racha-recs

[racha-recs]

18+ sharing your warmth with rafayel. bath time. wet & messy.

It’s hot. Hot and sticky. By the time you slam your front door behind you, you’re desperate to tear your clothes from your skin. You leave a trail of fabric behind you as you stumble towards your bathroom, hopping on one leg as you tug at your pants stuck at your ankle.

You would clean up the mess later, when your hair isn’t sticking to your neck; when you’ve cooled down, you can think of things other than sinking into an ice-cold bath.

The porcelain of the tub is cool against your bare stomach as you lean over to turn the tap. You play with the flow of water as it pours from the faucet, splitting it with your fingers. You consider adding a hint of warm water before deciding against it. The heat leaking from your skin would turn the water lukewarm all on its own. You’d rather suffer the initial sting of the cold than prematurely find yourself in an unpleasant, tepid bath. That sticky, stuffy feeling sneaks up just at the thought of it.

God, you hated summer. Heat and sun and sticky skin and no escape from it.

Colder weather was where you thrived. You could escape from the cold.

You could layer your clothes and drink warm things and bundle under soft blankets with Rafayel beside you.

Heat, on the other hand, was inescapable and claustrophobic and—

Your phone buzzes from your pants as they lay heaped on the tile floor.

Rafayel.

You’d been mid-text as you’d stepped up to your front door. Distracted by the lure of a cold bath, you’d forgotten to hit send.

You lift your head from its perch on your arm, looking across the small bathroom floor. Crawling across the tiles felt like an insurmountable task. You were practically melted over the edge of the tub, a puddle of sticky skin and flushed cheeks.

The phone buzzes again.

Then twice more.

You take in the distance between you and the buzzing bundle of fabric as your fingers glide through the cold water slowly creeping up the sides of the bath. Only because it’s him do you manage to convince yourself to leave the edge of your porcelain oasis and crawl across the tiles towards it – towards him.

His messages come one after the other.

hello???

where did you go

did you get home all right?

if you dont answer in 23 seconds ill consider it an open investigation

hm?? no???? okay then

see you soon

You toss the phone aside and crawl back to your oasis. Full enough, you decide. If Rafayel was joining you, it might just be enough water to lap at your nipples once he’s settled beneath you.

Tugging your underwear down your legs almost leads to disaster. You stumble in your rush, tangled at your ankles. When you finally sink into the cold water, it’s with a sigh — hardly flinching as the biting cold hits each new inch of heated skin.

Cupping up little handfuls of water and wetting your neck helps more than anything. The tension melts out of you with each handful.

It helps so much, you soon find your eyes drifting closed. Finally, some reprieve from the sticky heat.

The slight creak of the bathroom door is the first sound announcing your boyfriend’s arrival. Either he arrived uncharacteristically quietly, or you were more relaxed than you’d realised — oblivious to his sounds of entry.

You offer him a tired smile as he approaches, eyelids heavy.

He smiles back, soft, and accompanied by a barely there sigh of relief. Kneeling down beside the tub and reaching over to cup your cheek, he speaks, “You made it, after all. Mystery solved.”

“Sorry,” you answer quietly. “I got distracted.”

His eyes drop to where the water laps at your nipples, “I can see that.”

Then his hand drops from your cheek and his fingers dance at the water’s surface. When his eyes meet yours again, it’s with a small frown, “It’s ice-cold. You were that hot?”

His hand finds your cheek again, and before you can answer, he continues, “Are you sick? You promised to tell me when you’re sick.”

You cover his hand with your own, sighing a little and leaning into his cool palm, “Not sick. Just hot.” Your eyes close again. “Your skin feels cool,” you add with a small sigh.

His hand pulls away.

You miss it immediately, ready to protest.

But then he’s unbuttoning his shirt.

He was joining you.

He’s barely seated in the water at the end opposing yours before you’re crawling over to him.

Limbs clash and the water splashes a little over the edge, but he offers what you seek.

His arms wrap around you as you settle yourself against his chest.

He doesn’t take away from the soothing coolness of your oasis. Not at all. He’s just as soothing, and far more comfortable than the hard porcelain ever could be.

“Mm,” he hums. “You are very warm. More than usual.”

“Told you,” you mumble against his skin.

Even his breath is cool against your wet forehead.

You’re both quiet for a little while then. You cup some water in your palm and let it fall over any of his skin that isn’t quite submerged. His clavicle first, then his shoulders, then his neck.

His breath hitches a little each time.

“Why were you so hot?” he asks finally. “You didn’t walk home, did you?”

You trace an abstract pattern across his collar bone, “My aircon doesn’t work,” you confess. “Even with the windows down, my car feels like an oven on days like today.”

He lifts his knee a little, and when you attempt to shift the way you’re draped over him to compensate, he stops you — lifting your chin so you're forced to meet his eyes. “Since when?” he asks.

You hesitate, “A while.”

He lets out a little noise of displeasure, brows furrowed. “Silly girl,” he grumbles.

Grumpy boyfriend was not what you wanted right this second. Not when you were so extremely comfortable.

You lift an arm from the water and drag your wet finger down over his pouty lips. “Shhh. You can grump at me later, okay?” You nuzzle against him. “Later,” you add, just to make sure.

Finding you can’t see his face from your position, you readjust, squirming up his body a little and resettling against him.

His lips are wet from your finger, you note, quickly fixated.

They part, then close.

Then he’s holding you tight and shifting you where he likes. He tugs you up into a seated position in his lap, forcing you to bend your knees on either side of his body.

“But I’m mad at you now,” he says, holding you against his chest tightly.

You squirm a little again, until you find a comfortable position in his lap. Every single day, you find yourself grateful for the size of your bathtub. Rafayel bathtime was an essential enrichment activity as far as you were concerned, summer or not.

He grabs one of your wrists from beneath the water when you use his stomach as leverage in your attempt to find the perfect place in his lap.

His cheeks are dusted a pretty pink when you look up at him — his ears matching, of course.

He keeps his grip on your wrist, holding it up like a hostage.

You can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips at the sight of him. “Are you really, really mad?” you ask, teasing. “Please don’t be mad.”

He blinks.

“Please,” you add, leaning forward a little more. “I’ll be good.”

Your free hand lifts from the water, slowly, so he doesn’t spook, then you press a finger to his lips again. You tug a little when you drag your finger down to his chin, letting his plush lower lip fall back into place with a little bounce.

You’re hyperaware of his breathing; you’re a captive audience to his little stuttering intakes of air.

Then you drag the same finger down to his adam's apple—a slow glide that leaves only a hint of wetness in its wake.

Not wet enough, you decide.

With one wrist still trapped in his grip, you drop your head to his neck. One breath against his skin, two, then you lick. It’s only a kitten lick at first—a quick flick of your tongue between lips resting on his skin. He’s a little sticky in this spot, a little reminder that he struggles with the heat too.

You go in for another taste as your wrist is freed. His hand is quickly reoccupied at the back of your neck, where he works at moving your hair aside, gently and gracefully—with precision—like he does most things.

You suck at his neck as he works, making marks that only you’re allowed to make. Only you’re allowed to use his body as a canvas. Only you.

Staying focused on his breathing is difficult now. You’re distracted by your task—by the sounds your mouth makes as you lick and suck at him.

He makes gentle strokes at the back of your neck with his fingers, patterns that you can’t decipher, but which seem far less abstract than yours had been earlier. A little sliver of your mind contemplates his mysterious symbols for a short moment before it’s distracted again by one his stuttering breaths.

His breathing is your favourite sound. You come to this conclusion at regular intervals. It feels like a revelation each time—one you want to shout out to the world. But you don’t. You’ll never share. Because this was yours. This type of breathing specifically. The type of breathing that comes heavy and interrupted and intermixed with little sounds of pleasure—of restraint.

You know he’s holding back.

He lets you do this.

He lets you work him up and play with him.

He knows you like the sounds.

And most of all, he likes the way you want him.

He wants you to mark him, and suck at him like you want to consume him.

But then, eventually, like always, he would falter in his restraint, and then he’d take control.

You savour this little period beforehand as much as possible. Savour it, and savour him.

“You’re still warm,” he says, a little raspy. “Still so warm.”

You lick a little at your latest mark, tasting the salt on his skin. “You were sweaty today,” you mumble, lips preoccupied. “Sweaty, but still cool to the touch.”

“I’m warm by my standards, sweetheart,” he says. “You’re just far, far too hot.”

You lift yourself up a little so you can look at him, hyperaware of the hardness between you. “It’s not uncomfortable?” you ask. “I mean, I’m not… too warm for you?”

His pulls you forward a little, his cock pressing into your stomach—trapped between you. “It’s perfect,” he whispers, breath ghosting over your lips. They brush yours for a moment, a moment so brief you’re hardly sure if the tickle was imagined. “Your warmest place,” he breathes, eyes fixed on yours, “It burns. It’s so hot it rips through me, until my fire feels tepid in comparison.”

His lips brush yours again, this time you're sure of it.

You don’t let him escape, falling into him and wrapping your arms around his neck so you can consume him.

He lets you, moaning into your mouth as you take what you need.

He’s warm here.

He’s heat when you kiss him.

You taste his fire.

He lets you lazily lap at his mouth, wet and messy and languid.

For 10 seconds.

You get 10 seconds before he takes his turn.

His hand moves to the back of your head in a heartbeat. He’s pressing his body against yours so tightly it might be suffocating if you were breathing. Breathing is secondary right now, though. It’s just quick lungfuls when given the chance.

He’s having his turn.

Wet sounds fill the bathroom as he takes and takes and takes.

You never imagined him to be a messy kisser.

Not in the beginning.

He’s far too graceful and purposeful for that, you thought.

But you hadn’t known him then.

He’s messy when he’s absorbed in what he loves. He’s messy when he’s making art, and he’s messy when he’s making love. He whimpers a little, tugging you back into focus with a gasping breath.

Okay. Note to self: breathe more.

His thumb plays with your lip as you catch your breath.

And then his hips jump beneath you.

His lids are heavy. His cheeks are flushed. “Need your heat,” he says, a little slurred. “Please.”

You kiss him lazily in response, basking in the way he lets you have him. He hasn’t flipped you over and fully given in. Instead, he’s begging .

Your hips roll into him, an almost involuntary response. You can’t help it, you could swear. You need it like breathing. Grinding into him, again and again, with your arms around him and his cock hard between you.

He makes those sounds for you.

He whimpers as he grasps your hips and helps you roll against him.

Before long, ‘helps’ is an inaccurate term to describe what he’s doing. By the time you’re pulling away and gasping for breath again, he’s pulling you against him entirely on his own—tugging you. You’re out of the driver’s seat, officially.

He latches onto your neck, dragging your hips back and forth over and over.

The waterline is far lower than it was when you’d started, a consequence of your shared writhing. Your bathroom floor was a problem for later though. A mess for later. You were preoccupied right now with a mess far, far more important.

More water over the edge, and a little more…. and again.

Then, with no warning at all he lifts you, and when he pulls you back down again… you’re being filled.

Your head falls back, eyes closed, lips parted. He’s making a sound. A low sound. You attempt to focus on it as he drags you down.

He’s filling you, consuming that space that desperately needs him. Empty, empty, empty, and now… so, so full.

A broken plea leaves his lips as you’re lowered further.

You fall forward onto him.

His head cradles in your shoulder.

He’s still.

The water still holds its chill enough that you’re aware of the contrast between the heat inside of you and the water lapping at your skin.

You count to five and then roll, grinding into him.

He bites into your neck without warning—a groan vibrating against your skin.

When his head tips back, he’s a pretty pink, and his hair is beginning to stick to his temples. You can’t resist reaching for him, tucking a little of his hair behind his ear.

He tugs you into him, muttering something indiscernible between messy kisses.

Messy and slow is how it starts. You grind into him, and he makes noises against your lips.

That’s how it starts.

It isn’t long before he’s lifting you and dropping you onto him with a sort of desperation that has you almost limp in his arms. No restraint. This is what he always became: messy and uncontrolled and imprecise.

The water splashes around you as you slap down against him over and over and over again.

His eyes are fixed where you meet.

You can’t bear to look where he does, overwhelmed just by the sounds you’re making together.

If you weren’t so entirely consumed by the feeling of being dragged down onto him over and over and over, you might even be embarrassed by all those sounds.

Instead, you watch his face as he stays fixated on where he disappears inside you. You watch his brows furrow, and his jaw clench, and you watch his dark lashes flutter as he closes his eyes before dragging them open again, desperate to see—like he can’t bear to miss a second.

No one has ever looked as pretty.

“Warm?” you gasp as he holds you down a second longer on one stroke—his rhythm increasingly chaotic.

He blinks and lifts his eyes to yours, taking a moment to centre himself.

Then he drags you forward into a sloppy kiss.

His tongue invades your mouth, warm and wet, like everything else.

Then, just for a moment, his head falls back, exposing his neck. You only have the chance to appreciate your the marks you’d left on him for a second or two before he’s back, breathing heavy. He brushes his lips across yours, over and over, feather-light. “I want to stay here,” he says, “Just like this. Keep me.”

You nod slightly. “Mm. Keeping you forever.”

One kiss.

Two.

Gentle this time. Soft.

Then he’s lifting you again.

Slowly.

But only for a little while.

Eventually, he’s giving in again. Like always.

He speeds up, dropping you up and down like he might be able to bury himself deeper if only he dragged you back down a little harder.

Those sounds, the water, the way his fingers dig into your skin.

When he slows again, you’re limp. He’s trying to make it last, you realise. But you’re tired. Spent and ready to collapse.

He must notice, because soon he’s twisting you around, hovering over you, cradling your head with his hand, and driving into you in a way that has the remaining water washing over your body in waves.

He bites into your neck when he fills you, consumed.

[racha-recs]

me

[racha-recs]

「𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚕」

➥ Fighter Pilot/Childhood BFF!Bang Chan x Reader (f) — 4.8k (~20 min. read)

➥ First love, Mutual pining, Smut with feelings

➥ The author chooses not to issue tags for everything that takes place in this work to preserve tension and some element of surprise where applicable. By continuing, you accept to read at your own risk. Read full disclaimer here.

⚠ — Explicit sexual content

➥ You used to fly paper planes together; now he's commanding real ones in the sky. You spend every minute of every day missing him, having no idea you're all he thinks about night after night as he watches the ceiling of his empty room.

One chilly duskfall brings him back to you again along with little confessions a lifetime in the making.

The setting sun had painted the sky with the most beautiful gradient of cotton candy pinks, warm oranges, and pastel purples, flooding the kitchen with the golden glow of a summer day even though it was freezing outside. You spent the entire Sunday with Chris’ great-aunt making citrus jam. She had this habit of making her nephew’s favorites whenever she missed him too much, even when he wasn’t around to taste them. You knew how much solace she found in your presence when Chris wasn’t around, but it wasn’t just to make an old lady happy that you readily accompanied her every time she invited you. 

It was your silent attempt to appease the excruciating longing you had for the curly-haired rascal you used to ride seesaws with.

“How’s this?” you held your hand under the tasting spoon carrying hot drops of jam and offered it to Helen.

“It’s perfect!” she loudly clapped, “We’ll label your batch with a gold star. I’ll go bring more jars from the cellar.”

You brightly smiled at her as she disappeared into the hallway, but the curls of your lips flattened in an instant. It just wasn’t working this time around. Every contrail in the orange sky outside was making your heart sizzle. The sweet and zesty scent permeating the kitchen was making you miss him even more terribly, reminding you of the eighth-grade summer you and Chris had to help Aunt Helen make fifty jars of citrus jam as punishment for not doing your summer homework. 

“Wish you were here, Falcon,” you mumbled to yourself, heaving a deep sigh as you slowly stirred the pot, “It’s just not the same without you.”

“And what are your other two wishes, Chickadee?”

The extremely specific nickname rendered in that familiar voice gave you such a start that you thought you went certifiably insane for a second. When you swiftly turned towards the entrance, the jar you were holding said goodbye to this cruel world and loudly crashed into dust. Your heart was singing horribly out of tune while doing somersaults, and you were rapidly going back and forth between the urge to break down crying and die laughing for being able to manifest him out of sheer willpower.

“I know I was away for too long but you do remember who I am, right?” he dropped his large duffel bag on the floor, smiling at you with mischievous lights flickering in his eyes, “Where’s my hug, you klutz?”

You choked back a sob of relief and bolted into his embrace. You threw your arms around his waist, clawing at the fabric wrapping his body like he was going to evanesce otherwise. 

“You’re back,” you whispered into the crook of his neck, breathing all erratically and trembling like a leaf, “You’re really back.”

He held you as tightly as he could to bask in your warmth, hoping you would forgive him for slightly hurting you. If it meant you were going to welcome him like this, he would gladly go to the bottom circle of hell any freaking day.

“Sweetheart, are you okay?! I heard the jar—”

Helen’s eyes widened in shock looking at the handsome young man clad in his civilian uniform made up of a plain white t-shirt, jeans, and combat boots, her blood pressure promptly climbing at the unexpected sight.

“Are you trying to give me a heart attack?!” she shrieked as she hasitly made her way towards the door, “Showing up out of thin air. You said you wouldn’t be back until March!”

“Mission ended much earlier than expected. I thought I could spend my time off with my favorite girls,” Chris reluctantly let you go for another big hug in the making, “but I can go if you’d rather—”

“Shush, you! Come here.”

Oh, the sight of a mother reuniting with her son… This. If there was a singular silver lining to the torture that was Chris being gone, it was this right there. Even though Helen was quietly sobbing in his chest, your heart was so full it was about to burst. 

“Come, now, milady,” he gently wiped her tears with a comforting smile, “No tears allowed when I’m here, yeah?”

“Don’t tell me what to do, brat! God, I’m so glad you’re safe and sound,” she pulled him close again, then nailed her boy to the chair in the kitchen as you two started preparing a lightning-fast dinner accompanied by his stories. 

Chris’ job description came with a bunch of potentially fatal risks, but it didn’t stop you from being worried sick as if every damn day was the worst-case scenario. His eyes were still as sleep-deprived as ever, but they were at least smiling, and as long as he was healthy, maybe you could consider overlooking his bedtime problem. He was back now. He was with you. And that was all that mattered at the end of the day. 

There was so much catching up to do that nobody realized how fast time flew by. Only when Helen rose to her feet to call it a night did you realize the clock was showing midnight hours.

“Alright, I’m off to bed now. Don’t stay up too late,” she toggled to mom mode again, then turned to you, “I’ll make your bed in the guest room today, okay sweetheart?”

“Oh, no need! I’ll go home after ca—”

“Nonsense!” she immediately protested, “You are staying, and we are having a feast tomorrow morning together as a family again.”

“But I shouldn—”

“I’ll put a deadbolt on the door so she can’t leave,” Chris reassured his aunt with the firmness of a drill sergeant, albeit smugly smirking at you, “She owes me a year’s worth of pancakes anyway.”

“Attaboy,” she ruffled his hair lovingly and bade you two goodnight.

Chris was finally home. Of course it was going to be a good night even if the world was ending the morning after.

“I’ll go take a shower,” he stood up as well, “Meet you upstairs in a bit?”

You retreated to his room to change into your nightwear from the day before. This particular corner of the house always took you back to when you were a bunch of kids running around the neighborhood looking for birds, but it was fascinating how much of a difference Chris’ physical presence made. When he was away, the room felt gigantic but tighter than a coffin at the same time. You would start having trouble breathing just being in it for three seconds, drowning yourself in the sweet pain of nostalgia and getting crushed under the weight of love you had for him. You didn’t know why you were willingly hurting yourself to this extent; maybe it was the only way for you to feel alive in his absence, but when he was home…

Oh, when he was home… 

There was no place on earth that was cozier. It was an everlasting carnival where cotton candies made of happiness were sold. The thrill of the roller coasters constantly rushed through your veins. 

It was pure heaven.

“Have you been sleeping in my room?”

Chris’ voice echoed like a record scratch, immediately stopping you from internally kicking your feet. You flinched in your place, feeling guilty for some reason like you got caught red-handed doing something utterly shameful.

“W–What?” 

“It smells like you in here,” he sniffed the air as he was drying his hair with a towel, “Also you’re using my favorite shirt as a nightgown.”

“Shut up, I spilled tomato sauce on mine!”

He burst into toned-down laughter, tousling your hair to annoy you further. The chain of his necklace peeked through the collar of his t-shirt, and it took everything in your willpower to stop yourself from smiling like an idiot. You had the pendant of two little chickadees custom-made and gave it to him before his very first deployment. All these years later he was still wearing it.

So many butterflies were holding hands and doing a line dance in your stomach that you were about to combust.

“Okay, Falcon, you’re gonna tell me everything now.”

“Sure, would you like me to share classified tactical plans, too?” he sat cross-legged on the bed across from you, leaning against the headboard.

“You know what I mean! There has to be some stuff you couldn’t say in front of Aunt Helen,” you slapped his bare arm, “How are you? How is your insomnia? Are you eating all your meals? Did you g—?”

“Breathe, Chickadee,” he held your hands and gave them a firm squeeze, “One at a time.”

Your heart beat so hard in your chest that you were pretty sure it looked like a hiccup.

He started answering your questions, but you couldn’t pay attention to what he was saying at all courtesy of your limbic system abruptly taking over the microphone. The orange glow emitting from the nightstand lamp was casting a somewhat sultry spotlight on him, unnecessarily pointing out some changes in his physique. His sunkissed skin was stretched tight over his now bulkier body, and unless your eyes were deceiving you, his shoulders had somehow gotten broader and his thighs looked a lot thicker. One look at the bulging veins on his arms, and your mind rendered an unsolicited mental picture for you in 4K, depicting him doing bench presses half-naked.

Oh, he looked gooood.

“Are you listening?” he lowered his head to hold your gaze.

“HUH? Y–Yeah,” you shook your head to snap out of it.

“What were you thinking about that intensely?”

You in your uniform but topless, would be the correct answer, but you hadn’t lost your mind that bad to give him the uncensored version.

“I was just thinking you must be a hit with the officers in your fleet,” you told him instead.

“How do you figure?”

“I mean…” you gestured in his general direction, “You got quite the eye candy situation going on. I’d look forward to going to work if it were me.”

He narrowed his eyes and slightly tilted his head with a barely there smile. By your usually levelheaded standards, this would be considered straight up bold, and Chris was clearly loving the change in demeanor.

“Yeah?” he clasped his hands under his nape, posture way too cocky for no reason, “Would you fall for me if you saw me in the locker room?”

“Oh, christ, I totally forgot you can’t take compliments like a normal human being,” you slapped your forehead. 

“Would you gossip about me with other officers?”

“Chris…”

“Would you tell them I’m very bangable?”

“Cut it out!”

You lunged at him as a knee-jerk response to put a stopper to his giggle fit. You didn’t have any intention to legitimately hurt him, so it naturally scared you when he suddenly hissed in pain.

“I’m sorry! Are you okay?”

“Yeah, it’s nothing,” he pulled on the collar of his top as if to hide something, but it was very much in vain.

You had already caught a sliver of what you prayed to be an optical illusion.

“What is this?” you tried to remove his fingers, “Did you… Did you get hurt?”

“I’m fine.”

“That wasn’t the question,” you grabbed the hem of his shirt.

“Let it go, it’s noth—”

“Stop squirming!”

In one swift move, you took his shirt off. There were remains of a stitched wound there, and it looked like it had been healing for a while now. 

“W–What happened to you?”

“It’s just a scratch,” he shrugged it off and tried to put his shirt back on clearly as an attempt to avoid confrontation, but you immediately stopped him because…

One of the chickadees on the pendant seemed slightly disfigured and discolored.

The one on the left…

“Is this… a gun wound?” deep creases formed between your brows upon the unpleasant realization.

“Shh, keep your voice down,” he abruptly sat up and covered your mouth.

“Were you in combat? DID YOU GET IN—?”

“Look at me. Look at me. I’m fine,” he held your face to force you to look at him before you started spiraling, pacifying you with a warm smile, “It was just an accident during training, so don’t worry about it, okay?”

Your quickening breathing took a U-turn, and you chose to believe him because the alternative was simply too unbearable to even think about. You hesitantly touched around the still somewhat raw skin.

“Does it… hurt too much?”

“Nothing I can’t manage,” he held your hand over his wound. 

You didn’t know what came over you. As you were staring at the scar, you instinctively leaned forward and gently kissed it, and your lips lingered there for quite a bit. Chris had heard of the term kissing it better before, but he had never believed it would actually work. 

Until now.

“I will worry,” you retreated, averting your eyes away from him, “I already worry all the time wondering if you’re safe. I worry if you—”

You stopped. Otherwise you were going to cry.

“Didn’t know you liked me that much, Chickadee,” he teased like he always did to disperse the dark clouds whenever you were sad.

“Well, you’d better, stupid!”

His smile shapeshifted then. This time he leaned forward and held your face, looking at you with so much adoration in his eyes.

“Haven’t you ever wondered why I wanted to become a pilot?” he asked as his thumb caressed your cheek.

“Because you thought you’d be Ironman.”

“Well, that, too,” he quietly chuckled, “When we were kids, you would drag me around the neighborhood every time you spotted a chickadee. I’ve never seen someone this enamored by those fluffballs.”

“Because they’re so cute!”

“They are,” he quickly agreed, but his voice carried the fragrance of defeat for some reason, “But you seemed to like them more than me.”

This time for sure it looked like you had a hiccup. You didn’t know what to do with yourself at all.

“I worry, too, you know,” he pulled his hand back and started playing with his fingers, “I worry you will forget about me one of these days. I worry you will give your heart to someone, and—”

He stopped. Otherwise he was going to cry.

“I wanted to learn how to fly for you,” his smile was broken enough to shatter your heart, “Maybe you would like me just as much then.”

You were stunned.

What was he even saying? What kind of nonsense was maybe you would like him? Maybe. Had his prolonged lack of oxygen somehow managed to blind him, or were your performances for him to take the hint much more applauseworthy than you intended?

All the words that insisted on eluding you finally decided to come back home, and you started speaking before you could form coherent sentences in your brain.

“They say people are immune to their own scents but not to others’,” you reflected his broken smile back at him, hoping yours would be able to complete his, “I do sleep here a lot. It’s crazy how it still hasn’t vanished by now, but every time I walk in, it still smells like you. It feels like we’re still hiding under the blankets together when I close my eyes.”

Your words helped him find a bit of courage to look up at you. His gaze was filled with pleasant surprise. He prayed to everything he could think of that you weren’t just saying these things because he was feeling something very dangerously close to hope again. He tried. God knows he tried so hard not to hold onto even a shred of it, but every time he resolved to give up, you would do something, say something, or just breathe the same air as him, exist under the same sky, and everything would come rushing back to him.

Everything.

“It feels like you’re hugging me when I wear your t-shirts,” a single tear let itself fall free down your cheek as you assumed your best impression of a smile, “I can’t bring myself to wear them often. I’m scared your scent will fade away.”

His brows were furrowed as if he was mad, but his eyes were welled up with tears. Oh, you were cruel. You were so cruel for not telling him any of this sooner. And he was a coward for telling you how much he loved you only when you were sleeping. He was unbelievably selfish for hating the idea of you moving on with your life, but he couldn’t help it. The only way he knew how to love you was with destructive greed.

Would you have said yes to him if he asked for ownership of your heart? Would you despise him if he begged you to have eyes for him only?

Would you slam the door to his face or take a step back to invite him in if he asked to hold your hand for an eternity?

“I have no heart left to give. Someone already stole it,” you reached for his hands and squeezed them way too hard than you should have, “How can I ever forget you when you’re the only thing on my mind?”

Chris didn’t know why he was getting hiccups all of a sudden.

Did you know how many mountains he had to carry on his back since he was fifteen? Did you know they only multiplied when he turned twenty three? Did you know it didn’t lessen the burden one bit when he soared as high as he could, even to the point of defying gravity? 

One hesitant kiss loaded with a crippling fear of loss, and everything he had kept locked away for so long ripped their chains apart.

His soul was being tortured every time he was away from you, loudly withering, yearning for its missing piece, calling out to it in heart-wrenching pleas to have mercy and come make him whole again. He was living half a life without you. He was only half a man.

He heard something click when he held the first girl he ever loved in his arms. It fit. It fit better than a puzzle piece. 

He finally felt complete.

“I miss you. I miss you every minute of every day,” he breathily whispered into your lips, “I’m dying when you are far away.”

He would be lying if he never once imagined you naked, but his imagination just did not compare to what he witnessed when he stripped you bare. Your skin. The curves on your body. He wanted to set up camp in each of them and dedicate weeks to fully exploring you. He pulled you under him, still completely incredulous you were actually in his bed like he always pictured you to be, and took in the sight for a while.

You were beautiful under that soft orange light.

You reached for the waistband of his sweatpants, and he let you drag it down, watching you tease yourself with how slow you were taking it. The silent groan you let out at the sight was complete music to his ears. How could you not? His gorgeous figure hovering over you, his girth threateningly swollen, his mouth watering staring at your nakedness as bad as you were salivating over his.

Trying to decide whether you wanted him to pass through you right fucking now or worship you all night was the worst dilemma you had ever faced in your life.

He lowered himself on your lips first, picking up where he left off as his hands sketched an outline of your body, committing every single nook and cranny to memory. It was a slow descent down to your jawline, then to your breasts, then all the way into insanity. Each kiss he left behind as he made his way between your legs felt like a brand was scorching your skin. Your breathing was fully irregular when he made it to his destination and wrapped his arms around your thighs.

“Do I ever pop into your mind?” you ran your fingers through his hair, “When you’re… by yourself.”

“Are you asking me if I’m jerking off to you?”

You nodded fervently while biting into your lips. He placed three kisses on your pussy, one before, one during, and one after his answer.

“Every… day.” 

“How do you imagine me?” you pressed further.

“In my bed. In the shower with me. Even in the jet sometimes.” 

“How’s that gonna work?” you let out a soft chuckle.

“It’s called a cockpit for a reason,” he spoke matter-of-factly, “I’ve always wanted to fuck you in there.” 

“While flying at an insane speed?”

“On the ground, know-it-all,” he grazed his teeth on your thighs as a warning, “I’m the one who’s allowed to make you fly, not the plane.”

He wrapped his lips around your clit, and you almost let out a suspiciously loud sound when he started sucking on it. You sank deeper into the pillow in rapture when he got messy, slurping all over your pussy like he wanted to see for himself how much more you could ooze.

“Do you think about me at all?” he asked in between his sloppy kisses.

“Are you asking me if I fuck myself to you?”

He slowly nodded, swirling his tongue around your clit as he stared right into your soul, and while his tongue worked absolute wonders on your flesh, that intense gaze was what was about to make you cum. His eyes were screaming his lust for you, ablaze with an insatiable appetite. 

“Every… night,” you dragged on each syllable.

“How do I fuck you in your fantasies?”

“God, you fucking ruin me,” you threw your head back and grabbed fistfuls of his hair, pressing his face closer into your cunt.

You started riding his face when he started licking you deeper, but you were aching to feel something inside you. Maybe it was because of how hard you were throbbing, or maybe you somehow managed to form telepathy through gustatory sense, but mere moments later Chris was shoving his middle and ring fingers into his mouth, getting them properly wet and slippery, then gently prodding your entrance like a warning shot. 

“Like this?”

“FU—!”

You had to press a pillow on your face to stop yourself from screaming at the last second. His tongue was still hard at work, licking illegible words all over your pussy while his fingers were beckoning for your doom, pushing you dangerously close to the ledge. A line. A line. A line. A circle. A curve. Wet. 

Wet. 

Wet.

An unfamiliar and muffled noise escaped your lips as you arched into his mouth, tasting sweeter than citrus jam on his tongue, and if Chris was touching himself, he would legitimately cum when those sounds of pleasure hit his ears. He was having the hardest time deciding whether he found it cute or extremely erotic. He obscenely licked his fingers clean, then climbed back up to kiss you. 

“Is it… Is it true?” you flashed him a fucked out smile.

“What is?”

“Do I really save a plane if I ride a pilot?”

“Let’s just say that you do,” he joined the curls of your lips with an amused chortle.

“Then the Air Force is about to be very grateful for me,” you mustered all your strength to straddle him.

You had always imagined what it would feel like when you finally had him disappear into you, but none of those daydreams could have prepared you for the stars you saw when he hit that dead end inside you. He put his hands on your hips and started rolling them, letting you have your way with him to your heart’s content. It was as lazy as a Sunday morning, allowing you to feel every inch of him fully. You felt his palm pressing on the small of your back, lowering you to kiss him again. You couldn’t tell how and when he hijacked control, but he was holding you in place to fuck into you. A little faster. A little harder. Soaking him as much as he soaked you.

“Fuck… Under me.” 

You found yourself on your back, your legs on his shoulders as he paved such a deep path into you that he was quite literally marking his territory. Trapping himself in your leg lock, he leaned a bit more forward, then held both your hands while kissing your life out of you.

“I’ll cum if you say you love me,” he panted hard, eyes barely open as he chased his high at full speed.

If you said you loved him… A simple I love you could not do justice to the mythological extent of your feelings for him. You held his face in your hands and crowned your best kept secret with a kiss.

“I’ve been ridiculously in love with you for fifteen fucking years.”  

Chris didn’t cum; he was reborn deep inside you. Each drop that mixed with your essence, each tremor that passed through his body glued the pieces of his shattered soul back together. Each kiss you placed on his face soothed a part of his charred heart that he used to believe was beyond saving.

He fell deeper in love with you, never ever to resurface again.

As his feet were about to touch the ground, he pulled you close and started counting the circles you were drawing on his chest. You reached for his necklace and started playing with it.

“Do you always wear this?” you asked him, gently rubbing your thumb on the pendant.

“I even kiss it goodnight hoping you will feel it someday,” he responded while caressing your hair.

“So that was you tickling me in my sleep.”

Your tired chuckles melted into each other, but it didn’t take long for yours to take an unexpected leave of absence. Your mood turned somber all of a sudden when you remembered the inevitable.

“When are you…? When are you leaving again?”

Your anticipated answer was somewhere around March, but certainly not…

“I won’t go if you ask me to stay.”

Even if it was only for less than a second, the sparks that flew from those words were dangerous enough to set you on fire. You knew it didn’t work that way. Of course he was going to leave. He had to. No one threw a lifetime’s worth of hard work into the trash for any reason.

But it didn’t stop you from pleading your deepest desire to him anyway.

“Don’t go, Falcon,” you hugged him tighter and buried your face in the crook of his neck.

“Fine, I won’t.”

“Don’t joke about it,” you responded from your hideout, “It’s painful enough as it is.”

“I’m not joking.”

You suddenly lifted your head and stared at his face. It had better not be a fucking joke because there was nothing funny about a looming heart attack.

“Wh–What do you mean?”

“The girl of my dreams is asking me to sta—”

“Be serious!” you snapped at him with a very loud whisper, “You didn’t… resign or anything, right?”

“Nope.”

“Then?”

You knew this play. He always grinned like that when he was sitting on some juicy news. You raised your brows, expecting him to give an answer before you became the first person to assault a military officer for dragging on suspense. 

“I got stationed here,” he finally satisfied your curiosity, ending your life just a little bit in the process. 

You stared at him blankly for some time, utterly unable to process the piece of information he just dropped on you. So this entire time… when you thought you were holding on to him for dear life…

Just how hard were you holding on that you managed to nail him in his goddamn place?

“Couldn’t you have told me that when you first walked through the door?!”

“I was going to!” he immediately raised his hands to surrender, “I just got… distracted a little bit.”

You couldn’t help it. The feeling of relief was so overwhelming that you lost complete control of your tear glands, but not because of your longing for the days that were never going to come back. Not because of the pity you had for yourself, relentlessly chasing something that could never be yours. 

It was out of unmitigated happiness for once.

“You’re my home, Chickadee,” he pressed his forehead against yours, “I’m home now.”

He kissed your tears away and pulled you into a tight embrace, brushing your hair with one hand as his idle one locked his fingers within yours. You lent your ear to his chest and listened to his heart, calm and steady like a homebound contrail drawn in the sky by a jet plane somewhere.

“Welcome home, Falcon,” you mumbled with a smile, drifting to sleep in your home for the first time.

「© 2025, cb97percent · No translations, rewrites, or reposts permitted」

🔖 Permanent taglist: @straywrds @anylady-fics @skzfelixlove @xocandyy @stayceebs97

· @surreallyst-void @jhstayy @staybangchan @y-ur--i @imseungminsgf

· @velvetskize @changbinniesjutndae @krayzieestay @tirena1 @delulustardust

· @broken-glowsticks @mushy-mushroom04 @idiotmaterial (not sure if the tag works)

[racha-recs]

i'm over 5'5 / i wear glasses or contacts / i have blonde hair / i often wear sweatshirts / i prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / i have one or two thirteen piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / i typically wear makeup / i don’t often smile / resting bitch face / i play sports / i play an instrument / i know more than one language / i can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / i've never dated anyone / i have a best friend i’ve known for over five years / i am an only child.

color the sentence that's true about you >.>

i’m over 5'5 / i wear glasses or contacts / i have blonde hair / i often wear sweatshirts / i prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / i have one or two piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / i typically wear makeup / i don’t often smile / resting bitch face / i play sports / i play an instrument / i know more than one language / i can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / i’ve never dated anyone / i have a best friend i’ve known for over five years / i am an only child

no pressure tags >.>

@snowyquokka @sungiesbbg

[racha-recs]

skz when your shirt rides up and your belly shows - hyung line

-> skz x chubby fem!reader

warnings"+: a bit suggestive in hyunjins but not really, lots of talk about bellies and the occasional love handle so if you are uncomfortable or not in a good mental state don't feel bad about not reading I completely understand. please be gentle to yourself and know that you are loved<3 wordcount: 715 a.n// had this idea last night and thought why not. especially with what's going on in America rn I needed to comfort myself so here you go! pls let me know when you think reblog/comment!!! I'll post a maknae version within the next few days<3 please check in on your friend and family and be kind to yourselves. stay safe and be careful everyone.

// maknae v. //

chan~ the two of you are making breakfast and as you wait for the water to boil, you decide to get a mug and make some hot chocolate. when you reach up to the top shelf, your sleep shirt rides up a little. chan turned to ask you something but stopped short at the sight of your exposed skin. he didn't even hesitate putting his hands on your bare hips, kneading gently. he then snakes his hands around to grab at your belly. you turn your head to look back at him with furrowed brows. chan doesn’t let you get a word out before kissing you, grabbing and squeezing at every inch of you he could. the blush on your face doesn't go unnoticed by him. he continues until you are fully relaxed against his back, letting him dominate you in the intense kisses he was still planting on you. 

 minho~ his head turns to the door, a smile graces his face when he sees you walking through it. immeadietly minho notices the prominent frown on your face and waits for you to talk to him first before asking about it. he hears you mumbling sarcastic comments to yourself, probably finally letting them out after not being able to talk back to annoying coworkers. he figures his assumption correct when you walk back into the room, newly changed into your inside clothes and plopped yourself onto his lap, complaining about how your coworkers were making you all the work. minho notices your shirt has ridden up a little as you rant with your hands, and carefully pulls it down for you. it happens again but you were too worked up to notice so instead of pulling it down again, minho traces his knuckles up and down the soft skin of your belly. he tilts his head to the side, intently listening to your rant. a tickle to your side makes you cut it short and you swat minho's hand away. this time both of his hands come to graze under your belly button and you jump off of him with a yelp. the two of you laugh as minho tries to tickle you again. 

 changbin~ he hasn’t been able to pay attention to the movie playing on the screen for over twenty minutes now. as you were readjusting your position in his arms, the hem over your shirt hiked up, showing off your belly. you paid no mind to it so changbin took this time to openly admire your body that he couldn’t get enough of. you flinch at the feeling of his cold hand resting right below your ribs. he apologizes then trails his lips from your side all the way down just below your navel. your breath hitches causing your stomach to move up and down. changbin doesn’t stop though. he spends the rest of the movie kissing and leaving multiple love bites onto the soft skin of your belly. your hand threading through his hair and lightly scratching his scalp.

hyunjin~ light filters through the curtains causing hyunjins eyes to flutter open. the clock on his phone tells him it’s barely past 8 am so he flips his body back around to cuddle into you again. you were lying on your back wide awake now, due to hyunjins big movements. he sits up on his elbow, his other hand coming up to play with your hair. he leans down to kiss your cheek then nuzzles his face into your neck. the blanket had been kicked to the bottom of the bed, so hyunjin reached to get it but stopped. your (his) shirt had ridden up so high that your belly was on full display. you notice his heated stare and start to pull the shirt down but his hands wrap around your wrists to stop you. he smirks up at you then pulls the duvet all the way over his head. hyunjin’s lips travel all across your stomach and teased the line of your underwear with his fingers. you push the blanket down reeling at the sight of hyunjin going to town on the parts of your that you didn’t feel the best about. he takes his sweet time, making sure that you knew he loved and cherished every inch of you.

//

TAG LIST: @velvetmoonlght

// masterlists , skz masterlist

[racha-recs]

the problem with reading and writing leading to a strong vocabulary is that you tend to know the vibe of words instead of their meanings.

if I used this word in a sentence, would it make sense? absolutely. if you asked me what it meant, could I tell you? absolutely not.

[racha-recs]

240901 SEUNGMIN, 'AS WE ARE'

[racha-recs]

i’m going to cry and throw myself off the top of a building

like you can love again.

you need to be loved in a way that shows you love is sacred, it is divine. you need to be loved so purely, so lightly, so you can learn to love. you need to be loved in the way oceans rise, but also fall. you need to be loved in the way wind rushes through leaves. you need to be loved gently, and patiently, and understanding. you need to be loved in a way that even if you cannot love, you will still be loved.

"your ult bias and how you need to be loved"

till the end of forever

you need to be loved unconditionally. you need to be reminded that love is not temporary, that you deserve it. that those who love you will not leave. you need to be loved the way angels love humanity. or how devils love angels. you need to be loved in greatness, in fullness, you need to be loved hard and fierce. loud, shout it to the ends of the earth, your love won’t leave. you need to be loved when nothing else will be. you need to realize you are worthy even through the end.

tagging: @bangtanintotheroom @kiestrokes @minisugakoobies @chans-room and anyone else interested

[racha-recs]

⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 ⏖ ’ early morning moments with skz !

⁺ 𖹭 . genre: fluff! jisung's a tiny bit suggestive

⁺ 𖹭 . a/n: since i've done late night moments with them, i think it's only fitting i write this as well! enjoyy <33 pls let me know your thoughts by reblogging or leaving a comment <3 (inspired by some of these prompts <3)

𝜗୧ chan 𝜗୧

You’ve been awake for a while now, snuggling and holding each other close as half of your body was on top of your boyfriend’s, almost latching onto him like a koala bear without shame. And he didn’t mind, Chan never did, content with being glued to you in every situation, hugging you so tightly like he wanted you to morph into one, the same entity kept alive by the beating of a singular heart.

“You fell asleep in the first 20 minutes of the movie last night.” You whisper, drawing random shapes on his exposed pecs, laying in the crook of his neck. Chan makes an apologetic sound before he’s interrupted by a yawn, stretching his arms above his head and letting one fall to curl around your middle. “Sorry, baby. I guess I was pretty tired.”

Tired is an understatement, and you laugh, lazily reaching for your phone on the nightstand to show him exactly what you’re talking about, with him tugging you right back to his chest when you stretch too far. There is a picture of Chan, sitting on the couch with his head thrown back and mouth open, snoring away while the movie he’s been begging you to watch together was rolling in the background.

The laugh he lets out is quieter than usual, the remains of sleep obvious in his half-closed eyes and deeper voice. “Damn, I was out like a light.”

You continue cuddling for a while before agreeing it’s time to start your day, reluctantly separating and sitting up at the end of the bed, adopting the same stance.

He’s still mumbling about something when you notice his hair sticking out in every direction, reaching out to tame the curls before stealing a kiss which only makes your boyfriend want another, and another until twenty minutes have passed and you’re still in bed, snuggling and making out like the world outside your bedroom did not exist.

𝜗୧ minho 𝜗୧

“Minho.” You whisper, tossing and turning under the blanket to face him, peering at his sleeping face. Your boyfriend was on his back, resting peacefully, unaware of the godly beauty he possessed, one people would surely go to war for, chest rising and falling rhythmically.

He doesn’t respond so, you try again. “Minho!” this time, he scrunches his nose cutely and rolls over, away from you and your antics he was too tired to be a victim of this early in the morning.

“Minho, are you awake yet?” You know what they say, third time is the charm because your boyfriend responds instantly, voice loud and clear, the opposite of your soft tone which takes you by complete surprise. “No.”

“Oh, okay.” you whisper, feeling bad for disturbing him. “Sorry.” you almost turn on your side and succumb to slumber before it hits you. Without warning, you swing a leg over his torso before rolling yourself over him to land on the other side of the bed, ignoring all his groans in protest.

“Liar!” You’re nose to nose now and Minho barely gets to open his eyes before you push his shoulder, causing him to fall on his back as you climb to straddle him. You waste no time leaning down and connecting your lips in a sweet kiss, cupping his cheeks and squeezing affectionately. As much as he wanted to complain, Minho couldn’t help but smile against your lips, body melting into the mattress while one of his veiny hands moved to rest on your exposed thigh, needing to feel more of you.

He should lie more often if this is the reward he gets.

𝜗୧ changbin 𝜗୧

“Binnie.” You’re gentle as you brush curly hair strands from his forehead, smiling when he instantly leans into your touch. “My love, I know you’re awake.”

“Then you should also know I hate waking up to an empty bed.” He pouts, eyes still closed stubbornly. With the same fond smile, you roll your eyes, hand dropping down to slowly trace his every feature, knowing he could never resist you.

“I had a good cause, I promise.” When he doesn’t budge, you reach for the tray on the nightstand and place it across his lap, over the blanket, careful his smoothie doesn’t spill over. “I made breakfast.”

Just like magic, his eyes snap open and he sits up so quickly you wonder if he got whiplash that was instantly cured by the smell of his favorite breakfast. His eyes sparkle as his gaze moves back and forth from the tray to you, so touched and grateful as he takes it all in, noticing the effort you put in so early in the morning just to cook a feast and surprise him with breakfast in bed. Nobody’s ever done something like this for him, love him so deeply and openly. Is this what being the luckiest man in the world felt like?

“I love you.” The words stumble out without second thought, eyes misty, forgetting all about being upset and giving you attitude. When you laugh, he does too, carefully leaning over the food to kiss you, the love of his life that adored him in the exact same way he adored you.

Love is the greatest gift he’s ever received and as selfish as it sounds, Changbin hopes you’ll continue loving him this way for the rest of your shared lives, that you’ll always remain by his side. He promises to continue eating your cooking even when you’re both old and grey, impaired taste and all.

𝜗୧ hyunjin 𝜗୧

The early hours of the morning found you in the arms of your beloved, sleeping away, undisturbed by the outside world and its people who were already hurrying around to get to work on time. You won’t be joining them today, nor will the man whose warmth was currently engulfing you whole, creating a safe love bubble you never wanted to burst.

Your face was buried in his chest, the soft material of his t-shirt moving with each breath he took, his heartbeat rocking you to sleep every time your eyes opened to check the time. Old habits die hard, but Hyunjin always manages to calm your racing mind even from dreamland.

Half an hour later, when the sun starts to peek through the drawn curtains, you’re awakened by tiny paws jumping on the bed, breathing and barking loudly. So much for sleeping in. Hyunjin’s eyes open with a smile, arms tightening their hold on your middle as he brings you even closer, resting his chin on top of your head while squeezing tightly. Morning cuddles were a must, even if your boyfriend’s other baby was too impatient to be let out to allow you to enjoy them to the fullest. 

“Good morning, love.” He greets you with a kiss, lingering there for the briefest moment before finally tearing himself from you, giggling down the hallway as he quickly goes to allow Kkami on the terrace.

He comes back rambling about something that happened at a schedule the other day, blinking the sleep away as he hands you a water bottle, yawning here and there. Unfortunately for him, you’re not listening, too distracted by the way his plump lips move and his husky voice, the words going in one ear and out the other as your inner monologue takes over.

“Your morning voice is so hot.” Hyunjin stops mid-sentence, momentarily taken aback before he bursts out laughing, dramatically collapsing back into bed and reaching for your hand to hold. “What?”

You nod, now sitting up against the headboard, eyes still zoned in on his pink and wet lips, enthralled. “Tell me more, baby. What did Chan do?” “He wasn’t even there!” See, not paying attention at all. But who could blame you when your boyfriend couldn’t take the hint and finally kiss you again?

𝜗୧ jisung 𝜗୧

“I had a dream about you.” Jisung perks up from his place on your chest, the TV running idly in the background, showing a random cartoon. “Was I hot?” “You cheated on me.”

He gasps dramatically but doesn’t move, too comfortable as you continue running your fingers through his freshly dyed hair, almost lulling him back to sleep. “Asshole move, dream me. Off with his head!.” 

You chuckle, kissing the top of his head and turning into a puddle once he begins leaving wet kisses on your neck, apologizing or most likely trying to distract you from how he’s been acting in your dream. It was working, because you lost your train of thought a couple of times before managing to speak again, eyes fluttering shut.

“You were very mean, actually.” Jisung hums against your neck, licking the skin before his kisses move downwards, to your collarbones, warm hands holding you down by the waist, touch burning pleasantly through your thin clothing.

“I’m sorry, baby.” He props his head up, chin resting right above your chest as his eyes bore into yours with a familiar intensity. “Please let me make it up for you.”

That’s what he says but ten minutes into making out and caressing each other’s bodies, his head falls tiredly to his previous place on your chest and you’re both out like a light, the warmth and cloudy weather of the early morning casting the spell of sleep on your forms and trapping you in bed for another three hours.

𝜗୧ felix 𝜗୧

You were not a morning person, it was a well-known fact by everyone in your life. Especially by your boyfriend who usually stayed up to keep you company, talking the hours away and giggling under the blankets until you both passed out just as the moon was retiring for the day.

So, you’re more than perplexed when one very early morning, you feel a warm hand caressing your cheek, followed by soft lips peppering feather-like kisses on every inch of your face, coaxing you awake.

“Baby,” his deep voice calls, barely above a whisper to not scare you, leaving a kiss on the corner of your mouth this time, “wake up, angel.”

You make a face, eyes still closed in protest and make to turn over, away from him until you feel the bed dip and his hand in your hair, massaging the scalp gently. Was Felix trying to wake you up or lull you back to sleep? Pretty sure he was just as confused.

When he leans down again, hovering over your face, your arms spring up and lock at the back of his neck, quickly bringing him down and bumping your noses together. You see his eyes widen, inhaling sharply as he realizes what you’re about to do and dodges your kiss last second, lips landing on his cheekbone instead.

Groggy and grumpy from being woken up this early, you pout, relaxing under his weight as his chest presses yours down. “Kiss me!” Felix chuckles and shakes his head, hands on either side of your head holding him up. “Not until you wake up and join me in the kitchen.” Once he sees you shake your own head and move to try and kiss him again, he adds. “I have a surprise!”

Now why didn’t he say so from the beginning? You release him but he doesn’t move away immediately, smiling from ear to ear before kissing your forehead and scooping you out of bed in one swift movement, strong arms under your knees as he giggles and jogs towards the kitchen, face brightening up when a smile finally graces your features.   

𝜗୧ seungmin 𝜗୧

Every single morning, Seungmin was the first to wake up without fail, reaching for you to bring your body to his chest and cuddle until you also did, just laying there since he never wanted you to wake up alone. 

That’s why when you woke up earlier than usual, with his chin resting on your shoulder and hot breath hitting your cheek, you didn’t hesitate to move around and bring the blanket further up your bodies, making sure you were both covered and comfortable among the many pillows.

“Your feet are cold.” But Seungmin doesn’t respond, legs intertwined and body still glued to yours like he never wanted to let go, couldn’t. You sneak a glance over your shoulder and find his eyes closed, long eyelashes kissing the top of his cheeks as he rested, sleeping deeply. For the first time since you’ve known him, Seungmin didn’t smile in greeting as you woke up, still sleeping soundly like it was the most normal thing in the world.

It felt a bit strange, but your heart only grew as you watched him, admiring his side profile and the peaceful look on his face, the furrow between his eyebrows absent as dreamland took care of him.

You never got the chance to do this, wake up first and let your thoughts run wild as you resist the urge to squeeze his cheeks and plant kisses all over his face, love pouring out at a dangerous pace, threatening to suffocate him at any moment. Not like Seungmin would mind, adoring you too much to not allow you to do whatever you pleased.

As careful as you can be, one of your hands trails down and intertwines your fingers, gently bringing your connected hands to your chest as you curl further into him, content with getting more cuddle time, loving every single moment.

𝜗୧ jeongin 𝜗୧

“Did you know you talk in your sleep?” You mumble into his neck, squeezing your eyes shut as you try to hide from the obnoxious sunlight that is threatening to take your lover away with the start of a new day.

Jeongin laughs, incredulous. “No way! I’ve had countless roommates and none of them have ever complained about me randomly rambling in my sleep.” He headbutts you affectionately, almost like a cat, and snuggles closer, also bothered by the sun but too lazy to get up and close the curtains he forgot about last night.

“I’m not complaining.” Looking up, you share a breath as you move to plant a small kiss on his nose, smiling when it scrunches up in fake annoyance, knowing your boyfriend loved morning cuddles as much as you did. “I actually think it’s kind of endearing.”

He rolls his eyes, big hand drawing circles on your back under the blanket, soothing you in an attempt to get you both to fall back asleep. Mornings were not his thing, and he really didn’t want to leave you, clingier than usual. The bed was so warm, and you were so soft and smelt so good, how could he ever think about leaving? Not like he’d ever admit it out loud.

“What did I say?” He chooses to entertain you, stretching his whole body before bringing the blanket over your heads and moving his arms to hug you, turning on his side so you’re face to face. You pause, momentarily mesmerized by his beauty, messy hair and puffy eyes only making him look even more adorable in your eyes. Tracing his bottom lip, he puckers them to gently kiss your finger. “I don’t know, I don’t speak gibberish.”

He groans, regretting he asked and hiding his face in his pillow. “You also snore.” “I do not!” 

[racha-recs]

did someone say perv skz?!??!!

who in skz will jerk off to the sound of you getting fucked from the other room and why is it jisung?

who in skz will watch you get undressed, you who's blissfully unaware that your neighboor is at the front seat of your little show in putting your lil night gown on just because you forgot to draw your blinds, and why is it chan? who'd definitely feel guilty right after but his boner is taking ages to go away?

who in skz will watch you do squats at the gym, your plump ass on display straining against the fabric of your gym shorts, and might even offer to help spot you just to cope a feel when the opportunity arises, and why is it changbin?

who in skz will watch you take a shower through a crack on your door when you fail to close it properly, cock growing hard at the sight of soap suds flowing against your body as you rinse off, and why is it jeongin?

who in skz will draw you nude just from imagination, just doodles upon doodles of you and your naked body all over his sketch book in hopes that he'd replicate an exact image of you, and why is it hyunjin?

who in skz will steal your used underwear from the laundry, just for him to jerk off with it, cum all over the soiled fabric, before putting it back on the hamper? and why is it felix?

who in skz will call you over for a sleepover just so he could grind his hard cock against your ass when you're fast asleep until he cums all over his boxers, and why is it seungmin?

who in skz will secretly take upskirt photos of you, skillfully taking pictures of your underwear whenever you're wearing a dress or skirt, just for him to shamelessly jerk off to every night, and why is it minho?

[racha-recs]

HOLY SHIT SAHAR. YOURE FUCKING INSANE. this was set in just a few hours but it felt like i read a whole years’ worth of story.

“a sunflower turning to face the sun, at long last.” FUCK OFFFFF THARS SO PRETTY HES REORGANIZING A CRIME SCENE AND SOMEHOW YOU MADE IT SOUND POETIC????

god my tortured artist hyune trying to fill the void of killing with art im going to cry i love him so much he’s so precious to me. this fic…….this is mine i claim it. this is MY sahar fic.

An eye for an eye.

assassin!hyunjin x journalist!yn. slow burn. suggestive and angsty at times. she/her pronouns. 7.4k.

it is perhaps the most decisive night of your life. what are the odds that at the same time and place, it happens to be hyunjin’s too?

warnings: mention of alcohol, guns, bruises and injuries. brief talks of grief.

a.n: this is prompted by how hot villain hyunjin looks in the ate era 😭 it was supposed to be a drabble and i didn’t plan on it to be this long.. but i hope you’ll enjoy reading tehee it’s different from anything i’ve ever written so please feedback would be so appreciated,, muah muah 😘❣️

A ruby red lipstick. 

Your first childhood dream was to become a journalist, but not the complacent, obedient kind. You wanted to shed light on uncovered events, dig into the raw truth with your claws, and hold it up for the entire world to witness. You craved justice. You never believed in letting things flow their way, like a current that morphs into a torrent, destroying everything in its path.

No, you were a dam, forcing the water to change its trajectory. After all, you have always believed that all it took for change to happen was a trigger, a single flicker that would in turn burst into flames.

You wished to be it.

It was hard to grow into this specific kind of journalist, though. Not because you lacked drive, passion, or discipline. Especially not because you weren’t curious enough, brave enough. You were Seoul Press’s youngest and brightest reporter, after all.

But in a highly competitive field, you still needed your big story, your breakthrough which would put you on the radar of esteemed awards that all journalists venerate. Though you deemed it much easier to obtain a Pulitzer than to squelch your heart’s quest for truth, justice, and most importantly, in an unpredictable curb that life threw at you— revenge.

Your second childhood dream was to put on ruby red lipstick. Your thirteen-year-old self deemed it the ultimate show of power and confidence, each time you saw your aunt wearing one to her most important meetings. You dreamed of the day you could put it on as well, on your way to uncover the truth. 

And tonight, as you applied your ruby lipstick precisely, gliding the vibrant color across your lips, you felt nerves tighten like thorny vines in your stomach, puncturing your tender skin and leaving you a bloodied mess from within. 

Tonight, in your black gown and your ruby lipstick, in San Heo’s mansion, your country’s most prominent presidential candidate, and the man who ruined your life, it seemed like you were about to achieve both dreams at once.

… 

The clock hand points nine on Hyunjin’s Tank Louis Cartier watch. He throws a fleeting glance at the Victorian watch, before eyeing the people mingling at San Heo’s party. 

He knows all of the guests, memorized their faces and their habits. He knows the school where they drop off their kids and what bar they frequent every Sunday. He memorized their mannerisms and antics, knows what set them off and what did not.

This is the fruit of two years of work, after all.

He knows exactly why everyone is here, tonight particularly. Three politicians’ families and friends gathered as a show of power, to prove that they weren’t afraid of whoever’s been forcing politicians to come clean about their crimes for the past three months.

In the least glamorous manner, at that too, to put it delicately—ten bloodied tapes sent to the country’s most prominent media channels, where ministers and heads of multinationals are bound by ropes to a chair, recalling their most heinous crimes: money laundering and embezzlement for most, theft and murder for some.

The latter is Jung Cho’s case, San’s most successful competitor for the presidency, who has also mysteriously vanished from the police’s grasp since the release of his tape. No one can get a hold of poor Jung Cho anymore. 

Hyunjin smirks lightly to himself. His knuckles seem to have healed well since he last dislocated Jung Cho’s jaw. Well, that was before he shot him through the roof of his mouth.

The golden cuffs of Hyunjin’s Versace blazer reflect the light of the dangling crystal chandeliers, and he runs a weary hand through his black locks. He never chose to gel them back; he wasn’t one for structure, preferring the feeling of his silky strands brushing against his fingers. 

His eyes catch those of San’s across the room, who tips his glass of whiskey towards Hyunjin—a job well done, he reads in San’s stare. Hyunjin raises his red wine back, before settling it across the table once more.

It is a boring half an hour that awaits Hyunjin.

That is until he sees you.

You weren’t here two minutes ago, Hyunjin is sure of this. And, judging by the way you are leisurely sipping your sparkling water, your eyes gliding across the room in search of someone in particular, you had just stepped foot into the party.

Fashionably late, if he were to add.

But that is none of Hyunjin’s concern. What intrigues him the most is that your face isn’t familiar to him. That isn’t normal.

You weren’t supposed to be here, then.

Who are you?

As if hearing his question, your gaze locks onto his. He cocks an eyebrow at you; you mirror the gesture like clockwork.

Thus ensues an intense game of eye contact. You don’t break away from his gaze until two minutes later, a light scoff escaping your lips that he can discern even from afar. You then turn to look at San, your eyes morphing into something fiercer, more determined— a sniper finally locking eyes on its target.

Hyunjin feels a slight headache growing at the base of his temple. He downs his drink, before taking long strides towards you.

It’s official, you’re going to be his nuisance for the night.

27 minutes.

“Care to dance?” Hyunjin inquires as he materializes before you, a hand extended towards your body.

“Pardon?”

“A dance? To the lovely music we are hearing right now?” 

“I know what you mean,” you roll your eyes, leaning your body against the chair right next to you. Hyunjin’s eyes glaze over your legs peeking through the high slit of your dress. Had it been another setting, the sight of your black sheer tights would have made this night turn much differently.

Your voice dispels his thoughts like morning fog. “I mean why are you asking me?”

“Because I’m bored.”

“How flattering,” you grin sarcastically and Hyunjin feels the smallest urge to return your smile, although he knows it isn’t genuine.

“I know. Shall we?”

Your gaze flees to San once again, seemingly debating something in your head before finally sighing.

In the few seconds of scrutiny you consecrate to his boss, Hyunjin’s gaze lingers on your bright red lipstick, and the way you tuck your lip slightly into your mouth as you ponder.

A beautiful nuisance, he corrects himself.

“Fine,” You place your manicured hand in his in response.

“What’s your name?” he asks, as he settles one hand atop your waist. The fabric of your black dress is too thin, he can feel the heat emanating from your body seeping through his palm.

Focus. You need to discover who she is.

“Julia,” your hand settles atop his shoulder, while the other entwines with his. “And you?”

“Sam. What are you doing here?” he quickly inquires.

You shake your head slightly, gliding your hand from the base of his neck to the end of his shoulder.

“Isn’t it my turn to ask you a question?”

Hyunjin tilts his head curiously at you, before smirking slightly— “Yes ma’am.”

“What do you work for?”

“I’m Mr. Heo’s political adviser.”

“You’re quite young, though,” you note.

“I know.”

“And I don’t see you by his side a lot.”

“I work in the background, mostly. I don’t do well with the cameras.” He spins you around, picking up speed as the orchestra picks up the violin. “How do you know Mr. Heo?”

“I’m Kang’s niece, you know, Mr. Heo’s economic adviser? Uncle Kang is ill, and my father is out of the country so both of them chose not to come.”

Hyunjin’s memory faintly brushes off Kang’s single niece, completing her architectural studies in Paris’ Sorbonne. 

“C’est beau à Paris?” Is it beautiful in Paris?

You don’t even blink— “Même magnifique, tu devrais visiter.” Marvelous even, you should visit. 

Checks out.

“I’ll hold you on to that offer,” he says, before spinning you around, your chest settling across his back. Hyunjin ignores how his heart skips a singular beat at your proximity.

“So, what are you doing here?” he asks, his lips tantalizingly close to the shell of your ear. He watches as your chest rises once before your airy voice floods his ear.

“Networking, though you didn’t quite allow me to speak to anyone but you,” you tease slightly.

“I fail to see what an architect has to do with politicians,” he muses, as he sways you gently from left to right.

“I want to oversee the building of Jamsil Sports Complex.”

“So you’re using your father for work connections?” he taunts and you swivel around, placing both your hands on his shoulders before interlinking your fingers behind his neck, caging him within the notes of your perfume.

“Is it a crime?” your voice is airy, too airy, everything you say sounds rehearsed, you don’t seem intimidated by him, by this setting, as opposed to how a newly graduated student, one who grew up away from her father’s world should.

“Depends on your definition,” he counters.

“Do you regard it as such?”

Hyunjin’s gaze flickers all over yours. He senses something urgent in your gaze, as if you are pushing for more, beyond what this simple question entails.

When he remains quiet for a tad too long, you let your hands drop by your body, taking a step away from him.

“I need to go,” you say. He grabs your wrist instantly. “Where to?”

“Bathroom.” And with that, you quickly turn around and walk away, leaving behind notes of your floral perfume and ghosts of your ruby lips.

Hyunjin steals a glance at his clock. 09:13 p.m.

He drags a hand across his forehead wearily. He won’t let you ruin this night.

17 minutes. 

You are washing your hands obsessively in the bathroom, lost in thought as you gaze at your reflection, all blurry from your unfocused eyes. You only turn off the water once your skin starts to sting from the force of your touch. 

The orange-scented soap doesn’t seem to get rid of the stench of blood. 

A week ago. 

“I don't understand your obsession with Mr. Heo,” Christopher Bang calmly removed his glasses, placing them next to the shiny placate reading ‘Editor in Chief of Seoul Press’.

“He is corrupt.”

“As all politicians are,” he spoke matter of factly, and it angered you how unfazed he seemed before your, you admit, far-fetched request. 

“You don’t understand, sir. He’s different.”

“Did he do something to you?” Chris asked, leaning back against his chair. You felt exposed all of a sudden, like a flower left bare without its stem. 

“Would my answer change anything?” You inquired tentatively. 

“It would explain many things, yes actually,” he got up from his chair, before sitting on the one right across from you. “You are a talented journalist, Yn.”

“Thank you—“

“But you are utilizing the company’s resources to conduct your personal investigation on San Heo.” 

He knew. 

“You’ve been working on his case from the day you joined our media. Which was exactly 389 days ago. I know that you’ve managed to uncover quite some dirt, one that would make an explosive case if you get more information. That’s why I turned a blind eye to everything you did because I trust your skills and integrity.” 

You remained silent.

“But now, you’re asking me to completely disregard my deontology by finding a way for you to break into Mr. Heo’s mansion. That is a crime.”

“Not break in. I want an invite to his party, it is the first time he organized one in his home, probably the last time, it is my only chance to—”

“Details,” he waves a hand disinterestedly in the air, cutting you off. “Your intentions aren’t to mingle with politicians, it is to dig in his office and find something of substance. While I admire the lengths of what you want to go through, I must stop you here.” He leveled his eyes with yours. “This can land you in jail, he is the most important man in our country right now.”

“What if I tell you he did something to me, that he ruined my life? Would you help me then?” your voice was hoarse, tears pricked your eyes as you tried your best not to avert your gaze. You hated displays of weakness, despised them even more in professional settings. 

“What did he do?” 

You bristled at the question, ugly memories flashing before your eyes like a blinding light, your body begging you to flee away from this question and the heavy response it entailed.

Still, you spoke. 

Christopher remained silent as you recalled what happened on your doomsday, the night in which your world ceased to spin, and simultaneously, the reason why you joined his company, to begin with. When your sniffles subsided a few minutes later, he gently handed you a napkin, a silent invitation to wipe away the tears that had escaped.

He sighed deeply, running a hand through his weary face before finally speaking. 

“I’ll give you the invite tomorrow. Say that you are Kang’s niece, her name is Julia. She went to Paris for architectural studies, and that you are back for a vacation. Kang is ill these days, he won’t attend the party, and his brother is out of the country, no one will question you.”

“How do you know this?” 

“Because I know them,” he toyed with his lower lip lightly before a tiny smile drew upon it. “An eye for an eye, right? I’m Kang’s cousin. I changed my last name because I didn’t wish to deal with them anymore.” 

“So Bhang isn’t your real last name?”

“No.” He ran his thumb across his lower lip, seemingly debating adding something. “San’s office is on the far end of the third floor.” 

You heaved a sigh of relief. 

“Thank you.” 

“Don’t get yourself killed.”

13 minutes. 

It was one thing to stare at photographs of San seared behind your reddened eyelids or to stand at the far end of his press conferences. It was another to step foot into his mansion, to stand amidst powerful people who are capable of ruining your life had they known of your motives. 

But you didn’t have time to dwell on your personal feelings. Fear, nerves, all of those feeble emotions pale before the chance you have today. So, you nod at your reflection in the mirror, count to three in your head, and finally head out of the bathroom. 

“Five minutes, were you crying?” Sam’s bored voice startles you as soon as you set foot outside. He’s leaning on the wall across from the door, hands deep into the pockets of his suit.

Not again. 

“I know that I’m very pretty but don’t you have better things to do than to follow me?” you ask, pausing right in front of him. 

“I’m not following you, I just happen to be particularly fond of the architecture of this corridor,” he jokes and you ignore his words, walking past him with a renowned determination. He pushes himself off the wall, only to grasp your wrist once again, spinning you around until you’re facing him. 

He chuckles softly, tilting his head to the side. His icy blue contacts pierce through your skin like a puncture needle.  “You know, I’m curious, Julia. You seemed very eager to get away from me.”

You take a step forward, closing the distance between you two. “Have you considered that I found your company utterly boring?”

“You wound me,” he places a hand on his heart, any trace of humor absent from his voice. His grip tightens on your wrist for a millisecond. A warning. “I need you to leave.” 

“I’m sorry?” 

“I’m serious. You shouldn’t be here tonight.”

“And why should I listen to you?” you challenge and his eyes darken further. 

“I can’t tell you.”

“Then let me go,” you mutter, slipping your hand away from his grasp. 

“Julia,” he says sternly, pulling you back till your back is against the wall, his hands rooted on either side of your body. 

It is a dimly lit hallway, and the sound of the orchestra barely reaches you. Your worry intermingles with a new kind of nerves, all orchestrated by his proximity, and the way his gaze brushes against your body like a skilled painter. 

“I’m not joking, leave.” His voice is much softer when he adds, “It’s for your own good. What will happen later doesn’t concern you.”

He knows something that you don’t know, something that, from his tone, none of the guests are aware of. You see something human in his eyes, in the slight crease doting his eyebrows. He seems genuinely worried for the innocent civilian he thinks you are. 

Your eyes turn to look at his hand near your head, only to notice his faintly bruised knuckles, shades of purple and green doting a delicate porcelain skin. They have healed well, then. 

Should you unearth the memory from two weeks ago— pleas for mercy, a deafening gunshot, and an excruciating silence afterward, the quiet after the murder that you remember most? 

Then, another scene rings in your head like bells of an ancient church— a bruised hand brushing against your own in an art gallery from two days ago, raven locks, and familiar, melancholy-tinted eyes. 

Could it be? 

Your voice turns sweet, tender, “should I trust you for the night?” your thumb brushes against the skin underneath his eye, wiping away the concealer you knew you spotted.

There it is, the eye mole you thought he covered. 

It clicks in your mind in an instant, pieces of a puzzle falling into place, there are still a few missing but you manage to grasp the bigger picture.

If he’s not letting you go then he could be of good use. 

What other choice do you have but to gamble with a killer? 

Your sharp nails drag across the nape of his neck, before settling right beneath his jaw. You mimic a gun, his eyes narrow in response.

“Is this how you killed Jung Cho, Hyunjin?” 

You feel a cold barrel instantly press against your stomach. “Police officer?” he asks. 

“No.”

“Journalist ?”

“Yes,” you slowly mutter.

“What’s your name?”

“I don’t wish to tell you.” The gun only presses further onto your skin. You feel a cold bead of sweat roll down your exposed spine. 

Breathe. 

“It’s Yn.”

“What do you know?”

“It’d be easier for me to talk if you removed the gun,” you smile lightly and Hyunjin only leans further, a distance as thin as a blade between you both.

“Speak.”

“You killed the only candidate that stood a chance in front of San. You drove him to the empty deposit near Inwangsan Mountain, tortured him for three days, filmed his confessions, and then sent them to many media outlets. Ours included. I know it because I followed you.” 

“Why did you follow me?” he questions. Your eyes flee to the end of the corridor where an impossible staircase sits. You are wasting your time. 

“Because I am investigating San. And through following him I ended up getting to know you. You are different from everyone he meets. Very secretive. So I figured it’d be worth a shot following you too,” you explain as calmly as you can. You’re sure the barrel of the gun will leave a bruise on your skin. 

“And why didn’t you write a piece about me? Everyone is dying to know who I am.”

“I have, I just haven’t released it. If I don’t come back home in an hour my head chef will post the video of you murdering Mr. Cho on every SNS. The public loves you for what you’re doing. But the politicians will come together to kill you. They have a price on your head. You are threatening everything they ever built.” 

Hyunjin drags his gun up your stomach slowly, trails it across your collarbones before it settles on your jaw. 

“I could kill you too, right now.” His tone is cold, evil. Very different from the man who asked you to dance. You know that I can.” 

“My death would only sign yours.”

Hyunjin’s forehead rests on the wall right next to your head. You can hear him inhale deeply, hear the gears turning in his head. “Fuck, you are driving me crazy.”

He drops the gun and takes a step back. “Why didn’t you expose me?”

“You are not the one that matters to me.” 

“What do you want from me then?” 

“Three minutes. Open San’s office, and then I’ll go. No one will ever know of your identity.” 

He remains silent. 

“Hyunjin, please.” 

“Fuck, fine. But whatever happens next you’ll have to trust me, okay?” his hands settle on your shoulder, his eyes leveling with yours, “if you’re not leaving then you’ll have to trust me enough, for tonight.” 

8 minutes. 

“After you,” Hyunjin bows slightly as he opens the door to Heo’s office. You step in first, and he steals a quick glance behind him—no one’s here, for now.

“That saved me the hassle of breaking the door.”

“You know how to do that?” he asks, slightly impressed.

“One of my hobbies,” you shrug before walking directly to the desk. Hyunjin leans against the wall, watching as you lift your dress slightly, revealing a small packet tucked into your garter. The sight drives Hyunjin a little crazy, and he closes his eyes for a second.

He really, really wishes he hadn’t met you here tonight.

You take out a listening device, tapping the bottom of the desk until you find a suitable spot, and then you stick it in place.

“Another one of your hobbies?” he smirks.

You giggle. “Mm, aren’t I the most fun?”

“You are,” his eyes drag across your figure, and he notices a slight falter in your posture, “the most beautiful too.”

You blink, and he’s suddenly in front of you, trapping you between the auburn desk and his toned body. You don’t seem intimidated, placing a palm on his chest as you tilt your head to the side. 

“Aren’t you curious why I’m going after San?”

“No, he angers a lot of people.” His thumb caresses your cheek, a touch so soft in contrast to his next words. “A lot of people fantasize about his death.”

“Are you one of them?” you question, cocking an eyebrow at him.

“Right now, all I’m fantasizing about is you.” His voice is husky, and he finds it comes out much easier when he actually likes the person he’s attempting to seduce. 

It takes you a few seconds to speak again. “Is that so?”

“Mm, let’s dance.”

“Didn’t we dance downstairs?”

“That was Sam and Julia dancing,” he says as he entwines his fingers with yours. “You see, Hyunjin is a different kind of dancer.” His hand presses against your back, snaking against your bare skin. “Can I pull you closer?” he asks, and you simply nod, eyes fleeting widely all over his face. 

His chest presses to yours, so close he’s sure your hearts are syncing with one another, his inhales alternating with your exhales. 

“Yn,” he whispers your name, as you look up at him through the curve of your eyelashes.  

“Yes, Hyunjin?” His name sounds soft as it stumbles from your ruby lips, innocent from all the blood that drenches his soul.

“I like the way you say my name.” He glances at his watch above your head. 9:57.

“Hyunjin,” you repeat, as your hand drags up his neck, grabbing a fistful of his hair and gently dragging it backward, exposing his enticing neck to you. “You are always looking at your watch, what are you waiting for?”

He chuckles faintly, grabbing both your hands and spinning you around till his chin rests on the small of your shoulder. “You’re perceptive,” he mutters, as his fingers drag down your bare arms. “But so am I,” he says coldly as he grabs both your hands, bringing them behind your back. “Look, your hands are shaking just from my proximity. I don’t think you have it in you to film me killing Jung Cho. I don’t think you have it in you to watch me torture someone for three days.”

Click. Cold metal wraps around your wrist in an instant, handcuffing you to the leg of the table before which you’re standing. 

“I think you lied to me, Yn. I don’t like being lied to.”

“What are you doing?” you ask disoriented, panic spilling from your being like an overflowing cup.

Hyunjin pays you no mind, taking out his phone and dialing a number. “Boss, we have a problem. I caught a journalist trying to get into your room,” he taps his chin slowly as he looks at you. “No, no need for security. Just come alone. Don’t alarm the guests.”

2 minutes

“Are you serious?” you ask as soon as he hangs up, a prominent lump in your throat. “You told me to trust you.”

“Did I say I was worth that trust?” he pouts, seemingly mocking the vulnerable ordeal you found yourself in. 

A loud chuckle escapes your lips, your head thrown back as if before a hilarious spectacle of sorts. Hyunjin frowns, crossing his arms in front of his chest as your giggles slowly quiet down. 

“You’re a peculiar person, aren’t you Hyunjin? You need to hide your identity but you crave normalcy still, so you open your art gallery. You go to crazy lengths to cover your moles and wear contacts because you wish for people to look at you with admiration in their eyes, kindness. But you don’t deserve it.” There is a fire lit in your eyes, flames latching into his black suit and burning his already scarred skin. “You’ll always be as evil as them.” 

Hyunjin doesn’t respond for a while, his eyes simply softening at your words.

“I know,” he whispers. 

“Who’s this?” San’s voice booms loudly as he sets foot into the office. Hyunjin’s eyes break apart from your figure to look at San, bowing slightly to greet him. 

“Julia, she infiltrated the party,” Hyunjin explains, stealthily locking the door behind San. “She’s been investigating you for quite some time now. And… She knows about the murders.”

“Mm, she’s clever. Should we hire her?” San jokes and Hyunjin smiles politely, dragging his eyes over your face. You simply roll your eyes, seemingly more bored than scared. 

Cute. 

“Anyways,” Heo stares at you for a fleeting second before tapping Hyunjin’s shoulder. “She looks easy to kill. Just get rid of her. But don’t stain my carpet though, it's expensive.”

“Sure thing,” Hyunjin nods, taking out his gun and pointing it at your temple. He steals a final look at his watch— 9:30 p.m. he reads. 

Time’s up. 

“You didn’t think I’d let you go?” Hyunjin mocks, cocking his head at you. In a split second, a bullet ricochets loudly, but not at you. It grazes San’s ear, making him pause near the door, his back towards you both. 

“Right boss?” Hyunjin’s tone is slightly whiny, annoying is the best way to describe it. You can hear police sirens blare loudly outside, see the red and blue hues reflect off the window. Loud shouts erupt downstairs, Hyunjin leisurely reloads his gun, one hand deep into his pocket, San’s posture slightly falters, his fingers digging into the skin of his palm. 

“Do you hear that Heo? Your mansion is surrounded. All your filthy dirt is exposed. The police officers are arresting everyone downstairs right now. And they’re coming for you. The man of the hour.” Hyunjin makes a show of curtsying deeply. You stifle a giggle at his theatrics.

“You dare turn your back on me?” San yells, pivoting around to face Hyunjin’s barrel, the latter simply yawns as if it’s a regular Saturday activity for him. 

“Oh, don’t get emotional on me,” Hyunjin pouts, before his eyes narrow down coldly. “Now kneel. Let’s end this without staining your carpet.”

You see San slowly lowering himself to the ground, Hyunjin’s gaze sets on you for a millisecond, his pupils dilated in apology, in concern, you don’t know, you don't get to decipher his look because San is taking out his gun from his back pocket, aiming it at Hyunjin. “Watch out”— is all you manage to shout, and hyunjin ducks in an instant, propelled by the sound of your voice to the ground.

He could have died, he could have died because he looked at you. 

It all happens so fast, Hyunjin diving into San to take away his gun, both their weapons flinging into the air, San punching Hyunjin’s mouth and the latter retaliating by flinging his fist up against his nose. You’re struggling with your restraints, trying to reach out for the lone gun that fell to your right. 

A bit more, tune out the sirens, tune out the punches, slowly, only a few centimeters left, your wrist is on fire but that is the least of your concern, almost, there, you grab it.

You fire the gun.

It’s quiet once again, for the first time in two years, it is quiet in your head.

It’s over. 

You close your eyes, tilting your head back into the desk. The sound of your mother’s laughter floods your ears, her airy giggles as she brushes your hair and tucks you into her chest, her being a vision of beauty underneath the sun’s caress. 

“Are you okay?” Hyunjin kneels before you, wiping away the tears rolling down your cheeks with his bruised knuckles. He is worried, even behind those icy blue contacts, you can still grasp his worry.

You nod, swallowing the sob that is lodged within your throat. Hyunjin is quick to unlock your handcuffs, entwining your fingers with his as he pulls you off the ground. 

You slightly push him aside, your eyes set on San’s bleeding figure. He’s still alive, rugged breaths escaping his chest, his palm pressed to the bullet that punctuated his stomach. 

“I want him dead,” you mutter, grabbing Hyunjin’s forearm to support yourself, “but I want him to rot in prison too.” 

“He will, for all his crimes. I have it all documented. The police have it too,” his palm rubs soothingly against your back, you lean further into his touch.

“He’s a monster.” 

“I know. They all are. That’s why I killed them,” he simply says, before guiding you back to a couch on the right of the office. He shrugs off his suit, draping it over your trembling shoulders. 

“Give me a minute.”

You watch as he grabs the gun you fired off of the ground, before taking a handkerchief out of his pocket. He wipes your fingerprints, making sure to leave his all over the gun. He then walks to the table, taking away your listening device and crushing it to the ground.

He’s calm and collected as he rearranges the scene to his liking, it looks like he has done this a million times before, as if this is the element in which he thrives— a sunflower turning to face the sun, at long last. 

He kneels before your freezing figure one last time, tilting your chin to the side so you’d look at him.

“I fired the gun. You had no idea any of this would happen, you’re just an ambitious journalist who wanted an insider scoop.” He senses you’re somewhere far, pulled by the ropes of memories that had long haunted your dreams. His warm palm presses to your cold cheek, your eyes are glossy as they rest on him. 

“You didn’t do anything. I’m the one who used you as a scapegoat to bring San up here, just like I agreed with the police. Alright? You did nothing.You know nothing.” 

“Alright.”

Hours pass in a cold blur, the weight of time lost on you as three police officers take turns questioning you. You repeat the lines Hyunjin taught you, your voice flat, devoid of emotion. Even as you step out of the police station, with Hyunjin's hand resting gently on your back, you feel nothing. A slight tremor runs through you when he mentions that San survived and will be transferred to prison once he's healed.

You don’t know why you’re disappointed you didn’t become a killer.

You don’t know anything, don’t feel anything as Hyunjin drives you home. You don’t question how he knows your address or the code to your elevator. It’s only when you unlock your door and he starts to pull away that reality snaps back.

Without thinking, you grab his wrist, suddenly aware of the loneliness that awaits you inside, an uninvited guest preying on your vulnerable heart.

“Would you like some tea?” you ask, your voice tinged with hopelessness, knowing just how silly you sound. Why would he stay? He has so many loose ends to thread after his finishing blow, you know he’s part of something far larger than you. 

As if mocking your question, his phone buzzes for the tenth time in the span of five minutes.

But then, to your surprise, he turns it off.

“Yeah,” he says with a soft smile, “I’d like some tea.”

As you bring the water to a boil, Hyunjin rolls up the sleeves of his white shirt, casually wandering around your apartment as if it’s not his first time setting foot in here. He’s always at ease— with a gun pointed at him or while looking at the souvenir magnets on your fridge. 

His calmness helps instill some peace in your heart too. 

“I like your apartment,” he says, accepting the cup of chamomile you hand him. “It’s cozy, feels like a home.”

“Thank you,” you whisper as you sink into the couch, your head hung low. So much has happened in just half an hour, too much for you to fully comprehend and process.

“Let me see,” he says a few sips later, as he gently removes the cup from your clutch, before sliding his thumb across your right wrist. The bruises have already begun to form, the red marks from the handcuffs clear evidence of your struggle to reach the gun.

“I’m sorry I involved you in this,” he murmurs, frowning as he avoids your gaze, staring intently at your wrist as if he could will the blue hues away. “I didn’t plan for you to be at the party.”

“I involved myself,” you chuckle softly. You’re not one for physical touch, but you don’t feel the usual urge to pull away from his grasp. His hands are warm, the roughness of his fingertips a stark contrast to the softness of your skin.

“You’re a stubborn journalist,” he says with a small smile, finally meeting your gaze. you suddenly yearn to look into the rich brown of his eyes once more. Was its shade as deep as you remember?

“And you’re an excellent painter,” you retort, eliciting a surprised laugh from him. The sound is unexpectedly endearing, and you’re caught in a whirlwind of contradictions. Is this really the same man you saw taking a life? The same man now holding your wrist as if it were made of porcelain?

“Right, you figured out my identity. What gave me away?” he asks, still smiling.

“I heard about this new gallery where the artist’s only clue to his identity was the name signed on his paintings. So, I decided to see for myself. While everyone else was captivated by the artwork, I noticed you, standing in the corner, observing the reactions of everyone around. You smiled when someone smiled, and your grin grew wider with each compliment. That’s when I started to suspect that the artist was you, all along.”

“I remember it now. I bumped into you as you were leaving,” he says, and you nod.

“What stood out to me were your sad eyes. That’s what I remember most. Well, besides your bruised knuckles.”

“And that’s how you connected the dots.”

“Yes, and your eye mole, too. Even though you tried to conceal it with makeup, it still showed.”

“Very perceptive,” he says with a grin.

“Thank you.”

“Aren’t you worried I’ll expose your identity?” you ask, as his hand gently slides into yours, his fingers resting lightly on top of yours. A simple, innocent touch, yet it stirs something unknown in the pits of your stomach. 

“I trusted you when you said I’m not the one who matters to you.”

“Why would you trust me?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because I miss putting my faith in someone, even if they end up failing me. Isn’t that the most human trait of all?”

How could an assassin create such heartfelt paintings, overflowing with emotions too hard to explain with words, let alone colors? Perhaps because this isn’t the life he always wanted.

“Did you choose this?” you ask softly, your voice barely a whisper. Maybe it’s the exhaustion from the interrogation, or the near brush with death, or perhaps the relief that this chapter is finally closing for both of you. But something compels you to keep talking, to ask, to hold on to Hyunjin just a little longer.

“Being a killer, you mean?” His voice carries a tenderness that seems at odds with the weight of his words. He’s a walking contradiction, balancing two identities within himself—Hyunjin and Sam. One feels heavier on his bones than the other. 

“I grew up in this world,” he continues. “My parents run a large network of assassins—or vigilantes, depending on how you see it. Some people hire us, and sometimes we act on our own when we see injustice or corruption festering for too long. We conduct thorough background checks. We only kill those who truly deserve it. We always make sure of that.”

“An eye for an eye.”

He nods, his gaze dropping to the floor. “I always feel good in the midst of a case. One less evil in the world. But after, there’s just this emptiness. Now what? I always wonder. So I try to fill the void with painting.”

“Now what…” you repeat, your voice trembling as a lump forms in your throat. “Now what? What should I do now?” Tears well up and spill over suddenly, streaming down your face in an unstoppable torrent. “San is behind bars, but my mom isn’t coming back. So what now? What was all of this for if I can’t get her back?”

You find yourself burying your head in the crook of Hyunjin’s neck, his arms wrapping tightly around you, holding you close as if he could contain your sadness, preventing it from seeping from your soul and reaching your mother, wherever she may be.

You haven’t allowed anyone to hold you like this in two years, denying yourself any comfort until you could bring your mother’s killer to justice. It was a promise you made to yourself after San drunkenly ran her over and fled the scene, leaving you alone to hug her cold body in that sterile hospital room.

“It drove me crazy,” you sob, your words broken and incoherent. “He bribed everyone—the doctors, the paramedics, the stores nearby. Everyone acted like my mom didn’t d-die because of h-him,” you hiccup, and Hyunjin only holds you tighter, closer, enough to stitch your wounds with time, only if he remains this close to you. If he wishes to, if you allow him to.

“But now he’s behind bars, and I still don’t have my mom. What do I do now that I can’t bury myself in revenge? Hyunjin, what should I do when I miss her so much and I can’t see her?”

Five hours later.

“The article is perfect, no corrections needed,” Chris says, removing his glasses and looking at you with approval. “Excellent work, Yn.” 

“Thank you,” you nod, feeling a mix of relief, but mostly exhaustion. “I stayed up all night working on it.” 

“Goid, it’s only 6 a.m. so we know that no other media outlet has touched this yet. Our article will be the one to shape public opinion. This is a big win for us. It’s a thorough investigation, and I’m confident you’ll get the recognition you deserve,” he writes something down onto his notebook before looking at you once more. “Take a few days off—you’ve earned it. I’ll reach out if anything urgent comes up.”

“Thank you, sir.” You bow slightly before turning to leave the suffocating office. Or maybe it’s your own mind that’s suffocating you. You don’t have time to dwell on the question before Chris speaks again. 

“Oh, Yn?” Chris calls out just as your hand touches the doorknob. “One last thing, did you ever figure out who was behind all those tapes?”

Your grip on the doorknob tightens imperceptibly. “No sir, no clue.” 

One month later. 

It’s a few minutes before the art gallery closes when you walk in. Hyunjin spots you before you see him, your distinctive walk etched in his memory as vividly as if it were only yesterday that he had seen it.

He approaches quietly, stopping behind you as you gaze at the newest addition to his collection.

“Is this us?” you ask, not turning around. Hyunjin’s eyes follow yours to the abstract painting of a couple waltzing in a ballroom, their hands intertwined just like yours were, four Saturdays ago.

“Yes,” he replies softly.

“It seems I left an everlasting impression on you,” you tease, he can hear the smile in your voice without seeing it. 

“You did. You looked beautiful.”

“So did you.”

“I’m glad you came,” he says sincerely. “I missed you.”

“But we only spent a day together,” you giggle quietly, and Hyunjin wishes he could capture your laugh and tuck it away in the veins of his heart.

“Didn’t that day feel like a year, though?” he muses, resting his chin gently on your shoulder. You lean back into him, closing the space between you.

“It did,” you admit before nervously clearing your throat. “Are you free right now? We could grab a drink, if you’d like?”

“Chamomile tea?” he chuckles, and your laughter vibrates through his being.

“No, something stronger this time.”

He hums, hesitating as he despises the words that would stumble out of his mouth. “I have some things to handle tonight. Urgent matters.”

“Ah,” your voice dips slightly, the disappointment clear in your tone. “Well, it’s okay. I’ll see you another time, then,” you say, finally turning to face him. 

He really missed you. 

“Okay. I’ll see you.”

“Okay.”

“Congratulations on your award, by the way,” he says, watching your expression soften, a delicate smile forming on your lips.

“You saw it?”

“I did. I read your piece, too. I’m sure your mom would be proud of you.”

Tears of gratitude well up in your eyes, and you squeeze Hyunjin’s hand tightly as you whisper, “Thank you. Really. Thank you, Hyunjin.”

Hyunjin’s words linger in your soul, echoing through your mind for the rest of your day, his voice the only sound that seems to fill the silence within you. That is until three loud knocks resonate through your apartment, just minutes before midnight. 

You open the door to find Hyunjin standing there, a fresh bruise marring his jaw, his knuckles freshly scraped and bloodied.

“Let me guess, you had nowhere else to go?” you joke, trying to regain your composure at the sight of him once more.

“No,” he replies, his tone earnest, “I wanted to come to you.”

Your smile falters at the sincerity in his voice. You can’t quite place what it is about Hyunjin that pulls you toward him, how amidst everything that’s happened in the past month, the most vivid memory is how he held you gently as you cried and cried.

“I forgot something,” he says, pulling a tube of cooling cream from his back pocket and offering it to you. “I meant to give this to you for your bruised wrists.”

He’s a month late, you both know your wrists have long since healed.

“I… yeah,” he sighs before your silence, turning to leave, a light blush tinting his cheeks. But before he can, you drop the tube and grab his hand, spinning him back around.

“I forgot something too,” you say quickly before pressing your lips against his.

You don’t fully understand what draws you to Hyunjin, but you know his lips taste as sweet as cherry chapstick, that his hand around your waist feels like water flowing gently over your skin, warm and encompassing. That his brown eyes remind you of sunlight dancing on autumn leaves, that no one has touched your soul as deeply as he has.

You know you wish to make him feel as human as he makes you.

[racha-recs]

cinematic parallels // [in dreamland]

[racha-recs]

05. sharing a bed series ; skz ; han

masterlist.

sharing a bed series part 5/8. because it’s the cheesiest most classic trope and it’s FUN. -

pairing: han jisung/reader content info: dom!reader. sub!jisung. sexual content. enemies2lovers, sharing a bed trope. past misunderstandings, grudges, bickering. femdom feat: face slapping, face sitting, hair pulling, choking, riding, denial-n-cumming-anyway, kneeling, more pussy eating. this one is a little longer. teehee :)

-

“Hey, I hope you had a good flight…”

Chan’s voice message crackles through your phone speaker but you can barely hear him over the bustling airport. You wait until you are outside in the pick-up zone to try listening again.  It is marginally quieter out here, cars coming and going, light snowfall brightening the winter night.  With your luggage at your feet, you replay his voice mail. 

“Hey, I hope you had a good flight.  Something came up at work and I’m not gonna be able to pick you up.  I’m really sorry ‘bout it, mate.  Jisung is on his way to get you.  I know, I know, but he’ll get you home, yeah?  If you’re still mad tomorrow, I’ll take you to lunch and you can kill me there.  Buh-byyeeeee!”   

Oh, that son of a bitch. 

The message ends just as a pair of headlights flash over you.  You can see through the front window but despite the direct eye contact Jisung still feels the need the honk the horn not once, not twice, but three times. 

You stand there with your arms hanging helplessly at your sides.  Snow falls on your head and a frown darkens your whole face.  Jisung just smiles and waves like an idiot, honking the horn again. 

I am going to kill Chan, you think to yourself. 

Jisung loves putting you in situations where you are the unrepentant supervillain of his life, so ignoring him and getting in a cab would just play into his horrible little hands.  He might look unassuming in his puffy coat and backwards cap, might look soft and friendly with his fair hair and plushy pink smile, might look innocent with his big brown eyes peering at you with cartoonishly saccharine enthusiasm, but in reality none of that is true. 

Han Jisung is the worst. 

Han Jisung is your nemesis. 

Han Jisung honks the horn again.

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” you shout.  You roll your eyes and heft your luggage over your shoulder, stomping with an incredible degree of petulance for a woman of your age.  You toss your bag in the trunk then slide into the passenger seat. 

Jisung honks again. 

“Hello, hello, welcome to Flight H.A.N with Jisung airlines, this is your pilot speaking—”

You turn on the radio to shut him up.  You are not in the mood for his shenanigans. 

Jisung cringes with theatrical chagrin.   

“Yikes,” he says with a bubbly laugh.  “Tough crowd.”

“Just drive.”  

“Yes, mistress, right away, mistress, Jisung lives to serve his mistress, please don’t hurt Jisung or leave him out in the cold tonight—”

You thunk your head against the headrest, glaring ahead as Jisung smoothly joins the traffic flow despite his nonsensical rambling. 

You vaguely remember a time when Jisung was shy, back before he made it his life mission to send you hurtling into an annoyance-induced death.  You also vaguely remember a time you liked him, him and his quietness, him and his quirky humour, him and his big, stupid, brown eyes. 

Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

Jisung sings along with the radio so you flip the station to one with talking.   He strums his fingers on the steering wheel, lips pursed and eyebrows lifted.  He casts you a few side glances that you pointedly ignore.   When you see him open his mouth, you hold up a finger. 

“Do not even think about it,” you say.  “Whatever you were about to say or do… Don’t.”

He presses his lips together and makes an obnoxiously loud pop.

“Kk,” he says.  “This should be a fun half hour.”

The airport is outside of the city, a half-hour drive to your downtown apartment.  Usually.  The weather has traffic horrifically backed up.  Half an hour comes and goes and you are barely out of view of the airport. 

“We could play a game,” Jisung says, looking at you sideways.  “I spy with my little—”

“Nope.”

“Okay, cool. Cool, cool, cool.”  He nods, strumming the steering wheel again. 

The radio blathers on, you barely listening.  You scroll through your phone until there are zero notifications, then you scroll through your photo album just for something to look at.  Jisung hums to himself and you try not to get annoyed all over again.  You exploding at something so inconsequential would give him way too much satisfaction.   

The snow comes down harder.  It pulls your attention from your phone to the blustery world outside.  Everything is a harsh grey, the dark night foggily illuminated by the white snow.  Even Jisung is concentrating now, his brow furrowed as he stares through the front window. 

“Shit,” he says. 

He changes stations to catch a road update.  Your jaws drop in unison when the reporter mentions a thirteen hour delay on the main bridge into the city. 

“Thirteen fucking hours?” you say.  It comes out wheezy.  “It’s winter!  Why are they always so surprised by the fucking snow!  God!  What the hell are we gonna do?”

“We’re not going anywhere near the bridge, that’s what we’re gonna do,” Jisung says, flipping the car into reverse and immediately changing course. 

“How else are we getting downtown?” 

He looks at you like you’re so stupid that he can’t believe it, his eyebrows jumping up his face. 

“Uh, hello, welcome back to town, it’s snowing here,” Jisung says.  “We’re going downtown tomorrow when it won’t kill us or trap us in a car—”

“I want to go home—”

“Do you want to spend thirteen hours in a car with me?”  Jisung asks.  “Because that’s what going home will involve right now, k?”

He sounds terse.  You feel a little better when he acts short with you too, more justified in your own rudeness. 

“Fine,” you say.  “What are we doing then?”   

A ten minute trip turns into an hour long drive with traffic delays, but eventually you are rolling into the snow-covered parking lot of the only motel with a vacancy sign.  You and Jisung do not speak, stepping out of the car and crunching along the snow in silence.  The motel parking lot is washed a golden colour, the yellow balcony lights beaming over the white snow.   It holds the promise of warmth.   You hurry inside. 

You shake yourself off in the tiny entryway while Jisung dings the desk bell.  Someone appears to check you in. 

“You’re a lucky couple,” she says.  “Lots of folks have stopped because of the weather.  We have exactly one room left available.  It’s a nice cozy double bed.  Sounds good?”  

“Ummm…”  You join Jisung at the desk, a million frantic thoughts running through your brain.  “Hold on, we’re not—”

“Did you hear that, baby?” Jisung says with exaggerated fondness, because he can’t help but taunt you.  “We’re a lucky couple.  Isn’t that just our luck the only room available has one bed?” 

You step on his foot deliberately and he yelps. 

“Is there really no other option?” you ask the attendant with some degree of desperation. 

“No, sorry.”  She gives you a funny look but shakes her head.  “I doubt you’ll have better luck finding a room anywhere else tonight.  You can have this one or enjoy a car nap.” 

“My beautiful wife and I are happy with a double,” Jisung says, already holding out his credit card.  “Right, baby?” 

You smack his ass, hard and swift.  His eyes widen.   You smirk.

“Right, baby,” you say with a snarl. 

-

Tonight’s only saving grace is the hot water; you enjoy a long shower before changing into sleep shorts and a camisole.   You join Jisung in the room, finding him sprawled on the double bed with air pods in his ears.  He tossed his hat somewhere and is laying there in jeans and a t-shirt – remarkable, as you thought he might strip to his underwear just to be annoying.  But no, he lays there peacefully.  His fair hair is darker at the root, neatly framing his unfortunately handsome face.  He has one arm flexed under his head, the muscle more pronounced than you remember it being.  His eyes are closed as he nods along to the music. 

You grab a pillow and thwack him in the gut.  It startles him to attention, a strangled sound leaving his throat. 

“You stay on that side of the bed and you do not move, got it?” you say. 

He sticks his tongue out at you.   

“Very mature,” you say. 

You lay down with your back to him.  After twenty minutes, he still has his bedside light on so you snap at him.  He whines like a little baby but turns it off, leaving just his phone beaming at his face.  You can hear his music but say nothing. 

You can’t sleep.  You want to roll over but you absolutely refuse to face him. 

His phone screen finally goes dark after god knows how long and he puts it aside.  There is a long stretch of silence in the dark.  You swear you have never been so uncomfortable laying on this side in all your life.  Knowing you will not be able to sleep without turning at least once, you decide to roll over.  You figure Jisung laid down with his back to you anyway.

He didn’t.  He is staring right at you, his big eyes making him look like a pathetic little lemur gawping at a human in the dark. 

“Why don’t you like me?” Jisung says.

“Oh no,” you say, immediately rolling onto your back.  “Absolutely not.  We are not having a heart to heart.”

“Oh come oooon, please,” he whines.  “This is the time and place—”

“It really isn’t—”

“It’s a classic story, a boy, and a girl—”

“I don’t like stories—”

“Forced to share a bed and share their secret feelings—”

“Those feelings are disgust, hatred, and revulsion—”

“Opening their hearts and—whoa, wait, what?  Hatred?  You hate me?”  Jisung pushes himself up on one elbow, staring down at you with a completely horrified look on his face. 

You try to ignore him and his stupid expressions, glaring at the ceiling as if it can do anything to save you.   Your heart is beating fast but it doesn’t feel good.  The pounding is coupled with a nauseous turn in your gut.

It is open knowledge that you do not like Han Jisung one bit, but you seldom vocalize it so explicitly.  Certainly not to his face.  Certainly not beside him in bed. 

“That can’t possibly surprise you,” you say.

“Well, it does actually!”  Jisung says.  “I knew you didn’t like me but hate me?  How could you hate me?  I’m delightful.” 

Even now, the clown is trying to joke.  Because that’s all it is to him, isn’t it?  Everything is just a joke all the time.  Everything and everyone is a punchline waiting to happen.  But you aren’t laughing.  Your hands close into fists and you dig your nails into your palms to keep your frustration in check.  Your neck feels hot and your stomach is still turning.  You feel embarrassed about things you haven’t even said yet.  Your tongue feels swollen somehow, your throat lined thickly.  It takes several deep breaths before you can speak.

“Well,” you say bitterly, “I guess I just can’t help being a massive bitch.  The worst you’ve ever met, right?” 

There is a beat of silence, then Jisung flips on the bedside light.

You slap your fists down on the bedcovers and glare at him.

“Turn off the light,” you say. 

“No way, you were just talking in a voice.  What did you mean? Why do you--”

“Jisung, I swear to god, if you don’t turn off that light—”

“Look, can we just—”

You shove the covers down and climb on top of him without thinking, trying to reach the light yourself.  He grabs you by the arms and pushes you back.  You end up tussling ungracefully, you wriggling around like a worm and Jisung clearly in control but just as clearly trying to go easy on you.  It puts you at an impasse.  With an angry huff, you push away from him.

“If I said something—” he starts. 

You laugh, a joyless cackle. 

“If,” you repeat.  “You’ve said a lot of somethings over the years, Jisung.” 

“I—I didn’t mean it if I—I don’t even know what I—”

You look at him.  He seems to be genuinely confounded and more than a little miserable, his eyes darting around as he racks his brain, his brow furrowed with obvious upset.  His hand is frozen on his head, a clump of hair feathering through his fingers. 

He meets your gaze and you roll your eyes.  You feel hot and uncomfortable again, the source of your nausea climbing up and up and up until it is clawing its way past your lips and—

“The day we met,” you say, finally, after years of stamping down the humiliating memory, “you said I was a massive bitch, the worst you had ever met.  And it—”

You are not sad.  You refuse to be sad.  This pain is years old now and it does not hurt you anymore.  But you are angry –  with him, with yourself, with this whole shitty circumstance, and the angrier you get, the more tears stab at your eyes. 

You swallow down a lump in your throat and take a steadying breath.  You stare at the wall because his attentive, earnest gaze is too much to bear. 

“I know I’m a little awkward when I first meet people,” you say.  “I’m shy and weird and sometimes… sometimes people think I’m a bitch when really I’m just quiet.  Chan introduced me to you because he said that you were kinda the same, and that we had lots in common, and he thought we would get along.  And then we met and—”

“We did,” Jisung says softly.

Your vision is blurry now.  You sniff hard, wiping your arm under your nose. 

“Yes,” you say.  “We did.  We got along amazing.  We were quiet for a second and then it was like… like we were already friends. As if we always knew each other. I’ve never spoken like that to someone so quickly.  It’s like I just forgot to be shy.   I was so happy and then—”

“I remember all this,” Jisung says, still sounding confused.  “I don’t get it.  It was Changbin’s birthday, right?  We were talking all night and it was great but then you just left without saying bye.  Then the next time we met you already hated me—”

You finally look at him, hitting him with the full force of your emotional expression.  He clearly was not expecting the tears because he literally jumps at the sight of you. 

“I left after overhearing you talk about me in the kitchen to one of your stupid friends,” you snap.  “’That woman is without doubt a totally massive bitch.  The worst I’ve ever met.’  And you were laughing.  Just… just standing there laughing about it, about me.  And I had no idea why.  Why?  What had I said or done?  It was humiliating.  And it hurt, and the reason it hurt so bad was because it came from you.”  You jab him in the chest, trying to sound angry because your tears are falling now and it just makes you feel pathetic.  “It hurt, Jisung,” you say, “because it was you.  From anyone else I wouldn’t care.  But you were the one person I expected to understand me.  The one person who got what it was like.  So to hear you saying those things—god.  I never wanted to see you again, but then you and Chan started your stupid projects together and I couldn’t get away from you.  And you just got more and more in my face no matter what I did—”

“Oh my god.” Jisung slaps both hands to his head.  He closes his eyes and shakes his head, as if he can’t believe what he is hearing.  “Hold on,” he says, abruptly getting out of bed.  “Just… just hold on.” 

He runs away.  You sit there more confused than anything, your face wet, your breathing uneven.  He is gone long enough for you to get angry again, glaring at him when he gets back in the bed.

“Here,” he says, giving you the tissue box he evidently retrieved from the bathroom.  “Just… here.” 

He takes a tissue and awkwardly dabs at your cheek.  You snatch it away from him, frowning. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he says.  He gets off the bed again, hovering awkwardly at the side while you wipe your face clean.   He waits until you are composed, swaying where he stands, clasping and unclasping his hands.  When you stop sniffling, he lets out a huge exhale.  “Okay,” he says.  “Look.  I’m sorry.  I’m… I’m really, really fucking sorry.  And I want to explain, I really do, but… but if I explain, I think it’s only gonna make you upset.”

You give him a very sarcastic look.

“I’m already upset, you stupid jerk,” you say.  “Just spit it out so I can go to sleep.” 

“Right.”  He runs his hand through his hair again.  It falls softly down and flutters when he exhales.  “God.  Okay.  This is gonna sound so stupid.  But, yeah, okay, I do remember saying that actually.  I didn’t know you heard me but… but that’s not an excuse.  I know.  I shouldn’t have said it at all.  I totally do know that.  But also… I said it, but I didn’t.  What I mean is, what you heard me saying, I was not actually saying.”

You stare at him for a long moment. 

“What,” you say, “the fuck?” 

He waves his hands around defensively. 

“What I mean is,” he says, “and stay with me… but… I actually meant it as a compliment.” 

“A compliment,” you say.  “A compliment?  You called me a massive bitch as a compliment?”

“Yes.” 

“Do you seriously expect me to believe that?” you shout, grabbing a pillow and hurling it at him.

His reflexes are fast.  He ducks and the pillow sails over his head, whacking the blinds with a clatter.  He looks there then looks at you, just in time for you to throw the tissue box.  He dodges that too, ducking down again.  The box hits the radiator and thunks to the ground. 

“Okay, listen—” he says.

He is not fast enough when you chuck the second pillow. 

“Okay, okay, I deserved that,” he says, holding the offending pillow up in surrender.  He tentatively approaches the bed with it, eying you as he gently lays it back down.

You glare.

“I promise I can explain,” he says.  “And you’re gonna love this explanation, because it is going to completely and totally humiliate me and you will have something to hold over my head for the rest of your life.”

“I’m listening,” you say.  You feel embarrassed about crying so the least he can do is embarrass himself too. 

“Thank you,” he says.  He gets back on the bed, kneeling and tipping his head back.  It looks like he’s praying, gathering the strength to admit whatever he is about to admit. 

You cross your arms.  You are annoyed he is taking so long and also annoyed that you genuinely want to know.  Han Jisung has no problem blurting every stupid thought that crosses his mind, at least when it comes to you, so you cannot begin to imagine what dark secret he can’t bring himself to speak out loud. 

You are halfway convinced he is trying to come up with a lie when he finally throws his arms out as if in supplication. 

“I’m a fucking freak!” he says, with all the verve and jubilation of hallelujah.  He closes his eyes and nods his head.  “I’m a pervert and I think with my dick like ninety-eight per cent of the time.  The other two per cent of the time I am honestly probably thinking with my prostate, though I haven’t really worked that one out yet completely—”

“What?”  Your whole face screws tight with bewilderment.  “What the fuck are you talking about?” 

“I love bitches.  No wait.”  He shakes his head.  “That came out wrong.  Hold on.  I love… well, yeah, no, bitches.  Mean girls.  Bullies.  Catwoman.”

“Catwoman.”

“That whip… t-cha.”

“Jisung—”

“Look I was telling my friend about you because Minho’s an even bigger freak than me.  He’s the only one who knows my secret and—”

“Your secret,” you say slowly. “That you… like bitches?”

“That I love bitches,” he says.  “When I told him that you were the biggest bitch I ever met, it was because we both knew that what I meant was: holy shit dude, I just found my soulmate, she’s the most amazing woman I’ve ever met, I’m getting married tonight, and if she asked me to tattoo her face on my butt right now I would do it.” 

You hate that you laugh, but the comment is so unexpected that it sputters out of you.

Jisung smiles, releasing a pent-up breath of relief. 

“You were… are… funny, and smart, and yeah a bit quiet but you still don’t let it stop you from defending yourself or someone else when something is wrong.  Remember when you told off that creep at the party?  The one who was bugging Felix?  You don’t take anyone’s shit and then you just move on quietly like it was nothing.  I was obsessed with you from the second we started talking.  Then I was a stupid horny pervert and opened my big stupid mouth and now you hate me.” 

“I’m still not sure I really get it,” you say, admittedly flustered at his admission.  You had no idea Jisung saw you that way.  The woman he’s describing does sound pretty amazing, and he sounds sincerely infatuated.   When your heart starts skipping beats again, it feels different than before.  “Explain,” you say. 

He slaps his thighs in a motion of surrender. 

“Yup,” he says.  “Okay.  Fine.  Cool.  I like when women boss me around.  I like when they are mean to me.  I like when they hurt me and make me cry.   It… it gets my dick hard, okay?  I love bitches.  I LOVE BITCHES—”

You reach out to slap a hand over his mouth, remembering it’s a motel in the middle of the night. 

Jisung’s shoulders jump and he laughs into your hand, clearly embarrassed as he remembers where he is.  You laugh in spite of yourself, lowering your hand. 

“Oops,” he says.

“Oops,” you reply. 

Oops, you misunderstood your eavesdropping. 

Oops, Jisung never hated you. 

Oops, you find yourself staring into his eyes for way too long. 

“So just to clarify,” you say.  “You’re into, like, female domination stuff, and you called me a bitch as the highest form of compliment in your crazy brain, and then you spent the next two years being as annoying as possible because…”

“I thought you were just, like, crazy edging me or something,” Jisung says, making you laugh helplessly into your hands.  He laughs too, even while looking a little pained.  “I did!  I was like shit, she’s so nasty, she’s really taking me for a fucking ride.  I would have kept doing this for the rest of our lives if this conversation didn’t happen.  I would’ve been at your wedding like damn, she’s really got me going this time—”

“You’re so stupid,” you say, pushing at his chest without any real animosity. 

“I know, I really am,” he says.  He draws an X over his chest.  “But cross my heart and hope to die, everything I have told you is the complete truth.  I’d tell you to slap me because you definitely deserve it but honestly, it would give me a boner and I don’t think either of us wants that since we’re stuck in the same bed all night.” 

He says it jokingly, of course.  But you can hear the twinge of flirtation and truth under his just kidding. 

And maybe you’re still on an adrenaline kick.  Maybe your emotions are right at the surface.  Maybe you hated him so much because deep down you liked him, and you hated that you liked him because of a misunderstanding. 

And maybe, just maybe, those big brown eyes have drawn you in from the second you first saw him. 

“Slap you,” you say, as if in deep contemplation.  “Slap you where?  Your face?” 

This clearly catches him off guard.  He opens his mouth and a garbled sound comes out.  He thumps a fist on his chest. 

“Uh, yeah,” he says.  “Sure.  Whatever, you know.  You know.” 

“Mhm.” You move so you are kneeling too, facing each other.  You watch as he swallows hard, the gulp going down his throat.  All the adrenaline you built up earlier is suffusing into the race of your bloodstream.  Heat simmers below the surface of your skin.  “And you like that?  Getting slapped when you’ve been bad?”

“Oh my god,” he says.  “Are you.. are we… is something happening right now?  Oh my god.  Hold on.”  He says that but then all he does is stand up and sit back down again, rekneeling in the exact same position.  “Right, okay,” he says.  “Slap away.”

You snort, rolling your eyes but smiling.  You lift your hand but he is staring at you so expectantly that it just feels weird, not sexy, and you laugh giddily with amusement. 

“Aww, come oooon,” he whines, but laughingly too.  “Don’t get shy.  You were so good at it.”

“I’ve had years of bitchy practice, I guess,” you say with a quirked eyebrow, making him grin.  You shake your head.  “I dunno.  Just.  Do something to earn a slap I guess.  It’s too weird to just smack you out of nowhere.” 

“Do something?” he asks.  “Uh, I dunno.  As far as I’m concerned, I’ve never done anything in my life to earn a slap.  I’m seriously the most charming and funny and perfect guy ever and I—” 

Your slap him across the face.  The sound startles you because it sounds harder than it felt, ringing out loud with only the faintest sting on your palm.   

Jisung looks genuinely surprised.  His head turned with the impact of the slap, his jaw falling open.  He blinks himself back into focus and you are about to ask if he’s all right, then he looks at you in a way he has never looked at you before.  The desire and desperation of his gaze moves right through you, gathering hot in every intimate place. 

“Did you like that?” he asks, his voice a little gravelly as it drops low. 

“I don’t know,” you say softly.  You reach out to touch his chin, a delicate touch that makes him shiver.  You turn his face to look at the faint redness on his cheek.  “Can I try again to be sure?”

He nods and swallows again. 

You don’t ask for build-up this time.  You pull your hand back and bring it down sharply on his cheek. 

This time it makes him whimper.  It flushes you with heat. 

“Oh my god,” you say.  “What else?” 

“Uh, oh, fuck, um.”  He touches his cheek and sucks in a breath.  He pushes his hair only for it flop back in place.  “Um,” he says.  “Choking.  F-fingers?  Fingers in my mouth...  Um, haha, I can’t think.  Bondage?  Yeah.  Erm, denial.  Overstimulation.  Puuussy… yes, um, pussy.  On my face please.  Uhh… Punishment.  Pulling my hair… Oh, hello.” 

You take hold of his shoulders and push, guiding him to lay on his back.  He is already panting when you straddle him, his eyes wide when you lean down. 

“Do you still hate me?” he asks when you are millimetres away from his mouth.

You pretend to think about it.

“Hm,” you say with obvious theatricality, stealing a page from his book.  “Yeah.  I hate you so much.  You’re my worst enemy.  Sorry, baby.”

“That’s hot,” he says with a nervous little giggle.  “You’re hot.  You know I think—mmmf.”

You interrupt whatever long-winded joke was incoming.  He does not protest this interruption as it involves a kiss, a good kiss, a deep kiss, one that pushes his head into the plushness of his pillow, one that has him moaning into your mouth.   He lifts his hands to touch you, fingertips barely grazing your bare thighs when you seize his wrists.  You shove them into the bed, pinned on either side of his head.  He bucks under you, his mouth opening under your kiss.  You bite at his bottom lip and drag your teeth, making his hips move even more. 

You break away quickly and just as quickly slap him.  It knocks a surprised breath out of him, his eyes a bit watery when he looks up at you. 

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, baby,” you say.  “I’m just getting started.”

“Oh my god.” 

You try not to smile but Jisung makes it hard.  You feel flushed with excitement, hot with power and anticipation.  You squeeze his hips between your thighs and push the hem of his shirt up and over his chest.   He whimpers again but doesn’t move, his eyes closing when you hold down his wrists and duck your head. 

“Fuck, oh god,” he murmurs, a constant stream of mumbled expletives as your mouth runs over his chest, kissing and licking and biting, teasing him until he can’t help but buck his hips for friction.   When you feel him fully hard in his jeans you lean back, smirk, then climb off him.  “Oh god, you’re too good at this,” he says, keeping his hands where you left them and gazing at you with wanting eyes. 

You blow him a kiss and shimmy out of your shorts and underwear.  Thoughtlessly he swings a hand down to touch himself, squeezing his dick through his jeans and groaning. 

“Did I tell you that you could—” you start, but he puts his hand back beside his head before you can finish.  His smile is far too innocent.  “You’re lucky you’re cute,” you say. 

“Am I?” he asks, wiggling his eyebrows. 

“Shut up,” you reply, getting back on top of him.  “I still hate you.” 

“Oh god, yes,” he says.  His hips buck into the air as you scoot over his chest.  “More.” 

“I hate you,” you say, moving until your legs are on either side of his head.  “ I hate you so much, Han Jisung.  I’m going to ruin you.” 

“Fuck.” 

He already has his mouth open when you lower onto his face.  You grip the headboard and rock yourself over his tongue, back and forth until he finds your rhythm and takes over.  What he lacks in precision he compensates with eagerness, licking at you without any care for the mess it makes of him, wet and sloppy and hot as his tongue moves inside you then up and down your pussy, circling your clit, sucking, flicking, back and forth, around and around—

“Oh my god,” you say, looking down at where you can see the top of his face, his eyes closed as he works, as he moans, as he squeezes your thighs in his hands and drags his tongue all over you.   You grip the headboard tight when you come, throwing your head back and grinding down against him. 

You lift your hips off his face, hovering above him on shaky thighs.   You shuffle back and sit on his abdomen so you can see him, his eyes wide and wet mouth open as he pants.  He licks his lips and murmurs please, please, please in a hoarse voice. 

“Please?” you repeat, a little out of breath as well. 

You swirl your fingers over his bare chest and fiddle with the t-shirt still bunched under his chin.  He moves his face wherever you push it, tipping his head back, tilting it to the side.  He goes cross-eyed when your fingers dance in front of him, touching his lips.  His mouth falls open and his eyes close when you slide two fingers inside his mouth.  

“Please what, Jisung?” you ask, slowly finger-fucking his mouth.  “What do you want?”

He can’t speak around your fingers so he just whines, digging his fingers into the meat of your thighs. 

“Oh,” you say.  Your giggle is filled with genuine delight, even while your voice is rough.  “I see.  You want to put your dick inside me, baby?  Hmm?  You wanna say you’re sorry and that you’ll be good and let me ride you?” 

“Good, so good,” he says, drooling around your fingers when you slide them out.   He swallows hard, choking on nothing, then nods his head.  “Please, please.   Yes.” 

You lean down and kiss his wet mouth, a chaste peck.  You rub the corner of his lips, smiling at his closed eyes and wrecked expression. 

“Okay,” you say.  “Get ready for me then.”  

You have a string of condoms in your luggage, always tucked in the pocket in case of emergency.  Emergencies like a snow storm trapping you in bed with your former worst enemy turned lover. 

When you get back to him, Jisung is laying there completely naked, flushed and stroking himself as he watches you.   He lets you take his hand off his dick, holds you obediently when you guide his hands to your waist.   He kisses you when you lean down, a hot and heavy kiss as you straddle him again.   It ends when you push him flat and sit back, already grinning because you know you are about to short-circuit his brain.

“Wanna see a trick?” you say, and proceed to put the condom on him with your mouth.   You laugh when you see his face after, his mouth hanging open as he blinks at you. 

“You’re gonna kill me,” he says, but laughs a little. 

His head thunks back into the pillows when you guide him inside you.   You put your hands over his, holding them to your hips as you rock over him.   His chest lifts and falls and his eyes close as he concentrates on not rushing your pace.  He keeps holding your waist firmly when you slide your hands over his chest. 

“Look at me,” you say. 

He blinks his eyes open.  You smile.

“Good boy.” 

He makes a noise that sounds more pained than when you slapped him.  It lights up inside you like fire and you move faster, take him deeper.   You get a bit dizzy with how good it feels, his dick curving up to drive against the softest, most sensitive part of you, sending you hurtling towards another orgasm.  You rub yourself at the same time, looking down at him as he gasps and moans, as he holds your hips and fucks you back. 

You bring your hand to his neck and gently circle it, rubbing yourself harder when he whines with chest-deep desperation. 

“I—I’m gonna—oh god—” he says, squeezing your hips so tightly that you think it might bruise.  

It feels so good, his rough hands coupled with his dick hitting perfectly inside you.  Your whole body draws taut for its crest.   

“Don’t,” you say, laughing a little, not even to be mean but because it feels so good that you feel giddy.  You squeeze his throat and his hips get erratic under you.  “Not yet,” you say.  “Me first.”

“Oh my god,” he says, looking up at you with frantic eyes.  “I—I can’t—I’m gonna—”

“Jisung,” you say, squeezing his throat harder so he makes a choked-up sound that goes straight to your pussy.  “Are you gonna be good or bad?” 

“I’m—I’m—oh god.”

You stop touching yourself because you know he doesn’t stand a chance outlasting you.  You ride him through his orgasm, choking him as he spasms and moans and cries out.   His head lifts for a second, his eyes closed and brows furrowed, then he flops back down with an exhausted heave.  

His eyes open again, watery and huge. 

“Oh fuck,” he says, voice like gravel as you release his throat.  A deep breath shudders out of him.  “Oh… fuck,” he says, dreamily, smiling, then pouting.  “Oh! Fuck!” 

You giggle at him managing to say the same thing in three different voices. 

You slip your fingers into his hair and tug, yanking his head up.  He follows with a gasp. 

“I should hit you again for that,” you say. 

You slide off him, carefully.  He sucks in a ragged, tearful breath when you touch his dick to deal with the condom.  After, you rub your palm on the oversensitive head of it, making him grab at you and cry out.   It squeezes a tear out of him and you kiss it away. 

“Come on,” you say, grabbing him by the hair again.  You get off the bed and drag him to follow.  “I’m not done with you.” 

He is a little shaky and boneless from coming.  His footing is unsteady from the moment he touches the ground, moving with thoughtless obedience.  He thumps down heavily onto his knees.  When he sways, you straighten him.  He blinks up at you, on his knees, already nodding. 

You put your leg over his shoulder and draw him in.  For the second time, he gets you off with his mouth, his hands on your ass and his face buried in your pussy.  You sink your fingers in his hair and let it wash over you, humming happily when you are finished. 

You lower your leg off his shoulder.  Jisung slumps backwards, leaning against the bed and breathing hard, his face and hair a mess. 

“Wow,” he says.  He looks up at you.  “That was the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me.” 

You laugh, feeling hot and flushed but satisfied.  

“Me too,” you say, making him smile. 

You help him back into the bed because his legs seem a little numb.  You lay beside him, rubbing the inside of his thigh as he kisses all over your face.   You giggle then fall into a proper kiss, winding around each other affectionately.  

“I’m gonna send Chan a gift basket,” Jisung says, making you snort.  “I am!  Thank you for having a family emergency, your timing couldn’t be better.”

You tip your head and look at him with confusion.

“Family emergency?” you say.  “He told me he was working?”

“Working?”  Jisung furrows his brow.  “Huh?  We don’t have anything coming up at work.  He phoned me from the road and said he was heading out to visit family?  He said he wouldn’t be back all week-end.” 

“He told me he was stuck working and would see me tomorrow,” you say, your eyes narrowing as you slowly put two-and-two and together.  

“I didn’t even know why he was asking me and not Changbin or something,” Jisung continues to muse aloud.  “He said you were wanting to talk to me, though, so I figured—”

“I never said that!  I mean, I’m glad we did but…”  You sit up, glaring at the wall.

Jisung bursts into laughter, covering his mouth as he looks at you. 

“Did Chan hustle us?” he asks. 

“He threw us together in a snow storm so we’d be forced to reconcile!”

“I don’t think Chan can control the weather—”

“Oh, he definitely can.  I bet he delayed the bridge himself—”

Jisung laughs some more, kissing the side of your face lovingly while you continue to glare contemptuously at the wall. 

“Well,” you say, looking at him.  You kiss him sweetly on the nose and he smiles at you.  “That’s fine,” you say.  “A vacancy for my sworn enemy just opened up.  Looks like I found a replacement.” 

“I’m good with that,” Jisung says.  “But… you’re not allowed to enemy-fuck him like that.  That’s just for me, right?” 

You settle in his arms, forgetting about Chan for the time being, forgetting to glare, forgetting about everything that happened before tonight.  You smile at him, brushing a bit of hair off his sweaty forehead.  He is still flushed and beautiful, his hopeful eyes locked on yours.  He smiles back. 

“Yeah,” you say.  “It’s only ever been just you, Jisung.” 

He visibly melts, his laugh a breathless thing.  He leans in and kisses you and you hold his face, kissing him back.  You can feel him smiling against your lips and you smile too. 

[racha-recs]

Gifsets of Lee Felix ↳ cutie dr. lee yongbok – skz code ep. 47 | DO NOT REPOST

[racha-recs]

dating him | han jisung

❝ you found my heart broken and you helped me make it whole again ❞

chan | lee know | changbin | hyunjin | HAN | felix | seungmin | jeongin

i think you’re a second love type situation for han jisung

the one where he thought he’d never recover from his first heartbreak

but then here u come

i think han’s the type of person to feel everything

if he’s in love, he’s in LOVE

and if he’s hurt, it would just be overwhelming pain

so imagine how he was when he got his first heartbreak

he’d lose a little bit of his spark

maybe keep to himself even more than he used to

u come to his life in the form of a friend first

and han has unknowingly planted a seed that’s grown and grown and grown

with every interaction

with every laugh you’ve brought back

with every moment he was coming out of his shell again

until it’s fully bloomed into a love that’s very very real and very very present

han jisung would also love so beautifully

he knows what it’s like to be hurt, and he doesn’t ever want u to feel that same pain

he rly makes efforts

he is FULL of efforts

and he makes u laugh ☹️☹️☹️☹️

he communicates

and when the boys finally meet u, they’re very grateful but also

????!!!! why do u they know ur favorite color

and ur go-to order at the cafe

and the hoodie u like to steal from jisung the most

well turns out, han loves talking about u to his friends

they just know everything about u before even meeting u

he’d get rly shy about it but never embarrassed

he’d tell the whole world about u if he could

what else can i tell u

han jisung is just someone where nothing sounds crazy to him

so i think all ur dates with him would be so fun and adventurous lowk

amusement parks !!!!!

ice skating and roller blading

both of u would fall on ur ass

but you’d also laugh so much and somehow that makes up for everything

you’d be holding hands and skating with each other and looking at each other with lovesick smiles

I FEEL SICK!!!!!!!!

he’s always trying to impress u too

he tries to imitate figure skaters

kids don’t try this at home

ofc he fails miserably

obvious blushes when you’d tell him he was cute for trying

or when you’d praise him

anyways when i said he’s always trying to impress u i mean ALWAYS

he treats the relationship like he’s still pining after you

being the standard fr

he never lets go of the love

sometimes he’d still get shy to ask u out

somehow he doesn’t believe u actually said yes to him

he thinks he’s the luckiest boy

anyways, aside from adventurous dates, he equally values his inside time and quieter dates

he’s thankful u understand his shifts in his energy

on days u stay inside, you’d probably watch horror movies

look…. he suggests it….

it looked cool in his head to be all protective

you’d hold onto his arm when the jumpscares come

but

womp womp

he ends up being more afraid than u

and now HE’S holding ur arm

yeah it looked way cooler in his head

you’d play silly little board games together

or maybe charades

he’s so easily amused by sexual innuendos

he’s just a man guys

anyways

there are two things he loves to steal from u the most

aside from ur kisses

and it’s (1) ur perfume and (2) ur lip balm

u’d catch him putting on ur perfume just bc he wants to be surrounded by ur scent

it’s very comforting

one time, he was sick and the boys were taking care of him

and when u finally had time to take over and care for ur bf

u just …. smell ur perfume

“did you put on my perfume?”

“i missed you ☹️☹️☹️☹️”

DOWN BADDDDD

he’s so pouty and so cute

let’s suffocate him with the pillow

KIDDINGGGGGG KIDDING

and then ur lip balm

sometimes he steals the actual thing

sometimes he kisses you so he can have it on his lips too

han jisung is also the type to avail every possible couple coupon

and he’s always begging the cashiers to let u prove u’re a couple

it’s so he has an excuse to kiss you

so

months into dating him also means a thousand love letters

he loves writing u love letters

and u know sooner that he also writes songs

on ur anniversary, he reveals a song he’s written for you

and when he proposes, he tells u about every single one he’d ever written about you and for you

wish that were me 😂😂😂😂😂

TAKE CARE OF HIM

note. credits to user @.luvknow for the layout of this post! let me know what you think! please discuss these with me i’m crazy

[racha-recs]

a phoenix's ashes. ksm.

kim seungmin x gn!reader — from a love that burned bright to a love that fell like ashes. only a sincere wish from the heart would make a love twice as better rise from its remains.

genre/s — exes to lovers, second chance, angst with a happy ending, pianist!seungmin, violinist!reader • 1.5k words

warning/s — not much other than pain, lack of communication as a theme

note — another seungmin fic because i need to get over this man 🧍‍♀️ its messing with my brain chemistry... | song inspos are « i don't want to watch the world end with someone else - clinton kane » and « huling sandali - december avenue »

2024 ⓒ starseungs on tumblr. do not steal, repost, or edit.

In the windows of your sight, the view tints green.

They were a startling contrast to the bright white lights illuminating the stage ahead. It framed the picture of the scene well, you suppose. With the two performers seemingly glowing in the tints of yellow provided by the Brazilian maple flooring. You couldn’t help but be mesmerized by one of the two, who was donning a beautifully polished violin in her hands. The strings sang in delight as the woman delivered the intricately thought-out vibrations to all those who could hear. 

And those who did, listened. Down to every last sound.

To word it in the simplest way you could muster, it would have to be perfect. The type of playing every person who has learned the violin even once has dreamed of achieving. A small but content smile makes itself known on your face as desires and memories paint themselves in splashes. You were once like that; you hummed to no one in particular. Acknowledgement lost in the silence of muted praises. The green you were presented with made much more sense in the moment of awareness.

Envy. It was an emotion you've come to know, admittedly very well. Drips of resentment seeped through the river of flowing emotions that were overwhelming you. Despicable as it was, you let it be. After all, it was what kept you grounded. Only a fool would discard an anchor when heading into the chaotic sea. The precaution may not always apply—especially not in the depths of the darkest waters—but the thought is what keeps a lost sailor hopeful with the dreams of land.

A certain ring of a key brought you back to the moment at hand. In what seems like a flash, your eyes lost sight of the violinist you were dedicating your absolute attention to. Instead, your gaze shifted to her side, where a male was sitting in front of a sleek black grand piano. The furrowing of your eyebrows proved to be an unstoppable action as your mind connected the face to a name. One that you had refused to utter from the moment his figure stepped on stage. A dark, almost black, blue tie hung securely around his neck. It was in a shade that made you shudder with an awful interpretation.

Longing. You deciphered the tingle of desperation. Every piano key he pressed seemed to grow louder in your ears. It almost scared you to think that the pianist would overpower the strings of the violin you adored so much. A clawing feeling sank itself deeper into your skin, wishing to avoid memories of the time when the two sounds co-existed as a symphony. But it was eventually deemed unfruitful as the score ran to its end.

If only—oh, if only you could retrace your steps back to that time. Back when the music floated carelessly through the air. Without fear or judgement of those who were out of the equation. Back to when you loved with a passion. The days that let your heart skip in a melody resembling the piece being played. You let out a silent chuckle.

Maybe in another life. For now, the present will have to do. A soft smile graces your lips once again as you watch the pianist stand, plastering a content-looking smile at his splendid performance. 

You could only clap in respect.

Witnessing the last stage of the day brought an odd feeling. With the hall lights appearing to guide the audience away, the darkness being chased away was akin to multiple weights being lifted off your shoulder. That itself would have been the best way to end your afternoon. 

If only that didn’t mean having to walk under the dimming evening sky.

“You came,” a voice called out. The two words were short and concise. Straight to the point. A statement rather than a question. The frigid tone of someone who, in your memories, was always so warm made you exhale too shakily for your liking. It was humorous, as it was a great complement to the vibrant orange sunset amidst the chilly air of the incoming night.

The pavement crackled under your feet. “And you made it,” you stated back. His stare shot straight into yours from the minute you turned around. “Congratulations, Seungmin. You did well out there.”

“Even if it’s not the same?”

“What was there to be mourned about? The dynamics sounded heavenly in my ears,” you admitted. The moment of hesitation before your last sentence lingered in the air. You watched a lone leaf swing downward in the space between the two of you.

His next words were spoken through gritted teeth. “It could have been better.”

“Seungmin, you should know by now that I’m never going to be the mind reader you expect me to be.” You sighed in defeat. “I could know you, but I could never be you. So, tell me what you actually want to say.”

“That’s exactly what it is,” he spits out. “You knew me too well that I let myself take advantage of the security you gave me. But that didn’t mean you had to break what you’ve built for yourself just because of me! How much more selfless do you want to be, to the point that you become a selfish coward!”

A car rushed by the barren sidewalk the both of you stood on. The sun had long since been gone, replaced by the moon to be the sole spectator in the exchange between two old flames. Lines of streetlights resembled the lights on the stage you had abandoned, imitating previous performances you once shared with Seungmin. You clenched your fists at the flashes of memory.

“You can’t just hold on to the past like that, Seungmin—”

“Not if it was the present and future that I wanted!” He cries out. “You would never understand what I had to go through when you stepped off that stage for good. The endless nights that I thought to myself, how you could just make that decision like it was nothing. But in the end, it was just me refusing to acknowledge that you had given up. You gave up on me. On us.”

The spear that had lodged in your heart long ago started moving again. You had so much to tell him—that you couldn’t. Not when your conversations with the constellations had you blaming yourself the same way he did to his own. It was never about whatever thought Seungmin made into a conclusion on his own. 

It was the complaint-turned-advice that you failed to apply to yourself.

“Stand on stage again, Y/N.” You flinched at the emotional cracks in Seungmin’s voice. “Stand beside me again.”

In that moment, you proved him right once again. Exactly how long are you going to act selfless to shield your selfish cowardice? You claimed that you wanted to be the muse for Seungmin’s harmony. Yet the moment your skills were questioned, you let go of everything without even a second glance. Now, did you really have the right to dictate whether you were enough for Seungmin or not?

“The violin is no longer for me,” was what came out as a whisper. You watched as Seungmin’s eyes glistened to produce clear beads resembling diamonds. Fear that he might have caught on to the undertone of weariness you were trying to hide after a year of endless convincing. “I’ve left it behind me. It’s been a year.”

A storeowner nearby shuts the front doors of his shop.

“Even the person I fell in love with?” Seungmin asks. “The person you were at the beginning of what we used to call us? The person who shone brighter than the high-grade theater lights, no matter who else was beside them? The same person who could never compare to the stars in the night sky with how much they burned with passion? If so, then tell me right here and right now. That the one I loved has long been left behind by the year as well.”

Your hands twitch to grip an imaginary violin and bow.

“Seungmin.” 

“Please,” he pleads desperately. “Break what’s left of the man who loved that version of you. I refuse to let the fragments of what you were continue to be the reason I keep myself understanding of the pain you bring to me. This is my last wish to you, Y/N. Please let my heart hate you as well.”

Something wet fell in droplets right by your shoes.

“I can��t.”

There were streams flowing down your face.

“I haven’t left that version of me behind.”

A bubbling wail makes itself present in your throat.

“I never forgot how much I loved the violin.”

Slow footsteps echoed through the area.

“And especially not how I continued to love you even throughout that one year.”

Warmth. Like the yellow tint emitted from the Brazilian maple flooring when the overhead lights hit it during a performance. Like the heat of the moment when you reach the climax of a piece. You were back in Seungmin’s arms. In the stage where only you and him existed.

Just where you needed to be.

SERIES TAGLIST ━ STATUS: OPEN — ASK OR COMMENT 🫶

@fairyki @hysgf @euncsace @comet-falls @starlostseungmin @ameliesaysshoo @hyunverse @wnbnny @xocandyy @minluvly @moon0fthenight @estellaluna @hanjsquokka

[racha-recs]

this was so cute hehe thanks for the tag kriss :)

what kind of fish/sea creature are you? tagged by @hanjsquokka ty my love ‹3

jwhdjejd i mean i guess :(( but it's true aaa / also tagging @hanjibug @jj-one @heesuncore @rachalixie + anyone who wants to do this (no pressure)