and the sound alone made your hips jerk, but he held you firmly in place. “Stay still, angel,” he rasped between licks, his voice wrecked already. “Lemme take care of you. Lemme… fuck—lemme have you.”

His fingers now curling up just right, just the way he knew you liked, just the way he knew your body would react. Finger-fucking you with a steady pace, wet obscene sounds filling the quiet room. His thumb occasionally pressing harder against your clit when his mouth pulled away for breath.

You gasped, your fingers gripping the edge of the counter, but Chan wasn’t letting you get away from him. His free hand slid to your hip, pushing you flat against the surface while he leaned in deeper, tongue flicking against your clit with increasing intensity.

“Ch-Chan—!”

He hummed in response, and the vibration sent another wave of pleasure through you. He didn’t slow down — if anything, the sound of your shaky voice made him more desperate. His fingers pumped faster now, hitting that spot inside you that made your back arch, his tongue swirling around your clit like he’d been studying you for this exact moment.

“God, listen to you,” he groaned against you, pulling back for a split second to look up at you. His face was flushed, his lips glistening, and his eyes — fuck, his eyes were wild. “Dripping all over my fingers, baby. You’re so wet for me. So perfect for me.”

Before you could respond, he dove back in, tongue and fingers working together in a messy, frantic rhythm. He finger-fucked you harder now, his knuckles brushing against you with every thrust, while his mouth sucked at your clit like he was addicted to you. Your moans grew louder, filling the studio, and Chan groaned at the sound.

“That’s it,” he mumbled into you, his words muffled but still clear enough to make your stomach flip. “Come on, baby… I know you’re close. Let me feel it. Let me feel you fall apart on my fingers, yeah?”

Your body tensed, pleasure coiling tighter and tighter with every thrust of his fingers, every flick of his tongue.

“Chan—oh my god, I—”

“Yeah, baby,” he groaned, his pace relentless, his thumb pressing harder as his fingers curled just right. “Give it to me. Cum for me. Wanna taste you, angel. Need it.”

And then you broke.

Your whole body shook, your hips jerking helplessly against his grip as you came, moaning his name. Chan didn’t stop — if anything, he doubled down, licking you through it, his fingers fucking you deeper, slower now, dragging out every last wave of your orgasm until you were trembling under him.

When you finally slumped against the counter, breathless, Chan pulled back just enough to look at you — his lips swollen, chin slick with you, his chest heaving.

“Fuck,” he breathed, licking his lips as if he couldn’t get enough. “You taste so fucking good. My perfect girl. My perfect everything.”

He kissed the inside of your thigh softly before standing up. And the look in his eyes made your heart stop. He was completely cunt-drunk, lips parted and panting, pupils blown so wide there was barely any brown left in them.

“Not done,” he said, voice low and rough as his hands slid to your waist. “You think I’m stopping after just that? Nah, baby.” His hands moved to his belt, fingers fumbling with it, moving too fast, almost shaky with how eager he was.

“Chan—”

“Can’t wait,” he cut you off, finally yanking the belt free and shoving his jeans and briefs down just enough to free himself. His thick cock sprang up, flushed and leaking, and he hissed under his breath as his hand wrapped around the base, giving himself one slow stroke as his eyes raked over you.

“Fuck, look at you,” he groaned, stepping between your legs again. His free hand slid to your thigh, spreading you open wider. “Sitting here all pretty for me, dripping, still tight from cumming on my fingers… you’re killing me, honey.”

Your breath hitched as he lined himself up, the head of his cock brushing against your soaked entrance.

“Chan, please—”

That was all it took.

With a low, broken groan, he pushed in, slow at first, stretching you open inch by inch. His head fell forward against your shoulder, his breath hot against your skin as he sank in deeper, bottoming out with one final thrust.

“Fuck,” he growled, his voice shaking as his hips pressed flush to yours. “You’re so tight, baby. So warm, squeezing me so fucking good. God, I’m never letting you go.”

Once he started moving, he couldn’t stop. His pace was quick from the start — deep, hungry thrusts that made the counter creak beneath you. Every push in had his cock dragging against your walls perfectly, every pull out slow enough to make you whimper before he slammed back in.

“That’s it, baby,” he panted against your mouth, his words broken between messy kisses. “Taking me so well. My perfect girl, all fucked out just for me. You feel so good—fuck, you feel made for me.”

You moaned against his lips, and Chan groaned back, swallowing every sound, his kisses messy and desperate. His tongue slid against yours sloppily, his teeth nipping your bottom lip before he kissed down your jaw.

Chan buried his face in your neck, sucking at the soft skin there, leaving open-mouthed kisses that turned into nips. “You’re gonna look so pretty tomorrow,” he murmured against your throat, his thrusts never faltering. “My marks all over you. Everyone’s gonna know who you belong to.”

He pulled back just enough to look at your chest, his gaze dropping, and then he dipped lower. “Fuck, I need these,” he groaned before his mouth latched onto your nipple, sucking hard. His tongue flicked over it, his teeth grazing lightly before he switched to the other, his free hand squeezing your breast as if he couldn’t get enough.

Your back arched into him, and Chan moaned against your skin, his thrusts growing even rougher.

“Yeah, that’s it, angel,” he growled, his mouth still on your chest. “You like that? Like when I fuck you like this? Fuck.”

His hips snapped into you harder now, faster, the wet sounds of him fucking you filling the room along with your broken moans. Chan was panting against your chest, his forehead resting between your breasts as he fucked into you.

You were moaning so loud at this rate, instinctively squeezing around his cock tighter, your pussy not wanting to let go, in fact dragging him in deeper.

“Shit, baby, do that again,” he groaned, pulling back to look at you, his hair falling into his eyes, his lips swollen and red. “Clench around me like that again, and I’m gonna lose it.”

You couldn’t help it — your body obeyed, and Chan swore under his breath, his pace growing relentless.

“God, you’re gonna make me cum so fast like this.” he panted, leaning forward to kiss you again, messy and desperate.

The room was filled with the sound of skin slapping against skin, wet and filthy, echoing off the walls of the studio. Chan was relentless now, his hips snapping into you with a pace that bordered on desperate, every thrust pushing you further into the counter, making it creak under the force.

Your body was melting, every muscle trembling, your head falling back as broken moans spilled from your lips. You couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe — you were completely cock-drunk, lost in him, in the way his thick length filled you so perfectly, stretching you just right.

“Look at you,” Chan panted, his forehead pressed against yours now, his eyes glassy, pupils blown. “All fucked out… taking me so good, honey.”

Your walls clenched around him again, and he swore, his hips stuttering for half a second before he picked up the pace, fucking you harder, deeper.

“God, you feel so good,” he groaned, his words spilling out like he couldn’t hold them back. “Tightest little pussy, just for me. Made for me, baby. You’re mine, all mine.”

You whimpered, grabbing at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as his thrusts grew even rougher.

“Chan—oh my god—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he growled, his lips crashing against yours in a messy, open-mouthed kiss before pulling back just enough to watch your face. His thrusts were brutal now, hips slamming into yours, wet sounds filling the air. “You’re gonna cum for me again, angel. Wanna feel you squeeze me, wanna feel you lose it on my cock.”

You tried to shake your head, gasping, “I can’t—” but your body betrayed you, already tightening, that coil snapping faster than you could stop it.

“Yes, you can, baby. Give it to me,” Chan ordered, his voice rough, commanding now. His thumb slid between you, rubbing your clit in fast, tight circles as he fucked you harder. “Cum for me, angel. Right now. Wanna feel you fall apart again.”

And then you did.

Your body arched, your vision went white, and you cried out his name, your orgasm slamming into you so hard it made your legs shake. You clenched down around him helplessly, milking his cock, and Chan lost it.

“FUCK,” he growled, his voice cracking, his pace faltering for just a second before he shoved in deep, groaning as your tightness squeezed him over and over. “That’s it, that’s my girl—god, you feel incredible when you cum on me.”

He didn’t slow down — if anything, feeling you come undone on him only made him more feral. He kept thrusting, deep and fast, riding you through it, his hips slapping against yours with every sharp movement.

You were gone — cock-drunk, trembling, babbling his name — and Chan was absolutely wrecked, panting against your neck, kissing and sucking at the damp skin there like he couldn’t get enough.

“Not done,” he groaned into your neck, his voice desperate, hips still pounding into you. “Not stopping till I fill you up, angel. Gonna cum so deep in you, fuck—don’t wanna pull out. Ever.”

You whimpered something incoherent, and Chan kissed your temple, his thrusts somehow even deeper now.

“That’s it, honey. One more. Be good for me, yeah? Give me one more before I cum. Can you do that for me?”

Chan’s pace was brutal now, his hips snapping against yours so hard the counter creaked with every thrust. Sweat dripped from his temple onto your chest as he buried himself in you over and over, his cock dragging against your walls perfectly, hitting that spot that made you see stars.

You were already trembling, your body overstimulated from your last orgasm, every nerve burning — but Chan wasn’t slowing down. “Ch-Chan, I—” Your words were broken, barely formed, nothing but gasps and whimpers spilling from your mouth.

“Yes, you are,” he growled, leaning closer, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath hot and ragged. “Gonna cum one more time for me, honey. Be good for me. Wanna feel you squeeze me again before I fill you up.”

His hand slid down between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit again, circling it in fast, precise motions that had you sobbing.

“Too much—”

“Shhh, baby.” he whispered, his lips brushing your jaw as he fucked you harder, deeper, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing through the shop.

Your back arched, nails digging into his shoulders as your body betrayed you again, tightening around him as the pleasure built up impossibly fast.

“That’s it, baby,” Chan panted, his eyes locked on yours, dark and wild. “Cum for me. Cum all over my cock. Wanna feel you milk me dry.”

Your orgasm hit hard, ripping through you like fire, your thighs shaking uncontrollably as you screamed his name.

“Chan—Chan, oh my god—Chan!”

You babbled it over and over, lost in the pleasure, tears pricking the corners of your eyes as your body convulsed around him. Chan groaned loudly, his own thrusts growing sloppy as you clenched tight around him, pulling him closer and closer to his own breaking point.

“Fuck, honey, that’s it,” he growled, his hips driving into you hard, desperate now. “You feel too good — gonna fill you up. Gonna cum so deep, fuck my cum into you until it sticks. Wanna keep you full of me, angel. All mine.”

Your name left his mouth in a groan as his pace stuttered, his thrusts becoming shorter, harder, until finally he slammed deep one last time, burying himself inside you completely.

“Fuck—”

His head fell to your shoulder as his body shuddered, his cock twitching as he spilled into you, hot and deep. His hips kept grinding against yours through it, slower now but still firm, like he was determined to push every drop into you.

“God, baby,” Chan panted against your neck, his voice shaking, almost broken. “So good. Took me so well. Full of me now, yeah? My perfect girl.”

He stayed buried in you, his hips rocking gently, slower now, more tender. His arms wrapped around you tightly, pulling you against his chest as he pressed soft kisses along your jaw, your neck, your shoulder.

You hummed weakly against him, completely gone, your brain pure mush as you slumped against his chest. Your body felt boneless, cock-drunk and warm, and Chan smiled against your cheek at how pliant you were in his arms.

“Accounting’s not getting done tonight,” you mumbled, your voice hoarse, slurred from exhaustion.

Chan chuckled, kissing your hairline. “Yeah, no shit, angel. You can barely sit up.”

He finally, carefully pulled out, groaning quietly at the sight of his cum spilling out of you. His hands immediately slid to your thighs, thumbs brushing over the marks his grip left behind.

“Stay still for me, baby,” he said gently, already reaching for the roll of paper towels and a clean cloth. “I’ll clean you up, okay? Just relax.”

He worked carefully as if you were made of glass. One hand held your hip steady while the other gently wiped between your legs, soft circles, his expression focused but tender. Every so often he’d pause to press a soft kiss to your knee, your inner thigh, or your bandaged ring finger like he couldn’t stop himself.

“You’re so perfect,” he murmured under his breath as he cleaned you. “Still dripping from me, still letting me take care of you. Love you so much.”

You were too far gone to reply properly, just humming again, your head resting against his shoulder. Chan’s smile softened at the sound, and he kissed your temple, whispering, “Mushy-brained, huh?”

“Mmm,” you mumbled, nodding weakly.

He laughed quietly, finishing up and tossing the used wipes into the bin before bringing over the clothes he discarded off of you and helping you back into your panties and hoodie.

“Come here,” Chan said softly, sliding an arm under your thighs and another around your back.

“Chan, I can walk,” you mumbled, though your legs felt like jelly.

“Nope,” he said, smirking as he easily lifted you off the counter. “You’re not walking anywhere. You’re mine to take care of tonight.”

He carried you bridal-style through the shop, nudging the studio door open with his foot before settling you gently onto the worn leather couch in his back office — the same couch you’d spent countless late nights on, working through shop invoices together.

He crouched in front of you, brushing your hair back from your face. “Water or juice, honey?”

“Water,” you whispered, and Chan pressed a soft kiss to your forehead before grabbing a bottle from the mini-fridge, uncapping it and handing it to you before sitting down. His other hand moving on your knee, thumb rubbing slow circles as if he still couldn’t stop touching you.

“Small sips, angel,” he said gently, watching you drink like you might spill it on yourself.

You gave him a tired look. “I’m not five, Chan.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he teased, grinning as he plucked the bottle back after you’d had a few sips. “You’re mushy-brained and wobbly. That’s basically toddler mode.”

You groaned and slumped against the couch, tugging his hoodie tighter around you. “This is your fault.”

“Mm, best fault I’ve ever had,” he said, his grin softening as he sat beside you. He pulled you into his lap again, his arms wrapping around you like a blanket. “You okay? Nothing hurts?”

“Just sore,” you mumbled against his chest.

“Good sore or bad sore?”

You smirked weakly. “Good sore. Very good sore.”

Chan chuckled, kissing the top of your head. “That’s my girl.”

You both stayed there, with Chan holding you close on that worn leather couch, softly kissing your hair every few minutes, and you? Mushy-brained and completely unaware of the fact that he almost ruined his own surprise by proposing right there and then.

TWO MONTHS LATER

The shop was quiet again, but for a very different reason this time.

You were sitting on that same back-office couch, curled up in one of Chan’s hoodies, thinking about the little white stick you had done that morning. Two faint pink lines.

Positive.

You’d taken it that morning, heart pounding so hard you thought it might burst, and you hadn’t stopped staring at it since.

The past few weeks suddenly made sense — the random waves of nausea, the constant exhaustion, the way your period never came even though you swore it was just stress. You’d been hoping it was stress. Well… maybe half-hoping, half… wondering.

Now you knew.

And you had absolutely no idea how to tell Chan.

You pulled your knees to your chest, groaning softly. “How the hell do I even say this? ‘Hey, by the way, you knocked me up the same night you tattooed me?’”

You chewed your lip, glancing at the bandaged ring finger where his little C had healed perfectly now, the tiny cursive letter smooth against your skin. Your stomach flipped thinking about it — his initial on your ring finger, and now his baby in your belly.

Chan was going to lose his mind. Not in a bad way — you knew he loved you more than anything — but… still. You wanted it to be special.

You considered just blurting it out. Or maybe buying one of those cheesy “#1 Dad” mugs and handing it to him. Or even putting a tiny onesie in one of his ink supply boxes and letting him find it himself.

But Chan deserved better than that.

You wanted to make it yours, something that meant something to the both of you.

Your brain kept spinning, debating whether to do it at home or here at the shop, when the studio door creaked open behind you.

“Babe?” Chan’s voice floated in, warm and familiar. “You hiding in here again? Everyone’s gone, you know. It’s just us.” He stepped in, hair slightly damp from his post-workout shower, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his forearms, revealing those veiny arms that made your brain short-circuit every time.

He smiled when he saw you, walking over and leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. “Hey, mushy-brain. You look tired. You okay?”

You forced a smile. “Just… a little tired. Long day.”

Chan crouched in front of you, tilting his head to study you. “You sure? You’ve been tired a lot lately. And you’ve been… I dunno, different.”

Your stomach flipped. “Different how?”

He shrugged, smiling softly. “Just… softer. Quieter. And you’ve been wearing my hoodies more than usual, which I love, but also—” He narrowed his eyes playfully. “You’re not sick, are you?”

You laughed nervously, your heart hammering. “No, not sick.”

“Hmm.” He searched your face for a long moment before leaning in and kissing your temple. “Okay. But if you are sick, I’m making you soup and not letting you do any more accounting for a week.”

“Noted,” you said, trying to keep your voice even.

You were going to tell him soon.... Very, very soon.

The smell of something warm and sweet drifted through the apartment before you were even awake. It was soft morning light filtering through the kitchen curtains, painting everything gold, and the faint hum of music playing low from Chan’s phone.

You blinked groggily, sitting up in bed, stretching under the duvet. The apartment above the bakery always smelled faintly of bread in the mornings, but today it was different — richer, heavier, like butter and sugar and… coffee.

Chan.

You padded out of the bedroom, still in one of his oversized t-shirts, hair messy, and found him in the kitchen.

He was barefoot, in gray sweatpants and a white T-shirt, muscles flexing as he whisked something in a bowl. His hair was sticking up in that I-woke-up-early-just-for-you way, and there was flour on his cheek.

He turned at the sound of your footsteps, and the soft smile he gave you was enough to make your chest ache.

“Morning honey,” he said, setting the whisk down. “Go sit, breakfast’s almost done.”

You raised a brow, leaning against the doorway. “You’re awake before me… cooking? Should I be worried?”

He laughed quietly, dimples flashing. “Nope. Just wanted to do something nice for you. Now sit before you burn your feet on the cold floor.”

You shook your head with a small smile but obeyed, slipping into your usual spot at the small table by the window. The sun hit just right there, warming your legs as you watched him move around the kitchen. You were completely unaware of why he was doing this, but one thing you were aware of sat heavy in your chest: you were telling him today.

Chan had spent weeks thinking about how to propose — fancy dinners, maybe the shop, maybe even flying you somewhere. But every plan felt too loud, too not you.

Because you? You weren’t someone he needed to impress with fireworks. You were his girl who sat on the shop counter doing accounting in his hoodies, who kissed his cheek while he worked, who let him mark you with his initial like it was the most natural thing in the world.

So this morning, he decided: domestic, quiet, soft. You, him, breakfast, and the sunlight. That was perfect. The ring box sat tucked in his pocket as he plated pancakes, his hands only shaking slightly when he set the table.

“Fancy,” you said as he placed a plate in front of you — pancakes stacked high, drizzled with syrup, fresh berries on the side. “What’s the occasion? Did you blow something up at the shop and you’re buttering me up before I find out?”

Chan sat across from you, grinning. “No explosions. Just wanted to spoil you.”

You narrowed your eyes playfully, cutting into the pancakes. “This better not be your way of bribing me into doing shop inventory later.”

Chan laughed, shaking his head. “Nope. No shop talk today. Just us.”

You smiled softly at that, taking a bite — and holy hell, they were good.

“Wow. Okay, maybe I should marry you just for these pancakes,” you teased without thinking.

Chan’s fork froze midair, his smile twitching into something softer, something that made your heart skip — but you were too focused on working up the courage to tell him to notice the way his hand brushed against the pocket of his sweatpants, where that little velvet box sat.

You set your fork down, suddenly nervous. “Chan?”

He looked up immediately, brown eyes soft. “Yeah?”

You bit your lip, your heart pounding so loud it almost drowned out your voice. “I… I need to tell you something.”

His brows furrowed slightly, concern flashing in his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, I just—” You exhaled, staring down at your plate for a moment before forcing yourself to meet his eyes.

“I’m pregnant.”

And the room went silent — except for the soft hum of morning music and Chan’s sharp inhale as the words sank in. His fork clattered against his plate as his mouth opened slightly, blinking at you in stunned silence for half a beat before a smile started pulling at his lips — slow, soft, and so wrecked.

“Are you…” His voice was almost a whisper, warm and trembling, as his hand slid across the table to grab yours. “Are you serious?”

You nodded, biting your lip, tears already pricking your eyes. “Yeah.”

For a second, Chan just stared at you, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, his eyes shining — and then he laughed, a quiet, breathless laugh, before standing and pulling you up with him. He hugged you tight, burying his face in your neck. “God, I love you so much,” he murmured against your skin, his voice breaking. “You’re having my baby. Our baby. Fuck, I can’t believe it.”

When he finally pulled back, his hands were still on your waist, his grin wide and teary.

“Baby,” he said, suddenly serious but smiling so big you could barely breathe. “I was gonna wait… do this all proper later… but screw it.”

Your brows furrowed, confused, until he reached into his pocket and pulled out the small velvet box.

Your breath caught. “Chan—”

“I was gonna do something fancy, but I don’t care anymore. You’re having my baby, you’re literally wearing my letter on your ring finger already, and I… fuck, I can’t wait another second.”

Chan didn't even drop to one knee, no, he just held you close to him, his eyes glued on your face as he opened the box to reveal a simple but stunning ring that caught the morning light perfectly.

“It's not crazy, it's not a fancy proposal. But... it's us. And I wanted it to be special and not artificial. So... will you marry me?”

Your breath caught, the world narrowing down to just him — his hopeful, teary eyes, the velvet box in his hand, the way his thumb rubbed nervously against your waist like he was trying to ground himself.

“Chan…”

You didn’t even let him finish panicking in his head. You nodded, tears welling up instantly. “Yes.”

His breath hitched, his smile breaking into something wrecked and overwhelming, his dimples deepening as he laughed — a soft, almost disbelieving sound. “Yes?”

“Yes,” you repeated, laughing through your tears, your hands coming up to cup his cheeks. “Of course yes, you idiot.”

He slipped the ring onto your finger with shaking hands, his thumbs brushing over it as if he couldn’t believe it was real. His eyes darted between your hand and your face, his grin softer now, almost shy.

“My fiancée,” he murmured, tasting the word like it was honey. “My future wife.” And then his lips crashed onto yours. It started soft — his lips brushing yours gently, his hands cradling your face like you might break. But it didn’t stay soft for long.

Because Chan never could stay soft when it came to you.

The kiss deepened quickly, turning hungry, desperate, his hands sliding from your cheeks to your waist, pulling you flush against him. You gasped into his mouth, and Chan groaned, taking the chance to slide his tongue against yours, the kiss turning messy and heated.

When you pulled back for air, breathless, Chan rested his forehead against yours, panting softly. “You’re gonna kill me, angel. Pregnant with my baby, wearing my ring, looking at me like that… fuck, I can’t keep my hands off you.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but Chan had already slid his hands lower, gripping your hips possessively. His lips moved to your jaw, kissing down to your neck, his teeth grazing your skin lightly.

“Chan—” you tried, but your voice came out more like a whimper, which only made him smirk against your throat.

“Say it again,” he murmured between kisses, his breath hot on your neck.

“Say what?”

“That you said yes.” His teeth grazed your pulse point now, sucking lightly. “Wanna hear it.”

You swallowed, your voice shaky. “I said yes.”

“Mm, my perfect girl,” Chan groaned, his hands sliding to the back of your thighs. “My fiancée. My baby mama. My everything.”

Before you could react, he scooped you up effortlessly, sitting you on the kitchen counter, just like he had at the shop weeks ago. His mouth trailed down your neck, his hands slipping under your t-shirt to spread over your stomach.

“You’re carrying our baby,” he whispered against your skin, his tone reverent and filthy all at once. “Full of me in every way now.”

Your breath hitched as his thumbs brushed slow circles over your lower belly. “Chan…”

He kissed your jaw, his grin wicked now. “Gonna have to be careful with you now, angel. But I still need you. Right here. Right now.”

His breath hitched as his lips trailed down to your collarbone, leaving soft kisses that slowly turned into open-mouthed licks and nips. You gasped softly when his hands pushed your t-shirt higher. “My baby mama,” he whispered, his voice breaking slightly. “My fiancée. My everything.”

Then his gaze flicked back up to you, dark and desperate. “Can I? Please, angel. Need to feel you. Need to be inside you.”

You nodded, breathless, and that was all the permission he needed.

Chan lifted that t-shirt all the way off, tossing it to the side before leaning in to kiss you again — slower this time, his hands cradling your face. His lips moved against yours with a tenderness that made your chest ache, but his body was trembling with restraint, every muscle tight.

You cupped his jaw, smiling softly into that kiss as you murmured. “I’m yours, Chan.”

His breath caught at those perfect breathy words, eyes softening for half a second before turning darker again. “Yeah, you are. Mine. All mine.”

Chan’s hands were on your thighs again, tugging at the waistband of your shorts. He slid them down slowly, almost teasingly, before tossing them aside. His big hands gripped your bare thighs, spreading you gently as he stepped closer.

“You’re already wet for me.” he groaned, his thumb brushing along your folds through your panties.

Your breath hitched, your hips twitching slightly under his touch. “Chan—”

“Shh, I’ve got you,” he whispered, kissing your knee before tugging your panties down in one smooth motion. He dropped to his knees between your legs, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your inner thighs.

“I should take my time,” he murmured against your skin, his breath hot. “Worship you properly. But I’m already so fucking hard for you. Can’t wait much longer.”

He stood again, tugging his sweatpants and briefs down just enough to free his thick cock. His hand wrapped around it, stroking once, twice, as he stared at you like you were the only thing that existed. “Gonna go slow,” he promised, leaning in to kiss you again, his voice soft but desperate. “Tell me if anything hurts, okay? I’ll stop.”

You nodded, and Chan lined himself up, guiding himself to your entrance. He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he groaned low in his chest.

Your walls clenched around him as he bottomed out, and Chan swore under his breath, his hips stuttering for a moment.

“Feel so good,” he whispered, kissing your neck. “So warm, so soft… made for me.”

Chan started moving, slow at first, careful, but the hunger in his eyes was impossible to hide. Every deep thrust had him groaning into your neck, his hands gripping your hips tight but gentle, as if he was holding himself back with everything he had.

“Taking me so good, angel,” he praised, his lips brushing your ear. “Even now, you’re perfect for me. You’re incredible.”

Your moans filled the kitchen, soft and breathy, and Chan kissed you again, swallowing them down, his tongue sliding against yours in a messy, hungry kiss.

The pace stayed slow but deep, each thrust hitting just right, making you gasp and cling to his shoulders. Chan groaned at the way you squeezed him, his forehead pressing to yours. “You’re killing me, honey,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Wanna fuck you hard, wanna ruin you, but… god.Just wanna take care of you. My everything.”

Chan’s restraint started to crack.

He was trying — god, he was trying — to keep it slow, to keep you safe, to worship you like you deserved. But the way you clenched around him, the way your soft whimpers filled the warm kitchen air, hair messy, ring glittering on your finger… it was undoing him.

“Fuck, baby.” he groaned against your neck, his thrusts growing deeper, heavier.

You gasped as his pace picked up, controlled but harder now, every deep thrust dragging against that spot that made your back arch.

“Chan—oh my god—”

“That’s it, honey,” he panted, his forehead pressed to yours, eyes dark and blown. “Say my name like that. My perfect fiancée, my perfect baby mama. God, you’re so fucking beautiful like this.”

One of his hands slid between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with practiced precision. He rubbed slow circles at first, matching his thrusts, but the second you gasped and clenched around him, his pace quickened, his thumb pressing harder.

“Yeah, that’s it, angel,” he groaned, his hips snapping into you deeper, controlled but harder now, his cock hitting perfectly with every thrust. “You’re so close, I can feel it. Come on, baby, cum for me. Wanna feel you cum on my cock.”

Your head fell back, your nails digging into his shoulders, and Chan buried his face in your neck, kissing, sucking, murmuring filthy praise against your skin.

“Such a good girl for me. Gonna make you cum so hard. Come on baby, cum on my cock.”

The combination of his deep thrusts and his relentless rubbing on your clit had you spiralling fast. Your moans grew louder, desperate, and Chan swore, his hips driving into you harder.

“That’s it,” he growled, his voice cracking. “Cum for me, angel. Milk my cock. Wanna feel you squeeze me dry. You can do it for me. Be good for me.”

You broke with a cry, your body tensing and shaking as your orgasm hit, your walls fluttering around him tight and hot.

“Fuck, that’s my girl,” Chan groaned, his thrusts faltering as you clenched around him, milking him exactly how he wanted. “So tight, so perfect, gonna make me cum, angel.”

Chan’s pace turned sloppy, desperate, his forehead pressed to yours as he fucked you through your orgasm. His thumb slowed on your clit, now just rubbing soft circles as he focused on burying himself deep inside you.

“Gonna fill you up, honey.” he panted, his voice wrecked.

One last deep thrust, and Chan groaned your name, his hips grinding into yours as he came, hot and deep. His body shuddered against you, his hands gripping your waist tight as he stayed buried, his cock twitching as he spilled every drop.

“I love you,” he murmured against your cheek, kissing it softly as his thrusts slowed to nothing. “You’re everything I’ve ever wanted.”

Chan stayed inside you, breathing hard, kissing your jaw, your neck, your temple, murmuring soft praises between each press of his lips.

“My girl.” kiss “My wife-to-be.” kiss “My baby mama.” kiss “My everything.” kiss, kiss, kiss

You were still trembling slightly, completely cock-drunk, and Chan smiled softly against your skin, kissing your forehead.

“Let me take care of you, honey,” he whispered, finally pulling out carefully, his hands already reaching for a towel. “Gonna clean you up, then hold you for the rest of the day. No more moving, just me, you, and our baby.”

You laughed softly, still breathless. “Our baby.”

Chan froze for half a second, looking at you with that same wrecked, lovesick grin as before. “God, I love you so much.” He didn't move right away, not for a few good minutes that is. Because even after pulling out, he stayed pressed against you, his arms wrapped tightly around your waist as if letting you go might make the moment disappear. His forehead rested against yours, his breathing finally slowing, but his thumbs kept brushing soft circles on your hips like he couldn’t stop touching you.

You shifted slightly, still perched on the counter, and he immediately murmured, “Don’t move, angel. Stay right here. Just let me hold you for a minute.”

You smiled softly, your fingers threading through his damp hair, pushing it back from his face. “You’re clingy.”

“I’m engaged to the love of my life who’s carrying my baby,” he shot back without missing a beat, his grin sleepy and lovesick. “You’re lucky I’m not duct-taping us together permanently.”

You laughed, leaning in to kiss him softly. He melted into it instantly, sighing against your lips, before resting his head back on your shoulder.

After a long moment of silence, you spoke up, your tone teasing.

“So… we’re gonna need a new place, huh?”

Chan blinked, pulling back just enough to look at you. “What?”

“Well,” you said, biting back a grin, “you wanna raise a baby and run a shop while we live in a tiny apartment above a bakery?”

He stared at you for a beat, then burst into a quiet laugh, kissing you again before resting his forehead to yours. “Guess I better start looking,” he murmured, smiling so big it made your chest ache. “Bigger kitchen, bigger bed… maybe a whole room just for baby stuff.”

“And a bigger table for all your breakfast experiments,” you teased.

“Damn right,” he said, kissing you again, softer this time. Chan then pulled back just slightly, his grin turning mischievous. “Actually, scratch the bigger table. I just need one strong enough to keep doing this.”

You raised a brow, laughing despite yourself. “Chan!”

“What?” he said innocently, kissing your cheek. “You’re the one who brought up moving. I’m just thinking about practical needs.”

You rolled your eyes, smacking his chest lightly. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love me for it,” he shot back immediately, dimples deepening as he kissed your nose.

You sighed, pretending to be exasperated even as you smiled. “Fine. Bigger kitchen, bigger bed… and a table strong enough for your practical needs.”

Chan laughed, hugging you tight. “That’s my fiancée. Already making the smart choices.”

“Mm-hmm,” you said, leaning your head against his shoulder. “Smartest choice I ever made was saying yes to you.”

Chan froze for a beat, then smiled so big you thought his face might split. “…God, you’re never getting rid of me now.”

“Wasn’t planning to,” you teased.

“Good,” he said, kissing you again — soft, warm, and still grinning against your lips.

🏷️ taglist: @cybergracie , @jupitermarss , @basicginn , @dhvnigvil , @emkvlixsx , @collin-thegreat , @somuchpanicverylittledisco , @emilyywhyy , @rainyjeno , @fawnoverdawn , @pixie-felix , @anniestay , @notmeneo , @lovslixx , @themoonlightfae , @heartwithoutaname , @yourghostneighbor , @princesskrystix , @drilles , @y2kur0mi , @mochi-space , @ivaviavi , @phelans-thoughts , @the-anon-reader , @beans4beans56 , @joyfulchaoslover , @channieismylove , @cherryoatchai , @unimportantweirdo , @seagulljk , @freckles-and-rage , @lonelydarknessblog , @girlsymptoms , @bookswillfindyouaway , @jasperlvskz , @geekymommakerry , @dazzlingjade , @alisonyus , @pluto-rose , @crazy4books1 , @b3autyist3rror

[junrenjun]

Flex & Ink

Tattoo Artist!Seo Changbin x Reader | Ink. Discipline. He said “good girl” and never looked back.

🔞synopsis: Tattoo Artist AU. You’re the picture of control. Pilates instructor by morning, posture-obsessed menace by noon, and calm-matcha aesthetic 24/7. You don’t sweat. You correct form. You breathe through the pain. And you’ve never let anyone leave a mark on you—until him. He’s the co-owner of NO SAINT INK. At the gym, he’s silent power: sweat-drenched tanks, mythical back pieces, and eyes that never once look your way. Until they do. It starts with a tattoo. But that line between ink and intimacy? Between the sharpness of his needle and the way he says “good girl”? Yeah. That gets blurred fast. One minute he’s fucking you like he owns you, the next he’s wrapping you in his hoodie and feeding you water like you’ll break.

💌a/n: IT’S SO FUCKING HOT. LONDON TRANSPORT IS A HUMAN-RUN HEALTH HAZARD. THE TUBE IS LITERALLY MURDER SAUNA. And me? I decided to write tattoo!Changbin smut with a brain fog caused by the heat. I—listen. I just wanted to write about a brooding tattoo artist rearranging a pilates princess guts. I hope this makes sense?? I hope you like it?? Little bit of slow burn??? I was literally sweating while writing and I don’t know if it was from the smut or the heat or the fact that CHANGBIN IN BLACK GLOVES LIVES RENT-FREE IN MY HEAD?? p.s. If you liked it, reblog it. Reblog it like he’s fucking you into the mirror and saying “Don’t look away.” p.p.s. Changbin supremacy. p.p.p.s. I am NOT responsible for your hydration status during this fic

⚠️ warnings: 18+ ONLY | MINORS DNI | Soft dom!Changbin, praise kink + respectful menace | Mirror play | Oral (f!receiving) | Overstimulation + multiple orgasms | Cockwarming | Aftercare king behavior. Hoodie. Water. Warm towel. Socks. Yes, socks | idk what else i missed i'm dying rn

📌 Please read with caution. Stretch beforehand. Hydrate. Apologize to your tattoo artist. And your gym crush.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » Thirsty— Taemin « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:27 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

You’re the vision of calm control.

Every morning at 6:45 a.m., like clockwork, you sweep into the downtown fitness complex with your pastel wrap-top tied neatly at the waist and your hair twisted into a ballerina bun so tight it could survive a storm. You drink your matcha through a glass straw. You carry your mat like it’s an accessory. Your shoes are spotless, your voice is melodic, and your posture is the kind that makes people instinctively stand taller when you pass by.

You glide into your reformer pilates studio with the serenity of someone who’s mastered both her breath and her boundaries. Former ballet prodigy turned core activation coach, you teach five reformer sessions a day—each one a display of elegance, intensity, and razor-sharp muscle control. Your clients both adore and fear you. You have the kind of presence that makes people fix their own form before you even say a word. When you do correct them, it’s precise, polite, and just pointed enough to sting.

You don’t raise your voice. You don’t sweat. You don't slouch. You float. And online? You’re even worse. Your Instagram is a minimalist’s dream: toned arms on reformers in golden lighting, skin like silk, cryptic captions. Every third post is a quote in muted beige serif.

You’re elegant. Controlled. Inkless. A vision of untouched skin and core stability.

But lately, your control is being tested.

By him.

He’s not like the others at the gym.

You first noticed him three months ago. It was leg day for him, glutes and inner thighs for you. You were coaching a private session—soft music playing, aromatherapy diffusing gently from the wall—and then: A thud. A guttural grunt. The sharp, echoing clang of 140kg hitting the floor like war drums.

He was lifting right outside your studio window.

Tank top soaked. Forearms vascular. Hood up. Headphones in. He never looked around. Never checked his form in the mirror. He just moved with raw, thunderous efficiency. Quads like carved stone. Tattoos crawling up his arms and peeking out from his neckline—dark, mythic things that looked like they were alive.

At first, you were annoyed. He disrupted the peace. You had to close the door to keep your clients focused. His grunts threw off your cadence.

Then you started watching.

The first time he took off his hoodie mid-set, you caught a flash of the ink across his back—two black dragons twisted together in an ouroboros loop, scales razor-fine and smoke curling over his spine. You stared longer than you meant to. Long enough to miss a cue in your own session. Long enough to have to repeat it.

You looked him up that night.

Seo Changbin.

Co-owner of NO SAINT INK—a notoriously hard-to-book, high-end tattoo studio. His pieces? Blackwork. Ornamental. Gothic.

He did ink like it was cathedral architecture. Intricate beasts. Baroque rib cages. Sacred geometry that bled into chaos at the edges. He played with negative space and muscle flow like a sculptor. There were rumors he did some biomech and anatomical fusion work too—stuff that made it look like your bones were crawling up your skin.

He only took on clients by referral. He didn’t do walk-ins. And he never, ever did colour.

He never looked at you.

Three months of the same schedule. You, in your silk-press pastel perfection. Him, in his dark gymwear and smudged chalk palms. You passed each other in the hallway sometimes. He never said a word.

Until the day you snapped.

You were mid-session with a new client—she was struggling with core control, every breath shallow, every motion tense—and there he was again. Deadlifting to the tempo of a war anthem. Slamming weights like gravity owed him something.

You stepped outside, hands on hips, breathing through your nose.

“Some of us are trying to center, not detonate.”

He paused mid-lift. Turned. Pulled out one earbud. A beat. A smirk.

Then: “Want me to show you how to really activate your core?”

And then he turned back to his barbell like it was nothing.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You’d never been so simultaneously furious and flustered in your life. After that, he started showing up earlier. Lifting closer. Watching your warmups from the squat rack. Making comments.

“You know, your foot arch collapses on your second lunge set.” “Your glute engagement’s solid. You ever load it?”

And then one day—after a particularly intense set of weighted split squats—you sat down on your mat, breathless and sweaty, and saw him watching you through the mirror. Just... watching.

When you looked back, he only said: “You’ve got perfect spine alignment.”

And walked away.

You told yourself it was nothing. You weren’t interested. You were focused. He was chaos. Loud. Covered in ink. Rough around the edges. You were all about precision and peace. You weren’t even into tattoos.

...Except lately, you’d been thinking about them.

About what it would feel like to have his hands on your skin—not in the gym, but in that studio you’d stalked online a hundred times. About the fine-line blackwork on his clients’ ribs. The sacred geometry down their thighs. The way he seemed to carve stories into people. You started wondering what he’d draw for you. What he’d see in you.

And one day, without thinking, you murmured: “I’ve got a clean canvas.”

And he’d grinned. “You ever wanna ruin it—come find me.”

You’re standing in front of it.

NO SAINT INK.

You grip your tote bag tighter, heart jackhammering beneath your zip-up. You can’t believe you actually booked this. You’d pulled every favour, begged one of your fitness clients to refer you. You filled out the intake form, submitted references, proof of healing care, even a fucking aesthetic moodboard. You never expected to get approved.

And yet… Here you are.

You glance at your phone one last time. The design you sent him glows on the screen: A fine-line ornamental dagger wrapped in black lace. Minimalist. Symmetrical. Inspired by the old ballet blades you used to train with in theater. You asked for placement on your ankle—something graceful but a little dangerous, hidden unless you chose to show it.

Finally, you move inside the studio and the scent hits you: vetiver, eucalyptus, ink. The kind of clean that hums with sterility—but underneath it, warmth. Masculine warmth. Leather and musk.

And then—

“OH SHIT—PILATES BARBIE MADE AN APPOINTMENT?”

You blink.

Behind the desk, crouched in an ergonomic chair with wheels and way too much energy, is a messy-haired, coffee-chugging creature. Han Jisung.

He is nothing like Changbin.

Where Changbin is broad, silent menace, Han is chaos in a hoodie. He’s wearing socks with avocados on them and a smirk that says he knows exactly how much your blood pressure just spiked.

You try to keep your voice neutral. “I have a 2PM with Changbin.”

“OH you do, do you?” He spins dramatically in his chair. “Chan-hyung! Bro! Pilates Princess has entered the temple!”

From behind the wall, you hear a deep, amused voice. One that sends a traitorous ripple down your spine.

“Be nice, Jisung-ah.”

Enter Bang Chan, who appears wearing all black, a beanie, and the warmest smile known to man. He’s muscle and honey—sharp arms, soft voice. And somehow, despite your anxiety, he makes you feel like you just got wrapped in a weighted blanket.

“Hey. You must be…?”

“She’s Miss Breath Control,” Han chimes. "As Changbin says of course.”

You ignore him.

“Yes. 2PM. With Changbin.”

Chan nods, warm and non-threatening. “He’s finishing up a back piece right now. Should be out in five. You can sit if you want—or look around.”

You sit. Which is insane, because your legs never shake and now they’re doing a little wobble dance beneath the stool. You try to sip water but miss your mouth and curse under your breath.

Han watches all of this with way too much joy. “You want some calming tea? Or, like, whiskey?”

“I’m fine.”

“You sure? You’re gripping that water bottle like it owes you money.”

You take a deep breath. Count to four. Exhale through your core. Then: “Don’t you have something to sterilize?”

“I do, but watching you try not to panic is a lot more fun.”

Before you can respond, there’s movement in the hallway. Boots. Heavy steps. You know it’s him before you see him. He steps out of the back studio like he owns the whole fucking planet.

Changbin.

All black, sleeves rolled, dark tattoo gloves still half-on. A sleeveless muscle tee clings to his chest, neck shimmering slightly from exertion. His jaw is tight. His lips are flushed. His hair’s pulled back in a half-tied knot that makes you irrationally angry. His arms are covered in fresh ink smudges. And his eyes? Locked right on you.

The world narrows.

“You came,” he says. Not a question. A statement. Like he knew you would.

You nod.

He gestures with a tilt of his chin, lazy and deliberate. “Come on back.”

The moment you step into his space, and sit down on the tattoo chair you simply go still. You’ve been in control of your body your whole life. Every breath, every joint, every limb—trained, refined, disciplined. You know how to hold your spine like a prayer and your voice like a blade. You’ve never fidgeted in a professional setting.

So why are you perched on a leather tattoo chair with your hands folded tight in your lap like a chastised schoolgirl?

Because the room smells like ink and amber and him. Because there’s bass-heavy music playing low through the built-in speakers—wordless, sultry, like the kind of thing you’d move your hips to if he ever pressed you against a wall. Because Seo Changbin is leaning over his iPad, reviewing your submission with a furrowed brow and one ringed hand cradling his jaw.

You’re trying not to hold your breath as he scrolls. Then he glances up at you, eyes sharp but unreadable. But then, his mouth twitches—almost a smile and he turns the iPad to you.

“Here’s what I designed.”

Your breath catches. It’s yours—but not. It’s alive.

He’s taken the dagger and curved it slightly, so it follows the natural line of your ankle and rises just a little up the calf. The blade’s body is woven with the lace, yes—but his lace moves. It ripples like real fabric, and within its folds are secret things: a single rosebud at the hilt. A glint of barbed wire hidden in the shadows. He’s added a moon crest at the base—almost imperceptible—and along the edge of the dagger, in the subtlest script: tempus vincit omnia.

“Time conquers all,” he translates, before you can ask.

You blink. You don’t remember putting that in your references.

“It felt like you,” he says, gaze holding yours. “You act like you’re untouched. But your silence says otherwise.”

You should say something. Anything. But your throat is dry. The room is warm. His voice is velvet dipped in command. And the way he’s looking at you now—eyes flickering down to your ankle, then up to your mouth—is not professional.

“May I see the placement?” he asks.

You nod, because you’re a coward. A good one.

You slowly pull your pant leg up, exposing your bare ankle, the pale skin taut from crossed legs and tension. He crouches in front of you, rolls his stool close, and gently sets the iPad aside.

“Pretty canvas,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

Your pulse jumps.

He slips on a fresh glove, snaps it into place. The sound is surgical, threatening, hot.

Then he touches you.

His fingers are firm but slow, tilting your foot, angling your leg just right. He’s completely focused. One hand on your arch, the other gently brushing your ankle bone.

“This spot will hurt a little,” he says, glancing up. “But you’re good at pain, aren’t you?”

You want to say yes. Want to say show me. Instead you say: “I breathe through it.”

“Good girl.”

You flinch. Not from the words—but from how good they feel.

He doesn’t apologize.

He rises to his feet and starts prepping the stencil, moving around the room with focused precision. Gloves. Transfer paper. Sanitary wipes. Ink tray. You sit there, skin buzzing, ankle still tingling from his touch, wondering how the fuck you’re supposed to survive this session.

He moves like he’s done this a thousand times. Because he has. Stencil fluid. Gauze. He lays out everything on the side tray with quiet precision, occasionally glancing your way like he’s clocking your posture, your breath, your jitters.

He doesn’t talk unless it’s necessary. No showmanship. No dramatics. Just work.

You respect that. You also kind of want to bite your lip off because the tension is unbearable.

He crouches again beside your ankle, wiping the area clean with clinical care. The alcohol is cold, startling. You inhale through your nose, quietly.

He notices. “Still good?”

You nod.

“You sure?” He glances up. His brows are slightly lifted. Not teasing—checking.

“Yeah. I’m okay.”

“Alright.” He holds the stencil in one hand, then gestures with his other. “I’m gonna press this on now. Just stay relaxed. Let your leg fall natural.”

You obey.

When he applies the stencil, it’s methodical. He rolls it from heel to calf, smoothing it into place with both thumbs, then steps back to check alignment. He adjusts your foot slightly. Tilts your knee. Scans the angle. Then he nods to himself and grabs the handheld mirror from the cart.

“Take a look. Tell me if anything feels off.”

You lean forward, lift the mirror—

—and freeze.

It’s perfect.

The dagger curves with your bone like it was meant to be there. The lace hugs the dip above your heel. The little Latin script rests just where your Achilles flares. Somehow, it’s sharp and delicate at the same time.

You don’t speak right away.

So he does. “You hate it?”

“I—what? No. It’s perfect.”

He hums under his breath. Like he knew. But he gives you space. “Alright. If you’re good, I’ll get set up.”

You nod again, a little too quickly. He moves back to his cart.

Machine. Cartridge. Ink caps.

The buzz of the tattoo gun doesn’t startle you like you thought it would. But the sound of it? It changes something in the air. The room goes quiet except for that hum.

He settles beside you again on the rolling stool, anchoring your foot with a towel. He sets your ankle on a support, angles it just right. The touch is firm but careful.

Then he looks at you. Straight-on. Steady.

“I’m gonna start with the outline. We’ll go slow. You tell me if anything feels weird, alright?”

“Okay.”

“Last chance to tap out.”

“Do it.”

His mouth twitches again. A small curve. A breath of something smug.

“Tough girl.”

Then the machine kicks on.

And the first needle hits skin.

You inhale sharp through your nose. Fuck. You knew it would sting, but it’s different than you expected. Not unbearable. Not sharp like glass. More like a scratch that keeps going—a hot drag along nerve endings that wakes up everything. You exhale. Count. Re-center.

“Breathe through it,” you murmur out loud, mostly to yourself.

His voice is quiet. Low. Unshakably calm.

“You’re doing great.”

He keeps working.

The dagger begins to take shape—delicate linework up the edge of your ankle, the fine curve of the hilt tucked beneath your calf. You don’t look at him, but you feel him—close, focused, his forearm braced gently across your leg as he works in deliberate strokes.

It’s intimate in a way you didn’t expect.

Not sexual. Not yet. But close. Controlled. Charged.

After a few minutes, he speaks again—quiet but with a grin in his voice this time.

“Still breathing?”

“Barely.”

“Good. I’d hate to lose you halfway through.”

You snort under your breath. “You’d lose your best linework.”

“Exactly.” Beat. “Wouldn’t look right on anyone else anyway.”

That makes your chest stutter.

You don’t reply. Not out loud. But you shift slightly in the chair—tense. Hot. And he knows it.

He keeps working.

You hear the buzz. You feel the heat. The pain is low-key addictive now—every new line something you earn. And through it all, Changbin stays steady. Anchored. The perfect storm of pressure, skill, and focus.

But, you've had enough of the silence, especially with how it was stretching and so, you decided to break it.

“How long have you been doing this?”

“Tattooing?” His thumb brushes against the arch of your foot to hold it steady. “Seven years. Shop’s been open for four.”

“Always wanted to do it?”

“Nah.” He leans back for a second, wipes the needle tip. “Thought I’d be a strength coach. Maybe gym ownership. Did some personal training for a while.”

“That checks out.” You glance down at his forearm, thick and corded with muscle, tattoos crawling up to his elbow like they’re trying to escape.

“Yeah?” he says, smirking faintly. “You profile every guy who squats heavy during your classes?”

“Only the ones who grunt like they’re in labor.”

That earns a real laugh—short, rich, warm.

“Okay, Pilates Princess. Maybe I do get dramatic when it’s above four plates.”

“You were scaring my client.”

“She was on a reformer. She couldn’t hear anything over the sound of her own smug exhale.”

You bite back a smile.

“Still. You disrupted the chi.”

“And you walked out in pastel spandex and told me I was ‘rupturing lungs.’ What was I supposed to do? Not flirt back?”

Your breath catches slightly. But he doesn’t press it. He just goes back to work—steady hand, eyes trained on your ankle. The air feels charged now, though. Like he lit a match and pretended he didn’t.

“What about you?” he asks after a beat. “Always been a reformer girl?”

You shrug. “Ballet background. Dance conditioning led to pilates. I got addicted to the structure.”

“Makes sense.” His eyes flick up briefly. “You’re precise. Can tell you move from control.”

You swallow. His tone isn’t teasing anymore—it’s… observant. Real. And something in your chest flutters uncomfortably.

“Is that your polite way of saying I’m uptight?”

“Not even close.” He sits back, stretches his wrist slightly, and looks at you fully. “Uptight’s when someone can’t bend. You?” He tilts his head. “You bend perfectly. You just don’t like anyone else touching the steering wheel.”

Your breath skips. You don’t answer right away. Not because you don’t know what to say—but because he’s right.

So you redirect. Softly.

“Why ‘No Saint’? The name.”

He taps the foot pedal, stops the buzz, and wipes your ankle clean with firm, slow strokes. It gives you a moment to breathe again—but not enough.

“Because I don’t pretend to be anything I’m not.”

You blink. That was… blunt. Honest. A little dark. He continues, eyes down now.

“We don’t bullshit clients. We don’t sell fake sentiment. No ‘live laugh love’ tattoos unless they’re ironic. No fake wisdom. No trends we know you’ll regret in two years.”

“Just pain and permanence,” you murmur.

“Exactly.” He smirks faintly. “No saints here. Just ink, heat, and choice.”

The silence that follows is thick. Comfortable. But hot. Like both of you are aware how close this is to something more.

He leans in again, machine humming softly back to life.

“You’re doing good, by the way,” he says. Quieter now. “Most people twitch by now.”

“I’m not most people.”

“I’m starting to believe that.”

He inks another line—this one along the edge of the dagger, right where your skin thins over bone. It burns—but you hold steady.

“Let’s finish the outline.” he suddenly says.

The session lasted

just under two hours.

You hadn’t realized how long it had been until the buzz finally stopped and the silence rolled in like a warm wave. You feel boneless. Drenched in adrenaline and restraint. Your ankle stings, wrapped delicately in breathable film. Your body feels too warm for the room. And your head? Light. Fuzzy. Like the space between flirtation and freefall.

Changbin strips off his gloves, tosses them, and wipes down the station with clinical precision. He hasn’t said much since finishing. Just the usual post-tat routine—cleaning, wrapping, murmured instructions.

But his eyes? They keep sliding to you.

You slip your sock on halfway and tug your pant leg back down carefully, wincing a little.

“Still good?” he asks, finally looking up.

“More than good.”

He gives a small nod. Like he expected that answer. Like he knew you’d handle it.

You grab your bag and follow him out to the front. The air outside the studio room hits colder, sharper. You suddenly remember there are other people in this building.

The first one you see? Han Jisung. Eating fucking pineapple chunks out of a plastic deli cup with a tiny fork. He looks up from his stool like he’s been watching through the glass wall the entire time.

“Well, well, look who survived the blade.”

“She didn’t just survive,” Changbin says, rounding the desk and tapping something on the iPad. “She was better than half the regulars who talk big and cry during linework.”

“You cried during your own hand tat,” Han mutters under his breath, chewing.

From the side sofa, another head pops up.

Felix. Wearing an oversized hoodie, sipping juice from a literal juice box. His legs are tucked under him like a kid at a sleepover. He doesn’t say anything, just raises his brows meaningfully—and takes a long, slow sip.

You blink at the scene. “...Do you guys always just lurk out here eating kindergarten snacks?”

“We’re moral support,” Felix chirps, straw still in his mouth.

“We’re witnesses,” Han adds, tossing a pineapple chunk in the air and catching it. “To whatever this vibe is.”

“What vibe?” Changbin asks, not even blinking.

Han points at you. Then at him.

“This VIBE. The quiet storm flirting. The ‘good girl’ energy. The tension so thick I had to put on noise-canceling headphones to avoid getting secondhand arousal—”

“Jisung.” Changbin cuts him off, finally looking up from the counter.

His tone is sharp, low. The kind that says drop it before I kill you.

You try not to laugh. You fail.

“It’s fine,” you say, waving a hand. “I’m used to being analyzed by men eating pineapple.”

“Icon,” Felix whispers around his juice box.

Changbin finally sighs and turns back to you, handing over a printed aftercare sheet, folded neatly.

“Info’s all on there. Product list, wash instructions, what to look out for.”

“Got it.” You slip it into your bag. Your hand brushes his. Just barely. But you both feel it.

He doesn’t step back.

Doesn’t break eye contact either.

“Listen,” he says casually, voice lower. “If you ever need touch-ups, or... if you’re thinking of something else—” His eyes flick down, briefly, to your throat, then back up. “You can text me directly.”

“I figured appointments went through the website?”

“They do.”

A beat.

“But you don’t have to.”

Your throat is suddenly dry. You arch a brow—curious. Just enough sass to stay in control. “You giving your number to all your clients now?”

“Just the ones who breathe through pain and still flirt back.”

Felix chokes on his juice. Han makes a strangled sound that might be applause.

You blink. Then slowly, slowly smirk. “Fine,” you say. “What’s your number?”

He rattles it off. You type it in. Save it under NO SAINT. He glances at your screen. “That what you’re calling me?”

“What would you prefer?”

“Something you’ll actually say when you’re out of breath.”

Han falls off his stool. Literally. Felix wheezes so hard his straw pops out of the juice box. Changbin doesn’t even flinch. He just leans on the counter, arms crossed, watching you like you’re a puzzle he already knows how to solve.

You match his look. Slowly. “We’ll see.”

And with that, you turn and walk out.

After the tattoo, you saw him more. It started small that is.

At first, it’s coincidence—he’s back to lifting heavy in the gym at odd hours, same as always. But now he nods at you when you pass. A real nod. Eyes meeting. A corner-of-the-mouth smile that makes your stomach flip. Sometimes he’s got one AirPod in instead of two. Sometimes he lingers near the cable station while you’re on the mat. Never interrupting. Just... there.

The first actual post-tat interaction happens five days after your session.

You’re foam rolling in the stretching area, ankle still healing but mostly fine, and he walks by, glances down, and says: “Looks good.”

You raise a brow. “You spying on my ankle now?”

“Just checking my work.”

Pause.

“And maybe looking at your calf.”

You try to look unimpressed. You fail. He sits beside you and starts stretching his hamstrings without being asked. Doesn’t make a move. Just talks.

That becomes routine.

Short check-ins after workouts. Training tips you didn’t ask for but secretly appreciate. You realize he knows exactly how to adjust your form without crowding you. He never overcorrects. Never touches you without asking. And yet he always makes sure you’re safe, balanced, stable.

“Switch feet. You’re compensating on your left.” “You’ve been clenching your jaw all set. Breathe it out.” “I’ll spot you if you’re going heavier today.”

You stop correcting him eventually. Mostly because he’s right.

Then it shifts again. You start texting. It begins with questions about the tattoo. Aftercare check-ins. A meme he sends about gym people and their insane emotional attachments to water bottles.

Then you start sending him playlists.

He makes you one in return. It’s all bass-heavy, slow-burn, mostly instrumental tracks with names like “Pulse,” “Drive,” “Bend,” and one ominously titled “Repetition is Power.”

You: that one sounds kinky Him: it’s about training Him: …mostly You: mmhmm

The first “hangout” isn’t even planned.

You finish a late workout and bump into him in the protein aisle at the 24hr mart across the street. You make fun of his zero sugar birthday cake-flavoured whey and he pretends not to judge your matcha collagen bar.

“I have taste,” you say, tossing it in your basket.

“Yeah,” he says, barely smiling. “I noticed.”

You walk out together. He carries your bag. Doesn’t ask. Just does it.

Then come the actual plans.

A night walk after a shared late gym session.

Coffee before your first client.

He helps you move a reformer across your studio and doesn’t leave until he’s triple-checked the bolts.

He never pushes. He never assumes. He always walks on the outside of the sidewalk.

Once, when a guy was being weird to you at the gym, Changbin didn’t say a word. Just stood nearby, arms folded, gaze flat. The guy disappeared within three minutes.

When you thank him later, he shrugs and says: “Didn’t do anything.”

Beat.

“Just let him know you weren’t alone.”

And god. That does something to you.

You kiss him the first time after he walks you home on a Friday night.

You’re buzzed off wine and safety. You say something dumb about how he always smells like cedar and sin. He huffs a laugh and says, quietly: “You can kiss me if you want.”

No pressure. Just there. Waiting.

You do.

And his hand settles on your waist like you’re glass and gold at the same time.

Before you know it, it’s weekends at your place. Your pink robe draped over his hoodie on your chair. His phone charger lives by your bed now. He shows up at your studio on your long days just to bring you food he won’t let you pay for. He tries to act casual about it but always packs your favourite matcha bar on top.

You ask him one night—half-laughing, half-serious: “Are you, like... my boyfriend now?”

He blinks. Looks at you. Then cocks his head.

“Have you been seeing someone else?”

“No?”

“Then yeah. I’m yours.”

Simple. Direct. No drama. You say, “Oh,” like you hadn’t been melting for weeks.

He smiles, real this time, all warm teeth and soft boy. “Been yours since you sat in that chair.”

And the worst part? This dark, brooding, tattooed menace of a man? He’s so goddamn respectful it makes your head spin.

Doesn’t touch you in the gym unless you ask.

Always asks before kissing you.

Has literally said, “Tell me what you want. I won’t ever take it without hearing you say it.”

Brings your water bottle to your side when you forget it.

Traces your healing tattoo at night and whispers, “Still my best work.”

You’re doomed. You’re soft. You’re so, so fucked.

Your apartment is warm. Cozy. Too quiet.

The lights are low, and the vanilla-coconut candle you forgot to blow out is making everything smell like sweet skin and summer.

Changbin’s duffel bag is unzipped at the edge of your bed—lined with velvet wraps and steel trays, black gloves and sterilized ink cartridges. He brought the full setup, just like you asked. No studio. No distractions. Just you, him, and the blank canvas of your back.

You’re kneeling on the bed in nothing but soft shorts and your hair twisted up with a clip. Your top is already off, folded beside you. Between your hands is a pillow, hugged tight, just to ground yourself. Because the nerves are real now.

You wanted this design for weeks. Something elegant. Subtle. Yours.

A spine-length blackwork symbol—two mirrored crescent moons interwoven with minimalist wings. You told him it was about balance. About letting go.

You didn’t tell him it was also about him.

He’s behind you now, sterilizing your skin. His touch is clinical. Careful. But it burns anyway.

“You still sure about the placement?” he asks, voice low. Even. But there’s something underneath. A quiet strain.

“Dead sure.”

He hums. “Alright.” You hear the snap of gloves. The whir of the stencil printer. Your heart pounds in your chest like it’s trying to warn you.

Then—he’s back. His hands ghost over your spine. “I’m gonna press the stencil now. Stay still.”

You do. You try. But the moment his hands actually touch you—bare palms, gloved, strong and steady—your breath catches. The way he presses along your spine, smoothing the paper from the dip of your lower neck down to the top of your ribcage... it’s not sexual. But it’s intimate. Intense.

He pulls the paper away, and your skin tingles. “Perfect,” he says, quietly. “You want a mirror?”

“No. I trust you.”

And you mean it.

He sits back on his knees. Sets up the machine. Loads the ink. Your apartment fills with the low hum of anticipation—the buzz of something sharp and irreversible.

Then he speaks again, just above a whisper. “You ready, princess?”

You nod into the pillow. “Do it.”

And then—

The first line hits.

Sharp. Searing. Deep. Right between the blades. You hiss. Clench the pillow. Your whole body arcs. He presses gently between your shoulder and neck, grounding you.

“Breathe through it,” he murmurs, voice so soft it shouldn’t be that hot. “You know how.”

You do. You inhale through your nose. Exhale slowly. Your spine starts to relax under the pain, beneath his hand.

He works in slow, steady lines. Controlled. Ruthless. Focused.

And all you can think about is his hand anchoring you there. His knees brushing the backs of your thighs. The way his breath moves in sync with yours.

You’re soaking your pillow. Not from tears. From sweat. From heat. From want.

“You’re doing so well,” he says, after a particularly brutal curve along the left crescent. His fingers skim your waist as he shifts position. “I knew you could take it.”

“Fuck,” you breathe. “You’re evil.”

“I’m careful,” he corrects. “But I don’t go easy on you.”

You clench your thighs together. He notices.

And suddenly—there’s a shift in the air. He pauses. Sets the machine down on the tray. You feel the absence like a void.

Then: “How bad is it?” he asks. Not in concern. But curiosity. Low. Dangerous.

You don’t answer right away. So he leans down—chest brushing your back, lips at your ear. “You gonna be honest with me, or am I gonna have to pull it out of you?”

You arch into him. “It’s not the pain,” you whisper. “It’s you.”

Silence. His breath stills.

Then—

His hand glides from your waist to your inner thigh. Not high. Not filthy. Just… there.

“Then I’ll stop,” he says, voice gravel. “Because I don’t take from you when you’re not thinking straight.”

That? That ruins you.

“I am thinking straight,” you say, lifting your head slightly, panting. “I’ve been thinking about you every day since the ankle.”

He exhales. Like a man who’s been holding it in too long.

Then—he moves. One hand tilts your chin back. The other grips your waist, hard. And he kisses you. It’s slow. Deep. Tongue and teeth and restraint that’s breaking. You’re twisted half around, clutching his shoulder, kissing him like he’s already inside you.

He pulls away first. Barely. “You want to finish the tattoo?” he whispers.

“No.”

“You want something else instead?”

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

“Touch me.”

His hand is on your back again. Lower. Rougher. “You sure?”

“Yes.”

His hand lingers on your back—low, possessive—just long enough for your breath to hitch. Then, without a word, he pulls away. You blink. Your heart slams into your ribs. But then you hear it: The soft click of the tattoo machine shutting off. The rip of packaging. The squeak of gloves being stripped off and tossed.

You turn to look over your shoulder, breath caught. “Bin—?”

He’s focused. Completely. Dangerously. “Not touching you until the piece is sealed,” he mutters. “You don’t play with open wounds.”

The tone—deep, steady, commanding—makes your knees press tighter together. Your hips subtly shift, and he notices.

He always notices.

He moves behind you, silently, and you hear the rustle of him opening the dressing. The touch is clinical again, but somehow worse—cool antiseptic, gentle pat-down, sterile film peeled and smoothed into place. He’s careful. Exact. Respectful.

But when he speaks, it’s low. Ragged.

“You didn’t tap out.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“You take everything I give you, huh?”

Your stomach flips. He finishes securing the dressing. Then… his hands slide down your sides. Slow. Worshipful. Possessive.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Now I can touch you.”

You barely have time to inhale before he grabs your hips—firm, final—and pulls you onto your hands and knees in the center of the bed.

“Stay like that,” he says, voice rough now, all velvet and gravel. “I want to look at you.”

You gasp as his palm glides over your curve, down the back of your thigh, up again to your waist. He doesn’t rush. He explores. “You have any idea what you do to me?” he mutters, more to himself. “All that control. That calm. That perfect mouth.”

You whimper. He smiles.

“You sound pretty now.”

He shifts behind you. Kneels. You hear his hoodie hit the floor. The telltale sound of his belt unbuckling. Then: a hand at the base of your spine, gently pressing.

“Arch for me, baby.”

You do. Of course you do. And when you feel the heat of him against your inner thigh—bare skin, hard and heavy—you moan into the pillow.

“Changbin—”

“Shh. Let me take care of you.”

And then he’s there.

One hand anchored at your hip. The other between your thighs, inside your shorts. Touching, teasing, sliding his digits through your wetness with a growl low in his chest.

“Fucking soaked,” he mutters. “You been thinking about this?”

“Yes—fuck—yes—”

“How long?”

“Since the first tattoo.”

“You should’ve said something.”

“Would you have stopped?”

“Not a fucking chance.”

He sinks two fingers in—slow, deep, curling like he knows what you need. Your hips jerk. He holds you still.

“There. Right there. That’s it.”

You gasp, high-pitched and shaking, and he groans—the sound wrecked and reverent.

“You’re gonna let me fuck you like this?” he asks. “Face down, ink fresh, all mine?”

“Yes—yes, Changbin, please—”

He groans, deep in his chest, and stills his fingers inside you.

Then his voice drops.

“Baby… I don’t think you can take me yet.”

You freeze. Pulse stuttering. “Wh-what?”

He leans in. Mouth right at your ear. “You’re already clenching just around my fingers. So tight. So sensitive. You think you can handle all of me without being stretched out first?”

You whimper. He smiles.

“No rush,” he whispers, like a fucking gentleman. “I’ll get you there.”

And then—

He hooks his fingers deeper, hits that spot just right, and your whole body arches.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, nuzzling into your shoulder. “That’s it. Let me open you up.”

He keeps his fingers inside you as he shifts—kneels upright behind you.

His free hand drags down your lower back. Then to the waistband of your shorts.

And in one slow, deliberate motion he pulls down your shorts and panties in a single, fluid move.

They slide off your hips. Past your thighs. Down your calves. He tosses them aside like they’re in the way, and fuck, maybe they are.

Because now your ass is bare. Your thighs are trembling. And your cunt? Leaking around his fingers. Dripping onto the sheets.

“So fucking pretty,” he growls, behind you now, stroking one hand down your ass. “I should’ve had you like this weeks ago.”

You try to lift your head. Say something clever. You fail. He scissors his fingers slightly—just enough stretch to make you squirm.

“You like being opened up like this, baby?”

“Yes—oh fuck—yes—”

“Say it.”

“I like being stretched out—please, please, Changbin—”

“That’s my girl.”

He slides a third finger in.

You gasp—hips jerking, legs shaking—and he moans like he can feel it too.

“Shit,” he pants, fucking you slow and deep. “You’re so tight, baby. I can feel your pussy fluttering around me. You’re gonna lose your mind when I give you cock.”

Your hands claw at the pillow beneath you. Your thighs are soaked. And still—he’s patient. Focused. Wrecking you with just his fingers because he knows exactly how this ends.

“Almost there,” he breathes. “Just a little more.”

You whimper, spine bowed, thighs spread wide as his fingers thrust deeper—slow, deliberate, curling into that sweet, molten spot that makes your vision go white.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs, voice like gravel and silk. “You feel that?”

You choke out a sound—something helpless. Shaky. Wrecked.

“You’re so close. You’re right fucking there.”

His fingers drag out, just enough to tease your entrance—then slam back in, curling sharp and precise. You cry out, hips jolting. His hand tightens, holding you still. “Don’t run from it,” he growls, low and possessive. “You’re gonna take it.”

He starts pumping—harder, faster, each stroke brutal in its precision. The wet sound of your cunt echoes in the room, obscene, soaked, desperate.

“You’re dripping, baby,” he pants. “This pussy’s begging.”

You’re gasping now—broken, breathless.

And then—

He does that. That perfect drag of his fingers against your front wall, again and again, exactly where it hurts so good you see stars.

Your arms buckle. You collapse onto the pillow, face down, sobbing his name into the sheets.

“That’s it,” he whispers, leaning over you now, breath hot against your shoulder. “Give it to me. Cum on my fingers, baby.”

And you do.

It rips through you—sudden, full-body, violent. Your pussy clenches tight around his fingers, locking him in as your orgasm explodes behind your ribs, sparks down your spine, tears from your throat.

“Fuck—yes,” he groans, rutting gently against your thigh. “God, you’re so fucking pretty like this.”

You’re sobbing. Boneless. Cunt still fluttering. Thighs sticky. And he just keeps moving—slowing his fingers now, easing you down from the edge like he lives in your body.

“There you go,” he murmurs. “Breathe. I got you.”

He pulls out with a wet sound, dragging his soaked fingers down your thigh before pulling away entirely.

You collapse, limp, twitching. “Changbin—”

“Shh. You did so good.”

You hear him kiss your lower back, just above the bandage.

Then—

A low whisper. “You think that was good?”

“Mmnh…”

“Baby… I haven’t even fucked you yet.”

His voice is molten.

You’re still on all fours, trembling, thighs slick, cunt fluttering with aftershocks—but the second he says it, something inside you tightens. You feel the heat of him shift behind you. The heavy weight of his cock brushes your thigh, then—lower.

“Gonna let me in now?” he murmurs, running his fingers up your spine, pausing just at the bandage. “Gonna take all of me?”

“Yes… please,” you breathe, voice cracking. “I can take it. I need it—”

He hums.

“You say that…” he mutters, guiding the thick head of his cock between your folds, sliding it through your soaked pussy—teasing, rubbing, spreading your slick. “But this pussy’s still so fucking tight, baby.”

He rocks forward, just enough to nudge your entrance. You whimper.

“So swollen. So wet. You’re still twitching for me,” he groans, dragging his tip up to your clit, then back down to your dripping hole. “You really want it?”

“Please—Changbin, please, give it to me—”

“Say it.”

“Fuck me.”

He stills—tip poised. Breathing heavy. Then—slowly. Deliberately. He pushes in. The stretch is brutal. You cry out, loud and raw, fists bunching in the sheets as he splits you open—inch by inch, so deep you can feel him in your throat.

“Oh my—fuck—Changbin—”

“That’s it,” he groans, voice wrecked. “Take it, baby. Just like that.”

He doesn’t slam. Doesn’t rush. He sinks. One hand gripping your hip, the other spreading your ass to watch himself disappear inside you—slow, steady, until he’s buried to the hilt.

“God—so tight—” he growls, grinding once, deep and heavy. “Can feel every twitch.”

You’re panting. Shaking. Jaw slack.

“Too much?” he whispers.

“N-no—no, I just—fuck—you’re big—”

“But you’re taking it,” he says, teeth clenched. “Look at you. So good for me. This pussy was made for it.”

He pulls back—slowly, almost out—then slams back in. You scream. He starts to move. Long, deep thrusts. Not fast. Just full. Every time he pulls back, you clench. Every time he drives in, you cry out.

“You feel that, baby?” he grunts, rutting into you harder now. “That stretch? That burn?”

“Yes—yes—Changbin—oh my god—”

“You’re doing so fucking well,” he pants. “Letting me ruin you like this. Letting me fuck you open.”

He changes angle—hips slanted, cock pressing right there, that spot that makes your body jerk uncontrollably.

Your moans turn frantic. “Oh fuck—there—right there—don’t stop—please don’t stop—”

He grins, all teeth and sweat and dark fire. “You’re not going anywhere.”

He grabs your waist with both hands and fucks into you like he owns you. Harder. Deeper. The bed creaks beneath you. Your skin is slick with sweat. Your throat is raw from moaning.

“So fucking tight—so fucking perfect—”

“Changbin—I’m gonna—”

“Do it.”

His hand slips around your waist—fingers circling your clit with deadly precision. “Cum on my cock.”

You shatter.

Your whole body spasms, clenching so tight around him he growls, hips stuttering as you fall apart—loud, sobbing, ruined beneath him.

“That’s it,” he growls, breath hot against your shoulder. “Just like that. Look how fucking good you cum for me.”

You collapse forward, shaking. Chest to the bed. Hips high. You’re twitching—overstimulated, dripping, wrecked.

And he keeps moving.

His hand stays between your thighs, fingers slick and steady, rubbing your clit in slow, relentless circles while he grinds his cock in deep, lazy thrusts.

“Too much?” he murmurs, smug.

“Y-yes—no—fuck—I don’t—”

“You don’t want it to stop,” he finishes for you, dragging his cock out slow, then slamming it back in so deep your breath catches.

“You want to cry and cum at the same time, huh?”

You sob. It’s too much. It’s perfect.

Then—

His arm snakes around your torso. Tight. Possessive. And in one fluid motion, he pulls you up. Your back flush to his chest. Your knees spread. His cock still buried inside you, filling you completely.

“Stay open for me,” he growls into your ear, biting your shoulder. “Let me fuck you like this.”

He starts to thrust.

Hard. Upward. Precise. His thighs slap against the backs of yours as you whimper, your whole body rolling with the rhythm. His free hand comes up to your throat—choking you—while the other slips between your legs again.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, fingers stroking your clit again, gentle but devastating. “But you’re still taking it.”

“I can’t—I—”

“You can. You are.”

“It’s too much—”

“You love it,” he growls, voice low and filthy. “You love being fucked dumb. You love when I use you like this.”

You’re sobbing now. Raw. Clenching down hard around him with every thrust.

“You’re doing so good, baby,” he whispers between gritted teeth. “So fucking good for me. Letting me ruin you like this. Letting me make this pussy mine.”

Your head drops against his shoulder. Your mouth hangs open.

“What’s wrong, princess?” he teases, rutting deeper. “Cock too big? Can’t think? Can’t breathe?”

“N-no—fuck—don’t stop—”

“Didn’t plan to.”

He pulls your hips down harder, fucking into you deep, pushing you up his cock like you owe him something.

“You’re gonna cum again,” he snarls. “Right here. In my arms. While I stuff you full.”

“Changbin—please—I’m gonna—”

“Fucking do it.”

He rolls his hips—rubbing your clit, dragging his cock against every oversensitive nerve—and you scream.

Your body jerks. Tightens. Breaks. You cum again. Harder. Hotter. Your legs give out and he holds you through it, fucking you through the tremors like he needs it.

“Good girl,” he whispers, wrecked. “So fucking good. That’s it. Let go. Give it to me.”

He thrusts once—twice—then slams in deep and stays there, cock pulsing inside you as he cums, hot and thick, hips jerking as he buries himself to the base.

You’re both panting. Shaking.

He keeps you pressed to his chest—his hands soothing now, stroking your stomach, your thighs, your sore hips.

“Still breathing?” he whispers, voice soft now.

“Barely.”

He smiles. Kisses your temple.

“My good fucking girl.”

Your body’s still trembling—completely wrecked, dazed, flushed head to toe—and yet somehow, he’s still inside you.

Still deep. Still full. Still warm.

His arms wrap around you like armor, like he’s trying to hold all your shattered pieces together with just the weight of his body and the steadiness of his breath.

“Easy,” he murmurs, mouth at your jaw, a kiss at your temple. “Just breathe. I’ve got you.”

You shift—just barely—and it makes you both whimper. The overstimulation is insane, but the way he’s cradling you? You never want to leave.

“You okay?”

“Mhmm.”

“Want me to pull out?”

“Not yet.”

He smiles—soft, barely-there—and stills completely. You feel the twitch of him inside you, spent but still thick, locked in place with your body pulsing gently around him.

“You’re so warm,” he breathes. “Fuck.”

You don’t even respond. Just exist against him—your back to his chest, legs tucked under you, his arms rubbing circles into your hips and lower belly like it’s instinct. Like his entire nervous system is wired to soothe you.

His lips graze the side of your neck. “You’re okay,” he whispers again. “You did so good. So good for me, baby.” He stays like that for a while—just holding you. One hand finding yours to lace fingers together. The other gently petting your thigh. When he finally does pull out—slow, careful—you both groan at the emptiness. He catches your body before it slumps, scoops you up, and lays you flat on the bed like you’re made of glass.

And then? Instant Softie Binnie™ activates. He disappears for ten seconds and comes back with a warm towel. A bottle of water. A hoodie. Socks. You blink, dazed, as he gently nudges your legs apart to clean you up—apologizing every time you flinch.

“I know, baby, I know… almost done…”

“You’re fussing,” you murmur, voice all ruined and raw.

“Of course I am,” he scoffs, bundling you up in the hoodie like it’s sacred. “You just took all of me. You’re not lifting a finger for the next two hours.”

“Bossy.”

“You like it.”

And god help you—you do.

He climbs into bed next to you, wraps you up in his arms like he’s claiming territory. Kisses your temple, your shoulder, the bandaged spot between your shoulder blades.

Then he murmurs, right against your skin: “Let's continue that masterpiece on your back, hm?”

That night? Changed everything.

Now your ankle isn’t just tattooed—it’s claimed. And your shoulder blades? A growing canvas he touches like a promise. Sometimes with ink. Sometimes with hands. Sometimes with lips.

And life with Changbin? It’s a whirlwind of contradictions you can’t get enough of.

Like tonight for example. You're sitting on the padded leather bench in his private studio, wearing your usual pilates set—dusty pink, seamless, hugging every curve. You came by to “say hi,” but the way he’s been watching you?

You already know where this is going.

His chair is still pulled back from his last client. You’re leaned back on your elbows, legs slightly parted. He’s standing between them. Black tee tight across his chest. Jaw clenched. Veins up his forearms like ink trails of their own.

And then he says it. “Stand up. Turn around.”

You blink. “Why?”

He jerks his chin toward the far wall. The mirror. It spans floor to ceiling—installed originally for stencilling and symmetry. But now? You already know he’s not thinking about stencil lines. He steps behind you, hands gliding down your waist as you face the mirror. You watch his dark eyes in the reflection—hungry. Heavy. Like he’s about to devour you.

“You ever seen yourself like this?” he murmurs, lips grazing your ear.

“Like what?”

“Falling apart for me.”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out. Because he’s already peeling your leggings down. Slowly. Worshipfully. Your sports bra goes next, tossed aside like an afterthought.

“Look,” he says. His voice has dropped—dangerous and dark. “Look at how perfect you are.”

He wraps one arm around your waist. The other slips between your thighs. Fingers teasing—barely there. “Watch me touch you.”

And you do. You see it all. His hand moving slowly. His grip tightening when your legs shake. His eyes flickering between your face and your cunt like he’s memorizing both.

“You see how wet you are for me?”

“Yes—fuck, Binnie—”

He groans—low, possessive—and sinks to his knees behind you. Your hands brace on the mirror. The first drag of his tongue up your cunt makes your reflection arch.

“That’s it,” he pants, mouth wet against your cunt. “Stay still. Let me ruin you.”

Your knees buckle. He doesn’t let you fall. You ride his mouth. You watch yourself do it. You see your face—flushed, desperate, dripping. When he stands again—hands gripping your hips, cock out and hard against your thigh—you’re already trembling.

“Ready?” he breathes, forehead to your shoulder.

“Please.”

He pushes in slow. And it’s everything. The stretch. The press. The burn. Your eyes roll back. Your reflection jerks forward against the mirror—but he grabs your wrists and holds you there.

“Look,” he whispers. “Don’t look away.”

His thrusts start slow. Deep. Deliberate. You’re crying out now—louder with each one—watching your own body shake with every drag of his cock.

“Look at you,” he growls, fucking you harder. “You don’t even know how good you look, do you?”

“Changbin—fuck—fuck—”

“You’re so tight. So fucking pretty. Look at that face. Look at what I do to you.”

The mirror fogs. Your skin shines. You’re bent over, shaking, thighs soaked, and his hand never leaves your clit.

“Gonna cum again?”

“Yes—yes—”

“Then say it. Loud. For the mirror.”

“I’m gonna cum, Changbin—fuck—I’m cumming—!”

You convulse in the glass. His name on your lips. His cock deep inside you. His hand holding your throat, eyes locked on your wrecked reflection like it’s his favourite masterpiece.

And when he cums, it’s messy. Loud. Guttural. He presses you into the mirror with one final thrust, hips jerking, sweat dripping off his jaw.

“That’s it,” he groans, still inside you. “That’s my girl. Fucking perfect.”

You both collapse. Laugh. Breathe. And when he finally helps you dress again, hands still shaking? He kisses your shoulder and whispers:

“Next time? We try the chair.”

[junrenjun]

[junrenjun]

a series of phone calls with increasing time zones, proving that not even distance can break true love

idol!seungmin x reader, 5k words, fluff, long-distance au (seungmin on tour), angst, one argument, suggestive themes but not graphic!! (implied masturbation, sexual intercourse)

you both knew tour was going to be a challenge. the time zones, the silence between texts, being apart for too long. the kind of distance that makes you wonder if it’s still as warm on the other side.

but real love sticks. real love dials in the middle of the night with a sleepy voice and a hotel duvet pulled up to his chin. seungmin is in australia. one hour ahead of you.

“hey, baby” seungmin whispers, the sound barely above the static. “you still awake?”

you roll onto your back, staring at your ceiling like it might answer for you. “yeah.”

“did you cry?” he asks gently. not mocking. just—curious, like he’s asking about the weather.

“a little,” you admit, voice barely holding. “why are you so hard to sleep without?”

he exhales, soft and slow. “i don’t know,” he says, “maybe i cursed you.”

“maybe,” you whisper back.

there’s silence for a while. not awkward. just full.

then, “han jisung is asleep like two feet away, and if he hears me say sappy shit he’s gonna roast me into another dimension.”

you smile a little.

“but,” seungmin adds, quieter now, “i miss you too. like. a lot.”

you close your eyes. “don’t whisper like that. it makes it worse.”

“oh? does it?” his voice dips lower, playful. “what, like this?”

“seungmin.”

“i can picture your face right now” he says with a light chuckle.

you groan into your pillow. “i hate you.”

“no you don’t.”

“no,” you sigh. “i don’t.”

“i’ll call you again tomorrow night,” he murmurs, yawn crawling into his voice. “maybe i’ll read you the hotel shampoo ingredients like poetry.”

“that’s so romantic.”

"i know. i’m basically shakespeare,” he whispers, smug and sleepy.

you let out a soft laugh. “then what’s your sonnet about tonight, romeo?”

“hm.” there's a pause. you hear the rustle of sheets as he shifts, the soft creak of the bed frame. “ode to the cotton bed sheets that smell like lavender.”

you snort. “beautiful. truly moving.”

“i try,” he hums. “for you.”

your throat tightens at that. it’s so quiet on the other end, and you can almost picture him—eyes half-lidded, phone pressed to his cheek, hair messy from the long day, the glow of the hallway light slipping through the crack under the hotel door.

“you should sleep,” you murmur.

“you should stop sounding like you’re about to cry again,” he says.

you blink fast. “sorry.”

“don’t be,” he says. “i miss you too. more than i wanna say out loud because jisung has ears like a bat.”

“tell him i said hi.”

“i will. in the morning. right now, i’m all yours.”

you smile into your pillow. “even if you’re like... thousands of miles away?”

“distance isn’t real,” he says, like it’s obvious. “you’re in my phone, in my head, and in my stupid heart.”

you murmur, fingers curling in the sheets. "i love you."

you can hear him smile. not the smug kind. the quiet one—the one he saves for you.

"i know," he whispers. "i know, baby. i love you too."

your eyes sting again.

“i wanna hear you say goodnight, before i go,” he says softly. “like i’m still right there.”

you tuck your face into your pillow, pretending he is.

you whisper, “goodnight, seungmin.”

he exhales, long and slow. “again.”

“goodnight, minnie.”

“one more time,” he murmurs, voice already halfway to sleep.

you grin, heart squeezing. “goodnight, love.”

“mmm,” he hums, already slipping under. “that one’s my favorite.”

the call doesn’t end. he never hangs up first. not when he’s on tour. not when you’re the only quiet thing that feels like home.

seungmin was always your plumber. doing it alone felt harder than it should’ve.

"okay, okay—stop. stop touching it. you're gonna break it."

"i have to touch it, kim seungmin.” you huff in frustration.

“not when you’re doing it like that.”

“how would you know? you’re in a limousine.”

on the other end of the call, there’s a soft rustling of leather seats, then a distant snort of laughter—probably changbin. then hyunjin’s unmistakable voice, teasing in the background.

you roll your eyes and crouch down by the sink again. “just walk me through it.”

you hear him sigh dramatically. “you're gonna need both of your hands. you’re holding the flashlight with your mouth, right?”

“yeah.” you say, slightly muffled

“cute,” he says, like it’s automatic.

you smile.

“okay, now reach in with your left hand—gently—and find the little hex socket.”

“the what?”

“the six-sided bolt, babe.”

you find it. “got it.”

“good. now take the wrench— the L-shaped one. the baby wrench.”

you laugh around the flashlight. “you mean the allen key?”

“i said what i said.”

you fit it into place, and it clicks. "what now?"

“turn it slowly. coax it back to life.”

“you’re stupid.”

“you’re smiling.”

he’s right. you are.

the background laughter comes again, through your phone. you take the flashlight out of your mouth and furrow your eyebrows, now glaring at the phone.

seungmin huffs. “ignore them. they’re just mad no one calls them to fix things with love and precision.”

you grin and go back to work. “why love?”

“you think i’d be guiding you through garbage disposal in a limousine if i wasn’t in love with you?”

you pause. heart full. “i love you too, minnie.”

“i know,” he murmurs. “now finish the job, so you can text me a picture when it works and i can brag to those idiots about how you’re the best mechanic alive.”

“deal,” you grin.

"and hey?"

"yeah?"

“don’t go getting too good at this independent thing without me, alright? you’ll end up not needing me anymore.”

you roll your eyes fondly. “bye, seungmin.”

“bye, love.”

your phone buzzes unexpectedly—no text, no facetime request, just a straight-up call. that never happens unless something’s wrong.

“hello?”

there’s a beat. then a shaky inhale on the other end of the line. not panicked, but definitely not seungmin’s usual snarky hello either.

“minnie?” you answer, sitting up straighter. “everything okay?”

he exhales again, this time more controlled, like he’s trying to reset himself mid-breath. “yeah, sorry, i just—sorry, this is gonna sound really dumb.”

“are you okay?” you ask again, softer this time.

“yeah. yeah, i just—” he pauses, like he’s choosing his words carefully. “we were walking into this venue, right? and i wasn’t thinking, just messing around with jeongin, and suddenly…”

he trails off.

“suddenly?” you prompt.

“i caught this scent. like perfume. i don’t know who it was, just someone walking by, but it—” he lets out a shaky breath. “it smelled so much like you.”

your heart clenches. “me?”

“yeah,” he says, voice low, almost like he’s embarrassed. “and i just—god, i didn't know i could recognize it so easily, y’know? i never paid attention to that stuff before. but it hit me so fast. like my brain was like, oh, she’s here, and i looked around like an idiot.”

you’re quiet, lips curling into something helpless and warm. “you’re so cute.”

“shut up,” he mutters, and it sounds half-defensive, half-melting. “i was just—i don’t know, kind of spiraling.”

“i should’ve given you the bottle before you left,” you murmur. “you could’ve sprayed it on your pillow or something. maybe your hoodie. made it easier.”

“okay well, actually,” he says, suddenly brisk. “i’m in a fragrance store right now.”

your eyebrows shoot up. “what?”

“i literally walked away from the guys and came in here. i don’t even know what i’m doing.”

you’re smiling so hard your cheeks hurt. “so you called me to ask what perfume i use?”

“maybe,” he says quietly. “maybe i just wanted to hear your voice while i looked for you in a bottle.”

you bury your face in your hand. “seungmin.”

“don’t make it a thing,” he grumbles, but his voice is soft again. “just tell me what it is. i wanna spray it on my wrist or my hoodie or something, and maybe then i won’t look around every time i smell it.”

you tell him, and he repeats it back softly, twice—like he’s memorizing it.

“okay,” he says, “i found it.”

you smile into the phone. “go on then, give it a try. you gotta confirm it’s really me.”

there’s a little silence. the soft pop of the sample nozzle. then—

he gets quiet.

too quiet.

you wait, lips parted, holding your breath like the silence might break if you exhale too hard.

“minnie?” you say gently.

on the other end of the line, there’s a small rustle—like he’s pulling the test strip closer—and then a faint breath, nearly soundless.

“...yeah,” he says, but it’s barely there. hushed. careful.

“is it the right one?” you ask, smiling even though you can’t see him.

another pause.

“it feels like you’re right here.”

you chest tightens.

another rustle—probably him turning away from the counter, footsteps echoing as he walks deeper into the store.

“i need to hang up.”

you blink. “wait, what? why—”

“just—thank you,” he says, quickly, like it hurts. “seriously. thank you.”

“min—”

but the line clicks before you can finish.

your phone rings just as you're brushing your teeth, screen lighting up with minnie calling. it’s early—too early for your brain to do much thinking—but your heart wakes up faster than the rest of you.

you swipe the call and press it to your ear, foam still in your mouth.

“hi, seungmin,” you mumble around your toothbrush, voice muffled and lazy.

he doesn't answer right away. just… breathes.

low. slow. deliberate.

you pause mid-brush. “...minnie?”

“baby,” he says, and something about his voice makes your hand freeze midair. deeper than usual. lower. like he’s under the covers, talking into the pillow.

“what time is it over there?”

“past midnight.”

“shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

a quiet chuckle. “couldn’t. been thinking about you.”

your cheeks warm instantly as you flicked the light switch and made your way to your bedroom.

“earlier today, your scent,” he adds, voice dragging a little now, like he’s letting each word settle before moving on. “you really messed me up with that.”

you sit down on the edge of your bed, heart pounding. “what are you doing?”

he inhales, slow—like he’s giving you a hint without actually saying anything.

“mm… i'm in bed,” he says, voice velvety. “lights are off. window’s open a little.”

you smile, because he’s playing. “and?”

he’s silent for a beat. then—softly, “jisung’s not here.” his designated hotel roommate.

you lean back into your pillow, a little breath catching in your throat. “where is he?”

“went to see chan. they’re doing a livestream in his room.” a pause. “won’t be back for a while.”

you don’t say anything—can’t, really—but the line’s quiet in that loaded kind of way. your breath hitches just enough.

he hears it.

“you gonna keep pretending you don’t know what i’m doing?” he says, voice dipping into something firmer, smoother. “or are you gonna be good and ask me what i want you to do?”

your legs press together on instinct, pulse suddenly very loud in your ears.

“we haven’t had a call like this yet,” you whisper, your voice barely holding steady.

“i know, baby. for now just stay with me.”

distance could do terrible things to people who loved each other. it stretched silence into assumptions, turned waiting into resentment, made every little misstep feel like betrayal.

and tonight, it was doing its worst.

“i just don’t get why you didn’t say anything,” you snap, hands gripping the steering wheel. “you waited until now to bring this up?”

“because i knew you’d react like this,” seungmin fires back, voice tight, like he’s trying not to be overheard.

“like what? like i have a problem with you being honest?”

“no,” he says, “like you twist it into something about you. like you always do.”

“wow.” you pause. blink. “you’re backstage, aren’t you?”

“yes.”

“then why the hell did you call me now if you don’t even have time to talk about this properly?”

“because it’s been eating me alive and i didn’t want to go on stage feeling like this, okay?” his voice wavers. not loud. just frayed.

you exhale, eyes stinging. “i’m not your emotional dumping ground.”

you suck in a shaky breath, throat tight.

“and you could’ve talked about this without raising your voice at me,” you say, quieter now.

there’s silence on the line.

you hear him shift, maybe press his palm over the phone. muffled voices in the background—staff calling him.

“anyway,” you continue, forcing the tremble out of your voice. “i don’t want to bring you down before your show.”

he’s still silent.

“i’m sorry, seungmin. i really am.” your voice softens further. “i love you. are we good?”

a beat. then—

“yeah. we’re good.”

your heart clenches.

you wait.

just for a second.

just long enough to hope he says it back.

but he doesn’t.

the line goes dead.

you sit there, phone still pressed to your ear, staring at nothing.

it’s been hours. half a day, maybe more.

you haven’t heard from him since.

you’re at your desk, legs curled under your chair, coffee cold, unread emails glowing in tabs you haven’t touched.

your phone buzzes.

seungmin: just got back. wanna call?

you stare at the message, thumb hovering.

you: it’s past midnight over there.

a few seconds later:

seungmin: it’s alright. are you busy?

you glance around your office—empty, quiet, dim with the afternoon light pooling through the blinds. the answer’s obvious.

you: no.

the typing bubble appears. disappears. Then your screen lights up.

incoming call: seungmin

your heart skips.

you hesitate just a moment but you answer anyway.

“hey,” he says softly, voice scratchy, tired. like he’s been sitting in silence just waiting to hear you.

you don’t say anything right away.

he waits.

“you should be asleep,” you murmur.

he chuckles faintly. “couldn’t. been thinking about you.”

you exhale, shoulders dropping just a little. “me too.”

“yeah?”

“yeah.”

you rest your chin on your hand, eyes tracing the little scratches on your desk, voice still quiet. “how was the concert?”

he breathes out a small laugh. “we did well. it was great.”

“were you tired during the dance sets?” you ask gently, genuinely. “you didn’t sound winded, but i know you’ve been pushing your knee too hard.”

there’s a pause.

he says, voice low with something like awe. “yeah, it was sore. but i iced it after. chan made me”

you laugh.

then, soft again, he says, “i’m sorry.”

you close your eyes. “me too.”

and it’s not everything, not the whole conversation. but it’s enough for now.

“I love you,” you whisper, trying again.

you can hear him smiling, even through the static.

“i love you too,” he says. “so much.”

you smile back, cheeks warm and aching in the best way.

but then—softly, almost before you mean to say it.

“i don’t wanna get used to this.”

there’s a pause. the kind that makes your throat tighten.

“used to what?” he asks gently.

you swallow. “being apart from you.”

he breathes in through his nose. slowly. “you think that’s happening?”

you shrug, even though he can’t see you. “some days it’s easier. and i hate that. like… am i supposed to be okay with not hearing your voice until midnight? with seeing you through screens more than in person?”

he doesn’t answer right away. just listens.

so you go on, voice smaller now. “are we starting to miss each other less?”

and then he says it, soft but sure.

“no.”

“i’m scared i’m gonna,” you admit, a little too quietly.

he exhales. “you won’t.”

“how do you know?”

“because i’m still here,” he says. “and every time you call, every time you say my name, it still feels like the first time. i’m never gonna be something you forget how to want.”

you blink fast, throat thick.

“even if it gets easier,” he adds, “it doesn’t mean it means less. it just means we’re learning how to carry it better.”

you nod, tears prickling—but this time, they feel okay.

safe.

like love you can live inside of.

“you’re still the first thing i think about,” you whisper.

“good,” he murmurs. “same.”

you pick up and immediately the screen is sideways, showing a very blurry Jisung laughing so hard he’s bent over the hotel bed.

"hellooooo," jisung yells directly into the phone.

you blink. "uh… hi?"

the screen rights itself. seungmin appears—barefaced, hair messy, eyes way too shiny to be sober. he’s lying on his stomach, chin squished into a pillow, voice soft and dangerously sweet.

“hi, baby,” he says, all low and slurred and dangerous.

“oh no,” you whisper. “how drunk are you two?”

“not drunk,” he insists.

“he’s drunk,” jisung confirms helpfully, popping into frame again and waving.

“shut up,” seungmin mumbles, blindly swatting at him.

you snort. “what’s happening over there?”

“he has something to tell you,” jisung says smugly.

seungmin groans, burying half his face in the blanket. “jisung…”

“tell her what you told me,” jisung insists.

“han jisung, shut your entire mouth.”

“too late. he said—” jisung gasps dramatically, clutching his chest. “‘if she were here right now I’d let her ruin my life.’”

a beat of silence.

then seungmin smacks him off camera with a pillow.

seungmin flips back into frame, completely disheveled and pouty. “seriously, come over sweetpea.”

“i’m in a different country.”

“weak excuse,” he grumbles, already rolling over onto his side like the call’s exhausting him.

jisung peeks in again, holding up a half-eaten macaron. “if you were here, we’d give you one of these.”

you laugh, full and warm, cheeks sore from smiling.

“save some for me then,” you say, voice soft but playful.

seungmin doesn’t hear it—he’s already buried back into the pillow, mumbling something incoherent about what the bed smells like.

but jisung hears it.

he freezes, mid-bite, eyes snapping to the screen.

you meet his gaze.

he widens his eyes, mouthing: really?

you bite back a smile and give the tiniest, most deliberate nod.

his entire face lights up, but then he clamps his mouth shut, physically slaps a hand over it, and glances at Seungmin, who’s currently face down and humming the mario kart theme into the blanket.

“oh my god,” Jisung mouths again, silently losing it.

you put a finger to your lips, shhh.

he nods rapidly, then mimes zipping his lips and throwing the key.

seungmin groans. “why is it so quiet now? what—are you guys passing notes like it’s high school?”

“no,” jisung says, biting into his macaron and struggling not to beam. “just studying. real academic vibes over here.”

seungmin rolls over again, squinting. “weirdos.”

you just smile.

“see you soon,” you whisper, quiet enough that only jisung catches it.

and he grins like he’s holding the world’s best secret. because he is.

the screen lights up with a familiar facetime ring.

you answer, already smiling. “hi.”

his face appears—dim lighting, hoodie up, hair messy like he’s been running his hands through it all night. he’s lying on his side in bed, camera slightly tilted. there’s a stillness to him tonight. the kind that feels heavier than silence.

“hey,” he says, voice low. a little tired. a little distant.

you tuck your legs underneath you on the couch. “how long’s it been now?”

he doesn’t even pause to think. “five months.”

you nod. “we’re halfway.”

“only halfway.”

your breath catches at that. you weren’t expecting him to say it like that—like it’s a sentence.

you sigh, fingers tightening around your phone. “yeah.”

for a moment, neither of you say anything.

“i know you’re tired,” you say gently.

“i’m fine,” he replies, but there’s no weight behind it. like he’s used to pretending. “it just… feels really far tonight.”

you nod slowly, throat tight. “i know. it feels far for me too.”

he looks at you for a second longer—eyes a little glassy, lips parted like he’s about to say something, then thinks better of it.

but he does.

“i miss you, sweetheart.”

your breath catches in your chest.

he rarely calls you that. only when he means it. when he’s feeling something he doesn’t know how to explain in full sentences.

you swallow hard. “soon.”

he nods, slow. “yeah. soon.”

he has no idea just how soon.

no idea that your suitcase is already packed. that your flight lands tomorrow morning. that the hotel front desk already has your name and a keycard.

and as he murmurs, “i wish i could hold your hand right now,”

you smile.

“you will,” you say softly.

you keep replaying it in your head—seungmin’s face when he saw you in the crowd. that second of shock, then the dumbest grin as he stumbled over a lyric and tried to play it off like he meant to do that. you’d almost cried. almost.

and now it’s past midnight, the concert hours behind you, and you know he’s taken his time wiping off the sweat and glitter of it all, probably still tangled in post-show chaos and crew goodbyes.

which is why, when you hear the knock at your hotel room door, your heart does that annoying fluttery thing. you don’t even hesitate—you’re off the bed in seconds, bare feet padding across the floor, and you already know who it is before you check the peephole.

you open the door.

and there he is.

hair slightly damp, hoodie pulled low over his forehead, backpack slung over one shoulder. tired eyes—but shining. always shining when they’re on you.

most of his face is hidden in the shadows of the hood, just the curve of his cheekbone catching the hallway light. you can’t really see him, not fully. but you’d know that silhouette anywhere.

you don’t even get a word out. he drops his bag, wraps his arms around you, and pulls you into him like you’re the only thing holding him up. you let out a small squeal, laughing, your arms looping around his neck just as he lifts you straight off the ground.

“seungmin—!” you giggle as he spins you in a circle, your feet kicking in the air.

“i missed you,” he breathes into your shoulder before setting you down slowly. “i missed you so bad.”

once your feet touch the carpet, you're grabbing the front of his hoodie and tugging him inside. the door swings shut behind him with a soft click, and before he can blink, you’re kissing him.

he melts immediately, like he’s been waiting all night for this because he has. his hands slide back around your waist, pulling you in tighter and you giggle into it—completely overwhelmed and completely in love.

he stumbles forward a little, still kissing you, until your back hits the wall with a muted thud. you gasp softly into his mouth, grinning now as he presses into you, and he pulls back just enough to look at you, dazed.

“what…” he breathes, his lips brushing yours, “…what are you doing here?”

you blink at him, still catching your breath, still grinning. “i wanted to come surprise you.”

he just stares at you for a beat, like he’s trying to figure out if you’re real. then he exhales sharply, shaking his head. “you’re a crazy, crazy girl, you know right?”

“you think i’d let you go out of the country for ten months and not visit you?” you say, voice light, teasing, warm. “you really thought i could go that long without seeing your dumb face?”

he doesn’t answer. just lets out this soft, wrecked little sound—half-laugh, half-sigh—as he wraps his arms around you again, tighter this time. he buries his face into your hoodie, right against your collarbone, his breath warm through the fabric. you hug him back instantly, arms wrapping under his and holding him close. he clings. like he’s cold and you’re the only source of warmth he’ll ever need.

“come on,” you murmur, one hand coming up to cradle the back of his head gently. “let me see you, now.”

he shakes his head against you, just the tiniest movement. doesn’t loosen his grip. doesn’t lift his head.

“seungmin,” you whisper again, a little firmer, leaning back slightly so you can reach up and tug his hood down.

the fabric falls away. his hair’s tousled, still a little damp from a shower or maybe the rain outside, and his face is hidden—tilted down, eyes trained on the floor. he still hasn’t looked at you properly.

all he does is lift his hand up to his face. wipes at his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie. you catch the tremble in his fingers.

a sniffle.

“oh, minnie…” you whisper, your heart cracking wide open.

despite the way he towers over you, his shoulders are hunched, his head bowed low like he’s trying to disappear into himself.

you coo softly, barely a sound.

that does it.

he lets out this weak, shaky sigh like he’s been holding it in since the moment he saw you at the concert, maybe longer—and your chest seizes with it. he turns his face just slightly, burying it into your shoulder again, arms wrapping tight around your waist like he's scared you'll vanish if he lets go.

your hands are already moving—one smoothing over his back, the other stroking his hair—your body swaying with his as he starts to let out shaky, quiet gasps.

he sniffles again, shoulders still trembling, but when he finally speaks, it’s muffled into your hoodie. “the members were betting on me. on whether or not i’d cry when i saw you.”

you let out a little laugh and reach up to cup his cheeks, gently swiping away the fresh tears still clinging to his lashes. “and who said you wouldn’t cry?”

he hesitates. “me.”

you laugh again—soft and a little breathless—as your thumbs brush gently under his eyes. “of course you did,” you murmur, fingers sliding up to smooth through his damp hair.

he lets out a weak chuckle, eyes fluttering closed at your touch. he leans into your hand for a second before straightening up a bit, pulling his shoulders back like he’s trying to regain a sliver of composure.

even now, red-eyed and sniffling, there’s still something solid about him. the way he holds you, the way he stands just a bit in front of you like he’d shield you from the world if it even looked at you wrong.

seungmin's lips part, like he wants to say something but the words won’t come. instead, he just stares at you, eyes darting across your face like he’s trying to take in every inch of you he’s missed. like he’s scared you’ll be gone if he blinks too long.

“you have no idea how much i needed this,” he whispers.

you step closer, hands finding his again. “that's why i'm here.”

he shakes his head, fingers tightening around yours. “no, like—” he exhales hard, eyes shining as he glances down at your joined hands. “you don’t get it. every night, i’d come back and just... lie on the hotel bed and pretend you were next to me. i missed everything. your voice, your stupid little yawns, the way you poke me when i zone out.”

you let out a laugh, watery and soft. “i do not poke you.”

“you do,” he insists, eyes wide like it’s the most important fact in the world. “you go like this—” he imitates a dramatic jab to your side, making you laugh and swat his arm. he chuckles, bright and breathless, and then quiets.

your heart flutters and you don’t even try to hide how it shows on your face. you tug his hand and backpedal toward the bed, flopping onto it with a gentle bounce. propped up on your elbows, you tilt your head at him. “c’mere.”

seungmin shrugs off his backpack, then tugs his hoodie off by the back—grabbing it near the collar and pulling it over in one smooth, practiced motion. he holds it in front of him for a second, then slips out of the sleeves with the opposite hand.

his t-shirt clings in places and hangs loose in others, fabric soft and worn and framing the lean lines of his torso in a way that’s criminally distracting. your eyes fall on the way it shifts with every movement—subtle dips of collarbone, the slight curve of his waist.

your fingers curl slightly in the blanket beneath you as he steps closer, and your breath hitches without permission. god, you missed him. not just his face or his voice, but all of him—how he moves, how he fills the space around you like no one else can.

seungmin crawls onto the bed, slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving yours. the mattress dips under his weight and the second he's close enough, your hands reach up instinctively—fingertips grazing his forearm, his side, like you’re checking if he’s really here.

he smells like his body wash, clean and warm with something a little woodsy. familiar. comforting. so him.

then he leans in, arms bracketing either side of your body, and your whole world narrows to just the space between you, until finally—finally—his lips brush against yours.

it’s soft. barely even a kiss at first, more like the ghost of one, like he’s still afraid he’ll break the moment if he moves too fast. but you kiss him back, and then he presses in more fully, and it’s everything. warm and slow and full of all the things you’ve both been trying not to say out loud.

he kisses you again, and again, each one a little deeper than the last—like he’s making up for every single day you were apart. one hand comes up to cradle your jaw, his thumb sweeping tender over your cheek.

“i love you so much,” he whispers, like it’s a confession. like it still stuns him just how badly he felt it.

you nod, blinking back the sudden sting behind your eyes. “i love you too.”

he exhales shakily, and then he kisses you once more—slow, full of longing—and you swear you feel the world right itself a little, just because he’s here.

he pulls away, just slightly, and rests his forehead against yours. your noses bump, and he closes his eyes, smiling so softly it barely lifts the corners of his mouth. “i was scared you’d forget about me.”

you shake your head, hand settling over his heart. “you’re impossible to forget. trust me, i tried.”

“i know,” he breathes. “me too. it was unbearable sometimes.”

you tilt your chin up and kiss the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, slow and lingering. his skin is warm under your lips, and you feel him exhale shakily, his body softening against yours like your touch is the thing holding him together.

his hands wander a little now, like he can’t help it—tracing slow lines along your back, the dip of your waist, smoothing down your arm and back up again. his hand slips beneath the shirt under your hoodie, smoothing over bare skin, and your breath catches.

you let him pull the layers of fabric over your head. let him take his time. he kisses down your neck, your chest, soft and focused, every press of his lips asking, are you sure?

and every answer you give is yes.

you wake up slowly, warm and hazy, the kind of rest that only comes after feeling completely safe. the curtains are still drawn, soft light peeking through just enough to glow against the sheets.

and then you feel it—his hand, resting on your waist. his thumb tracing little circles on your skin, like he never stopped touching you even in his sleep.

you blink your eyes open.

he’s already awake, head propped on one arm, looking at you with the calmest expression you’ve ever seen on him. the kind that makes your heart ache just a little because you know how much he doesn’t show easily.

“you’re staring,” you murmur, voice rough from sleep.

“you’re pretty when you’re confused and squinty,” he says, lips curving just barely.

you smile, still half-asleep, but it turns real fast when he leans in and kisses you—soft and unhurried, his fingers brushing your cheek like he’s still making sure you’re real.

“good morning,” you whisper.

“technically almost noon,” he teases. “but yeah. it’s good now.”

he pulls back, just enough to give you room as you sit up, blanket tugged up to cover your chest. your fingers instinctively rake through your tangled hair, and he watches you with a little too much amusement.

then he shifts, reaching over the side of the bed to dig through his bag.

“i have something for you,” he says casually.

and then he turns back around—with a box of macarons in his hand.

you gasp, grinning instantly. “you didn’t.”

he takes one out, leans in with the smuggest little grin, and holds it to your lips.

“if you were here,” he says, softly now, “you’d be eating one of these. and you are. so.”

you roll your eyes, but open your mouth anyway, taking a bite—and he watches you like he just won the lottery.

“sweet enough?” he murmurs.

you swallow, cheeks warm. “almost.”

he leans in again, brushing a kiss to the corner of your mouth.

“now?” he asks.

“perfect,” you whisper.

and he smiles like he never wants to be anywhere else ever again.

[junrenjun]

when you listen to a song and it gives you inspiration to daydream an answer to the plot hole in the story building inside your head

[junrenjun]

1-800-WHENEVER-U-WANT-IT | ft. Stray Kids

In which Jisung is honest about what he wants. Not surprisingly, his boyfriends want it, too.

— Rating; E for Explicit

— Pairing(s); Everyone x Everyone, SKZ OT8, SKZ x Reader

— Author’s Note; I’m always yapping about this concept on the blog so I finally decided to do something about it. It was supposed to be a drabble… but look where that got me SMH. [There will be a part two but like…. don’t ask me when that’s coming because girlies…. idk either!]

— Warnings; mlm content, everyone fucks and everyone fucks each other (regardless of gender), smidge of brat taming, sexual flashbacks, objectification of the female body (??? i mean, they’re talking about reader’s pussy so— do what you will with that), pussy delivered via air-express pretty much, mostly jisung-centric, chan gets twinked, reader is older, uh— idk am i missing something???

Jisung is the first to let it slip.

“I miss pussy.”

He feels bad for blurting it out like that, but only slightly. A weird break between performances coupled with more beers than he’d like to count have him feeling loose in regard to his brain-mouth filter. He doesn’t have much of one to begin with, but even then, he thinks he would have a bit more tact.

“What?” Felix asks, deep voice drawing everyone’s attention.

Jisung shrugs, picking at the label on his beer bottle. “I miss pussy. Like, real bad.”

An image pops into his head when he thinks about it more — a memory from what feels like a millennia ago.

Soft, glistening thighs, slick with arousal that drips from the cunt between them. The prettiest he’s ever seen; a delectable mound of flesh that Jisung can’t wait to get his mouth on. The sticky sound that accompanies the act of thumbing the folds open makes him sigh with content. The feeling deepens as he reveals a cute, pudgy clitoris and a pulsing hole that can only be described as hungry.

“Jisung,” the voice turns his name into a siren call. Hips jut forward, a silent plea for him to follow through with his promise. “Please.”

In real time, Jisung groans the same way he had in the memory. He can feel the way his mouth has begun to water, enticed by the phantom scent of eager pussy, dick chubbing up between his legs. Someone whistles and it makes heat prickle the skin of his throat and face. He reaches to adjust his erection, feeling a bit like a pathetic virgin.

“Are we not enough for you anymore?” Felix asks, pouring. The look in his eye tells Jisung that he’s teasing, but it doesn’t stop Jisung from trying to explain.

“No!” He shouts, eyes wide. “That’s not what I—“

“Unbelievable,” Minho spits, but it’s said with less venom than a normally angry Minho would use.

“You have access to more dicks and holes than you know what to do with and you’re still hungry for more.”

Jisung ducks his head, chin to his chest and almost sheepish, but part of him (his dick) likes the way Minho teases him — a little mean, and a lot of sexy. Minho knows this, as confirmed by the lingering smirk on his lips.

“Kind of disrespectful, don’t you think?”

“Kind of whorish of him, actually,” Jeongin scoffs.

“No—,” Jisung denies, “It’s— It’s not—“ he looks around for help, eyes bouncing from member to member in search of someone to aide in his defense.

“It’s not just any pussy though,” Chan fills in, watching as Jisung’s body deflates of tension at being understood. Chan grins, undeniably soft where his first kid is concerned.

“You miss pussy, but like, there’s more to it than that, right?” — Hyunjin asks, eyes squinted in Jisung’s direction — “Like, you’re missing one pussy in particular?”

“Yeah,” Jisung nods eagerly, “Just one.”

“Whose pussy do you miss, ‘Sung?” It’s Changbin who speaks this time and Jisung finds it funny that this conversation has become a group affair given the circumstances.

“You mean he’s had more than one?” Seungmin jabs before Jisung can answer, evil cackle ensuing.

Jisung only glares, fully preparing something say slick right back, but the next few things happen so quickly that Jisung find himself speechless. There’s a hand fisted in Seungmin’s floppy locks, one that Jisung recognizes to be Minho’s. Minho gestures with his free hand for Jisung to continue speaking and he does, but not before Changbin is telling Seungmin to keep quiet,

“Hush, Puppy,” the older male rasps, side-eying Seungmin as if to question his bratty behavior.

Seungmin doesn’t speak, just blinks dopily from where he’s seated. Now, with Seungmin caught between Minho’s literal grasp and Changbin’s undeniable brat-taming aura, Jisung musters up the courage to put a name to his desire.

There’s only one pussy in the entire cosmos that would have any of them so gone over that they’re still thinking about it months down the road. Despite knowing the outcome, it doesn’t stop the room from erupting in a chorus of agreements with Jisung’s next word. And that’s all it is — just a reverent, breathy utterance of a name that has all eight of them reminiscing.

Yours.

“Fuck,” Jeongin groans, his own mind suddenly filled with memories of you and your sweet, little cunt. “Why’d you have to bring her up? Now I’m thinking about Noona’s pussy, too!”

“We’re all thinking about it now, you little shit,” Changbin grunts, dragging a hand down his face.

Jisung balks, mildly offended. He takes back what he said earlier about almost feeling bad for bringing up the fact that he misses pussy. They asked him a question and he answered. What— did they want him to lie? Jisung hasn’t had pussy that wasn’t yours in over a year! He’d even go as far as to say he’s not the only one either; in fact, he’s willing to bet all the won in his wallet that the rest of the guys are in the same exact boat. Besides! It’s not like it’s a crime to think about you.

“I miss it, too,” Felix says, looking like he’s pained. He gulps, adam’s apple bobbing with the action. “Miss how wet it gets. Never have to use lube, you know?”

Hyunjin, though silent, is experiencing his own moment of duress. Felix’s words send him spiraling down memory lane. Sure, it’s been a few months, but Hyunjin could never forget how messy your pussy gets. Fragments of memories play over and over again in his brain, nothing but phantom echoes of your moans and the sound of your creamy cunt.

“Look,” Hyunjin says, propping your head up with his hand. He angles your neck in such a way that you won’t be uncomfortable, but it also forces you to stare down at where his cock is half buried inside you.

“Look at how messy you are, how messy you’ve made me.”

“S-Sorry,” you gasp up at him, eyelids fluttering when he slides all the way back in. You can literally feel how each stroke pushes wetness out of your cunt, leaving it frothing at the base of his cock and slipping down your back side.

“Don’t be sorry,” Hyunjin coos, savoring the sight of your pussy gushing all over his dick before he leans in to lock his lips with yours. “I fucking love you messy.”

“Yeah,” he rasps, mouth suddenly feeling dry. He takes a swig of his beer like it’s going to help the issue. “I’ll second that.”

“I think I miss how sensitive she gets. It’s so easy it is to make her come just by playing with her clit.”

If Jeongin hadn’t been staring in his general direction, he wouldn’t have been able to tell who’s speaking. Nonetheless, he feels it viscerally when Seungmin’s words hit him in the gut; he fights the urge to whine as a flashback hits him. Hard.

“Wait, w-wait,” you whine, high and pretty, “It’s too much!”

Jeongin can only cluck his tongue and shake his head, fingers curling deeper into your cunt. You’ve come for him twice already, surely you can come a third time — even though you were ready to tap out after the first one. He knows you’re close; you’re clenching around his fingers like crazy, hips jumping every time he lets his knuckles catch on the sensitive skin of your entrance. Jeongin hears you sniffle, body sagging as it loses the ability to fight.

“That’s right,” he coos, bringing his thumb up to circle the twitching and neglected bud of your clit. “Stop fighting it.”

You gasp, chanting little, broken syllables of his name as he works you closer to the edge. Jeongin doesn’t even care that his dick is hard, covered in your slick, and hanging neglected between his own legs when you look like this. Nothing matters more than making you come. Not here, not now, and certainly not when you’re crying in his bed and squirting all over his sheets.

“I’m with Seungmin-hyung on this one,” he croaks out, “tapping out after one round is crazy work.”

“Tight,” Changbin mumbles solemnly, thick fingers gripping even thicker thighs. “Miss how it just —,” he pauses, hands coming together to squeeze the air, “hugs my cock. Still amazed at how such a tiny hole can fit all of us like a glove.”

Changbin’s eyes are wild, pupils dilated so wide that he looks nearly unrecognizable. Minho doesn’t need a mirror to know that Changbin’s expression is being recreated on his own face. The thing is, Minho doesn’t get affected by shit like this; his self control is impeccable! Yet, here he is, sporting a half boner in front of seven other guys as he thinks about how snug your pussy feels when he’s inside it.

Minho’s hands have a death grip on your hips. He grits his teeth to stay focused, to retain basic decency instead of losing his marbles like a caveman. He doesn’t think anyone can blame him though, not like this. Who wouldn’t lose their shit when a pretty woman is bouncing in their lap? A pretty woman with a tight and hot, little pussy that she keeps trying to spear open on his dick.

“You’re gonna — fuck— hurt yourself,” he grits while making no move to bring you to a halt.

“Hurts now,” you whimper pitifully. You corkscrew your hips and manage to sink down on him a bit further, leaving Minho to beg internally for the higher powers to have mercy on him.

“Hurts so good though,” you whine, squeezing Minho’s hips with your knees.

Before he can say anything, your mouth is on his, slipping that devious tongue of yours into his mouth almost instantly. Feeling the way you melt as the kiss goes on, sparks fire in Minho’s veins. Call him crazy but he can feel your pussy get wetter. It clenches when he bites your bottom lip, gushes when he licks to soothe it, and all of a sudden you’re properly seated in his lap with a creaky moan.

“Shit,” he curses, hyper aware of current state. “Don’t you fucking move; there’s no way I’m coming first.”

“You okay there, kitty-hyung?” Seungmin teases, finding entertainment in the older man’s struggle, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“If you value your life, Kim Seungmin, you’ll shut the fuck up right now,” said man grumbles, before letting out a gruff sigh. “Changbin’s not wrong though; feels like I’m gonna break her every single time.”

By the end of it all, Jisung feels deranged.

Logically, he understands that he’s (mostly) to blame here — after all, this whole situation started because of him — but, like, come on! He’s losing his mind! If his own recollection of you isn’t enough to kill him, everyone’s reasons for missing you in their beds will surely do the trick. His dick is leaking at this point, needy and angry in the confines of his pants. He misses your pussy so bad; he misses you so bad. So much so that he’s ready to say fuck the contract, fuck the NDA, and fuck JYP in the form of catching the next flight to wherever you are.

Dispatch would have a field day with that one, for sure. And fortunately — or unfortunately, from Jisung’s point of view — Chan would have him beheaded for being reckless and horny. It’s not the potential of his ruined reputation, or even being murdered by his leader, that keeps him rooted right where he’s at though. Dispatch wouldn’t only drag him and the rest of the group through the mud, they’d ruin you, too. Fans would tear you apart, call you mean things and dox your information like half of them aren’t grown men who’re pushing closer to the thirty every day.

Jisung can’t have that. Yes, he needs you something fierce, but not by any means that would call for risking your safety just so he can get his dick wet. Instead, he turns to the one person who hasn’t spoken since the beginning. The only one of them who can put an end to his suffering: Chan.

“Hyung,” Jisung rasps, turning to where Chan is seated. The older man is refusing to make eye contact, full lips pulled into a straight line.

The rest of the room seems to catch onto Jisung’s whims, all of them choosing to stare Chan down too. Chan can feel their eyes on him in the way heat crawls up his neck, prickling his skin along the way. He shouldn’t indulge them; he should hold strong, tell them how ridiculous it would be to make you fly out while they’re on tour nonetheless.

“Hyung,” Jisung tries again, “Hyung, please.”

“Jisung,” Chan says back, still refusing to look at him. “Jisung, you know that’s not—“

“C’mon, Chris,” Felix cuts, pretty lips pursed in a pout.

“She— She might be busy!”

“Bullshit,” someone coughs, followed by the clearing of their throat.

It was a futile protest and Chan knows as much. He saw the eye rolls some of his members gave at his response; they know just like he does that the probability of you being too busy is slim-to-none. Truthfully, he doesn’t even know why he’s resisting so hard — outside of the tour, that is. It has been awhile and the kids miss you like crazy which would be enough reason to call you alone. Hell, Chan misses you like crazy and if you knew of the struggle he’s having right now, you’d probably threaten to castrate him in his sleep.

Amidst his mental monologue — and as if they’d anticipated further refusal — Jisung and Felix seem to have a moment of twin telepathy. Chan doesn’t see them coming, but ultimately knows he’s fucked when he suddenly has a lap full of them. He’s a sucker for any of his kids on a normal day, but Jisung — his very first — and Felix — his little taste of Australia — hold a special place in Chan’s heart. One that they clearly are using to their advantage.

“Chan,” Jisung mumbles, all chubby cheeks and batting lashes, arms slinging around Chan’s neck like it’s just the two of them, “Channie-hyung.”

“Please?” Felix asks, voice even lower than normal. One of his tiny hands comes to play with Chan’s hair, and he even kisses the line of Chan’s jaw for a critical double-hit. “Please, Chris?”

“Call her. Channie-hyung, please call her. Tell her how badly we need her; she’ll come.”

“Yeah, do it for us, Hyung,” Hyunjin joins in, drawing Chan’s attention. Hyunjin’s long limbs spread out in a stretch that appears more provocative than it has any right to be, making Chan’s dick kick in his shorts.

“I—,” he begins, unprepared for the unanimous chorus of ‘Hyung!’ that interrupts him. Cruel of his boys to all gang up on him like this — downright heinous.

“Okay,” he croaks, trying to ignore that Felix is still working his mouth over the skin of Chan’s neck. Or the fact that someone’s hand is snaking into the pocket of his shorts. “I’ll call her.”

“Great!” Changbin claps his hands, giddy smile taking over his face.

“Lino-hyung will book the flight!” Seungmin shouts while pressing Chan’s phone into his hand and nearly taking out his eardrum in the process. “And I call first dibs!” He says, cackling like an evil minion.

Finally, the focus is off Chan as chaos erupts, everyone fighting to be the person that gets to have you first. It’s Chan’s turn to roll his eyes now; there’s sort of an unspoken rule that first (and last) “dibs” belong to him. Chan doesn’t usually exercise his superiority when it comes to activities with you, but considering the moves they pulled on him to get here tonight, he thinks this time might just be the first.

“Brats,” Chan murmurs under his breath as he unlocks his phone to get to your contact.

His finger hovers over your picture briefly. He lets himself take a deep breath, then clicks on your number like he said he would. The phone rings and rings for a few beats, not doing anything to quell Chan’s nervousness. He thinks of hanging up and trying again, but then the picks up and out comes your voice, thick with what Chan only assumes to be sleepiness, meaning that he’s woken you up from.

“H-Hello,” you mumble, sounding so cute that Chan forgets every con that he had towards calling you in the first place.

“Hi, baby,” he croons through the speaker, desire running rampant at the sound of your sleepy voice. The next question is more of a formality than a true question, especially when he sees Minho already dropping the link to your flight confirmation into the group chat.

“Wanna take a trip?”

© hyungszn 2025; please do not copy, steal, repost, modify, translate, use for ai, or recommend on any other platform without my permission!

[junrenjun]

I loveeeee ur writing sm! I always go back to it even when it's the crack of dawn lol. I miss understand series sm

this made me so happy! sometimes I forget people actually enjoy reading my stuff lol

I’m so sorry about the lack of writing lately guys, work has been CRAZY and I’ve been so exhausted. I’m hoping to finish out the requests for my summer writing even very soon.

in the meantime, if you want to send asks about the understand series feel free :)

[junrenjun]

From Boy to Man

Summary: You weren't blind. You'd seen how Jisung had gained muscle over tour, and it was very safe to say that every picture and video that you saw got you more and more wound up. And so when you saw your boyfriend for the first time in a while, you just couldn't keep your hands to yourself.

Pairing: Jisung X Reader (F!)

Genre: Fluff, Smut (18+)

Warnings: little baby Jisung at the beginning, switch! Jisung, switch! Reader, Reader rides Jisung, penetrative sex (wrap it before you tap it!), pussy job, oral sex (F! receiving), cum eating, creampie, dirty talk, sloppy makeout, 100% 18+ (seriously like if you're a minor don't read pls and thank you <3)

Word Count: 1.8K

You weren't blind. You had noticed how your boyfriend had buffed out over tour, and God, you wanted to get your hands on him so badly. Any pictures you saw, any videos from the tour you witnessed, you'd spam Jisung, letting him know just how crazy he was driving you. And all he'd do was send laughing emojis, happy to know that you enjoyed seeing him like this.

And that was when you were sent tickets to go and see Stray Kids in LA. And oh boy, you couldn't have been more excited. Simply put, Jisung had been missing you, and so he sent you tickets and VIP passes, as well as giving you room keys to his hotel room for after. Yeah, this was so gonna be worth it.

The flight down was uneventful, as well as getting to the hotel. Jisung wasn't there, mostly because of rehearsals. But that was fine. You wanted time to rest after flying from Seoul to California. And so, you took a nap. But it was when you woke up when you felt someone in your arms in front of you. And upon opening your eyes, you saw Jisung, cuddled up against your chest.

Such a sweet baby...

You couldn't help but smile, running your fingers through his hair, pressing a kiss to his forehead. And that was when he stirred, groaning softly before lifting his head, smiling up at you.

"Hey..." Jisung's voice was raspy with sleep. But it was a sound you'd never think you could get over.

"Hey yourself..." You responded, continuing to run your hands through his hair. Jisung just closed his eyes, only to open them again, pressing a kiss to your jaw.

"I missed you, my baby..." Jisung spoke, rolling you onto your back so he could lay more on your chest. It was something Jisung always did at home...something you loved as much as him. "It was so nice to see you after practice...even if you were asleep."

"Yeah, sorry..." You gave him an apologetic smile, pressing a kiss to his forehead once more, watching as he nuzzled his cheek against your left breast. "I wanted to be well rested before seeing you. Is that such a crime?"

"No, not at all." And with that, Jisung sat up, hovering over you with a soft smile, one of his hands going under your head to cradle it. "I'm just happy to see you after so long. You've been taking care of yourself, right? You've been eating enough? Sleeping well?"

You couldn't help but laugh, nodding as you placed a hand onto Jisung's cheek. "I have, yes. I knew you'd be upset if I didn't."

"Of course I would be upset. You mean everything to me...And I worry about you when I'm not there to take care of you." Jisung then pouted, only to place a kiss to your forehead. You just smiled, leaning up to peck his lips.

"Well, thankfully I can take care of myself." And from there, you sat up a bit, only to notice something. He was shirtless. And oh, those muscles...those tattoos. Your eyes darkened slightly, your hand going to gently touch the tattoo on his right collarbone. "You've been working out...your about as big as Changbin now."

Jisung only laughed, watching your reaction. He let you explore his new body, sitting in front of you. "Yeah...Changbin's been dragging me to the gym more. But I don't mind. It's nice to get a new habit going."

You nodded, your hands tracing up his chest, then going to his biceps. It was like you were mesmorized, unable to keep your hands to yourself now. "It suits you..."

"You think?" Jisung questioned, watching as you nodded.

"Mhm. It's weird though...I'm not used to seeing you like this. I don't know if I could resist you like this."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah....I struggled when I saw the pictures and the videos. But now that you're right here?" You looked up at him, seeing that dark gaze meeting your own. "I don't know if I can behave."

"Is that so...?" Jisung smirked, leaning down, his lips grazing yours as he looked to you. "And if I don't want you to behave?"

You felt the wind leave your body. God, he was hot...

"Careful what you wish for, Ji..." You moved a bit closer as well, your eyes becoming hooded. You only saw his smirk grow wider. "You might've gotten bigger, but I can still take you."

"That's what you think, baby." And like that, Jisung grabbed your wrists, pushing you back onto the bed gently, keeping you pinned while hovering over you. "Keep in mind...one of us has been working out. I'm easily able to overpower you now."

Hot.

You just gulped, before narrowing your eyes. While he might think that...he still had his weaknesses. And you knew them way too well. and so, you smiled, tilting your head up with an innocent gaze.

"Aw, and here I thought I'd make your day by riding you..." And there it was. Jisung's dominance faded, his eyes widening and glossing over. You had him.

"W-Wait, actually?" Jisung gulped, looking down at you, feeling himself getting harder by the second. "Don't kid with me here..."

"I'm not kidding." You looked up at him, feeling his grip loosening. You knew he was weak for his girlfriend on top of him, perched naked on his dick. He loved your body. Specifically, your tits. "I figured since you've been working so hard, I should spoil my baby.... but if you don't want that, then so be it--"

"No! No...I want it. I want it so bad, baby...please..." Jisung instantly let go of your hands, letting you sit up. Bingo...you had him hooked. He was such a simp...but you loved that about him.

"Alright then. Strip." You didn't have to tell Jisung twice. He quickly laid on his back, pushing his sweatpants and boxers down, his cock leaping out of his pants and smacking his belly. You just smiled, taking off your shirt before taking your panties off, going to straddle him. And with that, you grinded your pussy against his cock, watching him moan.

"Oh fuck...it's been too long, and yet you feel so good, baby..." Jisung's hands went to your hips, guiding you on his dick. You just smiled, looking down at him. God, he looked so delicious...his broad shoulders and toned body...the way his hands dug into your skin...he was beautiful.

"You aren't even inside of me, and you're already talking like you're gonna cum." You couldn't help but tease, smiling as Jisung continued to moan. And that was when you lifted your hips, lining him up with your entrance. And the second you sunk down, you both moaned, your body shuddering. "Fuck..."

"Oh my god, so fucking tight baby..." Jisung couldn't help but buck his hips up into you, feeling your pussy clench around him. "And you're so wet and warm and aroused...fuck, it's delicious..."

"Ji-Jisung..." You couldn't help but moan, going to take your bra off. Now that was a sight Jisung could get behind. Your bare breasts bouncing as you began to move, your hands on his chest so you could balance. You were an angel...Jisung swore you were. "You feel so good, Ji..."

Jisung just moaned, his hands gripping your hips as he helped you move, knowing that you had your weaknesses too. The biggest one was when he was underneath you. Jisung knew how attractive he was like that...and it meant it was only a matter of time until you fell forward and let him have control.

"You're so beautiful like this...fuck, so fucking pretty on my cock, baby...my sweet baby..." Jisung continued his praise, feeling your body relax more and more. You were right there...and after a buck of Jisung's hips, you crumbled, falling forward into Jisung's arms. And with that, he held you against him, your hips raising just enough. "Hang on, baby...gonna fuck you so good now..."

And with that, his hips thrusted up into you mercilessly. And oh, the sounds that left you, your arms hugging around Jisung's waist as Jisung did exactly as he said. He groaned, his hands digging into your back as he held you there, showing absolutely no mercy. Not only that, but he slipped a hand down between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit to rub it.

"J-Jisung, I-...I'm gonna cum!" You warned. Jisung smirked, kissing your neck as he held you there.

"Go ahead, beautiful...cum on my cock...I'm right behind you, promise..." And like that, you came. It was as if your body was at Jisung's every command, listening to him rather than listening to you.

Not that you cared.

And the second your orgasm started, Jisung groaned, falling into a moan as he came inside you as well, his hips shooting up so he was in all the way, sending his semen right into your womb. And as you both calmed down, Jisung gently settled you on top of him, his hands gently running over your back.

"Easy...easy..." Jisung gently murmured this repeatedly in your ear, his hand slowly leaving your clit before he rolled you onto your back, pulling his cock out of your pussy before spreading your legs and moving back to see something he missed dearly. "Let me see it, baby...let me see how much I stuffed you full..."

You just whined, your pussy slowly gushing Jisung's cum out of it. And Jisung groaned, leaning down to put his head between your thighs. And it didn't take long for his mouth to attach to your pussy, eating you out. You just gasped, your hands shooting down to his head before you moaned out, your back arching as Jisung sucked his cum out of you.

"J-Jisung! Fuck, that feels so good!" You couldn't even focus anymore. His tongue was moving inside of you, licking you clean of your combined fluids, his strong arms going around your thighs to keep you close to him. And the groans and moans he was letting out...he was a man addicted to his girl's pussy. He always had been, always would be.

And it didn't even take 3 minutes for you to cum again, right into his mouth this time. Jisung simply groaned, slurping up every ounce of your release that he could. And once he was done, he moved up your body, his lips clashing against yours. It was messy and sloppy, but god, it was perfect.

And as you both pulled away, you panted into each other's mouths, only for you to look into his eyes.

"Water break and round three?" You offered. That got Jisung to smile, pressing his forehead against yours as he chuckled.

"You read my mind, baby."

Hey! Firstly, thank you so much for reading this post, and I really hope you enjoyed! If you did, please like, reblog, or comment so I can see how I'm doing with writing and getting feedback! I hope you have a lovely day! Sleep well, stay in good health, and eat something if you haven't! ❤️❤️❤️

Taglist: @miss-daisy04 @kayleefriedchicken @wolfs-archive @stayyyyyyyyyyyy21 @wolfs-howling @rose-w-00-d @skzlover24

[junrenjun]

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.

[junrenjun]

2:45 pm || l.mk

pairing: mark x reader

word count: 0.8k

genre: smut (MDNI), timestamp <3

warnings: study buddy!mark, overstimulation, USE OF THE NICKNAME PUPPY…i have no idea what got into me but it made my coochie flutter so ✌🏾

a/n: i saw this post (i can’t find it 💔) and i started to think about this i wrote for anton…and it got me thinking… i just absolutely adore when a sweet guy is a wolf in sheep’s clothing, like mark :3

you don’t know how you got here.

well, you do — it started with that look mark gave you across the dorm common room, all soft smiles and lazy eyes behind wire-frame glasses, the kind of gaze that makes your stomach flutter and your thighs squeeze together. and then his hand on your back as he offered to help you study, gentle but a little too low.

and now you’re in his bed.

you’re trembling, legs wide open and spread across his sheets, thighs shaking as you try to close them — try being the key word, because mark’s still between them, his hand slow and deliberate as he circles your clit. his voice is low near your ear, and it’s sweet. too sweet.

“you’re doing so good, baby,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. “taking it so well.”

your fingers claw at the sheets. your body is soaked with sweat, skin flushed and damp, breath catching in your throat as the stimulation builds and builds — way past the point of comfort, past pleasure, into that dizzying, helpless place where your mind stops working. you can’t even make sounds anymore. no moans, no words — just pitiful little whimpers spilling from your lips, body twitching like you’re short-circuiting.

“shh, shh,” mark coos, and his tone changes. it’s still gentle — but now it’s mocking, saccharine and laced with cruel affection. “i know, baby. it’s so much, isn’t it, puppy?

the pet name hits you like a punch to the gut, hot and humiliating and perfect.

your hips jerk involuntarily as his fingers slow down just to speed up again, keeping you on that unbearable edge. you whine — or try to. it comes out cracked and breathless.

“look at you,” he purrs, lips brushing your jaw. “all fucked out and i haven’t even fucked you yet. you wanted me so bad, huh? couldn’t focus on your flashcards, too busy thinking about me?”

you nod frantically, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. you didn’t think mark would be like this — all that soft boy energy in class, all those gentle smiles and shy touches, and now he’s got you on your back trembling and barely coherent, teasing you like it’s the sweetest thing in the world.

he kisses your cheek tenderly. “poor thing. don’t cry,” he whispers, pushing two fingers inside you with slow, deliberate precision, making you gasp and arch your back. “you’re being so good for me.”

then he curls his fingers just right, and the world tilts —

and all you can do is whimper.

you’re still trembling when he pulls his fingers out of you, slow and gentle like he’s not about to ruin you even more. you feel empty and too full all at once, chest heaving, tears slipping down your cheeks from sheer exhaustion. your body’s so spent but somehow still aching for him — for more.

mark leans over you and brushes your hair out of your face, so soft you could almost forget the way his fingers just made you see stars.

“you okay, baby?” his voice is low, concerned. but his smile — that little smirk tugging at the corner of his lips — is anything but innocent.

“need you,” you whisper, barely audible.

“yeah?” he tilts his head, pretending like he didn’t already know. “thought so. been whining for me since we started, and i haven’t even stretched you properly yet.”

he reaches down and strokes himself lazily, like he’s got all the time in the world. you glance down — he’s thick, flushed and leaking, and he knows exactly what he’s doing when he lets you look.

your hips lift toward him automatically, needier than you’ve ever been in your life.

“so desperate,” mark murmurs, leaning down so his lips brush against yours, not kissing you — just hovering. “so fucked-out and dumb for me already. you’re really gonna let me fuck you like this?”

you nod, shaky and desperate. “please.”

his cock slides in with a slow, delicious stretch, and your entire body arches up into him. it’s too much — you’re so sensitive, every inch of him feels overwhelming. your hands scramble to grip his arms, nails digging into his skin.

“shh, i got you,” mark whispers, voice like honey. “fuck, you’re so tight, baby. barely fitting me in, huh?”

he doesn’t give you time to adjust — just sets a slow, deliberate pace, grinding deep with every thrust like he knows exactly how to hit every spot that makes you cry. and cry you do — not from pain, not even from pleasure, just the sheer overload of everything. your body can’t keep up.

you try to speak, to say his name, to beg or moan or something, but all that comes out are those broken little sounds — soft, pitiful whimpers muffled against his neck.

and mark eats it up.

“aw, puppy,” he coos, voice breathless now as he fucks into you deeper. “you’re so gone, aren’t you? too dumb to talk, too full to think. i know, i know — it’s so much, huh?”

your whole body clenches around him when he says it — those same condescending words from earlier, dripping with false sympathy that only makes the pleasure sharper.

“fuck,” he groans, losing rhythm for a second. “you like that? like when i talk to you like this while you’re crying on my cock?”

you whimper something that might’ve been “yes.”

“yeah, you do.” he leans down and finally kisses you — deep and filthy and possessive — while his hips start snapping faster, rougher, chasing his own high. “such a good fucking mess for me.”

you don’t even realize you’re close again until your whole body locks up, legs wrapping around his waist like a vice. mark kisses your tears away, smiling like he’s proud of what he’s done to you.

“cum for me, baby,” he whispers. “just let go. i got you.”

and you do — body shattering under him, walls pulsing around his cock while your vision goes white, overstimulated and overwhelmed and so completely his.

he follows seconds later, moaning into your mouth as he buries himself deep, twitching inside you.

the room falls silent after, the only sound your ragged breathing and mark’s soft kisses trailing down your jaw.

then he pulls back just enough to look at you, sweaty and flushed beneath him.

“still think i’m just a sweet study buddy?”

you shook you’re head no, and there was his sweet little smile again— as if he didn’t just fuck your stupid.

[junrenjun]

You seem like the perfect person to submit this to.. softdom!renjun and sub!reader where reader confesses innocently she wants to have his babies and it just ends up being the most wholesome soft love making ever😢

━━━𝗬𝗢𝗨𝗥𝗦, 𝗖𝗢𝗠𝗣𝗟𝗘𝗧𝗘𝗟𝗬 ⤿ ( 黄仁俊 )

cw. ⋮ smut .ᐟ breeding kink, praise, creampiiie, he makes love to u !! gentle ㅤdom renjun supremacy. mdni. ﾒ 紀要

ㅤ作者 : okay okay listen.. i know this took forever and somehow ended up short after all that build-up LMAOO 😭 BUT softdom!renjun makes my brain melt into applesauce so i had to take my time <3 pls imagine him rubbing ur tummy after and whispering “my pretty mama” uGHGHHG ok i’m done bye 🏃‍♀️💨

it’s raining again, your house smells like chamomile and clean laundry, and the only light in the room is coming from the single warm-toned lamp in the corner, painting everything in soft gold and honeyed shadows.

you’re sitting between renjun’s legs, his back propped against the headboard, both of you under the same oversized throw blanket. your head rests against his chest, his hoodie swallowing your frame.

his fingers draw slow, sleepy shapes into your thigh as some old ghibli movie plays muted in the background. neither of you are paying attention to it anymore — not really.

not when everything already feels so.. still. sacred. like if either of you moved too fast, you’d scare away whatever spell has settled between you.

he smells like detergent and skin and the faintest trace of the cologne you gave him last christmas. the one he swears he only wears when he misses you — even though you live together now. even though you’re never apart long enough to miss each other properly.

it’s quiet, in that way only two people in love can share. like the silence has become its own language. like your breath rising and falling in tandem is the only conversation that matters.

and then you say it. not on purpose, not with planning, not even with hesitation.

“i wanna have your babies someday.”

and the thing is — you don’t even realize you said it out loud. not until you feel him still behind you. not until his fingers go still on your leg, his breath catching quietly somewhere just above your head.

you blink, frozen. your heart lurches, like maybe you said too much. maybe you crossed some invisible line between softness and too much softness. between intimacy and the kind of vulnerability that makes people flinch.

"what did you say?" he asks, but not in the way that makes you panic. he sounds calm. careful. like he heard you but wants to be sure he heard you right.

your fingers curl into the fabric of his hoodie. you could lie. laugh it off. pretend you were talking about something from the movie or a line from a podcast or — anything else.

but you don’t want to lie. not to him. not now. so instead, you breathe out quietly. let your voice stay small.

“i said.. i want to have your babies someday.”

and then softer, more to yourself than to him :

“i think about it sometimes. not on purpose. it just.. it just happens.”

you can feel the heat blooming in your cheeks like secondhand embarrassment, even though there’s nothing to be embarrassed about. but it feels too intimate, too exposed. like you just handed him your entire heart in one soft whisper.

you wait for him to laugh. to shift. to say something casual to bring the mood back to normal. but instea, he exhales. and then tightens his arms around you.

"fuck," he says under his breath. not because he’s frustrated—but because it hit him like a wave he wasn’t ready for. “baby..”

you tilt your head slightly, just enough to glance up at him from where you’re resting. his lips are parted. his eyes are soft in that way they get when he’s overwhelmed by how much he loves you. like he’s soaking in the moment, unsure if it’s even real.

“say that again,” he whispers.

you blink. “what?”

“that you want to have my babies.”

you bite your lip. cheeks burning. but you say it again anyway.

"i want to have your babies, renjun."

and this time, you say it with intention. not just a confession, but a truth. one that’s been sitting in your chest quietly for months, wrapped in daydreams and little secret smiles during coffee runs and grocery shopping.

every time you see him crouch down to tie a kid’s shoe or press a sleepy kiss to your shoulder when you’re cooking. every time he reaches for you in the middle of the night like his body forgets how to be without yours.

it isn’t about the idea of a child — it’s about him. you want him to be the father of your kids.

you want the kind of life where you’re brushing your teeth side by side and arguing about who forgot to buy milk, where you’re folding tiny socks together on a sunday morning and he’s reading bedtime stories on the floor while your toddler clings to his hoodie sleeves.

you want his laugh to echo through the rooms of a home you build together. you want all of him, and all the quiet, beautiful things he’s never known he deserves.

and right now — you just want him to know that. he exhales again. his hand slides up your spine, curling into the back of your neck, grounding you.

“you’d be such a good mama,” he murmurs. “i think about that too sometimes.”

you look up at him, blinking. he smiles — small and kind and so full of emotion it makes your throat tighten.

“like… i’ll be at work, or drawing, or in the car.. and my brain just goes there. like, damn. i could come home to her. to our baby. i could have a home full of both of them.”

his voice is rough now. not with arousal — but with emotion. like he’s holding it together by a thread.

“i think about you sitting by the window, holding them,” he says, his thumb brushing your jaw. “i think about kissing you while they nap in the other room. about coming home with toys you said not to buy and watching you pretend to be mad.”

you laugh softly — because of course he would. and then you feel it. his hand, resting gently over your stomach.

“sometimes i think about you like this,” he says. “just like this. laying on me. full with our baby. glowing. soft.”

you can’t breathe. not really. not with how he’s looking at you. not with the weight of his hand and the warmth in his voice.

“you’d be so good to them,” he whispers. “you’re already so good to me.”

you turn toward him fully now, sitting up, straddling his lap under the blanket. your hands find his cheeks, holding his face like he’s something delicate.

“i’d want it to be you,” you say. “it’s always been you.”

his eyes shine. “can i—?” he starts, and stops. you know what he’s asking. you see it in his expression. you nodded and he kisses you.

not rushed. not hungry. but like it means something. like every inch of his mouth belongs to yours. like he’s sealing a promise into your skin.

the kiss deepens, slow and syrupy, and he lets his hands roam carefully — down your back, under your shirt, until his palms are flat against your spine and you’re chest-to-chest, heartbeat to heartbeat.

you whimper softly against his mouth, and he swallows it with a sigh.

“let me make love to you,” he whispers. “please.” you nodded again, more breathless this time. and just like that — the spell shifts. the warmth of the room turns heavier. the silence deepens.

your bodies press closer, the blanket slipping away as he lays you back against the pillows. he kisses you again, then lower. and lower. and the world narrows to the sound of your name on his lips.

he lowers his mouth to your skin with such tenderness it makes your heart flutter — soft, featherlight kisses trailing from your jawline down to the hollow of your throat.

each press of his lips feels like a quiet vow, like he’s memorizing every inch of you, cherishing you without rush or demand. his breath fans over your skin, warm and steady, and the way he tilts his head just so to catch your scent makes you dizzy in the best way.

his hands move with reverence, slow and deliberate, fingers gliding over your ribs and sides like he’s tracing a map of your body, learning the curves and hollows that make you uniquely you.

when he reaches your breasts, his touch shifts just slightly, still soft, but with an undeniable possessiveness. his palms cup them gently, thumbs brushing over your nipples with the kind of care that makes your breath hitch.

he doesn’t rush, he doesn’t squeeze or pinch, he simply worships, worships the softness, the heat, the way your skin flushes under his touch.

you feel the delicate ache building in your chest — the way he praises you without words, just in the way his eyes darken with desire and affection.

“you’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through your chest. it isn’t just about your body. it’s every part of you — the vulnerable parts, the strong parts, the parts that only he sees.

his hands slide under your shirt with a practiced ease, peeling it away slowly so the cool air brushes over your bare skin. you shiver, not from cold but from the weight of his attention, the way he makes you feel like the most precious thing in the world.

his mouth follows, pressing kisses down your chest, trailing a path of fire and featherlight touches that make your skin tingle.

when his lips close around your nipple, suckling gently, it’s like a spark igniting a slow, steady burn deep inside you. his tongue flicks softly, his teeth barely grazing, and your body responds instinctively — hips arching, fingers tangling in his hair, breath coming faster. you want to soak up every second of this reverence, this worship. this love made flesh.

he trails kisses lower, fingers sliding down your sides until they reach the waistband of your underwear. he pauses there, looking up at you with a soft, almost shy smile, as if asking permission with his eyes. you nod, your pulse racing.

he pulls the fabric down with careful tenderness, revealing the slick heat of your wetness. his fingers brush over your folds, slow and exploratory, pressing lightly against your clit with a thumb that moves in small, measured circles. the sensation is exquisite — neither too gentle nor too rough. perfect.

“you’re so beautiful like this,” he says, voice husky with emotion and desire. “so soft, so perfect for me.”

his fingers part your slick folds, tracing your slit with reverence, teasing the sensitive skin until you’re gasping. he slips two fingers inside you slowly, giving your walls time to adjust, curling them just enough to make you ache deliciously.

he watches your face, reading every flicker of sensation, every breath and moan, adjusting his pace to your body’s language. as his thumb circles your clit, pleasure blossoms in your core, slow and deep.

your mind drifts to the future — how your body might change carrying his children, how you’ll hold those tiny lives close, how you’ll learn to be patient and gentle and fiercely protective, just like he is with you now. you want to be a good mother for him, for your family. to build a home full of love and warmth, just like this moment.

he groans low in your ear, voice thick with need. “you’re mine,” he says again, possessive but soft. “mine to love, mine to fill.”

his fingers pull out just as he lines himself at your entrance, the thick head of his cock teasing your folds, slick and warm. he waits for your nod before sliding inside — slow, deep, and utterly consuming.

you gasp, the fullness overwhelming but so right. his hands grip your hips gently, holding you steady as he buries himself inch by inch. the weight of him presses into you, grounding and tender.

he starts moving with careful, deliberate strokes, not fast or rough but with a rhythm that says i’m here, i’m yours, i want to cherish you.

“you’re so tight,” he breathes, eyes dark and soft. “so perfect for me.”

his hands explore the curves of your waist, the swell of your hips, the smooth skin of your thighs. his touch is reverent, worshipful, like you’re the most sacred thing he’s ever held.

your legs wrap around him instinctively, pressing into his hips as your bodies move together in slow, perfect harmony.

“imagine our kids,” he murmurs against your skin, voice low and full of wonder. “running around, filling this house with their laughter.”

you close your eyes, picturing it vividly — tiny footsteps, sticky hands, sleepy morning cuddles.

“you’d be the best mama,” he says, voice breaking slightly with emotion. “i can see it so clearly.”

his hips thrust deeper, slower, his breathing ragged but controlled.

“you’re so good for me,” he groans, lips brushing your ear. “so good and mine.”

you feel tears prick your eyes — not from pain but from the overwhelming flood of love and promise.

“come for me,” he commands softly, “come on my cock.”

you did, your body unraveling around him as your orgasm crashes through you, wild and tender all at once.

he follows, his release hot and deep inside you, holding you through every shudder, every breath, every whispered word of love.

"my pretty, very pretty, soon to be mama."

he pulls you close, skin slick and warm against skin, heartbeats syncing as you lay tangled together, already dreaming of the family you’ll build, the babies you’ll have, the love you’ll share — forever.

[junrenjun]

SEX EDUCATION .ᐟ ( markhyuck x reader )

synopsis. mark is a virgin, the only virgin in the NCT fraternity house. it’s borderline embarrassing, so who better than to ask his roommate (who is very much not a virgin) and his overzealous girlfriend for some help?

rating. mature. (minors + ageless blogs dni)

warnings. dirty talk (bucketloads of it), voyeurism/exhibitionism, references to religion, spanking, cunniligus, meanie hyuck + inexperienced mark, humiliation kink, degrading, pet names (babygirl, baby, slut, princess), hyuck is very very condescending, mark knows most of what he knows from porn

author’s note. i have no excuse for my actions. i even winced when proofreading this because this is so so fucking dirty… but i must give the people what they want. it kinda veered away from the whole megaperv!haechan idea but i promise you he will be revisited because megaperv!haechan haunts my waking thoughts 😋 pleaseplease leave comments i love reading them hehe

might have edged @claudaze for this fic to the point where sis was fighting sleep… when you wake up n see this i hope i have done your vision justice :3 also @yvvnii commented on my original thought post for this as well 🙂‍↕️ i hope you like this baby AND @cigsaftersuh also asked to be tagged :3 should i start an official taglist… 🤔

“So… you want me to teach you how to have sex?” 

Mark Lee is in a dire situation. At the age of 22, he’s in college, taking a course in astrophysics and engineering. He’s lived a pretty normal life so far, done everything a frat brother should, except for one thing. 

Mark Lee, aged 22, has never had sex. 

It’s not something he particularly wants to be ashamed of. Given his religious nature, he should be satisfied with his virginity, should be proud that he’s saving himself until he meets the right woman. He could go on and never find a wife, and he would happily die a virgin, but he’s a frat brother, and a virgin frat brother is the last thing he wants to be. 

As of late, he’s been partying like a fool. He shouldn’t be– parties aren’t really his scene anyways– but he does anyway, hoping that at one of them, he’ll get drunk enough and finally break his chastity with a girl he’ll never talk to again. But he can’t even bring himself to drink alcohol, let alone get drunk, and every party ends with him going home early, stone cold sober and still, unfortunately, as virgin as he was before the party started. 

It’s sad. He shouldn’t be bothered by it at all, but when he sees his housemate Jaehyun bring home yet another girl (the 3rd one this week?), he gets jealous, because whilst his frat brothers are fucking like rabbits, he’s getting just as much action as a stone on the side of an abandoned highway. It’s gotten to the point where his roommate, Donghyuck, begs him to get out of the house, because he has his own girlfriend, and he can’t bring her home if his virgin roomie is wallowing in self pity under the covers every weekend. 

He doesn’t know that the reason why Mark doesn’t get any action is because he doesn’t know how to, not because he’s unattractive, because he is attractive.

The Nu Chi Theta house is one of the most popular frat houses on campus, with every girl (and even some guys too) wanting to sleep with at least one brother once in their life. There’s no shortage of hot guys in the house, and it's rumoured that to even secure a place in the house, you have to pass some kind of frat house beauty test. It’s ridiculous, and when Mark received his acceptance letter, he couldn’t believe it. He thought it would be an opening for him, a way to get invited to crazy parties and unlimited hookups, a way to finally stray from the cuffs of religion his parents were so insistent on keeping him locked up with.

What he didn’t think about, however, is how hard it would be to let go of said religious cuffs without feeling insanely guilty when he so much as strayed from the path his parents had set out for him. 

No drinking, no partying, and definitely no sex. That’s what they told him before he left, and whilst he’d shrugged it off at the time, those words followed him years later, right up until he finally decided that enough was enough. 

After walking in on Donghyuck and his girlfriend making out on his bed, he knew he had to do something, which leads him to his current situation.

“Mark, be serious with me right now.” Hyuck raises his eyebrow and tilts his head, and Mark physically curls in on himself. “You’re telling me… that you’ve never had sex because you don’t know how to?” 

“Yes, and now I’m asking you to teach me how to. I’ve seen– heard you and your girlfriend. You guys aren’t exactly… discreet.” 

“Yeah, that’s because she doesn’t want me to be discreet. She likes it when everyone knows who’s fuckin’ her.” 

Mark winces. How can Hyuck talk about you like that when you aren’t even here? He wishes that he doesn’t turn out like that, and then he remembers who he’s being taught by, and it makes him feel sick to his stomach. 

Maybe this is a bad idea. Maybe he shouldn’t be asking for help, maybe he should just find a video about it on Pornhub and try his chances from there. 

“If you’re having second thoughts, I can tell you that the hub won’t solve your problem.” It’s almost like Hyuck is a mind reader. “You’ll end up embarrassing yourself, and Taeyong will end up having to kick you out. If anyone finds out one of the NCT boys is a virgin and learnt how to fuck from the worst porn site on earth…” It's Hyuck’s turn to wince. “Look, I’ll teach you. Hands-on experience and all.”

“You mean…” 

Hyuck smiles, and Mark asks himself what exactly he’s gotten himself into. “I’ll let you fuck my girlfriend.”

You would do anything for your boyfriend. If he asked you to rob a bank, you’d hand bejewel a balaclava with pink rhinestones and shoot down the clerk with a matching gun. If he asked you to walk around campus on a leash, you’d happily get on all fours. 

So, when he asks you to start flirting with his roommate, you do so with a smile on your face. 

Mark Lee is cute. You’ve seen him around a couple of times, all baggy hoodie and reading glasses, barely saying a word to anyone and keeping to himself in his room. He’s the kind of guy you can’t help but become curious about, and one day, you ask Hyuck about him. 

“He’s kind of a loser,” he tells you between leaving kisses on your neck. “You don’t need to worry about him.” 

“But he doesn’t seem like he has a girlfriend.” You pull away and hold your boyfriend’s face in your hands. “I have a couple of friends who would drop dead at the chance to fuck an NCT guy. If he wants a girlfriend, I can get him one.” 

“It’s not a girlfriend he wants, baby, it’s sex.” 

“There’s a party next week. He can find a hookup there.” 

Hyuck scoffs. “You’re so dumb. He’s a virgin, and if he wanted a girlfriend, he wouldn’t even know how to bag himself one.” The smile he’s wearing is dangerous, and you raise your eyebrows. “Which is why…” His hands slide up your waist and slip under your baby tee. “... I need you to do me a favour.” 

That favour is the reason why you’re currently posted up against the kitchen counter in the NCT house, licking a popsicle like it’s the most delicious snack on Earth whilst staring holes into Mark from across the kitchen. You know he’s avoiding looking at you, which is why you walk up to him and tap him on the shoulder, wearing a knowing smile on your face.

“Just because Hyuck’s my boyfriend, doesn’t mean we can’t be friends. I mean, I’m friends with practically every guy here!” You widen your eyes like a doe and wrap your lips around the top of the popsicle, reveling in the way Mark gulps nervously, his Adam’s apple bobbing and eyes glued to the bright red trail of juice dribbling down your chin. “You can talk to me, y’know.” 

You take a step closer, and that seems to be Mark’s breaking point. He sharply turns on his heel and all but runs out of the kitchen, abandoning the glass of water he was nursing on the counter. You bite off the tip of the popsicle, smiling happily to yourself as you skip after him.

When Mark gets back upstairs, Hyuck is waiting for him, sitting cross legged on his bed with a smile on his face, one akin to the one you were wearing in the kitchen. You…

“I knew you’d end up running away from her. You’re more of a loser than I thought you were, dude.” 

Mark’s jaw drops to the floor. “She was in on it? And you never thought to tell me?” 

Hyuck shrugs. “She was giving you an example of how a girl would approach you at a party if she wanted to fuck you.” He eyes Mark up and down before snickering to himself. “Clearly, you failed.” 

“It was a test? And she knew?!” Mark is panicking now. His secret is basically out of the bag; you’re going to tell all of your friends that there’s a virgin in the NCT house, and they’ll tell their friends, and then he’ll get kicked out and have to live with his parents, a pious virgin for the rest of his life. 

Ironically, Mark grips the cross pendant hanging from his neck. Hyuck catches him doing it, and quirks an eyebrow. “You think God’s gonna tell you how to fuck? You have got to be kidding me.” 

“Maybe I don’t need to lose my virginity. Abstinence doesn’t sound that bad, I mean, I’ll become a priest, live in peace for the rest of my life and-” 

Mark is cut off by a sharp slap around his face. “Don’t go into religious psychosis over some pussy. I’ll still teach you, but it might be a little harder than I initially thought.” His eyes narrow, and Mark gulps again. “I didn’t think my girlfriend licking a popsicle would scare you that much.” 

“I scared him?” Mark feels like he’s just been dragged into hell by his collar, because you’re standing by the door, the popsicle and any traces of it gone from your face as you stare at him incredulously. “Oh- I didn’t mean to! I was just doing what you told me to do.” 

“And you did it very well baby.” Hyuck is approaching you, and you resume wearing that pleasant smile, allowing him to slip his arms around your waist and lead you into the bedroom, swiftly locking the door behind you. “And now, you’re gonna do something else for me.” 

Mark watches the way the two of you interact, and he hates to admit it, but he’s jealous. You look at Hyuck like he’s your everything and you’re absolutely entranced by him, gaze never breaking, even when his wandering hands slip under your skirt. He doesn’t pay any attention to the rapidly forming erection in his loose joggers when you and Hyuck start kissing, his hands full of ass pulling you closer into him. It’s borderline disgusting, the way your eyes roll back under your lids, and he really should close his eyes, but-

“D’you think he’s motivated enough now, princess?” He’s snapped out of his trance by the two of you staring at him, Hyuck’s face flushed and your chest heaving gently, lashes fluttering as you take in the sight of Mark standing there, hard as rock and red as a tomato.

“Y-yeah,” you stutter, smiling. “Should I-”

“No.” You stop in your tracks, watching as your boyfriend sits down on the bed, spreading his legs and patting his thigh as a motion for you to take a seat. “You sit down too, Mark.” He looks up at his confused roommate. “Class is now in session.” 

If Mark told himself several hours ago that he would be watching his roommate talk dirty to his girlfriend, he would’ve laughed, and then spat out his coffee. He can only watch as Hyuck pulls you forward in his lap, paying no mind to the way your skirt bunches at your hips and displays your ass in a thong that leaves little to the imagination. 

“First things first…” Hyuck looks at Mark from his side of the room, his hands stationed on your thighs straddling his lap. “You need to get the language down. It’s part of foreplay, you got that?” Mark nods. “Good. Now…” Hyuck kisses you fleetingly on the lips before looking you in the eye. “You have to tell her she’s a good girl. Most girls are into that sort of thing.

“Tell her what you wanna do to her.” Hyuck pulls your hips forward on his lap, and you groan. “Tell her you wanna fuck her, that you wanna make her feel good, better than she’s ever felt.” Your lashes flutter, and although Mark can’t see your face, you smile, wrapping your arms around your boyfriend’s neck. “See? She likes it, don’t you, pretty?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, grinding down onto him more. “Want you to fuck me.” 

Hyuck laughs. “This isn’t about you. This is about Mark.” He looks past you again at his roommate, who looks like he wants to be swallowed alive by the ground. “Are you learning anything?” 

He gulps before reciting what he’s learnt. “Talk dirty to her. Tell her what you want to do to her, that you want to…” Hyuck raises his eyebrow, a signal for Mark to continue. “...that you want to… fuck… her.” He smiles, and Mark sighs a sound of relief. 

This is difficult for him. He’s awkward, because it’s generally awkward to watch his roommate have borderline sex with his girlfriend, the same person who just gave him a raging hard on from licking a popsicle. He’s also undoubtedly jealous, because even though he doesn’t know the first thing about having sex, he wants to have sex with you, but it seems like Hyuck is doing a better job at riling you up than he ever could. 

“See how I’m touching her?” Mark redirects his focus to where Hyuck’s hands are, and it looks like he’s everywhere. “I’m not giving her what she wants just yet. I have to tease her, make her want it.” He looks back at you “Do you want it, baby?” 

You pout. “Quit teasing me!”

You’re so cute. Mark understands why Hyuck would go for a girl like you– you’re too easy; easily obeying, easily teased, easily fucked. You’re perfect for a guy with a crazy sex drive, and he’s perfect for a girl who loves to devote herself to her boyfriend. You’re a perfect couple, and Mark can feel the jealousy begin to ebb its way back into his system. 

“Don’t worry, Mark. You’ll get a turn soon enough.” Hyuck taps the back of your thigh and you nod, climbing off of his lap and onto the bed. He doesn’t have to say anything, but you know exactly what he wants you to do, pulling down your skirt and bending over on the bed, ass up in the air and head buried in the pillows. “Get over here. Look at what all those things I told you about do to her.” 

Mark almost hesitates, but when he sees Hyuck scope the meat of your ass before pulling the cheeks apart, his moves are almost robotic, and what he sees almost sends him into shock. 

He’s never seen a pussy in real life before, only in the videos, and even then he can’t bring himself to look properly. Watching pornography is basically a sin, so he only watches the censored ones, and when he comes face to face with your pussy, he feels like he’s about to explode. 

You’re still wearing your underwear. That much is apparent given the lace decorating your hips, but your cunt is so wet, it’s all but swallowed the seat of your panties, and your labia bulges around the pink fabric. It’s much more lewd in person, and Mark is frozen in his place, mouth open with no sound coming out. 

“Say something, loser. Isn’t she pretty?” 

Mark gulps before speaking. “Y-yeah.” His voice cracks, and you giggle, the syrupy sound going straight to his dick. 

“He’s so nervous,” you breathe, swaying your ass in his direction. “Such a virgin.” 

He should be embarrassed. He should really leave, let Hyuck do whatever he wants to you behind closed doors and forget this ever happened, yet he feels nothing of the sort, instead sitting down on the bed and placing a shaky hand on your ankle. “I-” 

“You what?” Hyuck sounds pissed, which is odd considering this was his suggestion. “Say something. She’s not gonna sit and wait for you forever. My girl has needs.” 

My girl. Mark gulps again. “I… I kinda wanna… eat her out.” 

Whilst you moan a little and shove your face deeper into the pillows, Hyuck claps Mark on the back, and his annoyance is replaced with a smile. “There he is! Do you want me to teach you, or do you think you got it?” 

Cunniligus is his favourite type of porn. He would rather die than admit it, but when Mark fantasises (and trust, he does), he imagines himself in between a pair of thighs, and his mouth attached to a juicy pussy. He never thought he’d get the chance, but with the way your hips sway gently, he just wants to grab onto you, pull your panties aside and-

“Do it.” It’s your voice that echoes in his head now, and he finally looks at your face. Your eyes are filled with lust and you bite down on your bottom lip, lashes fluttering as an invitation. “C’mon Markie, don’t think about it, just-” 

You’re cut off by a pair of fingers massaging your cunt. Hyuck pulls aside the seat of your thong, and gestures to your dripping arousal. “You heard her. Dig in.”

He shouldn’t, he really shouldn’t, because if he does, he’ll be breaking a plethora of rules set out for him since birth. This is someone else’s girlfriend, a stranger if anything, but all that fades away when he hears your reaction to Hyuck’s fingers slipping into your needy pussy. Your back arches, and you whine out like a mantra, but it isn’t the name of your boyfriend. 

It’s Mark’s name that you whine, gasping when you feel a harsh slap on your ass. “That’s not my name, pretty. Unless you want my loser roommate that bad?”

This is wrong, this is wrong, this is wro-

Mark’s lips make contact with your pussy, and he’s gone. 

He’s a messy eater, inexperienced for sure, but the feeling of his hot tongue on your folds has you collapsing into the bed. Mark’s tongue is everywhere but nowhere all at once, and when his hands come up to grip your ass, you melt into his touch. 

“There you go.” Hyuck’s voice mingles with your moans in his ear, and Mark groans. “Seems like she likes you.” For him, this is all a show, watching his loser virgin roomie tongue fuck his girlfriend. Hyuck always knew you were a slut, but he never knew you would fall this far, drool staining his pillowcase as you grind desperately onto the tongue of a guy who had never seen nor touched a pussy in his life. 

“When she’s moaning like that, it means she’s close.” Mark’s eyes flick up to his roommate, his hands still superglued to your ass and tongue still buried deep into your cunt. “Remember what I said about teasing? Can’t make her cum yet, or she’ll be too tired for what comes next.” 

What comes next? Mark’s rhythm is interrupted by Hyuck’s comment and he pulls away, licking his lips and wiping the sweat from his brow. “Do you mean…?” 

His roommate nods with a smile. “I do mean that. I’d go first but– and I hate to say this– you were so good at eating her out that if I fuck her now, she’ll cum way too early.” 

“Need it so bad…” Both boys look at you, and one scoffs whilst the other gasps. You’re a mess, probably more of a mess than Mark. Blackened tears run down your cheeks, your lipstick is smudged and drool trails down your chin as you look back at the both of them. “Want you both. Please.” 

“Both?” Mark balks. He didn’t even know that was possible. 

“What a fucking slut.” Hyuck slaps your ass and you groan, a tear running down your cheek and a dribble of arousal running down the back of your thigh. “You don’t get both regularly, but suddenly you want two cocks instead of one? C’mon, babygirl. Don’t be greedy now that Mark’s around.” 

Ordinarily, Mark would never be able to talk to anyone like that, let alone a girl, but when Hyuck says it, it sounds so natural, and your reaction is very different to what he would expect. You arch your back, eyes rolling into the back of your head. 

You like being degraded. That much is clear from the way you chase after Hyuck’s snide comments, the way you bite your lip whenever he calls you a slut. Mark raises his eyebrows. 

“She likes it when you talk dirty to her,” he whispers, looking at his roommate. “Is she… is she always like this?” 

“Always has been, and probably always will be. Why do you think she agreed to this whole thing?” Your boyfriend cards his fingers through your hair before pulling you up so that you’re flush against his chest, ass brushing against his erection through his jeans. “She wanted to humiliate herself in front of you, Mark. She wanted you to know how needy she is. For her, it was never about helping you.” Mark watches the way you shudder when Hyuck’s hand trails down your belly, fingers resting just above the peak of your clit. “Pretty girl’s always wanted to be stuffed full with another cock. And she’s always wanted it to be you.” 

Mark’s breathing is shallow. You knew he was a virgin, but you wanted him anyway, wanted to see him crumble and let himself go. 

Instead of being weirded out by this information, his lip quirks up in a smile. “Is that so?” 

Your eyelids flutter. “Y-yeah. Thought you were p-pretty.” 

His head tilts, and he’s suddenly filled with a wave of confidence. “Really? Or did you just like the fact that you would be the one to take my virginity? Isn’t Hyuck enough for you, princess?” 

The room falls silent, save for the intermingled sound of shallow breathing. Hyuck is shocked that Mark would ever say something like that, let alone use that tone, but when the shock subsides, he smiles. “Why don’t you show her how much of a slut she is?”

Mark smiles at his roommate, reveling in the way you shudder against him. “I’d love to.”

© PUPPYSUH 2025 — do not copy, repost or translate my works without permission.

[junrenjun]

sorry about the delay with the summer writing event! i’m out of town and the wifi connection isn’t great so my docs aren’t loading!

[junrenjun]

★ ˙ ̟ ─── . “get you there”.

| summary | haechan fucking you until you see stars and pass out. | cw | smut, oral (f), unprotected sex, squirt, passing out 😔, pet names. | a/n | i did this as a way to redeem myself for my accidental clickbait, FORGIVE ME YALL 🥺

To be honest, you had no idea how long you'd been there, lost in it.

It started off silly. Just a casual comment about your now very inactive sex life, shared with your friend, Haechan.

A small get-together had happened at your place earlier that night, but somehow, Haechan ended up staying way longer than planned. The conversation had drifted into the late hours, soft voices under dim lights, both of you relaxed in that quiet, familiar way that only years of friendship could create.

You talked about past relationships, about the weird things people did in bed, the good, the bad, the awkward. The air between you was even more comfortable than usual. Maybe that’s why things slipped out so easily. Things you never thought you’d admit. Things like the fact that you’ve never actually had an orgasm.

That—that caught his attention.

He looked at you a little differently after that, a spark lighting in his eyes as he leaned in just a bit and said, “I can make you get there, if you let me.”

Stupid man with stupid words. And you were just as stupid, because you really said yes.

Which brings you to the present—legs spread wide, back arching, and Haechan’s mouth glued to your cunt, his tongue working your soaked hole with shameless dedication.

How long had you been like this? You weren’t sure anymore.

Your legs were starting to ache from the position, trembling from the strain and the overstimulation. You’d long lost count of how many times he’d made you cum, even though he’d told you to keep track.

Your fingers were buried in his messy hair, tugging hard, not sure if you wanted to pull him closer or push him away. But he wasn’t giving you a choice, his tongue was relentless, thrusting into you with obscene precision, his mouth noisy, wet, ravenous.

His arms were hooked beneath your thighs, hands gripping them tightly as he anchored you in place, pulling you down even harder against his mouth.

He was devouring you, absolutely shameless, his nose brushing against your sensitive little bundle of nerves with every eager thrust of his tongue.

The room was filled with the slick, lewd sounds of wet sucking, your broken moans spilling freely, mixing with the soft, desperate hums coming from his throat, he was enjoying this. And you could feel it.

Not just in the way he moaned into you, but in the subtle grind of his hips against the mattress beneath him, chasing relief he was clearly denying himself in favor of feasting on you.

That familiar pressure began to build in your core once again, your body wound so tight it barely took anything now. And before you could even brace for it, you were cumming. Again.

Haechan groaned into you, loud and guttural, as his tongue welcomed your release like he’d been starving for it. He drank every last drop, licking you clean with long, purposeful strokes, your soft mewls only making his smile grow against your soaked, trembling cunt.

Honestly, you could’ve come again just from the sight of it.

He slowly hovered over you, capturing your lips in a messy, fevered kiss, his tongue coated with the taste of you, of both of you. It made your head spin.

You were so dazed, so far gone, that you didn’t even register the sound of his pants being pushed down, or the way he settled smoothly between your legs, hands caressing your thighs like they were something sacred.

Not until you felt him.

His cock, heavy and flushed, dragging through your folds, the tip brushing against your clit with maddening precision.

You gasped, overwhelmed, your hands flying to his arms as if to keep yourself ground, or stop him.

“Hyuck,” you whimpered, breathless and spent. “Gimme a break… please.”

He dragged his tongue slowly along your neck, warm and wet, just as his cock slid up and down your slick folds teasingly. The tip circled your entrance, barely pushing in, just enough to make your walls flutter around nothing.

“A break?” he murmured against your skin, lips curving into a smirk as he nibbled at your pulse. “After everything I gave you?” He pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, his cock still resting right at your entrance, heat pulsing between you. “You’re so selfish, you know that?”

His hips rolled forward just enough for the head of his cock to catch on your entrance again, making you twitch. He didn’t push in, of course he didn’t. He just stayed there, smirking.

“All those pretty sounds you made,” he whispered, trailing his hand up your thigh, spreading you wider. “All those orgasms I handed to you…”

He nipped at your jaw, gentle but firm.

“And now you want to rest?” He chuckled, the sound vibrating through your skin. “After laying there, whining, taking everything like a needy little pillow princess?”

His fingers found your clit again, drawing slow, torturous circles, just light enough to make your whole body jolt, overstimulated and aching.

“You should say thank you, pretty,” he murmured, brushing his lips over yours. “And let me take care of you, hm?”

You whimpered, eyes fluttering shut as your hips gave a weak jerk toward his fingers, your body betraying any protest your lips might’ve formed. You were exhausted, wrecked, even, but the way he touched you, spoke to you, looked at you… there was no way you could say no.

Your fingers curled tightly around his biceps, bracing yourself. “T… Thank you,” you whispered, the words barely audible, thick with embarrassment.

He chuckled, a low, condescending sound that sent a fresh wave of heat through you. “I didn’t know you were obedient like that,” he teased, voice dripping with mockery.

And before you could even fire back, before you could think, he drove into you with a sharp, hard thrust. Your breath caught in your throat, a startled gasp slipping out as your body clenched around him instantly, your walls molding to every inch, the sudden stretch stealing whatever witty comeback you had.

His moan was downright pornographic and it had you clenching around him nonstop. The way he throbbed inside you, thick and heavy, made it obvious he was in heaven, or at least somewhere damn close.

He started to move, slow at first, rolling his hips in a steady rhythm that let you feel every single inch of him. And fuck, he was savoring it. Savoring the way your slick, gummy walls pulled him in greedily, clenching and fluttering like your body didn’t want to let him go.

But his slow, gentle thrusts didn’t last long, his hands clamped down on your hips, fingers digging in with an almost bruising grip as he picked up the pace. His thrusts turned rough, relentless, his hips slamming into yours with enough force to rock your body up the bed with each movement, as he pounded your already sensitive, abused pussy.

Slick, wet slaps echoed through the room, the sound of your cunt squelching obscene as he drove in deeper, harder, hitting that perfect spot again and again like he knew it by heart.

“Fuck,” he moaned, voice ragged, breath catching as you clenched down on him tight. “Gimme one—fuck, baby, gimme one more.”

It wasn’t like he even needed to ask. At this point, you had no control over your body, especially not with the way he was pounding into you while his fingers pinched your clit, only to soothe it with a teasing, gentle rub right after.

Your entire body responded to him like a live wire, tension building faster than you could process. Then, without warning, a gush of wetness burst from you, soaking his lower abdomen and the sheets below as your body trembled violently, nerves on fire from the overwhelming pleasure.

“Fuck—look at that,” he moaned, eyes wide in surprise, a slightly disbelieving smile curling on his lips. “So messy for me. So fucking good.”

You spasmed beneath him, body jerking as every muscle finally gave out, going limp all at once. He was so turned on by how completely he’d unraveled you, it took him a few seconds to even register it, until he stilled inside you, balls deep, as he spilled hot ropes of cum into your waiting cunt.

“Shit,” he hissed, breath ragged, brushing damp hair from your face and noticing how your eyes fluttered, your body still twitching softly. “You passed out?” he asked with a soft laugh as he leaned down to kiss your forehead. “Yeah… I’ll take that as a thank you.”

↝ taglist: @nebularsung, @spacejip, @peterm4rker, @sinisxtea.

[junrenjun]

hey girl so im like crazy obsessed with your understand series 😭

I never realized it would be so popular fr 🧍‍♀️

but my plan for now is to finish up some of my asks for my summer writing event and then get back to that series. i’m trying to get the creative juices flowing first

in the meantime, if you want to send in any questions/thoughts about the understand series I would love that :)

[junrenjun]

fire and brimstone (and you’re a moth made of gasoline) — FOUR.

SYNOPSIS. having fought tooth and nail out of high school, university, and law school, only to end up working for a law firm that basically serves as a clean up dog after the biggest organized crime group in the district, you thought you couldn’t get any lower than this. 

the bar is in hell, and yet you’ve managed to limbo six feet beneath that. alternatively— na jaemin is the personification of hell, and your very existence just makes him even worse than he already is. 

PAIRING. na jaemin x female! reader. GENRE. gang! au, lawyer! au, office! au, comedy, drama, romance, very light angst, this is a sitcom, hate to love(?), a somewhat questionable power dynamic, asshole! jaemin (my beloved…my kryptonite…) but he’s also an idiot, jaemin has an eye contact thing, inspired by the manhwas “weak hero” and “study group.” WARNINGS. an abundance of criminal activity (including but not limited to organized crime, fraud, blackmail, DUIs, unethical and illegal occupational practices, etc.), blood and violence, suggestive themes, eventual non explicit sex, jaemin with a tattoo, legal inaccuracies because i am not familiar with south korean laws, so i’m just using my own country’s as reference. also because this is just a stupid thirst fic. who gives a damn. WORD COUNT. 10k.

NOTE. whewwww so much happens in this. like a lot WAHAHAHAHAH. would love to hear your thoughts and comments, maybe even predictions HAHA. there’s a bit more violence in this than in the previous chapters, but y’all know what you’re getting into. anyhow, enjoy!

THAT DAY WAS PERHAPS THE MOST EVENTUAL DAY YOU’VE HAD AT NALKEUTTA. It’s been two weeks since then, and in the past week you’ve been plagued by contract drafts and notarizing documents, meeting with the groups new clients (i.e. victims) to trap a few more poor souls into this burning death trap, and giving legal advice to Mark Lee whenever he calls and needs.

Honestly, if this was all that your job consisted of, you’d be a pretty happy camper, especially considering the zeroes your bank account is set to accrue. No more hearings every other day. No more angry clients trying to get a slap on the wrist for attempted assault or embezzling company funds or whatever shit. Your work at present is more peaceful than expected— that is, of course, if you exclude what’s been causing you to work overtime these past two weeks.

“I feel like I’ve been seeing you more often lately, attorney.”

Yeongdeungpo Police Station. Officer Jung tries to entertain you while waiting for Mark’s favorite mutt to get fished out of his cell. No shit, he’s been seeing you often. This is your third time this fucking week. “He didn’t get into any more trouble overnight, did he?”

“No, we made sure to put him in a single cell this time.” You sigh in relief. They should’ve done that the first fucking time. “Hey, attorney…this may be out of line, but—” 

“Then stay in line, officer.”

Maybe your neuroticism is finally slipping through your stiff mask. Your eyes flash up at Officer Jung. He appears taken aback at first, but nods, smiling, and maintains a respectful distance. Sure, he’s hot and all, but you have no intention of hooking up with a cop just to put your career, life, and safety in jeopardy. Mark has eyes everywhere. You’re pretty sure he even has a handful of the officers here under his control.

“Damn. My guardian angel came early today,” 

Enter the bane of your existence itself. He wears an annoying grin on his face while being escorted to you, free from handcuffs meaning he can with his hands whatever he pleases— which, unfortunately, is sticking a middle finger up in the air when the guy that he got into an altercation with passes by, and a second fight almost breaks out while you dumb ass of a, executive just cackles like a madman as the second guy gets held back by the officer escorting him.

You do nothing but yank on the sleeve of his arm, nails digging into fabric and the skin underneath. You’re not strong enough to dislocate him, but by god you wish you were. “Thank you, officer. We’re heading out now.”

Officer Jung smiles at you. “I’d say I hope to see you again, but I doubt you’d want to drive up here for the fourth time this week.”

“Haha.” It’s eight in the evening. You’re tired as fuck.

The moment you succeed in dragging him out of the station to avoid another count of misdemeanor, you wipe your hand on your blazer and quickly march to your car, not even checking if he’s following when you rip open the driver’s seat of your car and slam it back close. Unfortunately, he shoves himself into the front seat before you can lock it. 

“Whew,” he says, buckling himself in. You look at him through the mirror. He’s leaned against the window and his torso is pointed towards you. “Want me to take over the wheel?”

The rev of the engine. You hear Na Jaemin scoff and turn his head away.

“Tough crowd.” He props up an elbow on the window ledge, cheek resting on closed knuckles as you continue to drive to the office when you’ve clocked out three hours ago. “You were pretty chummy with that cop earlier. If I remember, the fucker is the same prick who jumps out of station to wag his tail in front of you whenever you drop by.” 

God, you don't have time for this. You block your ears. You continue driving. You just want to go home, but Na Jaemin isn’t done pissing you off yet.

“You’re pretty amazing aren’t’cha, attorney? That why it only takes a second for you to get us all out?”

Screeeeech!

“Whoa. You’re finally looking at me for once.”

That’s fucking it. You’re not dealing with his shit anymore.

“Get out.” With all this and that damned death threat letter you received, you haven’t exactly been in the most amicable mood. “Get out of my fucking car.”

Yet somehow, Na Jaemin just starts grinning wider in response to your death glare. “But the office is too far away, attorney.” You click your tongue, grip tightening on the steering wheel as you leer away. It’s the dead of night. You’ve pulled over next to a closed laundromat. Your body still refuses to look at the psycho next to you directly. One day, you swear you’re going to rip him apart. 

“Do I look like I give a fuck?”

“Well, I wouldn’t know.”

Your car lets out a loud honk when you slam your forehead into the car horn, breaking the peaceful quiet of the night. “Ugh.” You release a breath,the sound rasping against your throat. One day, you’re going to kill him. One day.

‎*‎

“Damn, attorney. You look like shit.”

The next morning, Lee Haechan interrupts your coffee break by being an asshole. 

“There’s no one worth looking hot for in this dump.”

“Now, I think that’s what you call a hasty generali—”

“Haechan, I don’t want to fuck you.” His face is a stiff smile, just on the verge of cracking from a fatal injury. You step aside to give him space on the coffee machine, swallowing an almost scalding gulp of your drink. Come to think of it, Na Jaemin isn’t the only idiot you’ve fished out of the police station. “Hey. Hold on. I have a bone to pick with you, bitch.”

Haechan’s mug makes a rattling noise when he prematurely drops it onto the counter. You see a trail of sweat trickle down his neck. “What do you mean?”

“You nearly ran someone over the other day,” you start. “If I have to bail you out for another DUI, you’ll be seeing your car in a landfill.”

They’re so lucky that none of their victims chose to press charges. Thinly veiled threats usually allow you to settle with a compromise for the barest minimum amount for the damages they incur, but your words won’t always work. Still. It seems like Mark doesn’t mind pouring out whatever amount of money to save his valued lap dogs. These mutts are so god damned spoiled.

“Monster! Don’t you dare touch my Penelope!”

You wanna bully him for naming his porsche Penelope, but that’d make you a hypocrite. You don’t want to give up the remaining integrity you have left, so you choose to remain silent instead and finish up your coffee. 

At the same time, you notice a third presence enter the breakroom, and you make the unfortunate decision of peering back, just in time to find Lee Jeno looming behind you. You nearly choke on your coffee. “‘Scuse me,” he says, voice low, and you waste no time scrambling to the side and coughing your lungs out.

Haechan talks to him while the latter pulls out a back container from the cupboards. “Hey, man. How’s the Daeghwang contract going?”

At that question, Jeno’s brows close together and you flinch when he replies with an annoyed grunt. “Bad.” He taps the open mouth of the container against the rim of a glass of water, white powder cascading out. “Cheongang is a pain in the ass.”

“That’s rough. Well, good luck. See you later."

He starts leaving with the glass and you can finally get back to breathing. Seriously. Na Jaemin may scare you and piss you off, but this guy is just intimidation incarnate.

“Hey, what was his fucking deal?” Your voice is both fear-stricken and appalled, pointing at the break room entryway the moment Lee Jeno’s shadow disappears from the floor. “Did I do something to him? He looked like he was gonna punch my teeth out for getting in the way of him and his creatine!”

Haechan has finally finished making his coffee. Instant coffee, which he brings up to his mouth to take a sip. What was the point of giving him way to the machine? “Oh, Jeno? That’s just his face. Don’t worry about it.”

“What?”

He shrugs. “He’s a nice guy, but Mark likes to bring him around when he’s out doing business. Adds to the aura.”

The fuck? Well. Now that you poke into your brain, you finally remember why Lee Jeno had seemed oddly familiar when you were introduced to him. That day you found out your (former) literati, over the bar crush was actually a fucking gang leader who’s actually kind of crazy. Jeno was the one with Mark carrying that big, suspicious duffel bag. That makes sense.

“He doesn’t look like it, but he’s actually very diligent and organized. He’s basically Mark’s secretary.” 

This is very hard to wrap your head around, but maybe you’re just being too judgmental. Huh. If this is the case, then Mark has formed a pretty well rounded inner circle for him. Lee Jeno’s the one helping him make sure the oil keeps running, pretty much an all-rounder. Huang Renjun deals with Nalkeutta’s external partnerships. Now, all this makes you wonder—

“Then…what about Na Jaemin?”

There’s a flicker in Haechan’s eyes. He looks at you, eyes peeking above his coffee mug, and you don’t break your gaze. “Curious?” he hums, setting it down onto the counter behind him. “What about me? Don’t you wanna ask about what my role is?”

“I already know that you’re a desperate son of a bitch. What else do you do?”

“God damn, you never hold back.” You know he manages most of the internal affairs. Gratified HR, but you don’t want to grant him the satisfaction that you give a fourth of a shit. “Jaeminnie’s our clean-up dog. Mark knows how to put his maw to good use.”

Clean-up dog. Hah. 

“If there’s anyone Mark needs to be beaten half to death, Jaemin’s the man for the job. The guy basically lives off of the adrenaline he gets from fighting. I think the money is just secondary to him, but who knows. Mark likes to keep him busy with chasing down debtors or else he’d take it out on the nearest Nalkeutta member within arms reach. He seems like a lazy prick, but he’s actually pretty competent and meticulous. Only when blood and bruises are involved, of course.” 

Now, that makes you feel like absolute crap. Not for him, but for you— finding out that you and a psycho have been relegated to essentially the same demeaning position, one judicially and the other extrajudicially. That’s a dig into your pride. It leaves a sourly bitter taste on your tongue, and you don’t even have any coffee left to wash it down.

“Well. That is until someone pisses him off. Then things get pretty messy,” Haechan continues with a drawl, checking out his fingernails. Then his eyes flicker up, tipping his head back to flash you a grin. “Which has been more than often lately. He’s been getting into a lot of unrelated fights and trouble. Wonder why.”

Your mouth folds up into a sneer. “Talk about yourself, you serial drunk driver.”

“Let me take you out on a spin with my Porsche next time, attorney. It’ll be fun.”

“And fucking die? No thanks.”

“Aww, cmon! I promise you’ll get the rush of the century, babe, you won’t regret—”

Swoosh!

Thwack!

“Ow, hey, what the the fuck!”

You jump back, gaze darting down to check out the flying object that was punted into Haechan’s temple right. You snicker. It’s a vape pen. You’re about to thank the culprit until you actually find out who it is: lo and behold, Na Jaemin at the break room entrance, looking as smug as ever, and he successfully ruins your day at nine in the morning. “Whoops,” he says, sauntering up to you both, ducking down to swipe the vape pen off the floor before holding it back up. He’s not looking at you. He’s looking at Haechan. “Hand slipped.”

Haechan’s expression gets twisted. “Oh, you wanna go?” The gap between them closes. Uh-oh. Time to find an opening to leave. “Been a while since our last fight, Jaems.”

“Yeah, you mean the day I used your fucking face as a windshied wiper? Was it fun? Wanna try it again, you little bitch?”

“If you idiots wanna paint the carpet red, let me leave first—”

“No, wait.”

Haechan grabs onto your arm. He beams. 

“We need a referee.”

And that’s how you got held hostage for a dog fight at the parking lot of your company building. It’s not even noon yet. These fuckers need to get sedated.

You question your existence as Haechan and Jaemin warm up, a considerable amount of distance between each other. Why are you even here? “I’ll make sure to give you a show, attorney.” You stare dead forward at the empty space in between, face not looking particularly entertained. And then he shrugs off his jacket, revealing his tank-topped chest, and you choke on your spit. His face lights up at your coughing fit. “Keep your eyes on m—”

Thwack!

“Whoops.”

Oh, what the fuck, you blink and all of a sudden Haechan has lunged forward to sock him straight in the kisser.

“Hand slipped.” Haechan draws back his arm, grinning. Oh shit. You’re unable to see the entirety of Na Jaemin’s face. His head is turned, eyes covered up by his hair. You watch as he hacks up his throat to spit out a blotch of red on the concrete ground. For a second there, you think he’s pissed.

Then he lifts up his head, revealing the crooked, blood-stained grin on his teeth.

“You been practicing for me, Donghyuckie?”

This guy just got punched. He just got punched in the face and he’s smiling. 

That’s when things start getting uglier and you’re forced to watch two grown men brawl as their favorite pastime. Wow, they’re just going at it. Haechan lands another hook into Jaemin’s jaw and he quickly jumps away before the former can grab onto him. From what you can tell, Haechan’s a very sneaky fighter, retreating after every strike— almost as if he’s buzzing around Na Jaemin and nipping at him like a mosquito 

“Oi.” Na Jaemin’s jaw is tight. “There’s no fun in this. Get over here.”

“Whoa!” Haechan manages to dodge another one of Jaemin’s attempts to grab at him. “No thanks!” 

Yeah. Now Na Jaemin is definitely getting pissed. You can almost see the vein popping out of his neck when Haechan fails to duck quick enough, allowing Jaemin to grab a fistful of his hair. Haechan lets out a pained grunt when Jaemin yanks his head down, allowing full access to his face— allowing you to witness the blood drain from Haechan’s face in real time, at the very moment.

“Quit running away, you fuckin’ rat.” 

Jaemin winds his arm back. You squeeze your eyes shut. And then you hear the sound of a fist hitting bone.

“That’s more like it.”

Jesus, his voice is nothing but pure elation. That’s it. You’ve seen enough of this demon’s madness to conclude that Haechan had just lost. This is where they differ— Na Jaemin doesn’t like fighting. He likes watching the willpower drain from his opponents eyes after each blow until they’re back and blue and have lost the will to live. A textbook sadist. The moment Na Jaemin has you in his grasp, you’re as good as a dead man. And that much is obvious with how much Haechan is struggling to get out of his grip without ripping a chunk of his hair off.

He looks like he’s having the time of his life “Grit your teeth, buddy.”

Haechan responds with a nervous laugh, dangling half on the floor. “Hey, man, I thought we were just sparring for fun, yeah? Let’s take it easy, ok— oof!”

Aaaaand, that’s your cue to stop watching. If the roles were reversed, then maybe you’d be more interested. You’ve seen this show and multiple encores back in high school already. So while they’re busy killing each other, you quietly sneak off to your car just a few parking spots away to retouch your lipstick. Maybe grab a snack from the glove compartment. Anything other than this mess, for sure.

Anything. Yeah, nevermind. Maybe not anything because the moment you reach your car, you notice something stuck on your windshield wipers.

There’s a wrinkly slip of paper there.

When you fold it open, it’s revealed to be a mortuary pamphlet. There’s scrawl all over it. Red marker. Count your fucking days, attorney. Wow. Not very up for interpretation. Does this fucker think you’re fourteen?

“Hey.”

You flinch. You turn your head back. You’re not sure how long you’ve been standing here, but apparently long enough for Lee Haechan to gather a collection of blood and bruises as he tries and fails to wiggle out of Na Jaemin’s grip.

The latter isn’t even looking at him. He looks at you as he jerks Haechan back to his knees.

“What’s the matter?”

It’s only now that you notice your hands are shaking. You hiss out a swear and crumple the sheet in the tight lump and stuff it into your slack pockets. “Some bastard left their trash on my car,” you grunt, stomping away from your car and back up to them. “Anyway, are you two done playing? Unlike you two, I have a semi-normal job here and still have work to do.”

“Not until you declare the winner, attorney.”

Na Jaemin finally decides to let the poor guy go. Haechan gets dropped to the ground with a thump, groaning in obvious pain. You look down at him, sighing. “Why’d you even provoke him if you were gonna lose anyway?”

Yeah, you’re not giving Na Jaemin the satisfaction. Haechan lets out a breath and a laugh as he settles on the parking lot floor, propped up by his elbows. “I thought I’d stand a chance toda.” He cracks at you. “But it seems like my plan backfired. Too bad.”

Although you refused to declare Na Jaemin the winner, it seems like his fight with Haechan was enough to pacify him for a while.

Seems like the bastard had his fill. You didn’t get any phone calls from Mark or the station nor did you receive any more threatening death threats over the weekend. It’s great. You hit 10,000,000g in Stardew and will soon have the same amount in your bank account. Monday rolls around again though, and you have to spend the entire day out of office to join Mark and Jeno for the Daehgwang meeting. 

It’s so peaceful. The thorns in your side have been so well behaved. Haechan’s porsche got seized by the government because he forgot to pay last month, meaning he no longer has a vehicle to drive under the influence with. Na Jaemin hasn’t even gotten into another altercation.

At least not for the past three days.

On Tuesday evening, you get another ring from the station. 

“It was a 5v1,” Na Jaemin informs you, grinning with a new busted lip on top of his bruises from Haechan. “I won.”

This time, you drive off before he could even get into your car.

‎*‎

“I swear to god, Renjun, it’s like he gets off from getting handcuffed and ruining lives.”

Renjun is your favorite Nalkeutta member so far. Meaning, he’s the unfortunate soul that’s stuck with hearing your whines and complaints over a jenga game in his office. It didn’t take much to convince him into joining you to get paid for goofing around on company time— however, you didn’t exactly advertise having to be your unpaid therapist for the time being.

“Who are you talking about again?” he asks after pulling out a successful block from the tower.

“Na Jaemin.” You crane your neck, squinting at the remaining blocks for an opening. “Does he die if he can’t get into trouble with law enforcement once a week or some shit? God dammit, this tower is tight.”

You’ve always known he was a sadistic fuck since high school. But you thought that only extended to physical pain. Apparently he has a penchant for inflicting psychological pain as well. “Uh-uh, sure he got into messes before— try that one.” You prod on the block he points at until it becomes loose. “But he wasn’t always this bad.”

The block slides out. You put it back on top and sit straight. “Haechan said something like that too.” Your brows furrow. “What exactly do you guys mean by that?”

Renjun shrugs, poking around the block tower. “He’d usually get into fights outside the job like twice a month max.”

He pulls out the wrong block. The tower collapses on the coffee table.

“I think it was around the time you joined that he got worse.”

It clicks. You understand now.

“Hey, let’s play again, that was a— wait, where are you going?”

You storm out of his office and stomp into your own. Na Jaemin doesn’t get off from ruining lives in general— it seems like he gets a special kick out ruining yours in particular. Fuck’s sake. You thought he was just a lunatic for getting into bar fights thrice a week. Apparently being his high school alarm clock for two years wasn’t enough. He needs you to contract occupational depression too. 

Inside your office now. You bang a hand into your desktop keyboard because the printer is taking too long to vomit out the shitty piece of paper. You rip it out from its mouth and march into Ganghak Division, heels clicking against the tile— a sound most have already attributed to your presence, but this time so, so loudly that heads turn at each hollow clack— and the sound halts the moment you see one of his employees that you’ve flagged as a pushover the moment he’d been admitted here.

“Park Sion.” You grab him by the shoulder. “Is your dickhole of a boss in?”

He flinches and blinks his wide open eyes at you, gulping. “Y—yes?”

You grunt and push past him, printout in hand. You spot the door that has a frosted glass window in the middle. You make a beeline and kick it open with a loud bang!

“What in the name of fuck—”

The words get cut out from Na Jaemin’s throat the moment you lock eyes, and the pissed off expression on his face gets replaced by the cold splash of surprise and something you don’t give a fuck to decipher. 

“A—attorney.” He clears his throat and tries to scramble himself back together. “Wow. Came to give a little visit?”

There’s someone else in the room— another Ganghak high schooler, standing straight and firm and nervous before his desk with a deck of papers pressed to his chest. You click your tongue barrel forward, shoving yourself between them and slam the piece of paper on his desk, a huff escaping your nostrils as you stare him down with the animosity of a thousand suns. He’s still a little shell-shocked, brows uplifted and eyes blinking before he looks down and slides the paper up to him.

“I hate your fucking guts,” he reads out your message printed in Cambria 14. You smile when he looks up from the page to meet your stare. It hurts your cheeks. Then you spin your heels and may your merry way out of his office in the best mood you’ve ever been since getting here— and this change of demeanour is very much noticed by every single Nalkeutta member that you walk past, turning heads of both horror and concern as you hum back to Huang Renjun’s territory.

Renjun turns his head to the door when you knock and swing it open.

“Whew.” You fall back onto his office sofa, causing his newly built jenga tower to tumble down. “Shit, that was cathartic. I needed that.” 

He stares at his fallen tower, a somber expression on his face. “Are you gonna share it with the class?”

You do, in fact, share it with the class alongside your hypothesis that Na Jaemin hates your particular guts to the point that he’s actively making your living hell. Renjun is attentive throughout your whole rant session— nodding along to your cries and swears while he rebuilds your tower, and he places the last block on top just in time for you to finally run out of steam. “I swear to god, he has it out for me, Renjun” you finish off with a huff, sinking deeper into his sofa.

That in itself is bad, but apparently it could get worse.

“He could be doing it because he hates you, sure,” he starts, prodding into the newly built tower. “But have you considered the opposite?”

Because Huang Renjun injects a truly horrifying idea inside your head.

“What?”

He hums, locking into the middle piece at the very bottom of the stack. 

“I’m not sure you’ve noticed, but on the days you give Jaemin the slightest bit of tolerant attention he doesn’t act out.”

He, then, slides the piece out.

“And whenever you flat out ignore him for the entire day, I get a colorful text from you that Na Jaemin is in a holding cell again and you’re on the way driving to get him out.”

He takes it into his hand—

“Maybe he’s just doing it to get your attention.”

—and finally sets it on top of the tower to restart the game.

“Your turn.”

You’re frozen in your seat. You carefully think back to all the times you’ve been plagued to bail him out— the first time, which was the night of the recruitment bullshit, and you did talk to him then. Granted it was to insult his smoking habits, but that completely debunks Renjun’s theory right? How about the other times— like the day after the first incident and you were far too pissed to even give him the light of day— wait. Wait. 

No fucking way. Did you see him the day you left with Mark and Jeno to deal with the Daeghwang contract? You did pass him by, but why the fuck would you have greeted him? Shit. Oh my god. This is the most depraved shit you’ve ever been cursed to consider and you’d once debated offing a man just to win a court case. 

You don’t want to believe it. There’s no fucking way.

So, you put it to the test first thing in the morning to make sure that Huang Renjun is nothing but a delusional fuck who just wants you paranoid.

You walk out of Mark’s office with him after a quick discussion on how to strengthen their loan contracts. He asks if you’ve been getting enough sleep lately and the answer to the question is in the very same hallway that you’re passing through, walking the opposite direction as the both of you.

“Jaemin-ah, good morning,” Mark greets him. The guy only stifles a grunt in reply before turning his attention to you.

You look at him. Not at him, but on the silver chain hanging around his neck because you don’t feel very brave at the moment. “Good morning, Na Jaemin-ssi.” Then you immediately scuttle away, leaving a nonplussed yet still pleasant demeanored Mark behind to catch up with you and bounce for coffee.

That entire day, you wait for a phone call from the station to arrive.

Night comes. You’re about to go to bed. Your phone does not make a single buzz. Nothing. 

You’re horrified. You’re really, truly horrified.

Listen, you’ve never been dense to a man’s advances. You’re not stupid. You know when someone has a crush on your because always a standard operating procedure, the cut and dry tactics of trying to take you out for a meal or a drink, calling you pretty, or whatever the fuck. No one fucking flirts by violating the law multiple times a week just so you’d pick him up from the police station. So, you can’t exactly be blamed when you never saw this coming.

This singular thought plagues you for the rest of the week. So much so, that you don’t exactly trust yourself driving almost an hour over the weekend to Gyeonggi to meet up with some friends from law school, so you take public transportation instead. 

The problem is, you couldn’t even enjoy your fucking brunch because they kept asking why you quit JSS, so all you could think about is all the men that have plagued you to ruination— one bastard standing out in particular.

“Seriously, is he a fucking lunatic or something?”   

“Who’s the fucking lunatic or something?”

You’d been waiting at the bus stop on the way back to Yeongdeungpo when a convertible you don’t recognize pulls over, but the person sitting in the driver’s seat definitely is. Your face sours. Then dread washes over.

“Heard from Mark that you needed a ride,” Haechan tips down his sunglasses, smiling. “Hop in. Let me take you out for a spin on my new baby, attorney. It’ll be fun.”

Oh no. Fuck. Your days of relative peace from the police are over. You need to hire someone to wreck this orange-painted nightmare before you’re forced to deal with an inevitable hit and run case. This thing is an accident waiting to happen. It needs to fucking go.

Not right now, though. You do need a ride. 

“Mind stopping by a pharmacy first? I think I’m having fucking indigestion.”

You also need to know where he parks this thing. You take a few steps back and snap your phone camera at his license plate before hopping in the car. “Why? Shitty date?” he hums, starting up the engine. “I can do you one better, sweetheart.”

“Shut the fuck and drive or else I’ll be needing more than just antacids.”

“Gotchu.”

It’s not that being a stuck-up bitch is your default. It’s just that you know better than to get yourself entangled into Nalkeutta more than you already are especially when the one thing you’re looking for is an out. The both of you make a stop at the nearest pharmacy in Gyeonggi and you pick up your medicine. Outside the store, Haechan spots a small hotteok stand to bribe you to hang out with him a bit more before heading back to Yeongdeungpo.

Ugh. You don’t wanna get back in there. That’s where Na Jaemin is and lately he’s been mentally perturbing you more than pissing you off or scaring you. You take a bite into the warm snack and start talking with a semi-full mouth. “By the way. Renjun told me something interesting.”

“Yeah, what’s up?” he muffles out. 

“That Na Jaemin deliberately gets into trouble to get my attention,” you flatly say, looking at the syrup you just wiped off your mouth before licking it off. “I need a dissenting opinion or else I might actually go clinically insane.”

“Oh, you just noticed?” he says, walking back to his car and you follow. “Everyone in the office knows he has a crush on you. It’s pretty obvious.” 

Well. No dissenting opinion. Guess you’ll have to go insane.

“I thought bringing you to our fight the other day would distract his messed up brain. But apparently the sick fuck just got more excited knowing that you were watching. He got bored when you went back into the office. I really should’ve known better.”

“Wait, if you knew that your insane friend has a fuckied up crush on me, then why have you been trying to hit on me in front of his face?”

The both of you get back into the car. Haechan spares you a glance and a grin.

“It’s funny,” he cackles. The car starts moving. Slower than you expected. It’s surprising that this guy is actually receptive to feedback, but you appreciate it nonetheless. “I never get a reaction out of him otherwise. And, I gotta correct you about something, attorney. There are no friends in Nalkeutta.”

There’s a soft breeze brushing past your ears. You peer at him, a tug on your lips. “So, we’re not friends?” 

You almost snort seeing the way his shoulders flinch. The first time you speak to him without an ounce of venom, this idiot folds.

“I thought we’d gotten closer recently, Haechan.”

There’s no missing the way his ears flare up despite keeping his eyes on the road. God, this is pretty funny. The reason why you’re not as creeped out by the idea that another one of your co-workers harbors a petty crush on you despite the fact that they’re both demented and violent is simply because one has singlehandedly turned your last two years of highschool into a traumatic hell while also not giving enough of a fuck to remember the trauma he caused, and the other has not. 

Still, you’re not indulging Lee Haechan any more than this because you still have some self respect. You wanna continue dicking around with this newfound power a bit more, but your high is quickly shut down by a shiver down your spine.

You jolt in your seat. Your eyes flash to the rearview. There’s a taxi trailing behind. 

“Haha, have—have we gotten closer…? I thought you were more friends with Renjun, and—”

“Haechan, turn right.”

“What? That’s not the route ba—”

“Just fucking do it.”

With a concerned yet suspicious furrow of his brow, Haechan obliges your abrupt request, and what do you know— the moment you guys make a turn, the vehicle behind you does the same. “Now, make another right.” Your narrowed eyes remain fixed on the back mirror. “Left. Keep going.” 

Your companion isn’t dull. He notices the same thing as you do at the third nonsensical turn. You hear him click his tongue, feigning annoyance, but no form of play pretend could even attempt to hide the wicked grin sprawling on his face in excitement.

Ah, shit. You instinctively clutch onto the seat belt straps as if you’re holding onto your dear life. “Hey, attorney,” he starts, shifting pedals. “Hold on tight.”

What the hell does it look like you’re doing? 

The blazing hiss of rubber screeching against asphalt. This might very well be the day you die.

‎*‎

“C’mon, it’s been two weeks! Are you still mad?”

Yes. It’s been two weeks since your latest near death experience and it wasn’t even at the hands of your stalker, whom you managed to shake off thanks to Haechan, but the fact that these very past two weeks was spent trying to settle with his fucking hit and run victim has clearly pulverized any semblance of gratefulness you felt towards him.

Right now, he’s trying to win your forgiveness over by dropping a box of macarons from the new bakery in the district onto your lovely desk Savannah. You flip the box open as aggressively as you can and rip apart the unfortunate pink cookie with your teeth while you stare at him dead in the eye. He flinches. He tries to form a smile but it’s all crooked and nervous. “Sooo…are we good now?”

You finish up the remnants of your first victim and pull open your drawer, and Haechan watches as you take out a few staples pieces of paper before handing it to him.

“What’s this?” 

He opens his mouth first before reading. You marvel at the decline of man’s average intelligence.

“It’s a contract,” you hum. “Sign it, and I’ll hang out with you again.”

“Oh, sweet!” he enthuses and fishes out a pen from your variety assortment, setting the sheet down onto the polished mahogany surface. He’s already started the first stroke of his legally binding signature when he actually inquires into the nature of the contract. “You should’ve just given this to me days ago, damn I even went to— wait. What’s this about impounding my car?”

You quickly try to snatch the paper back, but Haechan may be dumber than you but he is stronger. He quickly flits back to the first page, squinting at the fine print very close to his face, and after a moment of realization, he jerks his arms down to release a horrified gasp.

“Evil! Evil woman!” He points an accusatory finger. “How could you attempt to do this to me and my Josephine?!”

His curses fall on deaf ears. You remove a bushel of lint from your blaze lapels and flick it off into a corner of your office. “I think it’s a fair agreement,” you languidly say. “We get to be friends for so long as you refrain from getting into another traffic accident. Otherwise, say goodbye to your dearest Josephine.”

“No!”

A knock on your door interrupts the tantrum you caused. It gets quiet. A head peeks in. It’s Mark.

“Are you two busy?” he asks, likely having heard your…conversation from outside. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

Immediately, you shift your attention away from the high speeding demon and straighten your back towards your boss. “Not at all. What’s the matter?”

Haechan quietly greets him as well in a grumble, stepping aside in order to surrender his spot in front of your desk to Mark. “Oh, it’s not at all a source of worry,” he assures with a hum. “It’s just that, it’s been over a month since you’ve graced Nalkeutta with your expertise, but we haven’t even thrown you a welcome party yet. Things have indeed been hectic with our clients one top with our ongoing problem with Cheongang, yet these issues aren’t justifications to prevent your warm welcome.”

There’s a smile on Mark’s face. Oh no. You know where this is going and despair befalls over your face.

See, you’re not exactly against company dinners. Back in JSS, it was a regular opportunity to get your bosses and partners blackout drunk so they don’t remember you recording their not-very-proud moments. But right now, you’re not exactly keen on going home late considering your whole stalker death threat situation.

“I already booked a bar near the bridge. Let’s all take the evening off.”

Well. Now that there’s no way out of this, all you can do is hope that today isn’t your due date yet.

Evening comes, and you’re suffered to be in Na Jaemin’s presence again. He’s in the company car that Mark ushers you into, sitting in the front seat next to Jeno and you two make a split second of eye contact through the mirror before stumbling into the car seat with an annoyed grunt. God, you’ve been so busy these past two weeks that you weren’t even given the chance to stress about him. Now you’re trapped with him for the rest of the night with little to know chance to escape.

Throughout the drive, you contemplate faking sickness again but unfortunately you never got the opportunity to set it up, so you just come up with your roster of excuses in case the amount of men inside the lounge starts becoming noxious to you.

“Cheers!”

The moment drinks start rolling in, they’re cheering for your name and title—- under duress, maybe, because it was preceded by a late welcome speech from the big boss himself. Mark pours you a drink and you’re obligated to swallow it down, burning your throat. Ugh. 

Obviously, not every Nalkeutta member is here right now. Aside from Mark and his four executives, two to three lower ranking members from each division have also been extended the invitation. You recognize Zhong Chenle from Hyeongshin and Na Jaemin’s favorite lackey, Park Jisung, held hostage by his boss in a torture chamber of shot after shot after shot.

“How are you holding up?” 

Renjun settles into the velvet seat next to you— unoccupied for the last hour because Haechan is still throwing a tantrum after your attempted vehicular slaughter, Na Jaemin maybe, finally took the eloquently worded message that you delivered the other week to heart, and the rest of Nalkeutta’s members are too intimidated to sit near the in-house lawyer that regularly stomps around in a flurry of swears throughout the office and your heel clicks harbors fear.

“Fantastic,” you deadpan, bringing the god rush you ordered to your lips. “I’m tipsy and cold and want nothing more than to knock myself out via head injury right now. You think if I announce that my period just arrived, they’d be too uncomfortable to stop me from leaving?”

“You’d probably succeed, but I don’t exactly recommend you leaving by yourself.”

“This is Nalkeutta’s territory, what kind of fucking idiot would try to jump me?”

“Well, things are precarious with Cheongang right now, and—”

You’re interrupted by a meek “Ex—excuse me,” from a Daehyeon subordinate. Lee Jeno’s subordinate. You look up and raise a brow at him. The guy’s face is embarrassed and he’s holding out a jacket. “The…the boss told me to give you this.” Your eyes flit down to the article, hanging sleeves barely brushing against the bare skin of your thighs that your pencil skirt is failing to cover, and you look up across the room to see the said co-worker conversing with Jaemin, now in a compression shirt when you could’ve sworn he was more covered up earlier. 

Again, you briefly meet eyes with Jaemin. You cough and look away, accepting the jacket with a thank you before the grunt scurries away. Then you recall Haechan’s words. He’s a nice guy. Man, if only you went to Daehyeon in high school, you’d probably be a lot saner today. 

“Anyway, as I was saying,” Renjun continues. “It’s a little dangerous right now and those guys are just across the bridge. They could be loitering around nearby.”

“Hey, I’ll be fine, I don’t go around unarmed you know.” You adjust the newly acquired cover on your lap. “Well. Maybe I do have something to worry about considering there’s a creepy stalker threatening to kill me.”

It’s like the entire room screeches into a tense halt.

“What?” Haechan finally decides to grow up and talk to you, marching up to your side of the lounge with a knitted look. “What do you mean stalker?” 

The repetition of the word attracts everyone’s attention if your first utterance hadn’t already. Drinks stop pouring. You notice eyes on you— particularly from across the room, which you promptly brush off to entertain Haechan’s question. “Oh, you know the day you ran over that grocery owner? The one I had to beg just so he wouldn’t sue you?”

“Yeah, I fucking know, but what do you mean you’re being stalk—” It hits him. “Fuck. The taxi. I thought it was just another one of my enemies training me!”

“Attorney, is this true?” Mark finally enters the conversation, uncharacteristically concerned. “And did you say this person is threatening to kill you?”

You meant to say it as a self deprecating joke. You didn’t expect these guys to actually clock your words and take you seriously.

“Attorney?”

You don’t answer verbally. Instead you grab your purse and pull out the envelope that’s been cozying up in there since you first got it. You set its contents down on the table for everyone to see, followed by the mortuary pamphlet you retrieved from your windshield. “This one was attached to my car in the company parking lot, but I’m pretty sure it’s a personal vendetta and has nothing to do with Nalkeutta, so you don’t have to worry about that.”

It’s disappointing, but this is all you have. There are no texts or phone calls. You have nothing on this bastard but a letter and a note.

Mark’s holding up the letter. You notice the pamphlet wrinkle in between Haechan’s fingers. “When did you get this?”

“Uhhh, the day Na Jaemin beat the shit out of you?”

“God fucking dammit.” He tosses it back to the table and throws his hands in the air before stomping off in frustration. Renjun scolds him and gives the note back to you, and you promptly fold it to return to your purse, along with the letter Mark offers back to you.

“There’s security cameras there,” he says. “Have you checked them yet?”

“I did and he was masked and covered up. Same with the footage from my building. I checked in with my landlady the day after I received the note at my doorstep, and she wasn’t around when it happened.” 

“He knows where you live?!”

“Jesus,” Renjun breathes out. “You’re practically buddies with the cops at the station, why didn’t you report it?” 

You simply sigh in your seat and set your purse aside. Honestly, you’re getting annoyed. Do they think you’re fucking stupid? Do they think you’re just letting this freak run around because you want to? Fucking ridiculous. “There’s barely any evidence to identify him, much less to penalize him for anything more than a fine and a warning. I thought I’d wait until I have enough under my belt to ensure a final conviction.”

“And continue risking your life? Are you fucking stupid?”

It’s Na Jaemin who says that.

He’s still sitting in the same spot as earlier, unmoving from his seat across the lounge, staring at you with a weight that practically digs into flesh and bone. Your jaw clenches. You ignore his insult with a roll of your eyes and you down the remaining half of your cocktail.

“This isn’t something we can just take lightly, attorney,” Mark tells you as though he’s genuinely concerned, but you call bullshit. He just doesn’t like the idea of losing his safety net from the law. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

Your brows twitch. You firmly set the glass down on the mess of a table. “It seemed personal,” you answer, pointedly. “I didn’t think it concerned the company. That’s all.”

There’s quiet. You don’t look up from your seat, pouring yourself another drink. There’s a ticking in your ear. You’re frustrated. A groan scratches out of your throat and you quickly try to wash it down with a lean glass of whiskey, but Renjun manages to snatch it out of your hands with a disappointed click of his tongue before you succeed with your attempt. 

You snap your head at him. “What the hell are you doing?” 

“Maybe you should call it a night,” says, taking out his phone. “What’s your address? I’ll book an Uber.”

“He’s right, but you shouldn’t go alone,” Mark interjects. You look at him like he’s vomiting out shit from his mouth. He ignores it and instead turns back— gaze directed to the set of seats across the room. “Jaemin, make sure she makes it back home safely.”

“What?” Your voice is a shriek. You jolt onto your feet. “I understand you’re trying to look out for your employee, but why does it have to be him?”

 Na Jaemin is already pulling on a jacket. Your bite down your lip. You already have one crazy asshole knowing where you live. You don’t need another one.

“He’s the only one capable and hadn’t had anything to drink.”

“What about Renjun!”

The man in question looks the slightest bit sorry and embarrassed. “Listen, I don’t wish upon your death, attorney, but if that threat comes tonight, I can’t protect you. I already told you that I don’t fight.”

Fucking hell. You deflate like a balloon. Mark takes your lack of further complaints as surrender and nods at Jaemin, who promptly starts ushering you out of the reserved room. “I already know that you fucking hate my guts, attorney, but now’s not the time to be picky.”

“Just take your damned orders as is like a good dog and don’t fucking talk to me.”

Frankly, you’re heated right now. That entire situation was patronizing. You can’t stomach being treated like some goddamn helpless bitch who can’t handle her own dirty laundry when you’ve been cleaning up for them for most of your fucking career. You just need time. You just need enough cards and opportunities to fuck this stalker over. It’s not beyond your capabilities. It’s not something you need a dysfunctional circus gang to fix for you.

Thankfully, your guard dog doesn’t try to pick a fight throughout the uber ride home. He’s garnered enough tact this past week to figure out your sour mood.

It’s just as quiet when you finally arrive at your building. Na Jaemin follows you all the way to the entrance. The key remains slotted into the doorhole, unturned. “What are you doing?”

You hear him scoff from beside you. “Doing my fucking job like a good dog. Your stalker left the love letter on your doorstep. You think I’d stop here?” 

“Ugh. Fine.”

Begrudgingly, you lead him up to your unit. The moment you reach the door, you spin your heels to look at him without exactly looking him in the eye. “Alright, we’re here and I’m alive and not dead. Now leave me al—”

You stop. You stop because just when you’re reaching out for your doorknob— almost relieved that you can finally rest and end the day with a shower and good night’s sleep— you notice dents on the metal that weren’t there before.

Na Jaemin notices the same thing. His brows are furrowed. He brushes your hand aside and the handle rattles with a twist. It’s unlocked. You didn’t leave it unlocked this morning. 

You remain glued to the hallway floor as you watch Na Jaemin open the door. 

The moment an opening cracks, he gets smashed on the head with your wooden counter stool and you let out a squeak and yell.

“Fucking hell!” 

“W—wait, you’re not—!”

He hisses in pain but takes less than a second to recover, grabbing onto one of the chair legs to jerk the entire thing back and reach out for the extended arm of the person wielding it before he could let go. You hear a fit of fighting grunts from inside. The chair gets dropped to the ground. Na Jaemin disappears into your apartment with the thrashing culprit, exchanging threats and swears, and it takes you a moment to get back to your senses, the thumping in your ears becoming less and less deafening, and you take your few steps inside.

To say the least, your living room is a mess.

The couch is tipped over. Your rug is in tatters. This fucker was gracious enough to spare your T.V., and your wide eyes immediately dart over to the center of it all— the sight of Na Jaemin pressing the struggling culprit against your once clean floors. 

“Fuck, let— go! Get the fuck off me! Agh—!”

“Shut the fuck up or I’ll break your fucking arms.” Na Jaemin nods his head up, not even budging. “Hey, attorney. You call the shots. What do you want me to do?”

You stare at the man underneath him— the man responsible for making the mess out of your apartment and everything that preceded this very moment. You look at his face, bunched up in rage and shame and frustration, and that’s when you recognize him: your last case at JSS. The sweet, sweet old lady you helped pen her will. The same will that disinherited her two prodigal sons. You met them before. Both of them, because your client wanted to break it to them personally even though she wasn’t legally obligated to, all because she’s such a kind person.

That same person gave birth to despicable trash like this one.

They weren’t happy to hear the news. And since their mother is still under the protection order you arranged, this guy decided that the next best thing to take his anger out on is the lawyer that helped his mother screw them over.

Na Jaemin is still waiting for your answer. The right thing to do would be to take him to the station, finally file the report so they could force an admission of guilt. There’s a CCTV camera in the hallway and even if he was covered up, there’s still clear evidence of breaking and entering on top of everything he’s done to torment you so far. That’s the right thing to do. The legal thing to do.

But right now, you’re simmering. 

No, fuck it, your blood is boiling. You shrug off your blazer and toss it as a new addition to your messed up apartment floor. You roll back your right shoulder. You take a few more steps forward, staring him down on the ground. “Hold him up,” you tell Na Jaemin. It takes a second for him to register your instruction. But when it does, you couldn’t even miss the wild grin that stretches on his face— even if you wanted to.

“Since you asked nicely,” he says with a lace of amusement, ignoring the bouts of protest from the guy when he lugs him up to his feet like a ragdoll, locking him in place with two arms, and leaving him open and vulnerable. 

The first thing you do is yank his chin up by the hair. It’s a sight to see— the sheer hatred and animosity someone is capable of mustering on their face, even when they’re at someone else’s mercy. 

It’s funny. You sneer. Then you grab the other side of his head and slam his nose into your knee.

“Fuck!”

“Son of a bitch.” You jerk his head back up, watching the blood dribble down from his nostrils. “Did you have fun pulling your dumb ass tricks?”

He lets out a pained groan, but still has the strength to shoot you a glare. You let go of his scalp to grab him by the collar so you can have a better grip of slapping him in the face.

Smack!

“Shit—”

“May life is already a living hell dealing with these Nalkeutta fuckers every single day—” 

Whack!

“And then your ugly ass rears in to make things all the more worse.”

Thwap!

“Your disinheritance is none of my fucking business.”

Slap!

“To think I was scared and paranoid for weeks and weeks and weeks because of some broke ass pathetic prick.”

Crack! Your bloodied fist draws back from his jaw. He sputters out a bubble of red. You’re practically holding him up by the stretched out collar of his shirt. 

“Hey,” you say, giving him a rattle. “What gives you the right to do all of that to me, huh? Huh?”

When he doesn’t answer, you feel a tick in your temple. You go in for another smack to his face, but it doesn’t happen.

“That’s enough.”

You’ve always thought that if Na Jaemin were to grab you by the wrist, he’d immediately snap it into two.

“You’re gonna regret it tomorrow.”

The shock from the gentle fitness of his grip sends you back to reality, and you finally feel the dull throb on the knuckles of your right hand, the sharp tingle on the skin of your palms that seeps into muscle and flesh. You let go of him. You see splotches of red all over, and the eventual sores and bruises that’ll show up by the morning. 

You call your landlady. Na Jaemin accompanies you to the station to turn your stalker in along with all the evidence you managed to acquire. Officer Jung questions the state of the perpetration, and when you chalk it up as self-defense, he doesn’t press further and simply wishes you a good rest. 

The moment you walk out into the lobby and see Na Jaemin waiting, you’re hit with an uncomfortable whiplash at the unprompted role reversal. You don’t fight him or anything when he takes you back home. All you could do was muster a quiet, “Thanks,” when he tells you that he sent over some Ganghak members to clean up the mess of your apartment in the hour and a half that you spent at the precinct.

“Mark says you don’t have to come in tomorrow,” he tells you before you go on.

“Wasn’t planning to,” is what you say before finally closing the door on him.

‎*‎

Unfortunately, Na Jaemin was right.

“Ow! Shit! Fuck me!”

You are, indeed, regretting your whole fit of violence right now— over your bathroom counter with your med kit sprawled open. Your hands are a mess. You bandage yourself up before attempting to make breakfast. The attempt ends with you hissing in pain every time you try to hold something with your right hand, so you end up ordering something to eat instead.

While waiting, you plop down on your down fixed couch to answer the flood of messages that had been coming in since last night. Mostly from Haechan. One text from Renjun checking in on you. The last few from Mark telling you to take as much time off as you need— paid, he emphasizes. His fluency in your way of communicating is starting to scare you. You tell him you’d be clocking in back to work tomorrow. 

A new notification comes in telling you that your order is almost here. You groan and peel yourself off the couch, grabbing a pair of slides from the entryway before twisting open your already unlocked door. 

The moment you breathe the hallway air, you’re met with another commotion.

“Get out! Go away!”

“Ma’am, I’m telling you I know the resident here, I’m just— ow!”

Thunk!

“Don’t you lie to me, I know Miss Attorney doesn’t have any friends or a boyfriend! Get out!”

You stop by the doorframe, taking in the sight of your middle-aged landlady beating the high and mighty Na Jaemin with a convenience store bought frying pan. He looks so distraught shielding himself with his arms, before finally noticing you, and his expression shifts. “Hey! Tell this woman to stop, I’ve been—”

Thwack!

 “Attorney!” your landlady greets you after landing another metal blow to Na Jaemin. “This weirdo has been loitering around your unit ever since I got here! Should we call the police?!”

Your eyes flit over to Jaemin. He looks annoyed and pissed and disgruntled, but apparently even someone like him won’t raise a hand against a woman old enough to be his mom. You stifle out a short sneer, then turn to your landlady with a smile. “Ahjumma, it’s alright, he’s my co-worker,” you assure. “He’s the one who helped me last night.”

You hear him scoff. “Oh,” your landlady gasps. “I’m so sorry, dear. You just looked awfully suspicious.” Then she quickly forgets about him to address you instead. “I already called a repairman to fix your broken door. They’ll be here before lunchtime.”

“Thank you. I’ll handle it from here!”

“Take care, dear. Have a lovely morning.”

When she goes off up the staircase, you look at the weirdo loitering around your unit. You cross your arms, brow raised. “What do you want?”

He stares you down, and you catch his mouth twitch when he lets out an incredulous huff. “Your damn landlady should get heating in the hallway. My back’s all sore and all I get in return is attitude,” he snarks. “Can’t believe you had a good night’s sleep even with your lock broken after the shit that went down. I don’t know if you’re brave or fucking stupid.”

You’re hit by a sudden pang against your chest. Oh. Oh. You notice he’s still wearing the same clothes as yesterday. You let his insult slide this time, telling him to follow you downstairs to pick up your food. It’s a good thing you ordered enough for two meals today. You don’t thank him. Instead, you invite him in for a doenjang-jjigae breakfast.

“Want coffee?”

“You gonna spit in it?” he chides from the dining table.

“Just say no, you prick,” you grunt, dragging out a pitcher of water from your fridge instead and slamming it down onto the table. You’re starting to second guess your act of gratitude. You should’ve just let your landlady beat him to death with the pan.

He pours water into the two empty glasses while you struggle to open the delivery bags and containers. You curse the plastic knot getting in the way of your doenjang-jjigae, hissing every time the plastic brushes against your still raw skin despite the bandages. Na Jaemin seems to notice your struggle because he clicks his tongue and snatches it from you to do it himself. Your face grows hot. Your pride is in tatters.

You two start eating in silence. God, this is so fucking awkward. “So, uh,” you try to crack it. “The food is…great…right…?”

“Cut the shit, attorney. Just spit it out.”

“Jeez, fine, alright,” you set your utensils down a little too aggressively, and you feel the sting deep within your palms. Your glare zeroes in on the spot on his head that you recall getting ambushed by your counter stool. “Is your head fine? It didn’t bleed or anything, right?”

He just shrugs and continues slurping down the soup. “I’ve had my head split open before. It’s no biggie.”

You stare at him. Was…was that supposed to be a brag? How many concussions has he had? Is that the reason why there’s a screw loose in there somewhere? He’s so fucking insane.

“You worried, or some shit?” He sets down his spoon to fish out a ply of tissue from the box on your table, dabbing away at the shit-eating smile on his face. “That’s cute. Does it mean you don’t hate my fucking guts anymore?”

The tofu you’re trying to eat stops midway into your throat. My god, you didn’t expect him to take that note so seriously. 

You swallow it down with water. “I just wanted to know if I had to reimburse you for any hospital bills,” you explain, somewhat defensive. “I still hate your fucking guts.” His past transgressions aside because he can’t even fucking remember them. “You were the shittiest and most stressful client I’ve ever had and I will hold this grudge until I die. I would’ve dropped your case if Mark’s very existence wasn’t a threat to my life.” All he does is cackle in response. You leer at him. “Fuck off, you treated me like crap then. I don’t get why you’ve been changing your tune lately. It’s throwing me off. Why the hell did you even help me?”

The ideas that Renjun and Haechan injected into your poor brain start to surface. Maybe he’s just doing it to get your attention. Everyone in the office knows he has a crush on you. You hope that’s not the case. You really hope it’s not— and now’s the opportunity to finally get the real answer.

Your heart is thumping like crazy waiting for Na Jaemin to open his dumb mouth. “Ah. The visiting room,” he starts, eyes wandering up like he’s reminiscing a pleasant memory. You don’t share the same sentiment and your expression sours. “I thought you were a pushover at first and it annoyed the hell out of me. Not a big fan of spinelessness and cowardice.”

Wow. You’re speechless. He’s this close to getting kicked out.

“But then you pulled me into that room during recess in court.” 

His eyes flicker over to you— forcing the eye contact that you’d always been running away from. The look on his face forces a lump in your throat. You gulp it down and feel a rattle in your bones. What is this? What’s his deal? Is he trying to fight? What in the name of—

“And then I realized just the kind of woman I was into.”

—fuck?

“Last night, too. But it would’ve been pretty inappropriate to tell you I was turned on considering the situation.”

You blink. You gape at him. You’re not sure if your face is steaming because of anger or embarrassment, so you chalk it up as both. 

“Get out.”

This is it. This is enough. It’s time to call it a day.

“Get out of my house.”

“I’m not done eating ye—”

You grab his glass of water and douse it over half-eaten stew, some of which spills and splatters over him. “Yes, you are. Out. Now.”

Na Jaemin lifts his brows and raises his hands up in surrender as he gets up from his chair without protest, an infuriating simper playing on his face, and it just all the more pisses you off. He makes a comment about your broken door lock before you tell him to fuck off and shove him out into the hallway, his cackles finally get muted the moment you slam the door into his face.

You press your back against the wood. You suck in a deep breath before releasing it as you slide down to the floor.

“This is nuts.”

Seems like you might need another day off. You text Mark that you’ll be coming in on Thursday instead.

fire and brimstone (and you’re a moth made of gasoline). © hannie-dul-set, 2025.