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setralinehoe · 7 days ago

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"House Rules"

Dom ATEEZ (OT8) x Sub Reader | Full Gangbang

Summary: In a lavish mansion shared with ATEEZ, boredom strikes. But you’ve always been more than their friend, you’ve been their escape, their toy, their relief. When they whine about having nothing to do, you offer them entertainment. What starts as a teasing show quickly spirals into a night of unfiltered use, where eight men remind you just how much of you they own.

Word Count: 5235

Genre: Smut

Warnings: No developed relationship dynamics, all 8 ateez men fuck your brains out of you, Intense, Raw, Experimental, HEAVY Degrading, Dehumanizing, No Fluff

A/N: Hey guy's! I'm so sorry it's taken me so long to write another story I've been really busy lately.. I hope you enjoy this one it's really heavy and dehumanizing. This is not to be taken seriously I am not by any means saying that the Ateez members are like this it is simply inspired by a fantasy I had.

Smut will begin underneath the dividing line

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The living room felt warm, not from the summer heat bleeding through the mansion windows, but from the thick tension crawling over every inch of exposed skin. The eight of them were sprawled across the expensive sectional like gods bored of paradise, each dressed down in gym shorts and tank tops, post-shower hair still damp.

You’d grown used to being surrounded by them. Used to the stares. The smirks. The way their moods shifted when they were bored and you were available.

“Someone give me something to do before I lose my mind,” San grumbled, tilting his head back and letting out a sigh. His neck was glistening with sweat, veins stark against his skin. You caught the way Hongjoong’s fingers tapped impatiently on his thigh.

“You could work on lyrics,” Seonghwa offered from the edge of the chaise.

“Or you could just entertain us,” Wooyoung cut in, eyes already crawling up your body where you sat cross-legged on the floor.

You tilted your head. “Entertain you how?” you asked, voice dipped in a tease.

Yunho spread his legs wider. “However you want, baby.”

There was a beat of silence before you stood.

You didn’t speak. You just peeled your top over your head slowly, no bra, no shame, and dropped it on the floor. The collective shift in the room was immediate. Mingi's eyes darkened, tongue dragging across his bottom lip. Jongho's jaw clenched, fist flexing. Yeosang leaned forward like gravity had given up on everything but you.

“You all look bored,” you said, voice casual as you hooked your thumbs into your shorts and slid them down inch by inch, dragging the waistband past your hips and letting them pool at your feet.

San leaned forward. “I’m not bored anymore.”

You stepped up onto the low coffee table in front of them, naked under the heat of eight stares, your body soaking in the power you had and were about to give up.

“Then watch me.”

You started to move. Slow. Sensual. Hips circling, chest bouncing lightly with each roll. One hand slid down your side while the other grazed your inner thigh. You touched yourself like you wanted to be watched. Like you wanted to be devoured.

“Fuck,” Wooyoung hissed, hand already palming himself through his shorts.

“Keep going,” Hongjoong ordered, voice sharp and low. “You want to be the center of attention? Earn it.”

So you did.

You dropped to your knees on the table, legs spread, and ran both hands up your thighs, fingertips ghosting over the wet heat between them. The boys watched with hungry eyes, each sitting back, letting the show unfold. But you saw how Jongho’s chest was rising faster, how Seonghwa’s hand drifted toward his waistband, how Mingi’s legs shifted restlessly.

“You’re soaked,” Yeosang muttered, voice wrecked and low. “Already?”

You smiled wickedly and dragged a finger through your folds, holding it up so they could see the slick.

“Maybe I like being watched.”

That was the final thread.

San moved first, grabbing you by the waist and hauling you off the table like a doll. Your back hit the couch, knees spread by large, impatient hands. The rest followed like animals unleashed. All heat, muscle, scent, and breath. Someone’s mouth was on your neck, probably Wooyoung, by the smirk against your throat. Hands were on your thighs, your tits, your hair.

“Look at you,” Mingi groaned, brushing his cock against your soaked slit without pushing in yet. “All this for us?”

“Say it,” Hongjoong growled from somewhere behind you, voice like sandpaper and smoke. “Tell us what you are.”

Your lips parted, but Yunho beat you to it. “She’s our toy.”

“She’s our fuckdoll,” Wooyoung added with a chuckle, biting your collarbone hard enough to leave a mark.

“She’s nothing unless we’re using her,” San muttered, pushing two fingers into your mouth and watching your lips close around them greedily.

You moaned around his hand.

Then Mingi pushed in.

Your body arched, the stretch obscene, deep, overwhelming and fuck, you loved it. He bottomed out with a grunt, hips flush to yours, pulling back slowly just to watch your hole twitch before slamming back in again.

“Fuck, she’s tight,” he groaned, sweat dripping down his chest as he began to thrust.

You couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t remember what silence sounded like when your name, no, your body was being passed around like a shared secret. Mingi fucking you while San fed you his fingers and Wooyoung marked your skin and Seonghwa gentle, beautiful Seonghwa was on his knees, kissing up your trembling thigh like worship.

“Wait your turn,” Hongjoong snapped, and Seonghwa obeyed with a low nod, eyes dark with restraint.

“You hear that, princess?” Yunho whispered, kneeling beside you and dragging his cock across your cheek. “You're gonna take us all. One by one. Until you're crying.”

Tears pricked your eyes already, but it wasn’t sadness. It was too much and not enough all at once.

Mingi groaned and pulled out, panting. “She’s ready. Who’s next?”

San shoved him aside with a growl. “Me.”

Your body felt ruined in the best way, thighs shaking, lips swollen, throat raw from moaning, crying, gasping. Mingi had just left you dripping, wrecked, and open on the couch, and San didn’t wait. His hands gripped your hips like he owned every inch of you, and maybe he did.

“You’re gonna take me like a good fuckdoll, right?” he growled, dragging his thick length up your slit and teasing your entrance, already soaked from Mingi. “Or do I have to break you in again?”

You tried to answer, but San didn’t give you the chance.

He slammed into you, a harsh snap of hips that punched a breathless moan out of your chest. He didn’t stop. Didn’t ease in. He fucked like he was angry like your pussy was the only thing keeping him sane, and he needed to ruin it just to breathe.

“Fucking tight,” he hissed, pounding into you with unrelenting rhythm, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing off the high mansion walls.

Hands grabbed at you roughly, greedy. Wooyoung was behind you now, gripping your jaw and forcing your head back.

“Open your mouth,” he ordered. You obeyed instantly.

He slid in, no warning, cock heavy and already leaking.

Your throat gagged around him, spit dripping from the corners of your lips as he held your head still and used your mouth like a sleeve. "That's it, baby," he laughed breathlessly, "so fucking pretty like this. Full like you’re meant to be."

San’s thrusts didn’t falter once. In and out, bruising and perfect, his grip on your waist tightening every time you clenched around him. “You like this shit, huh?” he grunted. “Being passed around like our little cumdump.”

Tears spilled from your eyes, mouth full, pussy full, body trembling. You nodded best you could.

“She’s crying,” Yunho said from beside you, voice amused and dark. “Should we stop?”

“No,” Jongho replied bluntly. “She’s crying because she’s happy.”

“Isn’t that right, baby?” Yeosang leaned over, cupping your face gently, contrasting the brutal way San and Wooyoung were using you. “You like being our favorite toy.”

You whimpered around Wooyoung’s cock and nodded again, choking slightly when he shoved deeper.

“She’s so good for us,” Seonghwa said softly, one hand stroking your hair. “We should reward her.”

“Reward her?” Hongjoong snorted. “She’s not here to be spoiled. She’s here to be fucked.”

San came with a low growl, burying himself deep and holding you there as he spilled inside. His moan was rough, primal, dragging out as his hips twitched. He stayed for a beat longer, panting, then pulled out with a messy squelch that left your thighs sticky and your hole fluttering.

“Next,” he said, stepping back and wiping sweat from his chest.

Without warning, Hongjoong grabbed your jaw, yanked Wooyoung’s cock from your mouth, and slapped you across the face not hard, but enough to stun.

“Eyes on me,” he growled, stripping his shirt off. “It’s my turn now, and I’m not fucking gentle.”

He pulled your body forward by the hair and forced you onto your knees between his legs.

“You want to be used?” he spat, cock slapping against your lips. ��Then open the fuck up.”

You obeyed instantly, letting him fuck your throat without hesitation. No rhythm. Just need. His hands fisted in your hair and he used you, hips snapping forward again and again until you were choking, drooling, your eyes rolling back. You felt the warmth of cum still leaking from your pussy, running down your legs, pooling beneath you.

You were shaking. And they were loving it.

“You were made for this,” Jongho murmured from above, slowly stroking himself as he watched. “All holes full. All thoughts gone. Just a pretty body for us to ruin.”

Hongjoong pulled out and came across your face, thick ropes landing on your lips, your cheek, dripping down your chin. He smeared it with his thumb and pushed it into your mouth. You swallowed without being asked.

“Who’s next?” he asked, breath ragged.

“Me,” Yunho growled. “On the floor.”

They flipped you onto your back. Yeosang lifted your legs. Yunho lined up and shoved in.

It was deep. Too deep. You screamed.

“Shh, baby,” Yunho whispered darkly, wrapping a hand around your throat. “You can take it.”

He fucked you slow but mean. Long, punishing strokes, his eyes locked to yours as he squeezed your throat just tight enough to make you dizzy.

“See what happens when you offer yourself up?” he murmured. “You stop being our friend. You become our fucking toy.”

You moaned high, broken, and wrecked, and Yeosang leaned down, pressing kisses along your chest.

“You’re doing so good,” he whispered, but there was a cruelty behind it. “So good at being nothing.”

Then he pressed himself between your lips. No warning. No pause.

You gagged as Yunho fucked from below and Yeosang thrust into your mouth.

It was chaos. Raw. Sticky. Loud. Hands everywhere. Breath hot against your skin. One cock after another. Inside, outside, everywhere.

By the time Jongho’s turn came, you couldn’t move.

He picked you up like a doll, spread your legs, and lowered you onto him slowly. You sobbed. He was thick, heavy, hard as stone.

“You’ll take all of us,” he whispered, barely moving, just stretching you wide and holding you there. “Even if it breaks you.”

You didn’t know what your name was anymore. Only that you existed to be filled.

And they weren’t done with you yet.

He held you there cock buried to the base inside your dripping cunt, thick and pulsing while your muscles trembled trying to stretch around him. His hands were wrapped around your waist, holding you up with ease, like your weight meant nothing to him, like you were nothing but a vessel for his pleasure.

You sobbed again, body exhausted, nerves frayed to raw edges, and yet... your pussy clenched. Around him. For him.

“Did you feel that?” San barked a laugh. “She fucking tightened on him.”

“She likes it,” Mingi growled. “She lives for this.”

Your head lolled to the side as Seonghwa approached again, cock flushed and leaking, dragging it across your parted lips. He tapped your cheek twice. “Say ‘thank you,’ doll.”

You couldn’t find the words. Only a whimper.

Tap. Harder this time. “Use your voice.”

“Th–thank you,” you whispered, lips glossy with drool and spit. “Thank you for using me.”

Seonghwa slid in.

You were being impaled from both ends Jongho lifting and dropping you on his cock with slow, punishing force, while Seonghwa fucked your mouth like it was his right. You were just a fucktoy between them now. Passed around, loaded, dripping. Full.

“She’s leaking again,” Yeosang murmured from above, voice cold and clinical like he was observing a specimen. “Already ruined and still ready.”

“Not ruined enough,” Hongjoong snapped.

“Then we fix that,” Yunho said. “Flip her. Now.”

Jongho lifted you off his cock your body clenched in protest and suddenly you were on your stomach across the couch cushions, ass raised, legs spread. Hands grabbed you from every angle. Spreading you. Smacking you. Testing which hole would give out first.

Then came the snap of a condom packet.

And the wet sound of lube.

You froze.

“Wh–who’s—”

“Don’t ask questions,” Mingi growled from behind you. “Just take it.”

One thick cock slid into your pussy again too fast. You cried out, overstimulated and twitching.

Then came pressure at your ass.

“Shh…” Wooyoung's voice was sweet and mocking as he kissed between your shoulder blades. “Relax, baby. Let us stretch you out.”

You clenched involuntarily. He didn’t stop.

Mingi thrusted deep again.

Then Wooyoung pushed in.

Slow, steady, splitting you open with slick precision until both of them were buried inside one in your pussy, one in your ass your body stretched past the edge of pain and deep into pleasure you couldn’t understand. Couldn’t survive.

You screamed.

And they moaned in unison.

“She’s shaking,” Wooyoung laughed breathlessly. “Fuck, she’s clenching like crazy.”

“Keep going,” Mingi grunted. “She’s not saying stop.”

You weren’t.

You couldn’t. You were drooling into the cushions, back arched, skin marked by dozens of hands and teeth. All you could do was take. And they gave. Roughly. Mercilessly.

“She’s ours,” Hongjoong said, kneeling beside you now, brushing sweat-drenched hair from your face. “She’s not a friend. Not a guest. She’s our property. Say it.”

You tried to speak. Failed.

He slapped you. “Say it.”

“I’m... yours,” you gasped.

“Whose?”

“All of you. I belong to all of you.”

Jongho fisted your hair and pulled your face up. “Louder.”

“I’m your fuckdoll!” you screamed, voice cracking. “I belong to all of you.. Use me!”

They didn’t need more permission.

Mingi and Wooyoung moved faster, pounding into you with animal force, stretching you so wide it felt like your body was split in two. You felt it everywhere, every nerve screaming, every muscle convulsing. Cum from earlier was still dripping out of you, mess mixing with lube, sweat, and spit as your body rocked between them.

Seonghwa straddled the couch in front of you and shoved his cock between your breasts, fucking your tits as Yunho slapped your ass red, hard, over and over until you were sobbing again from sheer overstimulation.

“She’s going to pass out,” Yeosang murmured.

“She doesn’t get to pass out until I cum inside her,” San hissed.

You came again. Harder than before.

It ripped through you like lightning, your body convulsing, clenching around them as you cried out their names in one endless string of praise and desperation. Your pussy spasmed around Mingi. Your ass clenched on Wooyoung. Your mouth dropped open with a silent scream.

And still, they didn’t stop.

Because you were no longer a friend. No longer a companion.

You were theirs.

You no longer knew where your body ended and theirs began.

You were shaking. Slick. Marked. Wrecked. Laid flat on the couch, face down, drool soaking the fabric. Holes stretched wide, trembling, still gaping from the double penetration that left your mind floating.

And they were still hard.

Still waiting.

Still hungry.

Hongjoong was crouched beside you again, tilting your head up by the chin, studying your ruined expression like a piece of art. “You thought we were done?” he asked, voice dripping with mock pity. “You don’t get to be done.”

“I can’t—” you croaked, eyes glassy.

“You will,” San snapped from behind, grabbing your arms and pulling them back. You cried out as your shoulders flexed, tits dragging along the soft fabric of the couch. “You don’t decide when this ends. We do.”

Rough fabric bound your wrists. You blinked down, one of their shirts, maybe Yunho’s, wrapped around your arms and knotted tight.

“You wanna act like a toy,” Yeosang said coldly, standing above you now, “then we’ll treat you like one.”

The world blurred as they flipped you, wrists bound behind your back, chest heaving, thighs trembling. Seonghwa shoved a pillow under your hips to keep you arched, spread, and vulnerable. Someone slapped your pussy. Hard. You whimpered.

“She’s still dripping,” Mingi muttered, dragging two fingers through the mess between your legs. He held them up to your lips. “Clean it.”

You sucked eagerly, tasting your own cum, sweat, and whatever they’d left behind.

“You’re disgusting,” Jongho said. “And so fucking perfect.”

Then came the stretch again.

Yunho slid into your ass, thick and slow, pulling a ragged sob from your throat.

You barely had time to adjust before Yeosang pushed into your pussy.

You screamed.

And then Seonghwa straddled your chest, cock dragging across your spit-soaked lips. “Open up,” he ordered.

You obeyed.

Triple penetration. Every hole filled. Every breath stolen.

Yunho behind you, thrusting hard and slow. Yeosang pounding your pussy like it offended him. Seonghwa was using your throat like it belonged to him. It was too much and somehow not enough.

They fucked you like a machine. Like your body was built for this. Like this was your purpose.

“She’s swallowing it,” Seonghwa groaned. “Her throat is fucking milking me.”

“Of course she is,” San muttered. “She’s trained for this.”

Tears streamed down your face, but your hips met every thrust.

Seonghwa came first, hot cum shooting into your mouth and spilling from the corners of your lips. He pulled out, letting it drip down your chin, smearing it across your cheek with two fingers. “Don’t waste it,” he hissed.

Then Yunho cursed, voice wrecked. “Fuck—fuck, I’m gonna—” His thrusts stuttered as he emptied himself deep in your ass, hands bruising your hips.

But Yeosang wasn’t done.

He flipped you again, bending your knees to your chest, locking his eyes with yours as he slammed in harder. Faster. Cruel.

“Cum with me,” he growled.

You did. Violently.

Your body convulsed, eyes rolling back, mouth open in a silent cry as your orgasm tore through you like a bomb. And Yeosang followed, burying himself deep and unloading everything inside until it leaked out around him and down your ass.

They pulled back and left you open, gaping, dripping, ruined.

“Look at that mess,” Wooyoung cooed, kneeling between your legs and spreading you wide. “So pretty.”

He dipped his fingers inside, scooping out cum and smearing it across your lower stomach. “Marking our territory.”

Then he leaned in and licked it up, slow, wet, obscene.

Your body jolted, too sensitive, too raw.

Jongho grabbed your ankles and flipped you again, dragging you over to the coffee table. “Crawl.”

You tried. Failed. Your limbs barely worked.

So they carried you.

San held your arms. Yeosang your legs. And they laid you back on the cool glass, tits up, lips parted, body still twitching. Someone was tying your ankles to the table legs, now open, vulnerable, utterly on display.

“She’s not cumming again until we all do,” Hongjoong said.

You whimpered.

They lined up.

One after the other.

Mingi came next across your chest, his cum painting your tits.

Then San fucking your throat until he filled it, watching you swallow and then spitting on your tongue for good measure.

Then Jongho slow, cruel thrusts into your raw cunt until he finished inside with a low grunt.

And Hongjoong last.

He didn't fuck you.

He knelt between your thighs, scooped up the cum that had pooled there, and rubbed it into your clit.

“Look at this used hole,” he murmured. “Ruined. Messy. Perfect.”

You were crying. Moaning. Shaking again.

“Ready for more?”

You weren’t sure how long you’d been tied to the coffee table, your arms bound behind your back, legs stretched wide and secured to the table’s edges with rope that bit into your skin. Cum coated your thighs, your breasts, your lips. The glass was fogged with your breath. You had long since stopped pretending to be anything but their property.

They watched you like gods circling their sacrifice. Every inch of your body had been used. Every hole stretched. Every part of your mind fogged over by pain and pleasure so vicious that it all melted into heat.

“She’s so fucked out,” Mingi laughed, running a lazy hand up your calf. “You still in there, sweetheart?”

You blinked. Barely. A moan slipped out instead of a word.

“She doesn’t need to answer,” Yeosang said, voice low. “Her body tells us everything.”

“Exactly,” Wooyoung chimed in, circling behind you, something plastic clinking in his hands. “She’s not here to speak. She’s here to feel.”

You flinched as cold touched your thigh. A smooth, buzzing hum.

A toy.

Your eyes flew open.

Wooyoung’s smirk was wicked. “That woke her up.”

The vibrator pressed against your clit soaked, puffy, swollen from overuse. The jolt of sensation made your entire body seize.

You screamed behind the gag.

Seonghwa had tied it in place minutes before, a thick black silk ribbon between your teeth, knotted cruelly at the back of your head.

“Quiet now,” he whispered in your ear. “We don’t want the neighbors hearing, do we?”

As if any part of this could be hidden.

Hongjoong knelt beside you, eyes dark and wild. “Look at her twitch. She’s shaking already. She’s gonna break.”

“She doesn’t get to break,” San growled. “She breaks when we say she does.”

And they didn’t say it yet.

Wooyoung pressed the toy harder. Circles. Pressure. Cruel rhythm. Every time you got close to cumming again, he’d pull away.

Again.

And again.

You screamed into the gag, sobbing through the denial. Your thighs trembled. Muscles locked up. Heat surged and disappeared like a tease just out of reach.

“You want to cum?” Yunho asked, voice like honey and venom. “Beg.”

You whimpered.

“Use your eyes, doll,” Yeosang murmured. “Beg us with your fucking eyes.”

You looked at them pleading, shattered. Your whole body was shaking, mouth dripping spit around the gag, chest rising and falling like you were drowning in want. And maybe you were.

“Pathetic,” San said, voice thick with arousal. “So fucking needy.”

“She’s ready,” Seonghwa whispered.

They untied you just enough to reposition you.

Then came the next stage.

They pulled you onto your knees and pushed your chest flat to the cold glass. You couldn’t hold yourself up, your arms were still bound behind your back, but it didn’t matter. You were theirs.

Hongjoong shoved the vibrator inside you this time, your slick swallowing it whole. A second one followed, smaller, pushed between your thighs and held in place by a hand you couldn’t see.

Then they all took seats.

Watching.

Mingi held a remote. “We’ll start slow.”

The toys buzzed to life.

Low. Then high. Then pulsing.

You choked around the gag, body convulsing as your orgasm slammed into you immediately.

Your scream was garbled, incoherent, but your body betrayed you, hips bucking, juices pouring, back arched in a way that screamed ruin me again.

They applauded.

“Good girl,” Wooyoung purred. “Now again.”

The toys didn’t stop.

Another orgasm.

Then another.

Your body gave up trying to come down.

It just kept going, shaking, leaking, jerking against invisible waves of overstimulation.

You’d lost count.

Had it been five? Seven? More?

Your voice was gone. You were sobbing. Hands gripped your hips, Yunho again, and pushed you up against his cock.

He slid in.

You were soaking. Stuffed. Full of buzz and slick and heat.

He didn’t move. Just held you there.

“Look up, pet,” he whispered. “Show me what that throat’s made for.”

Then Yeosang got in front of you.

You obeyed.

Because you didn’t have a choice.

Because you didn’t want a choice.

He shoved in.

You were spit roasted again. Yunho behind you, slow, torturous thrusts, and Yeosang in your mouth, face-fucking with that quiet rage he always hid behind beauty. The toys never stopped. You were cumming around Yunho and choking on Yeosang and sobbing through every thrust, gagged and bound and absolutely gone.

Hongjoong approached from the side, bent down, and whispered:

“You still haven’t broken.”

He turned the toy all the way up.

You came so hard your vision went white.

Then you collapsed.

But they didn’t let you rest.

You didn’t feel yourself go.

One second your body was tensed in orgasm, shaking, soaked, used.

The next, you were gone.

Collapsed. Mind wiped clean. No words. No awareness. Just black.

But even as you passed out, they kept going.

Yunho stayed inside you, cock still throbbing, thrusts slowing but never stopping. Your cunt milked him without your permission, body reacting purely on instinct. The vibrator was still humming inside, juices spilling down your thighs, soaking the floor under the table.

“She’s out,” Yeosang said, voice emotionless as he wiped spit off his cock and stared at your slack, ruined face.

Hongjoong crouched down, cupping your chin with one hand. “Still breathing.”

Mingi looked down at your wrecked body, tied, dripping, flushed red. “So fucking hot.”

They didn’t stop.

Because that’s what you were for.

“Wake her up,” Seonghwa said gently, brushing your hair back. But there was nothing soft in his eyes.

So they did.

A slap.

A hard one. Then another.

Your eyes fluttered open.

You gasped like you’d been pulled from drowning. Air slammed into your lungs. Tears pooled instantly. Your body spasmed.

“You’re okay,” San said, but it wasn’t comfort, it was command. “You’re not done.”

Your lips moved. No sound came out. You tasted cum and spit and salt.

“She’s awake,” Jongho confirmed. “Back in the game.”

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to.

Because then Seonghwa climbed up, one knee on the table, then the other, and positioned himself directly over your face.

“I’m going to sit here,” he said, voice calm. “And you’re going to make me cum. No hands. No help. Just your mouth and your tongue. Understand?”

You whimpered, nodding slowly.

He lowered himself.

Your face was smothered in skin, his thighs around your ears, his cock resting on your lips, heavy and hard.

He began to roll his hips.

Slow. Controlled. Dominant.

“Breathe when I let you,” he whispered. “Or don’t. I don’t care.”

You licked. Sucked. Moaned against his weight as he rode your face like a throne, rocking until his hips stuttered. He came on your tongue, in your mouth, across your cheeks and kept you pinned under him.

“Good fucking girl,” he whispered, brushing your hair again as you gasped for air the second he lifted.

But there was no time to recover.

Jongho was between your legs again, spreading you open to reveal the mess inside.

“She’s full,” he murmured, dipping his fingers into your pussy. “So full, it’s leaking out.”

Wooyoung joined him. “Let’s fill her more.”

“What if we kept it all inside?” Mingi asked, half-laughing. “Tied her up, plugged her, and made her hold it.”

“Watch her belly swell with it,” Yunho added. “Like she’s getting knocked up with all of us at once.”

You moaned a broken, humiliating sound.

“You like that?” Hongjoong asked. “The idea of us fucking you full until you’re bloated and dripping?”

“Yes,” you gasped. “Please.”

They lost it.

The last of their self-control.

Hands everywhere grabbing, lifting, pulling. You were thrown over Yeosang’s lap, legs dangling, cunt exposed and already leaking. Someone shoved the vibrator back in, then held it there. Mingi slid his cock in beside it, two thick shapes stretching you open again.

Your stomach bulged slightly under the pressure.

“Fuck, look at that,” San hissed. “She’s stretching around it.”

They took turns again.

No order now. Just chaos.

San in your ass, rough and feral. Yunho in your mouth, face-fucking with your hair knotted in his fist. Jongho on your back, jerking himself onto your spine. Wooyoung forcing your legs open and watching the mess bubble up with every thrust.

And they didn’t stop filling you.

One load.

Then another.

Until you could feel it.

Heavy. Warm. Stretching your walls, pooling deeper. Cum spilling out, sliding down your ass, dripping onto Yeosang's lap in a puddle of proof.

Then they pulled back, admired their work.

Your body was limp again. Barely conscious. Tied, swollen, painted in spit and semen. Belly slightly puffed from how much they’d left inside you.

“She’s not broken yet,” Hongjoong said.

“Then we keep going,” Seonghwa answered.

Because you don’t stop a doll when it malfunctions.

You reprogram her.

You didn’t remember how long it had been.

Hours? A full night? Time had stopped meaning anything. You were no longer a person, just a body, leaking and pulsing and shaking under the weight of every orgasm they gave you. You’d passed out. Come back. Been used. Passed out again.

Now… you were still.

Bound. Gag removed. Knees tucked under you, arms behind your back, ropes soft but firm around your ankles and wrists, hair knotted, lips bruised. Caked in spit. Dried cum smeared across your skin like warpaint. A mess. Their mess.

They circled you now quiet, calm, spent. Each one touched you like you were theirs. Because you were.

“She’s beautiful like this,” Seonghwa murmured, running a hand through your tangled hair.

“No thoughts left,” San whispered. “Just obedience.”

“Just need,” Wooyoung added.

“Just us,” Yeosang said, and his fingers ghosted over the bruises he’d left on your hips.

You blinked up slowly. Your voice was barely a rasp. “Yours.”

They didn’t laugh. No teasing this time.

Only heat.

Still.

Present.

Dominant.

“She doesn’t need a name anymore,” Hongjoong said, crouching in front of you. His eyes were wild, but his voice was terrifyingly calm. “She belongs to us. She lives to serve.”

You swallowed. You nodded.

“You want a title, pet?” Yunho asked. “Something permanent?”

You opened your mouth.

Then Seonghwa leaned in and whispered it like a blessing.

“Doll.”

That word echoed in the space like gospel.

“That’s all she is,” Jongho said. “Our doll. Our perfect, empty, ruined little thing.”

Mingi brought the collar over.

Black leather. Silver ring in front. No name tag. No need.

You lowered your head willingly.

Hongjoong fastened it.

It clicked shut like a promise.

“You don’t get to speak anymore unless we tell you to,” he whispered. “You don’t get to cum. To breathe. To beg. Unless we say so.”

“Yes, Master,” you breathed.

And that was it.

The final shift.

You weren’t the friend anymore. You weren’t the guest, the girl in the mansion, the tease they toyed with.

You were property.

And you had never felt so fucking full.

San dragged you into his lap, pressing your back to his chest, spreading your legs for the others to see. “Look at her,” he growled. “Still leaking. Still twitching. Still wanting.”

Mingi cupped your breasts.

Wooyoung sucked a mark into your throat.

Yeosang stroked himself while staring at your ruined folds.

“She’s ready again,” Jongho muttered.

But Hongjoong shook his head. “Let her rest. She’s done. For now.”

They laid you out on the rug like art. Limbs loose. Breathing heavy. Cum still pooling between your thighs.

San kissed your temple.

Seonghwa cleaned your lips with a cloth.

Yunho undid the ropes and massaged your wrists.

“You did so well,” he whispered. “You took all of us. You let us destroy you.”

“And you loved it,” Yeosang murmured.

You nodded barely.

Tears welled up. Not from pain. From something deeper. Relief. Bliss. Love, even, in its filthiest, rawest form.

“You’re ours now,” Hongjoong said. “Forever.”

Your voice cracked as you whispered:

“I wouldn’t want to belong to anyone else.”

They smiled.

And as they cleaned you, kissed you, and wrapped your spent body in their warmth, you realized something:

You weren’t broken.

You were exactly what you were meant to be.

#idk how to feel

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setralinehoe · 9 days ago

Text

Fill you up. Jeong yunho

warnings: unprotected sex, breeding kink, dirty talk, light size kink, creampie, overstimulation, slight choking (18+ content)

Authors note: English isn't my first language, sorry if there's mistakes!!

You shouldn’t have worn his shirt to bed. That was your first mistake.

Oversized and soft, it hung down to your thighs, brushing just over the curve of them. Yunho had already been watching you all day — cuddled up on the couch with your legs in his lap, teasing him with that sleepy voice and the way you always acted like you didn��t know what you were doing. But now?

Now he had you underneath him, legs spread wide and trembling around his waist, your fingers locked into the sheets as he buried himself to the hilt. Over and over. His low groans melted into your ear as your head rolled back, mouth open in a moan that didn't have time to finish before his hips snapped again.

"You feel that?" he growled, voice ragged as he bottomed out. “You’re taking me so well tonight, baby. Fuck—tight little pussy was made to be bred, wasn’t it?”

Your breath hitched. His words hit you like a slap, hot and heavy. You nodded dumbly, back arching, mouth fumbling for anything to say. "Y-Yunho—"

He leaned over you, pressing his weight down until his lips brushed your ear, hand sliding up to wrap loosely around your throat—not choking, not fully, just claiming. Holding.

“Say it. Say you want me to fill you up.”

“I—” Your voice cracked into a high-pitched whimper, and Yunho chuckled darkly, hips grinding slow and deep.

“You’ve been teasing me all week, walking around in my clothes, sitting on my lap like a little slut. What, you think I wouldn’t put a baby in you for that?”

He thrust once, then again, hard and deep and deliberate, and your whole body shuddered.

“Y-Yunho, please—fuck, please—fill me up, I want it, I want all of it—”

“That’s my girl.” His hand released your throat just to slip down between your legs, fingers working in tight circles around your clit. “You wanna be full of me? Walk around leaking all fucking day?”

“Y-Yes—!”

“You’re gonna take every drop. Gonna make sure it sticks this time.”

Your vision blurred. Your legs wrapped tight around his waist and you clung to him, hips jerking up into his thrusts, desperate for more—for everything. His name poured from your lips like a prayer as he fucked you harder, rough and relentless now, panting above you with that hungry, focused look that always undid you.

“I’m close,” he growled, voice tight and frayed. “You better cum with me. You better milk every fucking drop.”

You were already there, your orgasm crashing over you like a wave—tight, uncontrollable, aching. You clenched around him so hard it made him curse, hips snapping once, twice, and then he buried himself to the base with a ragged moan, spilling inside you in deep, hot pulses.

“F-Fuck,” Yunho breathed, still grinding through it, sweat dripping down his temple. “That’s it. Keep it in. Don’t waste a single drop.”

You trembled underneath him, twitching, over-sensitive but full—so full—and Yunho leaned down, kissing you like you were his everything.

His thumb brushed your lip, voice still thick. “You’re mine, baby. No one’s ever gonna fuck you like this. No one’s ever gonna fill you like I do.”

And with his cum slowly leaking out, he eased back… just to push it in again with his fingers.

“Round two?”

Writing by @lustlvii please do not translate or publish anywhere

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setralinehoe · 12 days ago

Text

Ateez members when you squirt. Ft maknae line

Including: San, Mingi, Wooyoung, Jongho x fem!reader (all separate!)

Warnings: porn no plot, Squirting, nasty nasty nasty, degradation, dirty talk, use of names (slut), mention of passing out but you don't (San) cocky!wooyoung, size kink (mingi), oral (f, mingi and wooyoung), like one pussy slap (wooyoung), daddy kink (mingi and wooyoung), this is just messy and nasty I didn't proofread so lmk if I missed anything!

Authors note: English isn't my first language. I think I went overboard . . . Especially with mingis 😔😔🥴🥴

San.

“Again,” he growls, breath hot against your shoulder as he slams his hips into yours with bruising force. “Fucking again, baby—don’t stop now.”

You can’t. You’re sobbing, face twisted in pure overstimulated bliss, thighs twitching, soaked and ruined and trembling as another gush of wetness sprays out from between your legs.

“Ohhh fuck—there it is,” San groans, head thrown back, hips grinding through it like he’s ossessed. “That’s it, baby. Made a fuckin’ mess for me, huh?”

You try to answer, but you can’t form a single coherent thought. Your eyes roll. Your fingers claw uselessly at the sheets beneath you.

San just laughs. It’s feral—guttural.

“Dumb little thing,” he snarls, reaching down to slap your twitching clit, watching your whole body spasm from it. “You like being fucked stupid, don’t you?”

You nod. Barely. More of a shake. Your lips part to speak—nothing comes out but a whimper.

“I said don’t stop.”

He flips you onto your back, grabs both your ankles and spreads you wide, cock already rock-hard again despite the fact he just emptied himself inside you not even two minutes ago.

“You thought I was done? You thought one little squirt show was gonna be enough?”

He lines up again, sinks in without warning. No mercy. You scream.

“Fucking tight,” he hisses. “You’re still squeezing me like you don’t wanna let go.”

Your entire body jerks. Nails digging into the mattress.

He leans down until he’s nose-to-nose with you. Grabs your jaw hard enough to ache. Forces you to look at him.

“Eyes on me, baby. Wanna see how dumb you look when you come.”

Your lashes flutter. Your lip quivers. He starts pounding into you like he wants to break the bed—slamming his hips, skin clapping against yours, sweat dripping from his forehead to your chest.

“San—Sannie please—I-I can’t—!”

“You can.”

He presses his hand to your lower tummy, feels how swollen and full you are.

“Feel that?” he grunts. “That’s me. Right there. So deep inside I’m practically part of you.”

He fucks deeper. Harder. Faster.

“You’re gonna squirt again. You’re gonna cover my cock, the sheets, everything. Make a mess like the filthy little slut you are.”

You’re wailing now, words melting into cries and breathless mewls. He snakes a hand up to your throat, squeezes just enough to make the edge of panic blur with the pleasure.

And then—

“Fuck—yes,” he growls. “There it is. Pretty little pussy fuckin’ exploding for me—holy shit—look at that.”

You squirt so hard it splashes against his thighs. He doesn’t even stop. He shoves your knees to your chest and keeps fucking through it, watching your face twist, your mouth open wide in a soundless scream.

“Again,” he spits. “Fucking again.”

You can’t even fight it. Your body obeys him before your brain can catch up. Another wave crashes over you—wet, hot, helpless.

He moans loud, cock throbbing deep inside you. “You’re mine. You get that?”

You whimper. “Y-Yes—San—fuck—yours—”

He bites your neck. Hard. “Say it.”

“Yours! I’m yours—I’m only yours—”

He kisses you like he’s trying to consume you.

Then he pulls out, drags you to your knees by your hair, and shoves his cock back into your ruined cunt from behind—still gushing, still twitching.

“Good fucking girl,” he growls. “Now keep squirting until you pass out.”

Mingi.

He’d been down there for a while.

Palms spreading your thighs wide, tongue lazily lapping at your clit like it was breakfast, chin shiny and eyes half-lidded in pure obsession. You’d lost count of how many times your hips bucked or how many times his tongue teased your folds before dipping in—deeper, deeper, until your whole body was convulsing.

“Mingi, wait—fuck, I—something’s—”

That’s all it takes. The tremble in your thighs, the way your belly tightens…

And then it happens.

Your body arches, the pressure snaps, and a sudden wet gush bursts from you—hot and clear and everywhere.

“Oh…” Mingi stops, stunned for a second. His mouth parts, brows lifting slightly as he pulls back to look. Your thighs are soaked. His face is drenched.

Then:

“…Holy shit.”

He grins. Wildly. Tongue darts out to taste you again—licking his cheeks where the mess landed.

“Baby…” His voice drops lower, cock already rock hard against the bed. “You never told me you could do that.”

You whimper, dazed, humiliated, but so high on it you can barely think.

“I—Mingi, I didn’t—I’ve never—”

He growls. That’s the only word for it. Like you just unlocked a kink he didn’t even know he had.

“Fuck, you’re unreal.”

And then he’s on you.

Flicking your clit, tongue rolling filthy patterns over your overstimulated cunt, groaning against your skin like he’s starving. His big hands are clutching your hips down so hard it stings.

You squirt again. And again. It’s automatic now—he demands it.

“Mmhmm, that’s it… so fuckin’ wet for me.”

You’re barely breathing when he finally lifts his head, face dripping, lips swollen and red, pupils blown. He’s panting.

“You’re a goddamn fountain.”

He strokes his cock, lets it slap against your slit. “Wanna see if this pretty pussy squirts like that with my cock too.”

You moan. Shake your head. “Mingi, you’re too big, I can’t—”

“Oh baby.” He leans down, voice a whisper, thick tip teasing your entrance. “You’re gonna take it.”

He starts slow. Just the tip. Then another inch. And another. You’re already clawing at his arms, panting, your eyes rolling.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “So tight. I can feel your heartbeat in this cunt.”

He bottoms out with a brutal thrust. Your body jerks. And he laughs.

“You’re so full, huh?”

You sob. “C-Can’t—Mingi—too much—too deep—”

He cups your cheek. Kisses you softly. Then ruins you again.

His hips slam into yours at a vicious rhythm, skin slapping, the sound of wet squelching echoing off the walls. He’s obsessed—watching your pussy swallow every inch of his thick cock, watching how each thrust pushes more slick out of you.

“You gonna squirt on my dick, baby?” he groans. “Gonna soak me like you did my fuckin’ face?”

You do. Screaming his name, gushing hard enough to leave his lower abs dripping.

He doesn’t stop. Won’t let you come down.

“Shiiit, you’re fuckin’ gushing,” he moans. “Look at this mess. Look what you did.”

You cry out. Your body convulses. Another orgasm barrels through you like a freight train.

He pulls you up by your waist, fucks you like a ragdoll, moaning into your neck, whispering filth between praises.

“Dirty little thing… makin’ a mess all over daddy’s cock like you need to be ruined.”

You’re babbling now—nothing makes sense. “Mhm—Mingiii—ah—f’so good—feels—ah—f-fuck!”

He bites your shoulder. “You love it.”

You nod wildly.

He grabs your face again, eyes dark. “Then squirt for me again, baby. Right now.”

Wooyoung.

“Already?” He says it with a cocky laugh, like watching you tremble under his mouth is funny to him. Your thighs are clenching around his head, stomach twitching, and you can’t breathe through the sounds you’re making.

“Mmh—fuck, Woo—ah, I—!”

He pulls back with a string of spit clinging to his lips, face glossy, tongue dragging over the corner of his mouth like he’s still hungry.

“God, listen to yourself. You’re gasping like you just ran a mile.” He rolls his eyes, leans down, slaps your pussy lightly with two fingers. You jolt.

“This got you that fucked up? From just my tongue?” He smirks, tapping your clit with lazy precision. “What’s gonna happen when I put my cock in, huh?”

“D-Don’t say shit like that—”

“Why not?” He spits directly on your folds, lets it drip down before rubbing it in with his thumb. “Gonna make you squirt, pretty girl. Wanna see how fucking messy I can get you.”

And then he’s diving back in.

Tongue rapid, focused, filthy—like he knows exactly what your body needs before you do. He groans deep against your cunt like it’s his favorite meal, and your hips jerk off the bed.

You feel it coil in your stomach again, tight and terrifying.

“W-Woo, wait, I think I—”

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t care. He wraps an arm around your thighs to lock you down and moans loud into your clit. That’s what pushes it over.

You squirt. Hard.

Gushing up into his mouth, thighs convulsing, head tossing back into the pillows as you scream. He keeps going. Licks it up, grinds his chin into your pussy, rubs you through it like he’s got something to prove.

“Fucking knew it,” he pants, chin soaked, fingers already replacing his mouth. “That’s it, messy girl. Drip for me.”

You try to close your legs, overwhelmed. He slaps your inner thigh.

“Keep ‘em open. Don’t be shy now.”

And then? Then he fucks you with his fingers until you squirt again.

You’re crying. Moaning slurred nonsense into your forearm as your thighs tremble.

“Oh, poor baby…” he coos, fake pout on his lips. “Too much for your dumb little pussy?”

Your only reply is a hiccuped whine.

“Yeah, I thought so.” He sits up, starts unbuckling his belt. “And now…”

He slaps his fat cock against your overstimulated slit, groaning when it twitches from the contact.

“Now I fuck you stupid.”

You scream his name. Again and again. You lose track of time, lose count of how many times he makes you squirt, how many times he moans right in your face, laughing when you can’t form full sentences.

“W-Woo… ngh, c-can’t—d-daddy please—!”

“Shhh, you’re fine. Just a dumb little slut with a squirty little pussy, huh?”

He grabs your face, shoves two fingers in your mouth and spits on your tongue.

“Now take it.”

Jongho.

“You didn’t tell me you could do that,” Jongho mutters, voice low—dangerous—as he stares down at your soaked thighs.

Your chest is heaving, whole body trembling. You’re still recovering from it—your orgasm, your release—your squirt.

It had surprised even you.

One moment his thick fingers were pumping slow and steady into your cunt—pressing right there, right there—and the next? You were shaking, crying, spraying his hand, his wrist, the sheets under you, everything.

And Jongho hasn’t said much since. Just breathing. Watching. Processing.

Then he wipes his soaked fingers on your inner thigh.

“You’re going to do that again,” he says flatly. Not a suggestion. Not a request. A command.

You whimper. “I… I don’t think—”

His hand snaps around your jaw.

“I didn’t ask you what you think.”

He grabs you by the waist, flips you like you’re weightless. You gasp. He pulls you into his lap—his cock already achingly hard, thick against your soaked folds.

Then, with terrifying calm, he slides in.

You scream.

Not loud. But wrecked. Like your body can’t decide whether to panic or worship him.

Jongho groans low in his throat. Hands gripping your hips so tight it hurts.

“You squirted all over my fingers. Let’s see if I can make you do it on my cock.”

He doesn’t move at first—just sinks in deeper. Slow. Unbearable. Stretching you open inch by inch until your mouth falls open in a silent moan.

Then he grinds.

Your body jerks.

“Ohhh—Jongho, I—”

“Eyes on me.”

His hand fists your hair, pulls your head back until you’re forced to meet his gaze.

“No hiding,” he whispers. “You’re going to look me in the eyes while I ruin you.”

Then—he fucks you.

Hard. Precise. Deliberate. Each thrust perfectly angled to bully your sweet spot, to force a reaction out of you.

You’re gasping, sobbing—fingers gripping his arms like a lifeline.

Jongho’s not sweating. Not moaning. Just breathing. Focused. Like he’s studying you.

“You’re going to do it again,” he murmurs. “I can feel it. You’re pulsing.”

You cry out. Your legs are shaking.

“Say thank you.”

“W-What—?”

Smack. His hand lands on your ass—hard.

“Say thank you for your cock.”

“Th-thank you! Ohmygod, thank you—!”

Then—you snap. Again.

A burst of slick soaks his thighs, your body twitching uncontrollably.

And Jongho smiles.

Dark. Satisfied.

“I knew you could.”

He pulls out—just to slam back in. You wail.

“N-Not again, I can’t—!”

“You can. You will.”

And he keeps fucking you. Pushing. Over and over.

Until your voice breaks. Until your body stops responding.

And when you finally pass out in his arms, he kisses your forehead.

“Next time, I want three.”

Writing by @lustlvii please do not translate or publish anywhere

#🔞 — smut

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setralinehoe · 1 month ago

Text

Soft Drinks & Sharp Tongues | Y. Jeonghan

Pairing: Troublemaker!Yoon Jeonghan × Student Council President!Reader

Word Count: 7,974 words : Reading time: 29-ish mins

Trope: Enemies to lovers | Secret softie × Overworked achiever | Protective bad boy | Poor girl x rich school

Warnings: Bullying, classism, mild violence, strong language, emotional vulnerability, mentions of loss (death of a parent), angst with comfort, NO PROOF READING WAS DONE.

Synopsis: She was the school’s strict student council president with no time for nonsense—or feelings. He was the academy’s golden boy troublemaker who got under her skin like no one else. But when a cruel comment sparks a brutal fight and her secret life is exposed, she realizes that the boy who always pushed her buttons… was also the only one who ever truly saw her. In a world that judged her for being different, Jeonghan stood between her and the world—and maybe even her own walls.

The crisp autumn air of senior year did little to soothe the persistent thrumming behind your temples. "Another day, another disaster waiting to happen," you sighed, the weight of the student council head badge feeling less like an honor and more like a lead weight dragging you down. Just as you managed to organize the stack of permission slips threatening to topple off your desk, a familiar, infuriatingly casual voice echoed from the doorway.

"Well, well, if it isn't the iron-willed Prez in her natural habitat," Jeonghan drawled, leaning against the doorframe with an effortless swagger that somehow never failed to irritate you and make you lose your mind at the name 'prez' altogether. He pushed off the frame, sauntering into your small office with the confident air of someone who paid the university's exorbitant tuition fees ten times over, despite the crumpled pink detention slip dangling from his fingertips.

"Lost again, Han?" you retorted, your voice sharper than you intended, the exhaustion from last night's late shift at the café still clinging to you like a persistent shadow.

He chuckled, a light, airy sound that grated on your nerves. "Lost? Never, my dear Prez. Merely… exploring the less-traveled paths of disciplinary action." He flicked the detention slip onto your meticulously arranged desk, the corner bent and smudged. "Though, I must confess, your sanctuary of rules and regulations does possess a certain… stark appeal this morning." His eyes flickered around the small space, lingering for a moment on the wilting potted plant in the corner.

You pinched the bridge of your nose, the familiar headache intensifying. "Han, for the last time, gluing Mr. Kim's prized toupee to the rotating blades of the science lab's ceiling fan is not an act of artistic expression. It's disruptive, disrespectful, and frankly, the third time this month. Do you have a personal vendetta against follicularly challenged educators?"

He feigned an expression of wounded innocence, his usually sharp eyes widening in mock surprise. "A vendetta? My dear Prez, I'm wounded by the accusation! Perhaps the toupee simply yearned for a more… dynamic existence? A chance to experience the thrill of flight?"

"The thrill of flight that resulted in Mr. Kim nearly having a coronary," you countered dryly, already reaching for the detention log. "That earns you a solid hour of supervised detention. With me." The thought of spending an entire hour in forced proximity to him was hardly your idea of a productive afternoon, but rules were rules, even for the infuriatingly charming Jeonghan.

"Ah, but that's where the real intrigue lies, wouldn't you agree?" He leaned closer, resting his hands on the edge of your desk, a disarming smile spreading across his handsome face, a smile that you knew had melted the resolve of many a teacher. "Spending quality time in the hallowed halls of disciplinary action, under the watchful gaze of the student council head? A rare and undoubtedly enlightening experience."

You simply leveled him with a withering stare, the kind you'd perfected over countless student council meetings and rule infractions. "Don't even try, Han. This isn't a negotiation."

Later that afternoon, just as you were finally catching up on paperwork, your phone rang. It was a flustered Mrs. Lee, her voice bordering on panic. "He… he's gone, (Y/N)! He's just… vanished!"

You sighed, running a weary hand through your hair. "Let me guess. He charmed his way out of detention again?"

"He… he complimented my new scarf," Mrs. Lee stammered, a strange, almost dreamy quality entering her voice. "And then he offered to help me carry a rather heavy stack of textbooks to the library… I only turned my back for a moment…"

"Of course, he did," you muttered under your breath, hanging up the phone with a frustrated click. It was always the same infuriating pattern. His effortless charm, that disarming smile, the casual flirtation – it was a weapon he wielded with infuriating effectiveness.

What the perfectly coiffed and privileged student body, with their designer clothes and trust funds, remained blissfully unaware of was the quiet battle you fought every single day. The silence in your small, rented apartment after your mother left for her second job echoed the gaping absence left by your father's passing.

"Just trying to make ends meet, sweetheart," your mother would say, her shoulders slumped with a weariness that mirrored your own. To ease her burden, you pulled double shifts at a small, out-of-the-way café, the clatter of cheap cutlery and the pervasive smell of stale coffee a stark and unwelcome contrast to the hushed, hallowed halls of your elite university.

"Another lukewarm latte, another step closer to paying the electricity bill," you'd often think, the meager tips barely making a dent in the ever-growing pile of overdue notices.

Your no-nonsense approach as student council head had already earned you the thinly veiled disdain of those who considered rules mere suggestions. "She thinks she's so high and mighty just because she got in on a scholarship," you'd overheard a group of impeccably dressed girls whisper in the hallway, their eyes flicking over your slightly worn uniform.

"No mercy for anyone. Probably has something to prove." They saw you as rigid, unyielding, someone who had forgotten her place. Little did they know the constant tightrope walk you performed daily, the relentless pressure to maintain your perfect GPA and your scholarship, the gnawing anxiety that one wrong step could send your carefully constructed world crashing down.

Yet, amidst the predictable chaos that Han routinely unleashed upon the school, there were these… strange anomalies. One particularly draining Monday, after a particularly grueling weekend of juggling assignments and café shifts, you arrived at your desk to find a single can of your favorite soda, the obscure brand you rarely indulged in, sitting there as if it had materialized out of thin air.

No note, no explanation, just the cool, familiar weight of the aluminum in your hand. And then there were the days when the familiar, agonizing cramps of your period would leave you pale and trembling. On those mornings, a small, neatly wrapped bar of dark chocolate – the expensive, imported kind you usually only dreamed of – would be placed discreetly beside your planner, as if someone knew exactly what silent battle you were fighting.

One particularly frustrating afternoon, fueled by a potent cocktail of exhaustion and a nagging sense of unease, you finally decided to confront the enigma that was Jeonghan. He was leaning against a sun-drenched wall in the courtyard, effortlessly surrounded by a gaggle of giggling students, his usual magnetic charm in full effect. "Han," you called out, your voice cutting through the laughter, the authority of your position instinctively taking over.

He turned, that familiar, infuriatingly handsome smirk returning to his lips. "To what do I owe this unexpected honor, Prez?" he drawled, the title laced with a playful mockery that usually sent your temper flaring.

You gestured vaguely towards your office. "Those… things. The soda. The chocolate. Why?"

He simply shrugged, that characteristic air of nonchalance returning, his eyes flicking away as if the topic bored him. "Had extras." The casual dismissal was infuriatingly convincing, leaving you with a swirling mix of confusion and a strange, unsettling warmth that you couldn't quite decipher.

The fragile peace of the university courtyard, usually a backdrop for idle chatter, hurried footsteps, and the occasional strumming of a guitar, shattered with a sudden, brutal sound. A sharp crack, like bone meeting bone, ripped through the lunchtime murmur, silencing the surrounding conversations as abruptly as a slammed door. You, mid-sentence with the perpetually flustered treasurer, Sooyoung, about the logistics of the upcoming charity bake sale and the alarming rate at which the student body consumed red velvet cupcakes, whipped your head around, your meticulously organized clipboard scattering a flurry of sign-up sheets onto the paved ground. The scene that unfolded before you sent a shockwave of cold disbelief, followed by a surge of adrenaline, coursing through your veins.

Jeonghan, the ever-teasing, perpetually laid-back Han, the master of witty remarks and harmless pranks that somehow always skirted the edge of outright rule-breaking, was locked in a vicious, unrestrained fistfight. His usual playful expression, the one that could charm even the most jaded professors, was gone, replaced by a mask of raw, untamed fury that contorted his handsome features into something almost unrecognizable. His knuckles, already reddening, were white against the other student's increasingly bloodied face, his movements jerky and fueled by a rage you had never witnessed in him before. This wasn't the Han of stolen exam answers and strategically placed whoopee cushions; this was something primal, something dangerous, a side of him completely hidden beneath the layers of charm and nonchalance.

Instinct took over, overriding the shock that had momentarily rooted you to the spot. The student council head within you, the one who had to maintain order and uphold the university's (admittedly often ignored) code of conduct, kicked in.

You found yourself pushing through the stunned onlookers, a knot of fear tightening in your stomach, your voice surprisingly sharp and authoritative as you barked orders. "Break it up! Now! What in God's name do you think you're doing? Jeonghan! Stop!" It took the combined efforts of several bewildered students, their initial shock slowly giving way to a hesitant urgency, to finally separate the two combatants.

Han’s chest heaved, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his usually bright eyes now dark with a simmering anger, his knuckles bruised and bleeding. The other student, a usually boisterous jock named Minho, captain of the university's baseball team, was a mess of split lips, a rapidly swelling eye already turning a sickly shade of purple, and a trickle of blood snaking down his chin.

Later, the sterile air in your small, often overlooked student council office crackled with an unfamiliar tension. Minho, sporting an impressive ice pack that did little to soothe his bruised ego, had been escorted to the university infirmary by a concerned coach. Han sat opposite you, slumped in the uncomfortable plastic chair, unusually silent. His usual playful demeanor, the easy smile that could disarm even your sternest lectures, was completely absent, replaced by a brooding intensity. The knuckles of his right hand were already starting to swell, a stark and unsettling testament to the brutal violence you had just witnessed. You sat behind your desk, the scattered bake sale sign-up sheets a forgotten mess, your mind still reeling from the unexpected eruption of fury.

"Han," you began, your voice tight with a mixture of disbelief, lingering shock, and a growing sense of unease. "What… what was that? I have never, ever seen you… like that." Your words hung in the air, the silence amplifying the steady ticking of the clock on the wall.

He remained silent for a long moment, his gaze fixed on his injured hand, turning it over as if it belonged to someone else. Finally, he looked up, his eyes dark and troubled, a stark contrast to their usual mischievous sparkle. "He deserved it," was all he said, his voice low and rough, devoid of its usual playful lilt.

"Deserved what?" you pressed, leaning forward, your elbows resting on the cluttered surface of your desk. "A brutal beating in the middle of the courtyard? What in God's name could possibly have happened to provoke something like that?"

He hesitated, his jaw clenching and unclenching, the muscle in his cheek twitching. He seemed to be wrestling with himself, his usual easygoing nature battling with the raw anger that still emanated from him. "It's nothing you need to worry about," he finally mumbled, his gaze flicking away from yours.

"Nothing I need to worry about?" you repeated, incredulously, your voice rising slightly. "Han, you just engaged in a full-blown fistfight! This is serious. There will be consequences. And frankly, I need to understand what happened. For the official report, if nothing else."

He finally met your gaze again, and for the first time, you saw a flicker of something beyond his usual teasing or indifference. It was a raw protectiveness, a simmering anger that still seemed to vibrate beneath his skin, a fierce loyalty that surprised you. "He said some… things," he mumbled, his voice still rough, the words seemingly dragged from him.

"What kind of things, Han?" you persisted, a knot of unease tightening in your stomach. You had a bad feeling about this, a sense that whatever Minho had said had struck a nerve, a deep and volatile one.

He turned away again, his gaze fixed on the peeling paint of the opposite wall, as if the answers were hidden within its imperfections. "Just… garbage. The kind of crap guys like him spout all the time. It's not important."

But the university grapevine, as always, was relentless and remarkably efficient. The whispers started circulating almost immediately, fueled by the stunned witnesses and the sheer unexpectedness of Han's violent outburst. It wasn't long before the unsavory details, twisted and embellished with each retelling, began to reach you. However, the core of the incident remained consistent.

Apparently, Minho, emboldened by his usual entourage of jock friends and a misplaced sense of entitlement that seemed to cling to him like expensive cologne, had cornered you near the library earlier that day. His words, repeated with a sickening accuracy by those who had overheard and were still reeling from the audacity, echoed in your mind, sending a shiver of disgust and a prickle of humiliation down your spine:

"Hey, scholarship princess. Heard you're scrubbing floors at some dive to pay mommy's bills. With a body like yours, you could probably make way more than minimum wage if you actually tried. Maybe drop the goody-two-shoes act and use what you've got, huh?"

The blatant objectification, the crude insinuation about your body and your desperate financial situation, the sheer disrespect in his tone, made your blood run cold. It was a violation, a disgusting intrusion that left you feeling exposed and vulnerable, the carefully constructed walls around your private life crumbling under the weight of his vulgar assumptions.

Later that week, the memory of Minho's words still a bitter taste in your mouth, you found yourself alone with Han near the humming vending machines, the awkward silence between you thick and uncomfortable. You hesitated for a moment, the question weighing heavily on your tongue, then decided to broach the subject again. "Han," you began softly, your voice barely above a whisper, the humiliation still raw. "I… I heard what Minho said. About… about my body… and… everything." The words felt foreign and shameful, a stark reminder of the vulnerability you tried so hard to conceal.

He flinched, his eyes, which had been idly scanning the snack selection, snapped to yours, hardening into a dangerous glint. "Who told you?" His voice was low, almost a growl.

"It doesn't matter," you said quietly, meeting his intense gaze. "What matters is… why? Why did you…"

He cut you off, his voice surprisingly harsh, the raw protectiveness evident despite his dismissive words. "Why do you wanna know? He spouts shit, and you aren't all that… you know." He trailed off, his usual eloquence failing him, the memory of Minho's disgusting appraisal clearly still fueling his anger, a possessive fury that both surprised and slightly unnerved you.

You stared at him, a confusing mix of emotions swirling within you. Hurt at his dismissive tone, a flicker of something akin to gratitude for his defense, but also a strange, unsettling warmth blooming in your chest at the fierce, albeit violent, loyalty he had displayed.

The image of his enraged face, the sheer, uncharacteristic fury in his eyes, lingered in your mind, a stark contrast to his usual playful demeanor. It was then, amidst the lingering shock, the uncomfortable tension, and the unsettling protectiveness in his gaze, that the buried feelings you’d tried so diligently to ignore since your first year began to stir, their roots running deeper than you’d ever dared to acknowledge.

The line between irritation and something far more complex was beginning to blur, and the unexpected violence, ignited by those vile words about your body and your circumstances, had somehow shaken it all awake, leaving you questioning everything you thought you knew about Jeonghan.

The relentless rhythm of university life continued, a predictable cycle of lectures, assignments, and the ever-present weight of your responsibilities as student council head.

But beneath this familiar surface, a new layer of anxiety had begun to fester. The memory of Minho's crude words, coupled with the unsettling protectiveness in Han's violent reaction, lingered like a persistent shadow. Adding to this growing unease was the constant, gnawing fear of your carefully guarded secret being exposed.

The chipped mugs and the weary smiles of your colleagues at the café had always been a world apart from the polished veneer of your university. It was a life you kept fiercely compartmentalized, a necessity born of your family's circumstances that you shielded with a quiet desperation from the judgmental eyes of your privileged classmates. The fear of that wall crumbling had always been there, a low hum of anxiety beneath the surface of your daily life.

Then, the inevitable happened. It started with a fleeting notification on your phone, a screenshot shared within a class group chat you rarely engaged with. A grainy, unflattering image flashed across the screen – undeniably you, in your slightly faded café uniform, a tray laden with steaming cups clutched in your hand, your hair pulled back haphazardly beneath a slightly stained hairnet. The caption, crude and mocking, stung more than you cared to admit: "Our esteemed S.C Head slumming it? Guess those scholarships don't cover everything." It had been taken during one of your late-night shifts, capturing a moment of weary concentration that was twisted into something pathetic and demeaning.

In a world where designer labels were practically a birthright and weekend discussions revolved around ski trips and yacht parties, the image was a stark, unwelcome intrusion. It ripped away the carefully constructed facade of the diligent, no-nonsense student council head, revealing the stark reality of your existence: the scholarship student working a dead-end job to keep her family afloat. The digital whispers began almost immediately, a low hum of curiosity quickly escalating into a deafening chorus of judgment and ridicule.

The fact that you had earned your place at this prestigious institution through sheer hard work and unwavering dedication, a testament to your intelligence and resilience, was conveniently ignored.

The narrative swiftly morphed. You, the seemingly unyielding and strict student council head, were now exposed, vulnerable, a target for the casual cruelty of those who had always resented your authority.

The air of respect your position once commanded seemed to evaporate, replaced by a palpable shift in the way people looked at you – a mixture of pity, disdain, and a smug sense of superiority.

Anonymous messages flooded your student council email. One particularly nasty one read: "So, S.C Head, when are you going to start serving coffee during student council meetings? Maybe you can earn some extra tips."

Graffiti, scrawled in hurried marker, appeared on the bathroom stalls. Underneath a crude drawing of someone vaguely resembling you holding a tray, someone had written: "From Council Head to Coffee Maid." The whispers followed you like a persistent shadow, echoing in the hallways. As you walked past a group of impeccably dressed girls, you heard one murmur, just loud enough for you to catch, "Well, look who it is. Fancy seeing her outside of a uniform." Another snickered in response.

You tried to ignore them, to keep your head down, to lose yourself in your studies, but the constant scrutiny, the thinly veiled contempt in the eyes of your peers, began to erode your carefully constructed composure. Even during lectures, you could feel their gazes on you, a silent, collective judgment that made your skin crawl.

One particularly cruel message, slipped into your locker, detailed fabricated stories about the supposed squalor of your "humble abode." "Heard the rats pay more rent than her family," it sneered, the implication clear that you were somehow an imposter, undeserving of being among them. The words, dripping with a disdain for a life you had no choice but to live, hit you with the force of a physical blow. A wave of shame, a feeling you had fought so hard to suppress, washed over you, leaving you feeling exposed and utterly humiliated.

You started avoiding eye contact, your shoulders hunching defensively as you navigated the crowded hallways. The snickers and muttered comments, though often just out of earshot, still stung, each one a tiny pinprick of cruelty chipping away at your carefully maintained stoicism.

The weight of your secret, once a private burden, was now a public spectacle, and the judgment felt suffocating, threatening to crush the very foundations of your hard-won place at the university. The unveiling of your other life had not brought understanding or empathy; it had brought only a fresh, stinging wave of disdain and isolation. You began to dread walking through the campus, the once familiar halls now feeling like a gauntlet of silent condemnation.

The cafeteria, once a bustling hub of student life, had transformed into a minefield for you. The clatter of trays and the boisterous chatter, once mundane background noise, now seemed to carry a sinister undercurrent, each laugh and whispered word potentially directed at you.

You had become a ghost in your own school, navigating the crowded tables with your gaze fixed firmly on the scuffed linoleum floor, a silent plea etched on your face to be rendered invisible. Lunchtime, once a brief respite, had become a daily exercise in forced solitude and silent endurance, each bite of your carefully packed lunch feeling like a leaden weight in your already burdened stomach.

Han’s usual raucous laughter and the easy, often insensitive, banter of his privileged entourage echoed across the vast space, a familiar sound that now struck a jarringly discordant note against the backdrop of your isolation. They seemed untouched by the subtle yet pervasive cruelty that clung to you like a persistent cloud, their world of inherited wealth and effortless comfort continuing its smooth, untroubled trajectory.

Yet, you had observed subtle shifts in Han’s demeanor in recent days. The ever-present smirk, his trademark expression, seemed to flicker less frequently, often replaced by a deep furrow in his brow, a restless energy in his movements, his gaze sweeping across the crowded tables with a searching, almost worried quality.

One particularly difficult afternoon, as you carefully maneuvered through the throng of students, clutching your worn lunch bag and desperately seeking the sanctuary of an unoccupied corner, you couldn't help but overhear fragments of their conversation. Jaehyu, Han’s loud and often tactless friend, was holding court, his voice booming with a cruel, self-satisfied edge.

"Did you see the comments under that photo? 'S.C Head serving the masses!' Hilarious! Looks like our perfect little scholarship student isn't so high and mighty now, wiping down sticky tables for a living." His cronies erupted in a chorus of boisterous laughter, the sound echoing through the cafeteria like a series of sharp, deliberate jabs. You flinched, your grip tightening on the brown paper bag, your cheeks flushing with a potent mix of shame and a simmering, impotent anger. You kept your gaze resolutely down, willing yourself to become one with the peeling paint on the nearby wall.

Finally, your eyes landed on a small, unoccupied table tucked away in a dimly lit corner near the overflowing recycling bins. It wasn't ideal, but it offered a semblance of privacy.

You hurried towards it, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs, the whispered judgments feeling like physical shoves. You just wanted to eat your simple sandwich in quiet solitude, to find a brief, precious moment of escape from the suffocating weight of their disdain. But before you could even lower yourself onto the hard plastic chair, Jaehyu’s voice, laced with deliberate malice and amplified by a sudden lull in the surrounding noise, cut through the remaining lunchtime hum like a jagged shard of glass.

"Well, well, well," he drawled, his eyes locking onto yours with a smug, cruel satisfaction that made your stomach clench and a wave of nausea rise in your throat. "Look who it is. The queen of rule enforcement, the one who docked points from our club for being five minutes late. Maybe you should focus on clocking in on time at your real job, huh? Wouldn't want to get fired from your oh-so-glamorous career."

A fresh, brutal wave of cruel laughter rippled through his small group, the sound hitting you with the force of a physical shove, each guffaw a fresh wave of humiliation. Your breath hitched, and you instinctively lowered your head further, the familiar sting of tears pricking fiercely at the back of your eyes. You squeezed them shut, fiercely blinking them back. You wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing you break, of witnessing your pain. You had learned long ago to swallow the hurt, to build an invisible wall against their relentless cruelty.

But before you could retreat completely into your self-imposed invisibility, a sudden, sharp, and undeniably violent sound ripped through the remaining laughter, silencing the entire cafeteria as if an invisible hand had clamped down on the noise. A sickening thud, followed by a collective gasp and a sharp intake of breath from the stunned onlookers.

You looked up in stunned disbelief, your eyes widening in shock. Han stood over Jaehyu, his usually playful face contorted into a mask of thunderous, incandescent fury. Jaehyu lay sprawled on the sticky linoleum floor, clutching his jaw with a look of utter shock and dawning, agonizing pain contorting his features. The entire cafeteria fell into an eerie, absolute silence, the only sounds the scraping of overturned chairs and the hushed, disbelieving whispers rippling through the stunned crowd. A few brave (or perhaps foolishly curious) souls fumbled for their phones, their screens illuminating the unfolding drama with a cold, digital glow, capturing the unbelievable scene.

"Apologize to her," Han’s voice was low, dangerous, each syllable laced with a cold, hard steel you had never heard before, a stark contrast to his usual lighthearted tone. His eyes, blazing with a fierce, protective rage that seemed to emanate from his very core, were fixed on Jaehyu, who was slowly pushing himself up, his face a grotesque tableau of pain and utter bewilderment.

Jaehyu, clearly disoriented and not quite comprehending the sudden, brutal assault, stammered, "W-what? Why the hell would I apologize to her? She's the one who needs to apologize for being such a stuck-up-"

Han’s glare intensified, a silent, lethal threat that brooked no argument. The air around him seemed to crackle with barely suppressed violence. "Apologize. To. Her. Instantly, Jaehyu." His voice was a low growl, promising swift and unpleasant consequences for disobedience.

Jaehyu, despite his confusion and the throbbing agony in his jaw, seemed to recognize the raw, unadulterated fury in Han’s eyes, a primal anger that promised further pain if he dared to defy it. He mumbled a grudging, barely audible, "S-sorry," in your general direction, his gaze darting nervously between your stunned face and Han's menacing glare, his usual bravado completely evaporated, replaced by a palpable fear.

Confusion rippled through Han’s small group of friends. Seokhyun, usually the most jovial and easygoing of the bunch, stared at Han in utter disbelief, his mouth agape. "Yah, Jeonghan! What the actual hell was that? Why would you hit him? He was just joking! She needs to lighten up! She’s always acting like she’s better than everyone, lording her student council position over us."

Han’s head snapped towards Seokhyun, his eyes flashing with a raw, untamed rage that made Seokhyun visibly flinch, taking an involuntary step back, his usual easy smile nowhere to be seen. "Shut your damn mouth, Kim Seokhyun," Han spat, his voice dangerously low, each word dripping with contempt. "Making fun of someone for working hard to support their family isn't a 'joke.' It's pathetic, cruel, and reveals more about your rotten character than hers. Unlike some of us who waltzed in here on daddy's platinum card, she earned her place with a hundred percent scholarship. She's smarter, more hardworking, and possesses more integrity in her little finger than all of you entitled brats combined. And you want to tear her down for helping her mother? You want to make her feel ashamed of her strength and sacrifice? You'll have to go through me first, you understand?"

He turned abruptly, his gaze, still burning with a fierce protectiveness, locking onto yours across the stunned silence of the cafeteria. Without a word, he strode towards your table, his movements rough yet strangely determined, his eyes conveying a silent message of solidarity and unwavering support. He reached you, his hand closing around your arm, his touch surprisingly gentle despite the lingering tension radiating from him. He didn't say a word as he pulled you up from your chair, his eyes burning with an intensity you couldn't quite decipher, and began to lead you out of the stunned cafeteria, leaving behind a sea of bewildered faces, dropped trays, and the lingering echo of his unexpected, fierce, and utterly bewildering defense. As he guided you through the stunned crowd, you could hear whispers following in your wake, a mixture of shock, confusion, and a dawning, perhaps grudging, respect.

Han’s grip on your arm, though firm enough to guide you through the stunned and whispering crowd, possessed a surprising gentleness, a stark contrast to the raw fury he had displayed moments before. The whispers followed in your wake, a low, persistent hum of confusion, speculation, and perhaps even a grudging respect, but you barely registered them. Your mind was a whirlwind of disbelief, the unexpected outburst replaying in a loop, the fierce, almost possessive protectiveness Han had exhibited a stark and bewildering contrast to the carefree, infuriating troublemaker you thought you knew.

He didn’t speak as he steered you out of the bustling, judgmental atmosphere of the cafeteria and into the relative quiet and anonymity of a deserted hallway, the echoing silence amplifying the frantic beating of your own heart. The tension between you was thick, a palpable weight of unspoken questions, lingering shock, and a strange, burgeoning sense of… something you couldn't quite name. He finally stopped near a row of cold metal lockers, turning to face you, his hands still resting lightly but possessively on your arms, his touch sending a confusing mix of warmth and unease through you. His usual playful eyes, so often crinkled in amusement or mischief, were now dark, troubled, and filled with an uncharacteristic intensity that made your breath catch in your throat.

"Why?" he finally asked, his voice rough, the earlier, incandescent anger still simmering beneath the surface, a low growl in his tone. "Why didn't you say anything? Why did you just… stand there and take it? Why are you so… ashamed?" The question hung in the air between you, a direct accusation that pierced through the carefully constructed layers of your stoicism.

The dam you had so carefully, so painstakingly constructed over the past few weeks, the fragile barrier you had erected against the constant barrage of judgment, finally cracked. The carefully constructed walls you’d built around your deepest insecurities, your most vulnerable truths, crumbled under the unexpected weight of his fierce defense and his direct, probing question. The words tumbled out of you, a torrent of raw emotion you hadn’t even realized you were holding back, a desperate outpouring of the pain and exhaustion you had carried in silence for so long.

"Because…" your voice trembled, catching in your throat, thick with the unshed tears that had been threatening to spill over for weeks. "Because it's true, isn't it? They're right. I am the scholarship kid working a dead-end job. I do come from nothing. And every single day, I walk through these halls feeling like I don't belong, like I'm an imposter in a world that wasn't built for me. I work my ass off at the café after classes, come home late, help my mom with bills, with rent… I’m tired, Han. So incredibly tired of trying to pretend that I’m just like them, that their cruel words don't cut me to the bone, that their disdain doesn't leave me feeling hollowed out."

Your voice broke completely, the carefully held back tears finally breaching the surface, hot and stinging against your pale cheeks. You hated crying in front of anyone, the ingrained habit of appearing strong, self-sufficient, and in control too deeply ingrained in your very being. You clenched your fists, your nails digging into your palms, trying desperately to regain some semblance of composure, but the floodgates had opened, and the vulnerability was already out in the open, raw and exposed for him to see.

Without a word, Han’s expression underwent a profound shift. The lingering anger in his eyes softened, the hard edges melting away, replaced by a look of something akin to deep understanding, a surprising tenderness that made your breath catch in your throat and your heart clench with a confusing mix of emotions. He gently released your arms, his touch lingering for a fleeting moment, and with a hesitant, almost reverent movement, reached out and cupped your face in his surprisingly warm hands. His touch was a small, unexpected comfort in the overwhelming storm of your emotions, a silent acknowledgment of your pain.

He didn't say anything, just looked at you, his gaze searching, empathetic, as if he were trying to absorb the depth of your hurt. Then, in a move that completely took you by surprise, a gesture both unexpected and strangely comforting, he gently scooped you up in his arms, cradling you against his chest as if you weighed nothing, his strong arms a surprising anchor in your turbulent sea of emotions. You gasped, a startled sound escaping your lips, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck for support, your face buried in the soft fabric of his expensive-smelling shirt, the familiar scent oddly grounding.

He carried you out of the university building, the surprised and curious glances of the few students you passed in the hallway fading into a blurry, irrelevant background. He didn't say a word, just held you close, his steps steady and sure, his presence a silent promise of safety and understanding. He carefully settled you into the plush leather of the passenger seat of his sleek, impeccably maintained car, his eyes filled with a quiet concern and a depth of emotion you had never associated with the playful, often infuriating, Jeonghan.

"Let it out," he murmured, his voice low and soothing, his hand resting gently but firmly on your arm, his thumb stroking your skin in a small, comforting gesture. "Don't hold back. I won't turn around unless you tell me to." He was about to close the door, giving you the privacy you so desperately needed, when you reached out, your hand gripping his arm tightly, a silent plea for connection. You pulled him towards you, burying your face in his chest again, the sobs you had been fighting back for so long finally wracking your body, each one a release of pent-up pain and humiliation. The tears streamed down your face, hot and unrestrained, soaking into the soft fabric of his shirt, a physical manifestation of the emotional dam finally breaking. And the whole time, he just held you close, his arms a safe and unexpected harbor in the storm of your emotions, his presence a silent, unwavering promise of comfort, understanding, and something that felt suspiciously like… care.

The rhythmic sound of your sobs gradually subsided, each hiccuping breath leaving behind a raw ache in your chest and a damp, slightly embarrassing patch on the front of Han’s expensive-looking shirt. You finally pulled back, your face flushed and tear-streaked, your eyes swollen and red, reflecting the tumultuous emotions that had just poured forth. You felt utterly exposed, vulnerable in a way you hadn’t allowed yourself to be in years. The fact that it was Han, the very person who usually exasperated you with his antics and tested your patience to its limits, who had witnessed your complete emotional unraveling felt strangely disorienting, yet also… oddly comforting.

He didn’t say anything, just offered you a small, surprisingly gentle smile, a stark contrast to his usual mischievous grin, and a clean, subtly scented handkerchief from the inner pocket of his jacket. You took it with a shaky hand, dabbing at your wet cheeks and swollen eyelids, avoiding his direct gaze, a wave of self-consciousness washing over you. The silence in the car was thick, no longer charged with the earlier tension and unspoken shock, but with a fragile, almost sacred intimacy, a quiet understanding that had unexpectedly blossomed between you.

After a few moments of awkward but not entirely uncomfortable silence, you finally found your voice, still thick with the remnants of your sobs. "Thank you," you mumbled, your gaze fixed on your hands, which were clasped tightly in your lap, the knuckles white. "For… for everything. For today… and…" you trailed off, unsure how to articulate the confusing mix of gratitude and burgeoning realization swirling within you.

He just nodded slowly, his eyes still filled with that unfamiliar, tender concern that made your heart flutter in a way it never had before. "Are you… okay now?" he asked softly, his voice laced with a genuine worry that surprised you.

You took a deep breath, a shaky exhale that still hitched slightly. "I will be," you said, the words carrying a newfound lightness, as if releasing the pent-up tears had also released some of the immense weight you had been carrying for so long. You finally lifted your gaze to meet his, a question, a hesitant curiosity, forming in your eyes. "Han… why did you do all that? Back in the cafeteria. And… all those times before? The drinks… the chocolate… you always act like you can’t stand me, like I’m just a constant source of irritation."

Han shifted uncomfortably in his plush leather seat, finally breaking eye contact and staring intently out the front windshield, as if the answers to your questions were etched on the glass. A faint blush, starting at his ears, crept up his neck, a tell-tale sign of his rare discomfort. "I… well, that's not exactly true," he mumbled, his fingers fiddling nervously with the car keys dangling from the ignition.

"What isn't true?" you pressed gently, a hopeful tendril reaching out within you, a hesitant anticipation of something unexpected.

He finally turned back to you, his gaze earnest, almost vulnerable, the usual playful mask completely gone. "I never hated you, (Y/N). Not even a little bit. Annoyed? Maybe sometimes," he admitted with a small, sheepish grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. He hesitated, then took a deep breath, as if bracing himself for a plunge into unknown waters. "Actually… it's kind of the opposite."

Your eyebrows shot up in genuine surprise, your carefully guarded composure momentarily forgotten. "The opposite?" you echoed, a bewildered laugh escaping your lips.

He nodded, his cheeks now flushed a deeper shade of pink, his gaze darting between your eyes and his fidgeting hands. "Yeah. I… I liked being around you. Even when you were scolding me for some ridiculous prank. Your frown… it was kind of cute, actually," he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper, a hint of his usual teasing creeping back in, but tinged with a newfound sincerity. He avoided your gaze again, a nervous energy radiating from him. "And… well, I noticed things. You always looked so tired, those dark circles under your eyes… and I remembered you mentioning once, ages ago, how much you loved that specific brand of overly sweet soda. The chocolate… well, I just… I know how bad period cramps can be. My younger sister… she goes through it too."

Your heart skipped a surprised beat. He noticed? All this time, amidst his chaotic pranks and infuriating teasing, he had actually been paying attention to the small, insignificant details of your life?

"You knew… about my period cramps?" you asked, a surprised, slightly disbelieving laugh bubbling up despite the lingering sadness.

He nodded sheepishly, a small, endearing smile finally gracing his lips. "Yeah, well… you always seemed to reach for dark chocolate those days. It wasn't exactly rocket science, Sherlock." He finally met your eyes again, his gaze surprisingly direct and unwavering. "And I knew about your scholarship, about your family… from the very beginning. You have this quiet strength about you, (Y/N). It's hard not to notice."

Your breath hitched in your throat. He knew? All this time, he had known about your struggles, your carefully guarded secrets, and instead of judging you, he had… he had been leaving you small, anonymous tokens of comfort?

"You always seemed so… together," Han continued, his voice softer now, almost hesitant, the playful teasing completely gone. "So strong, carrying all that responsibility on your own, never asking for help. But I could see it sometimes, the weight you carried, the exhaustion in your eyes. I just… I wanted to do something. Anything small, just to… to let you know someone saw it. So you wouldn't have to carry it all alone." He looked away again, his ears now a delicate shade of pink. "I… I think… I’ve liked you… a lot… since first year." The confession hung in the air between you, fragile and unexpected.

He backed off slightly, a nervous energy radiating from him, his expression a mixture of hope and trepidation, unsure of your reaction, his long-held secret finally laid bare. To his utter surprise, you reached out, your fingers trembling slightly as they tangled in the soft strands of his dark hair. You gently tugged him closer, your eyes searching the depths of his earnest gaze. And then, without thinking, without analyzing, without allowing the years of exasperation and perceived animosity to cloud your judgment, you leaned in and kissed him. It was a tentative kiss at first, a silent acknowledgment of the unexpected depth of his feelings, a soft exploration that spoke volumes. But it quickly deepened, a rush of long-suppressed emotions – gratitude, relief, and a powerful, undeniable affection – flooding through you, washing away the years of carefully constructed barriers. Your hands tightened in his hair as he instinctively pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around your waist, a silent, comforting embrace that spoke of a connection you had never dared to imagine.

He mumbled a soft, heartfelt, "I love you," against your lips, the words echoing the long-held secret that had finally found its voice within your own heart. "I love you too, Han," you whispered back, the confession a sweet, liberating release, a fragile beginning to something entirely new.

He pulled back slightly, his eyes wide and luminous, reflecting the shock and the burgeoning, almost incandescent joy that had bloomed in his chest. "You… you really do?" he murmured, his voice thick with a raw emotion that mirrored your own, a hopeful tremor running through him like a live wire. The nervous energy that had been radiating off him just moments before seemed to dissipate entirely, replaced by an almost childlike wonder, a sense of disbelief that mingled beautifully with his happiness.

You nodded, a genuine, heartfelt smile finally breaking through the remnants of your tears, a radiant expression that mirrored the pure joy now illuminating his handsome face. The heavy, suffocating weight that had been pressing down on your chest for so long, the burden of your secrets and your struggles, seemed to have miraculously lifted, replaced by a lightness you hadn’t experienced in what felt like an eternity. In the small, intimate sanctuary of his luxurious car, tucked away from the judgmental eyes and cruel whispers of the university, the harsh realities and societal pressures of the world outside seemed to recede into a hazy background, the only tangible reality the unexpected, profound connection you had forged in the crucible of vulnerability and unexpected affection.

Han reached out, his hand trembling ever so slightly as he gently cupped your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin with a feather-light, almost reverent touch. "So," he said, his voice soft, a tender whisper that resonated deep within you, a hint of his usual playful tone finally returning, but now imbued with a newfound depth of sincerity. "What… what exactly happens now, Head Girl?"

You leaned into his warm touch, a profound sense of peace settling over you, a feeling of finally being seen, truly seen, for the first time in a long time. The weight of your carefully constructed facade had finally been lifted, replaced by the liberating vulnerability of being completely yourself with someone who not only saw you but cherished you, flaws and all. "Now," you whispered, your eyes locking with his, a newfound resolve hardening your gaze, a quiet strength blossoming within you. "Now, we start over. Together." The word resonated with a profound sense of rightness, a solid promise of shared burdens, mutual support, and a future you no longer had to face alone.

A wide, unrestrained grin, the genuine, heart-melting kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes and lit up his entire face, spread across his features, chasing away the last vestiges of nervousness and uncertainty. A familiar spark of mischief flickered back into his eyes, a hint of the playful troublemaker you knew, but this time, it was different. It was a shared secret, a conspiratorial glint that hinted at future adventures, a promise of unwavering support, shared laughter, and a deep, abiding affection that transcended the superficial barriers of your different worlds. He leaned in for another kiss, a slow, tender exploration that sealed your unexpected beginning, a silent vow to face whatever challenges lay ahead, hand in hand, heart to heart. The road ahead wouldn't be easy; the ingrained prejudices of your classmates wouldn't vanish overnight, and the stark realities of your different socioeconomic backgrounds still loomed. But for the first time in a long time, you didn't feel like you had to shoulder the weight of the world on your own. You had Han, your infuriating, surprisingly perceptive, fiercely protective, and now, undeniably loving Han, by your side. And somehow, in that precious moment, that realization made all the difference in the world, painting a hopeful hue over a future that had previously seemed so daunting. The persistent headache that had been your constant companion throughout the tumultuous senior year seemed to finally recede, replaced by a quiet, burgeoning warmth that spread through your chest, a tangible promise of brighter, shared days to come.

The End

#fluff

700 notes · View notes

setralinehoe · 1 month ago

Text

melody of us.

pairing — husband!anton x fem!reader

summary — anton’s first solo mini-album has just dropped, and every note, every lyric, is a piece of your life together woven into sound. as his wife, you’ve watched him pour his heart into this project while balancing his schedules with riize, late-night studio sessions, and quiet moments with you. the album tells your story about how you met, the way he fell for you, the little quirks he adores, and the promises he’s made. one evening, he sits you down, headphones in hand, and plays it for you, his shy smile hiding the nerves as he waits for your reaction.

warnings — pure fluff, maybe a little overwhelming sweetness, mentions of real-life exhaustion (but nothing heavy), and a whole lot of love that might make your heart ache in the best way (i hope)

🪿’s note — hello!! i hope all you anton lovers out there like this fanfic. just wanted to say that my requests are currently open, so feel free to send in anything! if you wanna talk about riize, fanfics, or literally anything else or if you just need someone to chat with, my ask box is always open. don’t be shy!! xx

📌 any feedback are appreciated, i’d love to know what you think of my first mini-series, request open or send ask → 💌🦕🩵 !

“jagi, can you come here for a sec?”

anton’s voice drifts from the living room, soft but with that little edge of excitement you’ve learned to pick up on. you poke your head out from the kitchen, where you’ve been pretending to organize the counter just to keep your hands busy.

“what’s up, babe?” you call back, wiping your hands on a dish towel before stepping into the room.

he’s on the couch, legs tucked under the blanket you both love, his phone in one hand and those fancy headphones he’s so proud of in the other. his hair’s a mess probably from tugging at it all day and he’s got this shy, nervous smile that makes him look much cuter than he is.

“just… sit with me,”

he says, patting the spot next to him.

“i’ve got something to show you.”

you raise an eyebrow, tossing the towel over your shoulder as you walk over.

“is this about that secret project you’ve been hiding? because i swear, if it’s another guitar riff at 3 a.m…”

he laughs, that breathy sound that always gets you, and shakes his head.

“no, no. it’s done. my solo album. and, uh… it’s about you.”

you stop mid-step, blinking at him. “… wait, what?”

“yeah.”

he rubs the back of his neck, cheeks going pink.

“every song. it’s us. i wanted you to hear it first.”

you plop down next to him, the blanket shifting as you tuck your legs under it too. he’s been juggling so much lately with riize member rehearsals, flights, those late-night calls where he’s half-asleep but still asks about your day.

you knew he was working on something solo, but this? your heart’s already doing flips.

“okay, you’ve got my attention,” you say, leaning closer.

“show me.”

he hands you the headphones, fumbling a little as he pulls up the tracks on his phone.

“just… listen, okay? tell me what you think after.”

you nod, slipping them on, and he presses play.

the first track is.

‘first light’, all gentle acoustic strums and a melody that feels like sunrise. his voice comes in, smooth and tender, singing about the day he realized he loved you, coffee steam curling in the air, your laugh breaking through his sleepy haze. you remember that day, the lyrics paint it so clearly, and you feel your chest tighten.

then comes ‘habit’,

upbeat and playful, with a bassline that makes you want to dance. it’s about the little things of how you always steal his hoodies, the way you hum off-key in the shower, how he can’t sleep without your legs tangled in his. he’s sneaky with the details, slipping in that one time you burned toast and blamed it on him. you glance at him, and he’s watching you, biting his lip to hide a grin.

the third track named ‘anchor’, slows it down. it’s raw, just his voice and a piano, and it hits you hard. he sings about the chaos of his life with schedules, endless flights, the pressure and how you’re the steady thing keeping him grounded.

‘you’re my safe place, my always,’

he croons, and you feel tears prick your eyes because you know how much he means it. you’ve held him through those exhausted nights, his head on your shoulder, whispering that he’s okay as long as you’re there.

the last track is ‘vow’.

and it’s quiet, almost hushed, like a secret. the lyrics are simple but heavy with promise, about growing old with you, building a life, loving you through every season. it’s not flashy, but it feels like he’s handing you his heart all over again, just like he did when he proposed.

the final note fades, and you pull off the headphones, blinking fast to keep from crying. but then anton leans forward, tapping his phone screen.

“wait, one more thing,” he says, voice soft.

“there’s a credits track. it’s not really a song, just… something i had to add.”

you slip the headphones back on, curious, and a quiet recording starts. it’s just him speaking, his voice a little rough like he’s nervous again but still sweet.

‘uh, so… this album wouldn’t exist without you,’ he begins, and you can picture him in the studio, hunched over the mic.

‘to my wife, my muse, my everything, thank you for being the reason i can write, the reason i can breathe. every melody here is yours.’ there’s a pause, then his voice softens even more.

‘remember our wedding day? when we stood there, and i said, ‘i promise to hold you through every storm, to find you in every crowd, to love you louder than any song’? you said, ‘i promise to be your quiet place, your wild adventure, your forever home.’ those vows they’re in every note here.’

another pause, and then you hear it, your laugh, bright and unfiltered, recorded from some random moment he must’ve snuck onto his phone. ‘and that sound? that’s my favorite melody of all. i love you, always.’ he lets out a shaky laugh, and the recording ends.

you pull the headphones off again, and this time you’re a full-on mess, tears streaming down your face. anton’s staring at you, wide-eyed, like your reaction might make or break him.

“so…?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

you don’t even know where to start.

“anton, this is… it’s us. it’s everything.”

you lean forward, cupping his face in your hands, and he exhales, like he’d been holding his breath.

“that credits track? our vows? my laugh? i’m sobbing, you babo. it’s beautiful.”

“you’re beautiful,”

he says, so earnest it makes you laugh through the tears.

“i just wanted to tell our story. i mean, riize is my dream, but you’re… you’re my life.”

you kiss him then, soft and slow, tasting the salt of your own tears and the warmth of him. he pulls you into his lap, arms wrapping around you like he’s afraid to let go, and you stay like that for a while, the album still humming faintly through the headphones on the couch.

“play it again,” you murmur against his shoulder, and he smiles, reaching for his phone.

“only if you sing along this time,” he teases, and you groan, knowing he’ll never let you live down your off-key shower performances.

but you do it anyway, because it’s him, and this is your story, this messy, perfect, and all yours.

#domestic fluff

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setralinehoe · 2 months ago

Text

Lost for words

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Reader (established relationship)

Summary: Bucky can't keep his hands to himself while your on a call with Yelena, wanting all your attention, making you lose your focus.

Based off this prompt from Pinterest

Word count: 3.1k+ (I kinda got too into it lol)

Warnings and tags: Clingy Bucky, he's a menace, Yelena mentioned (bestfriend), neck kisses, more kisses, Bucky is basically touch starved, cute relationship dynamics, Bucky can't keep his hands off of you.

A/n: this is my little treat for my 100 followers milestone. Thank you guys!! Enjoy the fic!!

Love you guys <3

Ps. Go read chapter 1 of my new series Business Proposal ♡

Also requests are open.. feel free to send 'em.!!

You liked to think of your apartment as a sanctuary. Sure, the walls were a little thin, and the paint on the windowsill was starting to peel, but it was yours. A cozy home that smelled of vanilla-scented candles, fresh laundry, and the faint aroma of Bucky’s cologne that seemed to linger everywhere these days.

Most days, Bucky Barnes, your sometimes frustrating, always handsome boyfriend—respected that sense of peace. After all, you’d established a routine of sorts: quiet mornings sipping coffee together, mid-day breaks where he’d slip away for a run or to tinker with something mechanical in the spare room, and lazy evenings spent on the couch binge-watching the latest Netflix series.

But today, it seemed, he had other ideas. You were leaning against the kitchen counter, your phone pressed to your ear, talking to Yelena Belova—your best friend, occasional partner-in-crime, and the only person who could drag you into the most unexpected of situations. Today’s phone call was nothing dramatic, though. She was simply updating you on her day, complaining about a near-disastrous grocery trip, while you nodded and made little sounds of sympathy at all the right times.

It started out innocently enough: Bucky roaming into the kitchen, glancing your way, flashing you a quick grin. You raised your eyebrows in greeting, mouthing I’m on the phone, which typically was code for don’t do anything weird. He gave a small salute, as if to say Understood, ma’am, and disappeared around the corner.

But then, just as Yelena began launching into a story about the horrors of supermarket lines and fighting an old lady for pickles, you felt the faintest brush of warmth at your back. At first, you thought you were imagining it. You continued listening, your phone tucked snugly against your ear. But then a hand—large, warm, and far too confident, settled on your hip. You startled, nearly dropping the phone in surprise.

“Bucky,” you whispered, craning your neck to look at him. He was standing behind you, a lazy smile playing at his lips. “I’m on the phone,” you mouthed.

He only grinned in response, blue eyes sparkling with mischief. His voice, when he leaned in, was barely above a murmur. “I know.”

You shot him a pointed glare, one that said Behave yourself. But Bucky, of course, had never been particularly good at following that order.

Yelena’s voice in your ear continued, completely unaware. “So anyway, the cashier looked at me like I was some kind of weirdo for buying that much hot sauce. But it’s not my fault the best brand was on sale—are you even listening?”

“Yes,” you managed, voice slightly strained, “I’m listening. Sorry, I just—”

Bucky took that moment to press closer, his chest aligning perfectly with your back. The warmth of him was impossible to ignore. His lips brushed the shell of your ear, a barely-there touch that sent a chill of awareness down your spine. The phone nearly slipped from your fingers.

“Everything okay?” Yelena asked, clearly catching the odd shift in your tone.

“Fine,” you said too quickly. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to force yourself to focus. “Just, uh… I spilled something. Go on.”

You felt, rather heard Bucky’s chuckle against you. His arms slid around your waist, locking you in place. Slowly, he lowered his head to the crook of your neck, pressing a gentle kiss there. It was so light you might have imagined it—if not for the way your entire body tingled in response.

You could practically hear Yelena’s eyebrow arching on the other end of the line. “You sure you’re not busy? I can let you go if you’re… preoccupied.”

“No, no,” you insisted, ignoring Bucky’s soft hum of amusement. “I’m not preoccupied. Really, I’m—” You sucked in a sharp breath as Bucky’s lips dragged across your skin, teasingly slow. “I’m good,” you finished, sounding decidedly not good.

Bucky was a menace. You realized that with startling clarity. He was enjoying every second of this, too—the way your breath hitched, the way your shoulders stiffened when he kissed just behind your ear. If he’d come in loud and obvious, you could have pushed him away, shot him a glare, or at least excused yourself from the call. But this was worse. He was stealthy, methodical, lulling you into a trap with that soft voice, gentle kisses, and the faint scrape of his stubble against your neck.

And oh, you were definitely trapped.

“Let me guess,” Yelena said, suspicion in her tone, “Bucky’s there, isn’t he?”

Your mouth opened, but no words came out. Bucky took advantage of your silence, kissing a trail from the base of your neck up toward your jaw, each press of his lips making your heart pound harder.

"Uh,” you managed, “maybe.”

Yelena barked a laugh. “That’s a yes. Put me on speaker. I want to say hi.”

You stared at Bucky, who gave you a quizzical tilt of his head, as if to say What’s she saying? For a second, you debated whether or not to do as Yelena asked. If you put the call on speaker, she’d hear every little sound: the rustle of Bucky’s clothes against yours, the husky laughter you were certain would spill from his lips at any moment. But you couldn’t exactly refuse her, not without raising even more suspicion.

Reluctantly, you tapped the speaker icon. “Yelena, you’re on speaker,” you said, trying to sound composed. It was a losing battle.

“Barnes,” Yelena said, her tone mocking, “are you bothering my best friend again?”

Bucky cleared his throat. You felt the rumble of it against your back. “I wouldn’t call it bothering,” he said. His voice was low, smooth as silk. “I’m just showing her a little attention.”

You could practically see Yelena rolling her eyes. “She’s on the phone, you know. With me. Some people might say that’s rude.”

Bucky’s grip on your waist tightened slightly. “Rude, maybe,” he allowed, “but she’s been ignoring me all day. I had to get her attention somehow.”

You wanted to defend yourself, but the words lodged in your throat as Bucky nuzzled against the side of your neck again. Your eyes fluttered shut, and you had to bite your lip to keep from making any embarrassing sounds.

“Oh, I see how it is,” Yelena said, her amusement obvious. “You’re tormenting her.”

Bucky’s lips curved into a smirk against your skin. “Torment’s a strong word.”

“That’s because it is torment,” you finally managed, your voice shaky. “He’s being insufferable.”

Bucky hummed. “You don’t sound too unhappy about it, doll.”

You could hear Yelena snort. “I’ll let you two figure this out. Call me back when Barnes isn’t acting like a cat in heat.”

You tried not to laugh, but the giggle bubbled up anyway, half from the absurdity of the situation, half from your own flustered state. “Okay, okay. Talk to you later.”

The moment you hung up, Bucky wasted no time. He spun you around in his arms so that you were facing him, your phone clutched tightly in one hand. He wore a cocky grin that made you want to kiss him and slap that grin away, all at once.

“You have the worst timing,” you scolded, although your voice trembled with laughter.

He shrugged, not the least bit repentant. “You looked too adorable not to bother.”

You tried to arch an eyebrow in disapproval, but your heart wasn’t in it. Not when Bucky was looking at you like that, with those soft eyes and that infuriatingly handsome smirk. “I was on the phone.”

He leaned in, the tip of his nose brushing against yours. “I noticed.”

“You’re so full of yourself,” you grumbled, but you didn’t pull away when he ducked his head to press a slow, lingering kiss to your lips.

His hands settled on your hips, drawing you closer. “I learned from the best.”

Despite yourself, you melted into the kiss, letting the warmth of his body and the taste of his lips chase away your frustration. It was impossible to stay mad at him for long. Not when he kissed you like he was savoring every second.

When you finally pulled away, you were breathless. “I swear, you’re worse than Yelena sometimes.”

He laughed. “High praise.”

You tried to scowl, but the affection in his gaze made it impossible. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

He pressed a playful kiss to the tip of your nose. “I’ll take it.”

Later, you found yourself curled up on the couch, scrolling through messages on your phone. Yelena had sent a few texts, each more teasing than the last. You alive? Surviving Barnes’s torment? You typed back a quick reply: Barely. But yes. Thanks for leaving me high and dry.

Bucky appeared in the doorway, hands tucked in his pockets. “Need any help fending off Yelena’s jokes?” he asked.

You rolled your eyes. “You’re the one who gave her ammunition.”

He smirked, coming over to flop onto the couch beside you. “True. But I’m also the one who can help you forget about it.”

“Oh?” You arched a brow. “How exactly?”He reached out, plucking your phone from your hand. “By stealing your phone, for starters.” He tossed it onto the coffee table, far out of reach.

“Bucky!” You reached for it, but he caught your wrist, tugging you closer until you fell against his chest.

“You work too hard,” he said, settling you against him. “And you spend too much time on your phone. I’m just making sure you take a break.”

You snorted. “A break from Yelena’s teasing, or from your own mischief?”

He shrugged, running a hand up and down your arm. “Maybe both. Besides, I like having your full attention.”

“You had it in the kitchen,” you pointed out. “Remember? You nearly made me drop the phone.”

His smile widened, and you felt the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he laughed. “That was different. Now you can actually enjoy it.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but his fingers slid beneath your chin, guiding you into a kiss. It was slow, deep, and achingly sweet, every bit of teasing replaced by genuine warmth. Your annoyance melted away, replaced by a comfortable haze that made you forget anything beyond the two of you.

When you finally broke apart, he traced a thumb across your cheek. “I’m sorry if I bothered you,” he said softly, though there was still a playful glint in his eyes. “You know I can’t help it sometimes.”

You brushed your lips over his knuckles. “I know. And… I don’t actually mind.”

His grin turned lopsided. “You say that now, but wait until next time.”

You let out a mock groan, shoving him lightly. “Don’t push your luck.”

“Never,” he promised, though the twinkle in his gaze suggested otherwise.

A little while later, you found yourself in the kitchen again, rinsing dishes from a late lunch. Bucky hovered nearby, drying each plate you handed him. The domestic routine was soothing—until he decided to nudge you with his hip, nearly making you drop a fork.

“Seriously?” You glared at him, though you struggled to keep a straight face.

“What?” He feigned innocence. “My hand slipped.”

You snorted. “Sure it did.”

He set the plate aside, then stepped closer, the warmth of his body pressing against your back. You felt his breath on your neck again, and your heart kicked up a notch, recalling how he’d distracted you earlier. His lips grazed your ear.

“You’re adorable when you’re annoyed,” he murmured.

“Funny,” you replied, fighting a grin, “I was thinking you’re adorable when you’re not annoying me.”

He laughed quietly, nuzzling into your hair. “You still love me.”

With a soft sigh, you turned in his arms, letting the water run. “I do,” you admitted, resting your hands on his shoulders. “But you have to promise not to sabotage any more phone calls.”

His eyes sparkled with mischief. “I can promise to try.”

You knew that was the best you’d get. Rolling your eyes, you leaned in to kiss him, the warm press of his lips sending a pleasant hum through your body.

A sudden buzz echoed in the kitchen, and you both turned to see your phone vibrating on the counter. Yelena’s name flashed across the screen. Bucky grinned, lifting a brow. “Round two?”

You huffed, reaching for the phone. “Don’t you dare.”

He put his hands up in surrender, stepping aside with an exaggerated show of good behavior. You picked up the call, putting it on speaker before you could change your mind.

Yelena’s voice came through loud and clear. “Hey, troublemaker. You done making out with Barnes?”

Your cheeks flamed. “That was quick. And you’re the troublemaker.”

“Details, details,” she quipped. “Anyway, I was thinking about that recipe I mentioned earlier—”

“Oh, right. The spicy pickle challenge,” you said, glad to steer the conversation somewhere safer.

“Exactly. I need your help. I can’t figure out if I should make them into some kind of hot sauce, or if I should try a marinade. But I need to test it on someone who’s not me. You in?”

You glanced at Bucky, who mouthed, Absolutely not. Smirking, you replied, “Sure, why not?”

Yelena laughed. “Perfect. I’ll text you the details. And by the way, I’m bringing extra pickles so no old ladies can steal them from me.”

Bucky cleared his throat, stepping closer to the phone. “You’re not going to drag her into any fights, are you?”

“No promises,” Yelena shot back, then paused. “You being nice to her, Barnes? Or do I need to show up and save her?”

Bucky’s gaze flicked to you, a playful challenge in his eyes. “She doesn’t need rescuing from me.”

You decided to intervene before Yelena got any ideas. “Alright, enough bickering. I’ll see you soon, okay?”

“Fine,” she replied with a dramatic sigh. “But if he bugs you again, you call me.”

“Will do,” you said, rolling your eyes affectionately.

The call ended, and you braced yourself for another round of teasing, but Bucky just slipped his arms around your waist, looking surprisingly thoughtful. You looped your arms around his neck.

“You know,” he murmured, “I like seeing you happy. Even if it means occasionally getting on your nerves.” A warm flush spread through you. There was that sincerity again, the undercurrent of genuine care that anchored all his playful chaos. “You make me happy,” you said softly.

He brushed a stray hair from your face. “Good.”

That evening, you and Bucky ventured out for a walk. The late sunlight gilded the buildings, and a gentle breeze ruffled your hair. With your hands intertwined, the two of you wandered the streets, content to let the conversation flow.

He told you about his latest hobby—fixing up an old motorcycle he’d found cheap online—and you filled him in on Yelena’s plan to experiment with spicy recipes. Every so often, he’d nudge your shoulder or lean in to press a quick kiss to your temple, as if he couldn’t go too long without touching you.

Eventually, you ducked into a small corner café that you both loved. You ordered dessert first, justifying it with a laugh: “Life’s too short not to have cake for dinner.” Bucky agreed wholeheartedly, paying for your order and guiding you to a cozy table by the window.

Once seated, he studied you from across the table, fingers drumming idly on the surface. “So,” he said, “am I forgiven for earlier?”

You tilted your head. “I don’t know. You did cause me a lot of embarrassment in front of Yelena.”

He leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. “Would it help if I said I’m sorry?”

“Maybe,” you replied, smiling. “Try it and see.”

“I’m sorry,” he said in a low voice that made your heart flutter. “For distracting you while you were on the phone.”

Your smile widened. “And?"

He reached across the table to take your hand. “And for enjoying it so much.”

You squeezed his hand, unable to keep the fondness out of your eyes. “Apology accepted, menace.”

The café door chimed, and a few more customers wandered in. You sipped your drink, relaxing in the warm atmosphere. Bucky kept your hand in his, occasionally rubbing gentle circles with his thumb.

When your cake arrived, you split it, laughing as he stole the larger piece. He offered you a bite from his fork in apology, and you leaned forward, letting him feed you.

“Good?” he asked, eyes bright.

“Delicious,” you managed, savoring the sweetness.

He watched you with open admiration. “I like seeing you happy,” he repeated again, his voice softer now.

You reached for his hand, lacing your fingers together. “I’m happy because I’m with you.”

He held your gaze, and for a moment, the rest of the world fell away. You saw the man beneath the mischief—the one who cared so deeply, who’d learned to laugh again despite the shadows of his past.

“You know,” he said, clearing his throat, “I never thought I’d have this. Someone to tease, someone who gives it right back. Someone whom i could becso free with.”

Your heart clenched with affection. “And now you do.”

He nodded, a slight smile on his lips. “Now I do.”

When you finally left the café, the sun had dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in dusky blues and pinks. Bucky’s arm looped around your waist as you headed home, the city lights flickering on around you.

You strolled in comfortable silence until you reached your apartment. Once inside, you both kicked off your shoes and made a beeline for the couch. He settled in first, patting the cushion beside him in invitation.

“Come here,” he said, and you sank down, letting him pull you into his side.

He grabbed the remote, but instead of changing the broadcast, he clicked it off. The apartment went quiet, the only sound the distant hum of traffic through the window. You leaned your head on his shoulder, feeling his steady breath.

After a moment, he turned to press a soft kiss to your temple. “Thank you,” he murmured.

“For what?”

“For this. For us.”

You smiled into his shirt. “You don’t have to thank me for that.”

He tilted your chin up so you could meet his gaze. “I want to,” he said, and the quiet sincerity in his eyes made your chest tighten with emotion.

You reached up, brushing your thumb across his cheek. “Well, you’re welcome, then.”

He bent down, capturing your lips in a kiss that felt like a promise—of laughter, of mischief, of all the little moments that made up a life together. You let yourself sink into it, letting the warmth of his body and the softness of his mouth fill your senses.

Eventually, you both pulled back, breathless. He smoothed a hand over your hair, cradling you against him. “We should do something fun tomorrow,” he said. “Before you go help Yelena with her spicy pickles.”

You chuckled, snuggling closer. “Sure. But only if you behave the next time I’m on the phone.”

His laugh rumbled in his chest. “I’ll do my best, doll.” You didn’t quite believe him—but then again, you wouldn’t have it any other way.

In the end, Bucky was a whirlwind of affection and playfulness, and though you sometimes pretended to protest, you secretly relished every teasing moment. Because beneath the jokes and the stolen kisses, there was a profound sense of belonging that tied you together.

As the evening came by, you drifted off in his arms, content and warm. The memory of his soft laughter echoed in your mind, reminding you that even when he was a menace, he was yours—and you were his. And that was all that mattered.

#it's so fluffy i'm gonna die

1K notes · View notes

setralinehoe · 2 months ago

Text

It's everything I've always wanted and it's written perfectly.

Marked What's Mine

Pairings: husband!bucky barnes × wife!reader

Summary: You can hold your own—always have. But that doesn’t stop your husband from going full Winter Soldier mode when he sees someone laid a hand on you.

Warnings: Language, injuries, soft-but-intense husband!Bucky, protective behavior, possessiveness, comfort, fluff, violence mentioned (not graphic), "who did this to you?", lots of banter.

Word count: 1.3k+

A/n: this fic is from my poll where husband au and who did this to u prompt won. I will do the enemies to lovers in my next fic. Thank you for reading <3.

Divider credits: @saradika

Night- 1:47 AM

You turned the front doorknob with all the delicacy of a trained assassin—which, to be fair, you were.

No sound. Good.

You stepped inside, sliding your shoes off silently and tiptoeing like the floorboards might narc on you. You could practically hear your heartbeat in your ears.

He’d be asleep. He had to be.

You could get to the bathroom, clean up, hide the worst of it. He didn’t have to know. You didn’t want him to worry, to spiral. Not again.

You made it three steps down the hallway.

Then— “Don’t move.”

Shit.

His voice cut through the silence, low and lethal. It came from the living room.

You closed your eyes. "Hi, honey. I'm home."

A light flipped on.

Bucky stood by the couch, arms crossed, half in shadow. The sight of him—barefoot, hoodie loose over his broad chest, hair tousled from waiting up—would’ve been comforting, if not for the look in his eyes.

His gaze traveled from your face to your arms, your ribs, where blood had started to seep through your shirt.

He didn’t say a word.

You tried to play it off. “Before you say anything, it looks worse than it is—”

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“Who did this to you?”

You exhaled slowly. “Buck—”

“Don’t. Just…” His jaw clenched. “Stay right there.”

“Bucky, it’s fine. I dodn’t even need stitches—”

“You’re bleeding.” His voice trembled with something dangerous. “You’re limping. You snuck into your own damn house like a thief because you knew I’d lose it if I saw you like this. And guess what? You were right.”

He was in front of you in three long strides.

His hands—warm, shaking—came up to cup your face, careful to avoid the bruises.

“You weren’t supposed to see me like this,” you whispered. “You’d only worry.”

“I worry when you’re five minutes late for lunch. You think this is gonna lessen that?”

“I’m not made of glass—”

“You’re made of everything I live for.”

Your breath caught.

He scanned your injuries with haunted eyes. “Who did this?”

“It’s not important.”

“It is to me.”

You sighed. “I didn’t want you to spiral. Last time you saw me with a busted lip, you threatened to drown a guy in the Hudson.”

“I should’ve.”

“Bucky—”

“Tell me his name.”

You met his eyes. “If I do, you’ll find him.”

He didn’t deny it.

“And if I don’t?” you added.

“I’ll find him anyway.”

You groaned. “You are the most dramatic man I’ve ever met.”

He lifted you into his arms like it was nothing—like you didn’t have two working legs—and carried you down the hall.

“I’m intense,” he corrected. “Not dramatic.”

“You literally brooded in the dark waiting for me to get home.”

“You really thought I wouldn’t notice? Like my wife could come home hurt and I wouldn’t feel it in my chest?”

You let out a weak laugh. “God, you’re annoying.”

“You married me, doll. That’s on you.”

Twenty Minutes Later...

You sat on the bathroom counter while Bucky dabbed antiseptic over the cuts along your ribs, his brows furrowed like each mark physically hurt him more than it hurt you.

He hadn’t stopped touching you.

Even now, his thumb rubbed soft circles into your thigh as he worked.

“Doesn’t even sting,” you said.

“That’s not the point,” he muttered, placing another bandage carefully. “You came home bleeding. You flinched when you took your shirt off. You snuck in.”

“I didn’t want to see your sad little kicked puppy face,” you teased.

He glared. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“No, you’re lucky I love you. You’re high maintenance.”

“Says the woman who took on a six-foot mercenary solo and got cracked in the jaw for it.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You think I didn’t win?”

He paused. “Wait. You won?”

“Cracked three of his ribs and made him cry.”

He stared.

Then—slowly—he grinned.

“That’s my girl.”

You tried not to bask in it, but you totally basked in it.

Still, he wasn’t done.

As he finished wrapping the final gauze, he stood between your legs and stared at you like you held gravity in your hands.“I breathe for you,” he said, voice barely a whisper. “That’s it. That’s the only reason I get up in the morning.”

Your throat went tight. “Bucky—”

“You come home hurt, and it feels like the world’s off its axis. I can’t think. Can’t function. You’re not fragile, babe. You’re the strongest person I know. But the thought of losing you? I’d lose everything.”

God.

You buried your face in his chest, arms tight around him.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Too late. You did. You always do.”

You looked up. “You’re a menace, you know that?”

“You love it.”

“Unfortunately.”

He grinned and kissed your forehead.

Next Day – 2:00 PM

You woke up to an empty bed and a note on the pillow:

Had to step out. Be back soon. Don’t move too much or I’ll find out and carry you around like a baby until you learn your lesson. I love you more than oxygen.

—B <3

You rolled your eyes.

And sighed.

And smiled.

He came back at sunset. Calm. Too calm.

You didn’t even have to ask.

“You found him, didn’t you?”

He dropped his jacket. “Yeah.”

“And?”

“He’s not gonna be walking straight for a while.”

“Bucky…”

“And probably won’t be talking much either.”

You stared at him.

“He’ll live. Probably,” Bucky said with a shrug. “I was nice. For the first ten seconds.”

“Jesus—”

“He laid a hand on you. You really think I wasn’t gonna rearrange his face?”

You huffed, arms crossed, but you were secretly touched. And maybe a little turned on.

“You are so dramatic.”

“No. Dramatic is you sneaking past your literal super soldier husband with blood dripping down your shirt.”

“Fine,” you muttered, walking toward him. “You win.”

He caught you easily, arms pulling you in.

“I always win, doll,” he murmured, kissing your bruised temple. “Especially when it comes to you.”

The Next Morning – 9:07 AM

Sunlight filtered lazily through the curtains, painting golden stripes over the bed where you were curled up like a cat. One leg over the sheet. A little sore. A little achy. But warm.

Bucky stirred beside you, his metal arm slung protectively over your waist.

“You awake?” you mumbled.

“Was watching you breathe,” he rasped, voice still sleep-rough. “You twitch your nose when you’re dreaming.”

“You’re creepy.”

“You married me, sweetheart. This is your fault.”

You snorted, rolling to face him, wincing a little. He was already awake, already watching you with that look. Like you were sacred. Untouchable. His.

“You hurting?” he asked immediately, shifting to sit up. “Need painkillers? Water? I can carry you to the bath—”

“Bucky.”

He blinked.

“I’m okay. It’s just a bruise, not a broken limb. Stop hovering.”

“I’m not hovering.”

“You’re three seconds from spoon-feeding me cereal.”

“…Is that an option?”

You groaned and buried your face in his chest.

“You’re insufferable.”

He chuckled, warm and smug, tucking you tighter under his chin. You stayed like that for a while. Tangled limbs. Warm sheets. His fingers trailing soft patterns on your back like he couldn’t stand not touching you.

“Don’t do that again,” he whispered finally.

You didn’t pretend to not hear it. “Okay.”

“I know you’re strong. I know you can take care of yourself. But if something happens to you—I stop breathing. You get that?”

You swallowed hard. “I get it.”

“I love you so much it makes me a little insane.”

“Only a little?”

“I toned it down for your sake.”

You giggled. “You’re cute when you’re crazy.”

“Good. Because you’re stuck with me.”

You looked up, brushed the hair from his forehead, kissed him slow.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

#fave

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setralinehoe · 2 months ago

Text

Hey, Sergeant

Summary: Bucky Barnes x fe!Reader -> Yelena offers you a job, but you want to meet your new boss before you agree.

Disclaimer: Mentions of guns, fighting, swearing. Reader is trained as a Widow, Bucky has a massive crush. Not Proof Read.

He’d had a long day. Between training, meetings, mentoring and dealing with rush-hour traffic in New York; all Bucky wanted to do was get home, cook a decent meal, watch some TV and go to bed.

But, instead, he was forced to fight.

He knew something was off the minute he walked inside. There was a new smell. Not the perfume Natasha wore, or even whatever sage stick Wanda was burning. Something that he didn’t recognise.

But no one was inside.

There was a cup in the sink, still half filled with coffee. Someone was still drinking it. Leaving his groceries on the kitchen island, he touched the mug. It was still warm. Someone was definitely inside. But they hadn’t come out yet. They were hiding.

Bucky looked around, reaching for the weapon locked under the kitchen island. “I know you’re still here.”

Bucky listened out. A noise came from the pantry. As he moved over, he made sure he was still covered before opening it up. No one.

Kate had just left the crackers balancing on one of the baskets, again.��

Slowly, Bucky moved around the room. Making sure to check every hiding spot, he kept his eye out in case someone snuck up on him.

And they did.

From round a corner, you and Bucky came face to face. Your eyes, length of your hair, shape of your lips; each part of your face imprinted itself on his mind. If you got away, he’d still remember you.

“Who are you?”

“What is it to you?”

“You’re in my home.” Bucky told you.

“I’m here on invite,” you told him before reaching for his gun.

“What-” Bucky reached for yours.

You’d both switched positions. Bucky was against the wall. You started moving backwards as he walked forward.

“Who invited you?”

You smiled, your hand unwavering. “You seem pretty interested. Why don’t you guess?”

Bucky was stunned. Who the hell were you?

“Guess?”

You nodded. “Isn’t there something on your schedule for today, Sergeant Barnes?”

Bucky just stared at you. “Okay. Quit messing around. Who the fuck are you and why are you in my home?”

Rather than answering, you reached for your gun again. Before you knew it, you and Bucky were against the floor. He was above you.

He shook his head. “Not Hydra. Too eager. Hacker? Friday never signalled-”

You hit him just hard enough to roll yourself, trapping him under you. “Nice guess, but no.”

“You know, when I said you could meet him first, I didn’t mean like this.”

You both turned and looked at the door where Yelena was standing. “Are you done?”

You looked back at Bucky with a smile before standing up and getting off him, swiping your gun back as you did so. You checked the clip before making sure the safety was on and clipping it back to your side.

“Yelena, what the hell-”

“Before you yell, I brought her here.”

“Who is she?” Bucky asked, standing to his full height.

“She is your new assistant.”

“Assistant?”

Bucky turned and looked at you. You stood at ease. Like everything that had just happened…didn’t.

“I thought I told you I don’t-”

“Yes, you do. And there’s no point arguing with me, Bucky, because your scheduling is awful. You need help. And since you wouldn’t accept a Shield recruit, I brought Y/n.”

Bucky turned and looked at you. “You’re Red Room?”

You shook your head. “Red Room adjacent.”

Bucky closed his eyes for a split second and shook his head. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means I found her and she’s your new assistant. I trust her, Bucky.”

Bucky just looked away from Yelena and back at you, needing more than just one sentence.

“I was trained like I came from the Red Room. Secret files and footage my aunt got a hold of. Trained me up. Sent me to work. Few years later, Yelena found me thinking I was one of the brainwashed trainees.”

“And you’re, what? A secretary now?”

You chuckled and sat down. “I worked in an office through high school. It’s been a while but,” you looked around Bucky to Yelena and back to him. “It seems like I might be the only viable candidate.”

Bucky glared at Yelena, but she wasn’t accepting any excuse.

“You need someone, Bucky. And it’s either Y/n or Hill comes down here with a Shield Rookie.”

Bucky sighed. He couldn’t take another Shield Rookie.

“Monday.”

You smiled up at him. “Great.”

Nearly a year later, it was still the best job you’d ever taken. Well paid – Yelena made sure of that. Lots of work – Shield made sure of that, for both you and Bucky. And just…fun.

“James Buchanan Barnes!” You stood at the top of the hallway, your arms folded. Your voice was firm but not too mad. “So help me, God, if you don’t get your arse back here I will agree to Sam’s plan to set you up on a dating app.”

You and Joaquin watched as Bucky stopped walking. Despite his back being to both of you, you saw him take a big breath. You smiled and looked at Joaquin.

He turned around and walked back up the hallway to both of you. “Fine. I’ll do it. But I’m not gonna enjoy it.”

“That’s what you think,” you mumbled loud enough for him to hear. He shot you a glare, but you weren’t so easily withered.

Joaquin practically bounced on his feet. “Thank you. Seriously, Bucky.”

As he ran off in the other direction, pulling his phone out to make a call, Bucky turned to you. “I hate when you use my full name.”

“But I love your full name,” you smiled. Bucky just grunted and turned down the hall.

“Thank you,” you called after him, your voice a little softer. He just waved you a hand.

A week later, you were with Bucky in a tailor's shop. He was, yet again, messing with his collar.

You tapped his hand away and stood in front of him. “You need to quit it. Everything will be fine.”

“I can’t breathe in this thing.”

“Be glad you’re not in a corset.”

He just gave you a look.

You looked under the bow tie and fiddled with the buttons until they were undone. Pulling the bow tie from his collar, you looked around and judged different ties before picking one. You helped him tie it around his neck.

“You should come with me.”

You laughed. “Yeah, right.”

“I’m being serious. Joaquin said I should bring someone. And you’re my assistant. Technically you have to do what I say.”

You just gave a half smirk to Bucky. “What do you think the likelihood will be for me to say yes?”

He chuckled. “I know, but…please?”

You looked at him, his blue gaze locking on yours. His voice was soft. “I’m gonna need someone with me. And, as much as I appreciate people wanting to talk, I don’t think I can take an entire night of small talk. Please?”

A soft smile broke out on your face. “Okay. But only if you stop fidgeting with your collar.”

Bucky nodded. “I think I can do that.”

A week later, Bucky was watching you descend the stairs of the gala making him instantly regret his decision on asking you to be his date.

You looked…incredible.

To him, you outshone everyone in the room. A floor length gown that made you look like nothing less than a Greek Goddess. And that smile of yours…

He was weak at the knees. His heart was practically leaping out of his chest and his fingers itched to hold you close to him and never let you go.

Of course he knew you were beautiful. He didn’t spend practically every day with you and not notice. But that had been in a setting where he could set aside his most inner thoughts. He was your boss, technically. And you were his assistant. And also Yelena’s friend.

But in front of him at that moment…

His thoughts couldn’t be shut off. Everything seemed heightened. The setting, the idea that you were his date, that dress…

“You’re staring.”

Bucky broke out of his trace for a moment and smiled. “Sorry. Can’t help it. You look stunning.”

You felt your cheeks heat and you looked away from him to gather yourself together. You looked down at the dress. “Thanks.” You looked back at him. “Yelena helped me pick it out.”

Bucky nodded. “She’s got good taste.”

You smiled. “Ready for the wolves?”

He turned a little and held his arm out to you silently. “You might not have let me pick you up, but you’re gonna have to let me be a gentleman at some point.”

You let out a soft chuckle and took his arm. “Okay, Sergeant.”

The entire night was…something else. Something fun and…a memory you’d cherish forever.

Maybe he hated the fancy galas, but there was no denying Bucky Barnes looked good in a suit and tie. There was also no denying that he was a good dancer and you trusted him entirely. He was also nothing less than a gentleman.

You even got him to talk to a few people outside of his normal social circle. And each time you did, he just held you a little tighter, practically anchoring you to him. Not that you minded. You didn’t plan on running.

Maybe finding him a few more people to talk to just to extend the time you spent in his arms, sure. But not running.

By the time you got back, he dropped you back home.

“Thank you for coming with me tonight.”

You shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. It was fun.”

Bucky shrugged himself. “You still could have ditched it before. I wouldn’t have blamed you. But I’m glad you came.”

You looked at him and smiled. “So am I.”

Bucky waited until you turned a lamp on inside your home before he got back in his car and drove away, his mind wandering back to you each time the lights turned red.

#cute

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setralinehoe · 2 months ago

Text

Jackass

Summary : Everyone is horrified that Bucky is flirting with a married woman, but then they realise there's a reason why.

Pairing : Thunderbolts!Bucky Barnes x florist!reader (she/her)

Warnings/tags : Secret wife trope. Cursing, Injury. Featuring the Thunderbolts*. Bucky kinda gaslights the entire team. Fluff!!!!

Word count : 3k

Note : The next chapter of spoils of war is almost here, but I just need to go over a couple of paragraphs! In the meantime, enjoy!

The Thunderbolts knew a few undeniable truths about Bucky Barnes.

One: He was grumpy.

Two: He was a private person.

Three: He never, ever let anyone see where he lived.

That last one bothered them the most. They’d pieced together the general area; a quiet neighborhood with old brick buildings, modern cafés, and just enough charm to make it feel… vintage. But no one had ever set foot inside his home, no one had even seen him unlock the door to his sanctuary, since he dodged every casual suggestion to hang out at his place with a variation of “I got plans” or another. And, curiously, every time they stopped for coffee in this part of town, Bucky would mysteriously slip into the tiny flower shop beneath a brick apartment building.

That was odd. No one would’ve guessed that Bucky Barnes even liked flowers.

What was even odder was that this infinitely grumpy, emotionally constipated, “I hate people” supersoldier — would be capable of flirting.

With the florist.

With you.

“Are we seeing this right?” Yelena whispered, elbowing Alexei as they peered through the shop window after Bucky made them wait outside.

They watched as Bucky stood by the counter, leaning in ever so slightly, a charming grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watched you wrap a bouquet.

“He’s smiling,” Alexei muttered, horrified.

Inside, Bucky reached for the bouquet you were tying up, his gloved fingers brushing against yours. You playfully smacked his hand away, laughing. He laughed, too, and that was enough to send Yelena spiraling into an existential crisis.

Yelena squinted. “He’s flirting.”

Alexei frowned. “Bucky does not flirt.”

“I know. That’s why I’m freaking out.”

They watched as you handed him the bouquet, and in return, Bucky gave you a wink. And then he turned, walking out like he hadn’t just transformed into a different person.

That was when Yelena, utterly horrified Yelena, caught a flash of gold on your ring finger. She squinted her eyes. It was unmistakable. “Wait a second—”

As soon as he got back to them, Alexei folded his arms. “You were flirting.”

Bucky scoffed. “I was not.”

“She’s married!” Yelena accused, pointing dramatically. “She had a ring! You flirted with a married woman!”

Bucky didn’t even blink. He simply shrugged, tucking the bouquet carefully under his arm. “I didn’t see a ring.”

“She was literally wearing it—”

“I didn’t see a ring,” Bucky insisted, tugging absentmindedly at the chain around his neck— the one that held his dog tags, hidden under his shirt.

Yelena and Alexei exchanged a deeply disturbed look.

Bucky Barnes was flirting with a married florist.

What was the world coming to?

—

Bucky knew he’d fucked up the second he stepped back into Thunderbolts HQ.

Alexie had just looked confused, while Yelena had been simmering the entire walk back, her arms crossed so tightly over her chest it was a miracle she hadn’t snapped a rib.

She lasted exactly two seconds before she exploded. “You are jackass, Barnes!”

Bucky barely had time to sigh before she stomped closer.

“What’s so wrong with what I did?” he muttered, placing the bouquet of flowers in an empty vase

Yelena let out an incredulous laugh, pacing in front of him like a caged tiger ready to strike. “What’s wrong?” she echoed, her accent thickening with rage. “You flirted with a married woman! I should punch you in the face on principle!”

From the lounge, John Walker looked up from whatever government-issued nonsense he was pretending to read. His brows immediately furrowed, his eyes twisting into the signature disapproving dad look he’d perfected. “Wait, what?”

Ava, who had been drinking tea in the corner, raised an eyebrow. “This is scandalous,” she murmured, eyes brightening with intrigue.

Alexei, who was now plopped on the couch like some washed-up, Soviet-era king, said, “If a man had flirted with my wife like that, I would have hunt him down and mount his head on wall.” He crossed his arms, nodding to himself in approval. “As is tradition.”

Bucky scowled. “I wasn’t flirting.”

“Oh?” Yelena snorted, “So you were just undressing her with your eyes for fun, then?”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “That’s just how I look at people.”

Alexie shook his head. “So you look at us like that?”

Bucky opened his mouth. Then immediately shut it.

Yelena’s hands curled into fists. “Yeah. Thought so.”

John’s arms crossed over his chest in that holier-than-thou stance that he was so famous for. “Look, man, I’m married. And if someone flirted with my wife, we’d have a problem.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You guys are making a big deal out of nothing.”

“Nothing?” Yelena threw up her hands. “She’s married, Bucky!”

“Okay, even if I was flirting,” Bucky turned to her, exasperated— “I didn’t see a ring.”

Yelena’s hands flew to her head, fingers digging into her scalp like she was resisting the urge to rip out her own hair. “You probably chose to look away!”

John sighed like a disappointed youth pastor. “This is unbelievable.”

“No,” Bucky still insisted, “I didn’t see a ring.”

Yelena’s jaw dropped. “It was a thick gold band, Barnes. How could you not see it?”

Ava, who was clearly enjoying the drama more than anyone, sighed. “That is inappropriate behaviour, Barnes.”

Alexei shook his head again, “You should apologise.”

“I’m not apologising,” Bucky scoffed, “Because I did nothing wrong.”

His fingers toyed absentmindedly with the chain that led to his dog tags, and Yelena immediately locked onto the movement. Every person has a tell, a habit they did when they were nervous. And being a super spy, Yelena knew this was his.

She narrowed her eyes. “You are gaslighting us,” she muttered, pacing again like she was mentally weighing the pros and cons of strangling a super soldier.

“I didn’t see a ring,” Bucky repeated, his voice steady.

“You’re lying,” she snapped.

He shrugged, maddeningly casual in all of this chaos. “Guess we’ll never know.”

Ava laughed cynically. “I can’t tell if you’re a complete scumbag or if this is just really fun for you.”

Bucky just popped a beer from the fridge, flicking the cap off with his metal hand. “Why not both?”

He took a long sip of his beer, completely unbothered.

And maybe, he looked a little bit too smug.

—

Three weeks later, Bucky led Yelena and John on a mission to take down a high-scale arms dealer.

And, as always, the mission had gone sideways.

It was too late for any shops to be open, too late for anyone with a shred of common sense to be out on the streets.

Yelena was bleeding, pressing a torn scrap of fabric against a deep gash on her arm. John had a busted lip and a slight limp. Bucky was sporting a few cuts and bruises himself, but nothing he hadn’t shaken off a thousand times before.

“Guys,” Yelena managed a grunt, shifting her grip on her makeshift bandage, “we need to get ourselves patched up before one of us drops dead.”

“We ran out of antiseptics back at HQ,” John reminded them.

Yelena groaned, throwing her head back in despair. “So what are we supposed to do?” She gritted out, “Just bleed out in the street like sad little orphans?”

John scowled. “That’s a little dramatic.”

Yelena turned and glared at him. “Your face is dramatic.”

Bucky let out a deep breath through his nose, running a hand along his damp hair. He glanced around the street, making sure they weren’t being followed before whispering to himself, “Guess we’re doing this now.”

Yelena tilted her head. “Doing what?”

Instead of answering, Bucky turned on his heel and started walking.

John and Yelena gave each other a wary look.

“I don’t like when he does that,” John said.

“No one does,” Yelena agreed, but they both followed anyway.

It didn’t take long for them to recognise the route— It was the neighbourhood where the team usually got coffee.

But Bucky wasn’t heading to the café.

They rounded the corner, and suddenly John stopped dead in his tracks.

It was a closed florist—the very one where Bucky had, allegedly, been trying to charm his way into a married woman’s bed.

To John’s absolute horror, Bucky walked right up to the door and knocked.

“Bucky.” He said, voice strangled. “What the hell is this?”

Yelena blinked. “I don’t think we need to seduce a married florist to get medical supplies.”

Bucky sighed, rubbing his temples like he was already regretting this decision. He turned to them, leveling them both with a look. “Alright, listen up,” he said through gritted teeth. "The secret’s out now, so you two gotta keep your mouths shut.”

John’s brows furrowed. “What secret?”

Before Bucky could answer, the door to the flower shop clicked open.

And there you were, standing in the doorway, wrapped in one of Bucky’s hoodies, looking exactly how he’d expected: exasperated but unsurprised. He knew you’d still be up, cataloguing the latest floral shipment for tomorrow’s arrangements.

The second your eyes landed on a bruised and bloodied Bucky, and flanked by two wounded Thunderbolts, no less—you let out a sigh.

“James,” you said knowingly, your voice laced with fond irritation. “What did you do?”

Yelena and John froze in their tracks.

James?

No one called Bucky by his first name. No one. Not unless they had a death wish.

Bucky, unfazed, just stepped inside. “We ran out of antiseptics, honey.”

Yelena and John exchanged a wide-eyed look.

Honey?

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Again?”

Bucky shrugged like this was a perfectly normal Thursday night occurrence.

You muttered under your breath, “I should’ve known this would happen when I married an ex-assassin.”

Oh.

Yelena’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “Married.” she repeated

John blinked rapidly. “This is why we can never go to your place?”

Bucky could only shrug. Of course it was— they would have seen the evidence of how much love in his home was carved out for just you.

John let out a wheeze.

Yelena pointed between you and Bucky, motioning erratically. “Wait. WAIT. So—so she’s your wife? She married you?”

Bucky nodded. “Yup.”

“Like—actually married?”

“Mhm.”

Yelena gasped, clutching her chest like she’d been personally betrayed. In a way, she had. “And no one knows?”

Bucky thought for a second. “Sam does.”

“And Joaquin,” you added, trying to be helpful.

Bucky nodded. “Right. Joaquin.”

“Oh, and Isaiah and Elijah Bradley.”

“Yeah, they were at the wedding.”

“A teenager knew about this,” John’s eye twitched, “—and we didn’t?”

Bucky could only nod again.

Yelena rubbed a hand down her face, “You gaslit us,” she accused, jabbing a finger at Bucky. “You let us believe you were a homewrecker for weeks—when you were married the whole time?!”

You snorted, glancing at Bucky, who had the audacity to look smug. “Yeah, that sounds like my husband.”

Yelena let out a string of very creative Russian curses.

John looked like he was about to have a stroke.

“All secrets aside,” you said, welcoming the two disoriented Thunderbolts in and locking the door behind you, ��It’s good to finally meet you both.”

John still looked like he was buffering. Yelena, on the other hand, was vibrating with adrenaline, looking like she was trying to solve a conspiracy theory in real time.

“This is—this is insane,” she muttered, pointing aggressively at Bucky, then at you, then back at Bucky. “You’re—you’re so normal.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “I’d like to think so.”

Bucky just hummed. “She’s perfect.”

Yelena actually sputtered like an old car engine.

John made a noise that was somewhere between a groan and a strangled laugh. This was all too much.

But there wasn’t time to let them spiral further. Bucky, gently nudged you toward the others. “Take care of them first, darling. They’ve got worse injuries.”

You frowned, wanting to protest—because, really, Bucky should always be your first priority—but your husband was nothing if not stubborn. You knew better than to argue when he had that look in his eyes— you knew that fighting him on this would only drag things out longer, and right now, time was precious.

You turned your attention to Yelena and John, motioning for them to follow you deeper into the shop. The scent of lavender, roses, and freshly cut stems—clung to the air as you led them toward the back, where your little work table stood tucked in the corner.

Years of practice had made you quick. You moved with quiet efficiency, gathering supplies from neat shelves: you cut and split an aloe vera plant for burns, grabbed bandages, and a mix of balms you’d perfected over your time tending to Bucky. It wasn’t the kind of sterile, military-grade first aid they were used to, but it would have to do for now.

You started tending to Yelena’s arm, gently dabbing the wound with fresh aloe. She hissed through her teeth before narrowing her eyes at you.

“So how long has this been a thing?” she demanded. Bucky, now leaning lazily against the counter with his arms crossed, barely spared her a glance. “A while.”

John scoffed, “A while?”

You bit back a grin as you smoothed a bandage over Yelena’s arm, “Three years.”

Yelena’s jaw dropped.

“Three—” She turned to Bucky so fast it was a miracle she didn’t give herself whiplash. “You’ve been married for three years?!”

John let out a long, defeated groan,This was simply too much to process. “Fuck’s sake.”

Yelena shook her head. “I thought you were a loner who hated people."

Bucky only shrugged, unbothered.

You chuckled as you pressed the last piece of medical tape into place on Yelena’s arm. “Alright, you’re done.” Then, glancing at John, you motioned for him to sit. “Your turn.”

John sighed but still plopped down. You took his hand gently, turning it over to examine his bruised knuckles before moving to his busted lip.

Meanwhile, they kept peppering you with questions, barely giving you room to breathe.

“How did you meet?”

“How do you put up with Bucky’s brooding?”

“Does he ever actually smile?”

At that last one, you paused, dabbing at John’s lip carefully. “He smiles all the time.”

John let out a scoff. “No, he doesn’t.”

You glanced over at Bucky, knowing he showed that part of him to you and no one else. “Oh, he does.”

And then, finally, it was Bucky’s turn.

You turned to him, your brows knitting together as you studied the little cuts on his cheek, the dried blood near his brows. He looked a little tired, a little worn around the edges.

Your fingers found his chin, tilting his face toward you as you inspected the damage. Your touch was so featherlight, so incredibly careful. There was no missing the way your thumb brushed over his cheekbone— how incredibly gentle it was.

“You should’ve let me do you first,” you murmured, half-scolding, half-concerned.

Bucky’s lips curved into a small smile, a flicker of mischief lighting his tired blue eyes. “That’s exactly what you said last night, sweetheart.”

John choked.

Yelena groaned, grabbing the nearest pillow from the nearest chair and hurling it at Bucky’s head. “You two are disgusting.”

Bucky caught the pillow effortlessly, giving her a smug grin before setting it aside. When his eyes found yours again, his shit-eating grin turned… lovely. The tension in his brows eased as you dabbed gently at his cut.

For all the blood, for all the bruises, you handled him like he was glass.

And then, without thinking, you leaned in.

It was meant to be a brief kiss— a quick reassurance, a way of saying I’ve got you. But the moment your lips brushed his, you couldn’t help but linger.

Your fingers curled instinctively against his chin. His hand found your waist without hesitation, as if he needed you closer. As if the world shrank down to just the two of you.

John and Yelena exchanged a look, the previous horror of their teammate hiding a secret wife momentarily forgotten because this was… weirdly cute.

You giggled as you pulled away, seeing Bucky looking at you like you hung the moon for him.

“Anywhere else?” you asked, brushing your thumb over his lips.

Bucky hesitated just for a second. Then, a little sheepishly, he said, “Got a cut on my ribs.”

You exhaled, shaking your head. Of course he did. Before he could argue, you reached for the hem of his shirt and tugged.

“Off,” you said simply.

Bucky huffed but didn’t fight you. He lifted his arms, letting you strip the fabric from his skin, and goddamn.

Bucky, half-naked, was unfairly, ridiculously beautiful. Even now, even after all this time, seeing him like this still knocked the breath from your lungs. His body was a roadmap of battles fought and survived, scars carved into the expanse of his chest and ribs that told stories only he could say.

John made a strangled sound, somewhere between “Jesus Christ” and “I need to leave the room,” but you ignored him completely. Yelena let out a dramatic sigh and whispered “they are one second away from sucking each other’s face off,” to herself.

You tuned them both out, fingers dragging carefully over Bucky’s ribs, searching for the wound. When you found a thin jagged cut just below his ribs— you sighed softer this time and reached for the aloe.

“You need to stop getting hurt, my love,” you said, smoothing the cool gel over his skin.

Bucky’s voice came quieter. “Lucky I have someone to take care of me, then.”

And that’s when Yelena finally noticed it.

The thin chain around Bucky’s neck—one she’d always assumed was just for his dog tags—held something else, too.

A ring.

A simple wedding band that matched yours, worn from years of resting against his skin.

She blinked, realisation hitting her like a freight train. Oh.

That’s why he always played with it.

Every time Bucky was nervous, every time he was uncertain, his fingers would move to that chain—not just to fiddle with his tags, but to remind himself of you.

Maybe he wasn’t a complete jackass after all.

-end.

Note: Hope this doesn't bite me in the ass when the movie comes out.

General Bucky taglist:

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

@shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault@average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @shanksstrawhat @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

@helloxgoodbi @undf-stuff @sapphirebarnes @hzdhrtss @softhornymess

@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

@imjusthere1161 @sleepysongbirdsings @fuckybarnes @yn-stories-are-my-life

#domestic fluff

15K notes · View notes

setralinehoe · 2 months ago

Text

First Time, Filthy Mind?

pairing(s) : Yeosang x reader

word count : 2470

summary : You were a virgin—technically. But innocent? Not even close. Bold, filthy-minded, and aching to be destroyed, you handpicked Yeosang to do it. And he did. In an empty classroom, on a desk, against a chalkboard—he gave you exactly what you begged for: pain, blood, pleasure, and ownership. But when it’s over and he’s the one left breathless and wrecked? You walk away with a smirk, stockings torn, and your power untouched. Because he ruined your body…

But you ruined him for good.

genre : smut

warning(s) : Loss of virginity, Blood mention (virginity loss), Pain kink / slight masochism, Size kink, Overstimulation, Rough sex, Semi-public setting (empty classroom), Light dom/sub dynamics, Creampie, Dirty talk (degrading & praising mix), Spanking, Face against the chalkboard, Power play / reader in control emotionally, No aftercare. Let me know if I missed anything!

Minors do not interact, 21+ only!!

🪐smut under the cut🪐

You sat on the edge of the teacher’s desk, legs crossed, skirt riding up just enough to show a hint of the thin black stockings hugging your thighs. The classroom was quiet—too quiet. Empty except for you… and Yeosang.

He stood by the door, that calm, unreadable expression on his face, the kind that made your thighs press together every time he looked at you. And right now? He was staring.

You smirked.

“Lock the door,” you said, voice soft but soaked in heat.

He didn’t question it. Just turned, clicked it shut, and leaned back against the frame like he wasn’t just as curious as he was aroused.

Your fingers slid slowly down your thigh, eyes locked on his. “You know I’ve never let anyone touch me, right?”

Yeosang’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t move. He just nodded once, gaze dipping down your legs and up again.

“But that doesn’t mean I don’t know what I want.” You uncrossed your legs, letting them spread just enough to give him a peek at the little satin scrap you had on underneath. “I think about it all the time. What it would feel like to be fucked. Not made love to… not kissed softly and coddled.”

You bit your lip, feigning innocence, even as your fingers curled into the top of the stocking on your left leg.

“I want it to hurt. I want to cry. I want you to ruin me.”

That got him. His head tilted slightly, lips parting.

“I want you to be the first,” you whispered, “because I know you’ll be the one who does it right.”

And before he could say a word, you dragged your nails down the stocking, slicing a perfect rip into the fabric right over your inner thigh. Then you slid your fingers into it and tore it wider, the sound crackling in the silence like a match being struck.

His hands twitched.

“Come get it,” you breathed, spreading your thighs for him, “before I change my mind.”

Yeosang crossed the room in two silent steps.

When he reached you, he didn’t touch—not yet. He just stared down at the mess you’d made of your stockings, the way your panties were already damp, the desperate, defiant gleam in your eyes.

“Are you sure?” he asked, voice low, deep, unreadable.

You nodded, then grabbed his hand and pressed it between your legs.

“Make it count, Yeosang.”

He didn’t hesitate again.

Yeosang gripped your thighs, fingers curling hard enough to leave prints as he slowly eased you back onto the desk. The wood felt cold under your spine, a stark contrast to the heat pooling in your belly. He pushed your skirt higher, eyes trailing down to the slick between your thighs, the torn stocking barely hanging onto your leg.

“You’re soaked,” he muttered, voice ragged, almost like he was scolding himself. “And you’re sure?”

You nodded, breath shallow. “I told you, I want this.”

He hesitated just a second longer, eyes locked with yours, then finally slid your panties to the side. The cool air hit your soaked folds, and you flinched slightly—but stayed wide open for him.

“Fuck,” he growled, letting his thumb slide between your folds, spreading you slowly. “You’re so tight.”

You whimpered as the pad of his finger barely dipped inside, stretching your entrance just enough to make your body jolt. Your thighs quivered, but you didn’t stop him. Instead, you stared at his cock—already hard, thick, veiny, leaking at the tip—and licked your lips.

“Don’t tease me,” you whispered, voice shaking with need. “Just… give it to me.”

He shook his head, jaw clenched. “It’s gonna fucking hurt.”

“That’s what I want.”

That did something to him. He stared at you for one long beat, then pushed his sweats down just enough to free himself. His cock slapped against his abs, thick and flushed, and you felt your whole body tense just looking at it.

“Last chance,” he warned, lining himself up.

You reached down with both hands, spreading yourself open for him. “Do it, Yeosang. Break me.”

He hissed a breath through his teeth—and pushed in.

The stretch was instant and brutal. Your back arched off the desk as your walls clenched hard around him, pain blooming sharp and hot between your hips. You cried out, hands flying to the edge of the desk to brace yourself. He barely got halfway in.

“Fuck,” he grunted, voice tight with restraint. “You’re choking me, baby. You’re so—fuck—you’re bleeding.”

You could feel it. The faint, warm trickle. But more than that, you felt full, overwhelmed, burning—and somehow, you loved it.

“It’s fine,” you gasped, tears beading in your eyes. “It’s supposed to hurt.”

His brows drew together in concern. “This is your first time, shit will be so—”

“I don’t care,” you cut him off, voice shaking as you stared up at him with blown-out pupils. “I want to remember it. I want to feel it tomorrow. Don’t stop—don’t fucking hold back.”

His restraint snapped.

He gripped your hips, slammed all the way in, and you screamed—a raw, messy sound that filled the empty classroom.

Pain exploded through you, eyes rolling, but your cunt clenched even tighter around him.

“Fuck, baby, you’re bleeding all over my cock,” he groaned, voice shaky with pleasure. “You’re crying—and you’re still this tight.”

You were shaking, tears sliding down your temples—but you moaned through the burn, hips twitching with every thrust as he started to move, slow and deep.

Each inch of him dragged against your virgin walls, raw and swollen, making your pussy pulse in overstimulated waves. You couldn’t stop the little sobs from spilling out, but you still begged.

“More… please, give me more.”

He growled, pushed your knees to your chest, and started fucking you rough—nasty slaps echoing off the walls, your slick mixing with blood, making the thrusts messy, raw, and perfect.

Yeosang’s hips snapped against yours, the wet smack of skin on skin bouncing off the empty classroom walls. You were a mess—tears running down your cheeks, mouth open in a shaky moan, legs trembling in his grip. Every time he sank in, the stretch made you twitch, and your pussy clenched tighter like it didn’t know whether to run or keep him there forever.

“You’re crying so pretty,” he rasped, breathing heavy, watching your face twist with every deep thrust. “Hurts that bad, doesn’t it?”

You choked on a moan, nodding, thighs trembling violently now.

“Y-Yeah...” your voice cracked, barely a whisper. “Hurts so fucking much, Yeosang…”

His hips slowed just a second, like maybe he’d stop, but you reached down, grabbed a fistful of his shirt, and pulled him lower over your body.

“Don’t you dare.” Your lips brushed his ear, trembling and filthy. “If you stop now, I’ll make you start over.”

He groaned into your neck, rutting deeper, harder, his cock dragging against every sore, tender part of your walls. You could feel the blood and slick making it easier to take, even while the pain lingered sharp behind every thrust.

“You’re fucking insane,” he growled. “I’m ruining you and you’re begging for it.”

You nodded, moaning louder. “I wanted to be ruined.”

Your clit throbbed, untouched but pulsing just from the sheer filth of it all—the pain, the stretch, the slick trickling down your thighs, and the way Yeosang gritted his teeth like he was holding himself back from going wilder.

He shifted slightly, one hand grabbing under your thigh and hoisting your leg higher up his shoulder. The new angle hit something that had your eyes rolling back instantly.

“Right there—” you gasped, hands scrambling at the desk as your body jolted from the overwhelming mix of pain and pleasure.

“Yeah?” he panted, slamming into you again, harder this time. “That the spot, baby? Right where it hurts just enough to make you shake?”

You whimpered, nails clawing at the wood, back arching off the desk. “Yes—fuck, yes!”

The tears were falling faster now, mixing with drool at the corner of your lips, but your legs wrapped tighter around him like you’d never let him go.

His pace became punishing.

No rhythm. Just raw, brutal thrusts, like he was chasing a high and dragging you with him. You could hear every wet, obscene sound between your bodies—the mix of slick and blood, your gasping breaths, his low grunts.

Then his thumb found your clit.

You screamed.

It was too much. Way too much. But you didn’t stop him.

He rubbed slow, messy circles while still thrusting hard, deep, like he wanted to mark your womb. Your pussy pulsed around him, raw and overstretched, and then it snapped.

You came.

Harder than you ever imagined you could. Your body locked up, a sob ripping from your throat as your cunt milked him through the pain. You were shaking, sobbing, soaking everything under you.

Yeosang cursed loud, buried deep, and then his cock throbbed—spilling hot inside your spasming walls.

His hips twitched through it, holding you tight while his cum filled you, mixing with blood and your release. You could feel it dripping back out before he even pulled out.

And when he did… you whimpered.

Eyes glassy. Body limp. Thighs still trembling.

He leaned over you, brushing your sweaty hair back.

“You’re insane,” he whispered again, but his voice was softer now, almost shaky. “That was your first time… and you let me fuck you like that?”

You smiled, eyes fluttering open just enough to meet his.

“I didn’t let you,” you breathed. “I made you.”

Yeosang hadn’t even tucked himself back in before he was pulling you off the desk, strong hands gripping your waist as your weak legs barely held up. Your inner thighs were a mess—slick, cum, blood—and it dripped down the insides of your stockings with every shaky step.

“Thought you were done?” you teased weakly, voice hoarse but still laced with heat.

He let out a low laugh, leaning in to lick a drop of sweat off your cheek. “You don’t get to talk shit when you came crying on my cock.”

You were about to throw something back—smart-mouthed like always—but then he grabbed your hips, spun you around, and shoved you hard against the chalkboard.

The cold surface made you gasp.

It creaked behind you, your palms spreading on the dusty board as your cheek pressed against it. Yeosang kicked your feet apart with his own, dragging his fingers down the curve of your spine to the swell of your ass.

“You wanted to be ruined?” he growled behind you, lining himself back up. “Then don’t you fucking run.”

You moaned, arching your back.

“I won’t.”

He shoved in without warning.

You screamed.

Your body jolted forward, cheek scraping the board, and your walls spasmed around him instantly. You were so raw, too sensitive, but it didn’t stop the way your cunt greedily clenched him like it still wasn’t done.

“Still so fucking tight,” he hissed, pounding into you. “Even after I fucked you bloody.”

The chalkboard squeaked with every thrust, your body slamming forward, tits bouncing under your top. His hands gripped your waist so hard you’d bruise. He yanked you back into every stroke like he was claiming you.

Pain flared again, raw from your first time, but it only made it hotter.

You whined, pushing your ass back against him. “Harder, Yeosang—fuck, please!”

He grabbed your hair, yanked your head back, and hissed into your ear, “You like this? Being used like a filthy little toy?”

You nodded, tears threatening again.

“I’m nothing but your toy—fuck me like one.”

He growled and bent you lower, shoving your chest down so your ass arched up higher. His hand slid down and spanked you—hard—making you cry out, your cunt pulsing around him even tighter.

“That’s what you are,” he grunted. “A dirty fucking virgin who begged me to take it rough and now can’t get enough.”

You were a babbling mess, face smeared with sweat and chalk, the board behind you now streaked with cloudy white dust and the drag of your hands. The classroom reeked of sex—filthy, raw, forbidden.

Then his hand slid between your thighs again—this time, rougher, messier—and he found your clit with practiced fingers.

“You gonna cum again?” he growled. “On this cock that tore you open?”

You whimpered, body already locking up.

“Yes—yes, Yeosang, please—”

“Fucking do it.”

You came hard, cunt clenching with a fresh wave of slick as your moans echoed off the walls. He didn’t stop—not until you were twitching, your knees threatening to give, and then he grunted, pulled your hips back, and spilled deep inside you for the second time.

The warmth of it made your body tremble. You could feel the mix of both loads leaking out, sliding down your thighs. The classroom was silent except for your panting.

Yeosang leaned over you, breath hot on your neck.

“You’re mine now,” he whispered.

And all you did was smile.

Because you were. At least until the next time you decided to fuck him again.

Yeosang’s weight pressed against your back as he caught his breath, arms caging you in against the chalkboard. Your knees were jelly, stockings ruined, and your thighs still shook from the overstimulation. But the look on your face?

Pure satisfaction.

He finally pulled out, watching with dark eyes as his cum mixed with blood and your slick dripped in messy trails down your legs. He should’ve been guilty—should’ve been gentle—but the way you looked over your shoulder at him, half-lidded and wrecked, only made him throb again.

You slowly turned around, fingers tugging your skirt down even as you leaned against the chalk tray like it was your personal throne.

“Was it worth it?” you asked, licking your bottom lip. “Fucking the virgin who begged for it?”

He stared, quiet for a beat too long.

“I’ll never stop thinking about this,” he murmured.

You grinned. “You should.”

Grabbing your bag, you stood on shaky legs and strutted toward the door—stockings torn, thighs glistening, but that walk? Unbothered. Confident. Owned nothing and no one.

Just before leaving, you turned your head slightly.

“You were a good fuck, Yeosang,” you said softly. “But next time… you better come with more than just charm.”

Then you were gone.

Leaving him staring, speechless in a classroom reeking of sex and dusted with chalk. And he knew…

You’d ruined him more than he ruined you.

#🔞 — smut

333 notes · View notes

setralinehoe · 2 months ago

Text

Bunny in His Bed

pairing(s) : Song Mingi x reader

word count : 4922

summary : You're the soft, innocent girl who only ever had one vanilla experience—with no idea what real filth could feel like. That is, until you end up rooming with your best friend’s older brother, Mingi. A pervert with a teasing mouth and no self-restraint when it comes to your cute sleep dresses and breathy little moans. He takes it slow, then ruins you completely—making you beg, cry, squirt, and ride him until you’re too dumb to think. But he still makes you breakfast after, calling you his princess in between filthy whispers.

genre : smut

warning(s) : Slight somnophilia vibes (consensual, implied history), Innocent but perverted reader, Best friend’s older brother, Roommate AU, Pussy slapping / squirting, Spanking (lots of it), Orgasm denial + overstimulation, Crying during sex (pleasure), Dirty talk / praise / teasing, Light dumbification, Reader wears cute sleep dresses, Mutual pining masked as lust, Fluffy aftercare with continued filth

A/N : This might be the last fic I uploaded this month, or maybe I'm gonna take some rest for a while😮‍💨

Minors do not interact, 21+ only!!

🪐smut under the cut🪐

It wasn’t the first night you walked into the shared kitchen in one of your tiny little sleep dresses—but this one had lace trim that swayed with every step and straps thin enough to slip off your shoulder. You weren’t even trying to be sexy. That was the worst part. You were just… comfortable.

And Mingi was already sitting at the counter, hoodie pulled halfway down his arms, curls messy from sleep. His eyes trailed up from your bare legs to the way the fabric clung to your hips. Silent. But you felt him staring.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked, padding across the tile barefoot, opening the fridge for a water bottle.

“Not really,” his voice came low. Rough. “You?”

You shrugged, turning around to face him, and leaned back against the fridge—completely unaware of how the thin fabric stretched across your chest. “Kinda warm tonight.”

Mingi didn’t say anything at first. He just kept looking at you, jaw ticking like he was holding something back.

It’d been two months since you moved in. Your best friend’s brother had offered the extra room when you said you needed a place. You trusted him. You knew he was older, a bit… different from the boys you’d dated before, but he never did anything to make you uncomfortable.

Until lately.

Lately, he lingered.

Watched.

“You always wear stuff like that to bed?” he finally asked, voice lower now.

You blinked. “Huh?”

“That little dress.” His eyes dropped to your thighs, where the hem rested dangerously high. “You walk around in that, knowing I’m home?”

You laughed a little. Nervous. “It’s not that short…”

Mingi stood up slowly, towering. The way he walked around the counter felt too quiet, too smooth, until he was right in front of you—so close you had to tilt your chin up just to keep eye contact.

“You’re either real clueless,” he murmured, reaching one hand to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, “or you want me to stare.”

Your breath hitched. “Mingi…”

He smiled—lazy, dark, dangerous. “You ever been fucked right?”

You froze.

Your voice dropped into a whisper. “I’ve… only been with one guy. It wasn’t like that.”

Mingi groaned. “Figures.” He leaned in close, lips brushing your ear. “Bet you’ve never had someone stretch this cute little pussy open, make you cry, huh?”

Your thighs pressed together. You didn’t answer.

“You’d let me ruin you?” he muttered, voice thick. “Make you drool all over this kitchen counter?”

That was it. That was the moment something snapped. You nodded—tiny, trembling—and whispered:

“...Please.”

Mingi didn’t wait for you to say more. The second that quiet please left your lips, his hand was on your waist, dragging you flush against him like he’d been holding back for too long. You gasped when you felt how hard he already was—thick and pressed against your stomach through his sweats.

And then he kissed you.

Hard.

It wasn’t soft or shy or sweet like your ex used to kiss. Mingi kissed like he wanted to eat every breath from your lungs. Tongue in your mouth, lips moving against yours with filthy hunger, like he needed to claim you before you could change your mind.

Your little whimper was swallowed by his mouth.

He gripped your hips, pulling you closer until your thin sleep dress rode higher up your thighs. His hands were so big—touching too much, yet not enough. One slipped down to squeeze your ass through the fabric, and he groaned into your mouth. “Fuck… you’ve been hiding this from me all this time?”

“I didn’t know you looked at me like that,” you mumbled breathlessly between kisses, hands fisting into his hoodie.

He pulled back just enough to stare down at you, pupils blown wide. “I’ve been looking at you every fucking night, bunny. You walking around in these tiny little dresses, all innocent and sweet, acting like you don’t know what the fuck you’re doing to me.”

You whimpered at the pet name—bunny—and it only made him grin darker.

“Not gonna fuck you for the first time in the kitchen,” he muttered, gripping your wrist and tugging you toward the hallway. “Not when I’ve waited this long. My room. Now.”

You followed, dizzy and needy, barely noticing how your thighs brushed together with every step.

His room smelled like him—clean laundry and something warm, masculine. It was bigger than yours by far, and the bed looked like it could swallow you whole. He didn’t even turn on the light—just kicked the door shut and pushed you gently until you fell back onto the mattress.

You sat there, wide-eyed and flushed, legs folded under you.

Mingi’s hoodie was already coming off, revealing bare skin and toned arms as he stepped closer. “Take it off,” he ordered softly, nodding at your sleep dress. “Wanna see all of you.”

Your fingers trembled a little as you reached for the straps, slowly pulling them down one by one. The fabric slid down your chest… then over your waist… pooling around your hips before you pulled it off completely.

You sat there naked, knees pressed together, heart pounding so loud you swore he could hear it.

Mingi’s gaze dragged over you—slow, heavy, drinking in everything. “Fuck, baby… you’re gonna be the death of me.”

He dropped to his knees between your legs and pushed them apart gently, licking his lips.

“You ever been eaten out, sweetheart?”

You shook your head, shy. “No…”

His grin was wicked. “Good. You’ll remember your first.”

“Lie back for me,” Mingi murmured, guiding your shoulders until you were sprawled across his sheets—legs parted, chest rising and falling in uneven little breaths.

He kissed up the inside of your thigh first. Slow. Teasing. You whimpered when his nose brushed close to where you were already wet, and he groaned low in his throat.

“Shit… you’re already dripping.”

Your hands gripped the sheets tightly as his breath ghosted over your folds. And then—his tongue. One long, slow lick up your slit that had your hips jerking off the bed.

“Oh—Mingi—!”

“Yeah, baby?” he mumbled against your pussy, voice already wrecked. “Sensitive little thing, huh? Gonna cry just from my mouth?”

You shook your head, biting your lip, but the way your thighs trembled said otherwise.

Mingi didn’t tease for long. He licked you open and flat-out devoured you—his tongue dragging through every inch of you, dipping into your hole, circling your clit until your back arched off the bed. His grip on your thighs kept you spread, even as you twisted, even when you whimpered, “Mingi, I— I think I’m gonna—!”

He didn’t stop.

He growled into you, “Give it to me, bunny. Wanna taste how cute you cum.”

Your thighs shook. Your stomach tensed. And just as you hit the edge, his tongue flattened against your clit—and then slap—

His palm smacked against your dripping pussy. Just once. Light. Experimental.

You screamed.

Not from pain. From how violently your orgasm hit. It tore through you in messy, uncontrollable waves—and then you felt it. That hot rush, the release, the wet spray that soaked his mouth and chin and dripped down your thighs.

“Oh—oh my God—!”

You were trembling, toes curled, hands gripping the sheets so hard your knuckles turned white.

Mingi pulled back just enough to see the mess—lips wet, eyes blown out with shock and arousal. “Fuck, baby… you just squirted.”

You were still catching your breath, wide-eyed and teary, lips parted. “I—I didn’t mean to—”

He laughed. Dark. Proud. “Don’t apologize.” He leaned up, licking your slick from his fingers. “I’m making you do that again.”

Still trembling from the mess he’d pulled out of you, you tried to close your legs—but Mingi’s grip was firm.

“Ah, ah. Not done yet, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice gravelly and way too calm for someone who just got squirted on. “Still so sensitive... what, already crying?” he cooed as his fingers brushed your soaked clit.

You whimpered, legs kicking at the overwhelming touch. “I-It’s too much, Mingi—!”

But he just grinned, licking his lips. “Mm… I think you can give me one more. You got another one in this pretty pussy, right?”

You were too dazed to answer, and that only made him laugh—low and dark.

Then came his fingers. Two of them, thick and slow, sliding into you while his thumb pressed on your clit. He watched you with hungry eyes as your back arched again, moaning out broken little gasps.

And when you got close—that sweet, tense twist in your belly coming back—he stopped.

Pulled his hand back entirely.

You blinked in confusion, cheeks flushed, lips parted in a soft whine. “W-Why’d you stop…”

Mingi leaned down, nose brushing yours, smirking. “You think I’m gonna let you cum that easy, bunny? After that messy little squirt? Nah. I wanna watch you fall apart first.”

You squirmed under him, legs rubbing together for friction, whining softly as he started teasing again—light flicks over your clit with the very tip of his tongue.

Then fingers. Just pressing at your entrance, not pushing in.

You were twitching, gasping. “Please, Mingi, wanna cum… I wanna—wanna feel it again…”

He let out a low hum, lips brushing your inner thigh. “Such a needy little baby. One good orgasm and now you can’t even speak right?”

“Mingi—please!”

He slapped your pussy again. Sharp. Hot. Not enough to hurt, just enough to make your whole body jolt.

“Say it better, sweetheart. Use your words. What do you want?”

You sniffled, eyes glassy. “Wanna cum… wanna feel your fingers, your tongue, anything— please, Mingi, I’ll be good—”

“Shit.” He sucked a breath through his teeth, finally sliding two fingers in again, pumping hard. “You’re too fucking cute when you beg.”

This time—he let you cum.

And you screamed, all messy and twitching, a moaning little thing with your back off the bed and your thighs trembling around his head. You sobbed through it, babbling nonsense, fingers gripping the sheets as your slick dripped down his wrist.

But Mingi didn’t stop.

He kept going.

Sloppy thrusts. No rhythm. Just filthy, greedy, overstimulating pleasure while you whimpered, “T-Too much—gonna break, Mingi—ah, ah—!”

“Oh, baby…” he groaned, tongue dragging up your soaked folds one more time. “You’re already broken.”

He’d barely given you time to catch your breath before pulling you into his lap—legs trembling, lips parted with a dazed little pout as you straddled his hips.

“C’mere, baby,” Mingi said, voice low and wrecked, “Wanna see you ride this cock. Wanna watch those pretty tits bounce while I ruin that dumb little head of yours.”

Your hands pressed against his chest for balance, thighs already shaky as you lined yourself up—his cock thick and heavy against your folds. He didn’t even help. Just laid back with that smug, perverted smirk on his face like he had all the time in the world.

“You gonna do it all by yourself, sweetheart?” he teased, thumb brushing your lip. “Show me how bad you want it.”

You whimpered, biting down on his thumb, and slowly sank down.

“Oh fuck—”

Your mouth dropped open in a silent cry as he filled you up, inch by inch, stretching you so deep it felt like you couldn’t breathe. Your eyes fluttered shut, the burn so good, the pressure perfect—and when you finally sat flush against his hips, you were already shaking.

Mingi hissed through his teeth, staring up at you with that hungry look. “Shit, baby, look at you—taking all of me like that… Tightest fucking pussy I’ve ever felt.”

You whimpered, hips rolling instinctively. “Mingi… s’too big…”

He grabbed your waist, dragging you up just enough before letting you drop back down. “Nah, baby. You’re made for this. For me. Show me how you fuck.”

So you moved.

Bounced.

Slow at first, thighs burning from the stretch, your tits jiggling with every drop. And Mingi? He looked feral. One hand behind his head, the other lazily cupping your breast, watching it bounce with a low groan.

“Fuck… fuck, look at you,” he growled, thrusting up once to meet you and make you yelp. “Look how cute you are—riding my cock like it’s the only thing that matters.”

You cried out, little sobs slipping past your lips as you bounced harder, sloppier, the sounds of your slick echoing in the room.

“Am I makin’ you dumb, bunny?” he grinned, pulling on your waist to make you slam down harder. “You’re mumblin’ again…”

“I—ahh—feels s’good, Mingi, too good—dizzy—!”

“Yeah? You gonna cum on this cock?” he grunted, thrusting up to meet you again, fast and deep. “Gonna soak me like a filthy little slut?”

You nodded frantically, sobbing now, fingers clawing at his chest. “Please—please, wanna cum, please, please—!”

“Then cum.”

He sat up, mouth sucking one of your nipples into his mouth as you shattered—screaming, spasming around him, thighs locking up as you came so hard your whole body convulsed. Mingi groaned, holding you down on his cock, watching you lose your mind on top of him.

“Shit… You’re my favorite fucking toy now.”

Your thighs were quaking, tears running down your flushed cheeks, but you didn’t stop riding him. Not even when your head dropped back and your voice cracked from all the soft, incoherent sobs spilling out of your lips.

“S-s’too much—Mingi, f-fuck—can’t—!”

“Oh, but you can, baby.” His voice was wrecked with hunger, obsessed with the way you looked losing your mind on his cock. “You’re so cute when you cry like this. Makes me wanna keep you stuffed and full forever.”

He grabbed both of your tits, squeezing them roughly as he thrusted up into you hard enough to make you scream.

You sobbed, nails digging into his chest, your thighs trembling violently as the pleasure got too sharp, too deep, but he wasn’t letting up.

“Mingi—! Gonna cum again—!”

He grinned, lazy and smug. “Yeah? Show me.”

You came with a sob, body locking up as you spasmed around him, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth as you collapsed forward on his chest.

But he wasn’t done.

Not even close.

“Turn around.”

Your hazy, tear-streaked eyes blinked at him. “H-huh?”

Mingi didn’t wait—he flipped you over onto your stomach, pulling your hips up so your ass was in the air, your face buried in the mattress. You were so sensitive, so wrecked, and you felt him line back up without missing a beat.

Then—

SMACK!

You yelped.

“God, this ass is too fucking perfect,” he groaned, giving your cheek another hard slap. “Could stare at it all day.”

“M-Mingi—!”

SMACK!

“Say thank you.”

You whined, face burning. “T-thank you…”

“That’s my girl.” He slammed into you without mercy, burying himself to the hilt in one thrust.

Your scream was muffled by the sheets, fists grabbing at the blankets as he pounded into you from behind—relentless, filthy, insatiable.

He grabbed your hair, yanking your head up. “Let me hear you beg again. C’mon, say you love this cock.”

You hiccupped on a moan, body trembling like crazy. “L-love it—love your cock, Mingi—please, more, please!”

“Fuck yes,” he groaned, thrusting faster, the sound of your skin slapping echoing in the room. “I’m gonna make you squirt again. Gonna spank you while you cry on my dick.”

SMACK!

You screamed.

SMACK!

Tears spilled down again, body burning from both pleasure and pain as you felt yourself losing it all over again.

“I—I’m gonna—!”

“Do it. Squirt for me, baby. Make a mess on my cock.”

You cried out, body convulsing as you exploded, the gush of your release soaking his cock and thighs as you collapsed forward, babbling nothing but broken moans and needy whines.

And Mingi? He kept fucking you through it, whispering filthy things in your ear while he used your soft, fucked-out body like it was his personal toy.

Your legs gave out underneath you, dropping you in a trembling, sticky heap on the bed. Your thighs glistened with slick and spit, your chest rising and falling as soft hiccupy sobs slipped from your lips. Mingi had just pulled out, thick and hard and soaked in everything you’d given him—again.

But he hadn’t finished.

Not yet.

You peeked up at him through heavy lashes, eyes glassy and lips glossy with drool, a faint little whimper catching in your throat. Your body ached, pussy twitching with need, and your brain was too fogged up to think straight—but the emptiness was too much.

“M-Mingi…” Your voice cracked.

He stood at the edge of the bed, stroking himself slowly, watching you fall apart with a low, smug chuckle. “Look at you,” he teased. “Cute little thing, still crying. Didn’t I just make you squirt all over me?”

You shook your head, sniffled, and crawled to the edge of the bed on shaky hands and knees. “I-it’s not enough…” you whimpered, blinking up at him with big watery eyes.

“Oh?” He tilted his head. “You still want more, baby?”

You nodded, sniffling again, reaching out with both hands to grab at his thighs, pressing your cheek against the base of his cock like it was the only thing keeping you grounded. “Please… please cum inside me… I w-want it so bad, Mingi, want you to ruin me…”

He groaned, grip tightening around his shaft.

“Been so good, haven’t I?” you mumbled, voice all cracked and wet and soft. “Let you use me however you wanted… I d-did everything—so please, fill me up…”

Tears ran down your flushed cheeks as your voice dropped even more—sweet and whiny and broken. “Don’t wanna be empty anymore…”

“Fuck—” He hissed through his teeth, eyes dark with lust as he looked down at you, trembling and begging and so fucking perfect.

He grabbed you, hard, lifting you up with ease and laying you on your back again, legs spread wide and shaking. “You wanna be full, baby?” he growled, lining himself up. “I’ll make sure you never feel empty again.”

You gasped when he slammed back inside you, and a sob broke out of your throat.

“Th-thank you—thank you, Mingi—!”

He groaned, wrapping your legs around his waist and pounding into you with feverish need, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other held your hip steady. “Crying while you thank me? Shit, baby, you’re gonna kill me…”

You were blabbering now, voice high and pitchy, clinging to his back as he drove you into the mattress. “Feels so good—so deep—Mingi, I’m gonna break—!”

“You’re already broken, sweetheart.” He kissed your temple, whispering like a lover even as he fucked you like a demon. “And you’re so fucking cute like this. So desperate, so messy, all mine right now…”

And when he finally came—hard, with a deep groan and his face buried in your neck—you cried out again, feeling the heat flood your core, your hands clawing at him as your body twitched through the aftershocks.

Still gasping, still trembling, still mumbling barely-there thank-yous.

And Mingi just held you, sweaty and breathless, as if he was never letting you go.

You didn’t even realize you were still leaking around him until he shifted his hips, still buried deep in your swollen, overstretched walls. Mingi’s hand rubbed soothing circles into your back, his lips brushing over your forehead in soft little kisses. You felt so warm—so full—your breath slowing, your heartbeat steadying under the weight of his body.

But his cock was still inside you.

Still thick, twitching every now and then.

And he was hardening again.

You mumbled something incoherent, more like a dreamy hum than actual words, nuzzling into his neck.

“…You awake, baby?” Mingi whispered, voice hoarse, raspy with exhaustion.

You nodded sleepily, cheeks sticky with dried tears and your thighs aching deliciously. “Mmhm… still inside…”

“Still warm,” he groaned, grinding his hips just enough to feel your pussy clench. “Fuck… you’re hugging me so tight, baby. You gonna let me use you one more time?”

A sleepy whimper slipped out, and your fingers curled into his back. “T-too much…”

“Just one more,” he murmured, voice sweet but filthy. “You’re already so full, might as well keep stuffing you, yeah?”

He rolled his hips again, deeper this time, and you gasped—tired, overstimulated, but already soaking all over again. “Mingi… I can’t—”

“You can,” he whispered, lips brushing against your temple. “You’re doing so good, baby. So pretty, even when you’re crying… my cute little roommate.”

He slowly started thrusting, every movement gentle but deep, dragging out the squelch of his cum between your legs with each slow stroke.

You whimpered, head tilting back, your legs falling open for him like instinct. “Ngh… f-feels good…”

“That’s it,” he groaned. “Just let me fuck you through it, baby. Let me feel your cute little pussy milk me dry.”

You moaned louder this time, slurred words spilling from your lips in breathy little gasps. “So deep—Mingi, y-you’re still so big, why’s it still so big…”

He chuckled softly, eyes dark as he stared down at your fucked-out face. “Because you’re too cute, baby. Can’t help myself…”

He kept going, slow and thick and messy, not even bothering to pull out as his cum dripped down between your cheeks, mixing with your slick and his spit. You blinked up at him, dazed and broken and glowing all at once.

And when he finally came again with a quiet, shuddering groan, you whimpered at the warmth flooding you for the second time.

“…Mingi…” you breathed out, nearly incoherent. “Y-you’re gonna break me…”

“You’re already broken, sweetheart,” he murmured, laying soft kisses along your collarbone as he rutted lazily into you a few more times before stilling.

“But fuck, baby… I’ve never seen anything as pretty as you falling apart.”

The sunlight was barely peeking through the blinds when you stirred, your legs twitching from the dull ache between them. You were wrapped up in warmth—Mingi's chest against your back, his heavy arm draped around your waist, and his cock still lazily nestled against your ass, soft but twitching with every slow breath.

“Mingi…” you whispered sleepily, voice hoarse and sweet.

He groaned low, nuzzling into your neck. “Morning already?”

You giggled softly, your body sore in all the right places. “My thighs hurt…”

He kissed your shoulder. “Good. That means I fucked you right.”

You turned your face toward him, cheeks hot, eyes still puffy from last night’s cute little crying fits. “Pervert.”

“Your pervert.” He smirked, biting playfully at your earlobe. “And you loved it.”

You hummed. “I did…”

There was a beat of silence, and then you sighed. “But I’m sticky. We’re gross.”

“Guess we should clean up, huh?” he whispered, voice already heavy with mischief.

Before you could protest, he rolled you both out of bed and scooped you up bridal-style, your sleep dress barely hanging on your shoulders. You squealed, arms flying around his neck.

“Mingi—!”

“I said we’re showering. Gotta make sure my baby is squeaky clean.”

He kicked the bathroom door open and sat you on the cold counter, standing between your legs with his hands on your bare thighs. He just stared at you for a second—at the messed-up lace, the little bruises, the faint red handprints he’d left behind.

And then, “You gonna let me clean you with my tongue again, baby?”

You blinked at him, lips parting.

“…You’re hopeless.”

But when you opened your legs for him again, you both knew you didn’t mean it.

Mingi turned the shower on, steam curling into the room as the water heated up. While it warmed, he leaned down and kissed you—slow and deep, his tongue lazily exploring your mouth while his big hands slid under your sleep dress, dragging it up and off your body.

“Still so cute even when you’re wrecked,” he murmured, voice low and thick with sleep and lust. “Wanna fuck you all over again.”

Your body twitched at his words, your thighs pressing together instinctively. “I’m still sore…”

“I’ll be gentle,” he said—though the glint in his eyes said otherwise.

He picked you up again and stepped into the shower with you, water cascading over both your bodies, his arms strong and steady around you. You let out a shaky breath as the warmth soothed your aching muscles, but your comfort didn’t last long.

Mingi pinned your back to the slick wall tiles, water running down his broad shoulders as he grabbed your thighs and hoisted them around his waist. His cock was already hard again, flushed and throbbing against your core.

“Y-you said gentle,” you mumbled, flushed and wide-eyed.

“I said I’ll try,” he corrected, smirking. “But you’re too damn addicting, baby. Can’t help it.”

You whined as he rubbed his cockhead along your folds, spreading his cum and your slick from the night before. “Mingi… I—”

“You’re always so wet for me,” he groaned. “Still leaking, baby? God, look at you…”

He pushed in slow—just the tip—and your eyes fluttered shut, your lips parting in a soft moan as your head thunked back against the tile. The heat of the water, the steam, his body against yours—it was all too much and not enough.

“F-fuck, you’re tight,” he growled, gripping your thighs tighter. “Even after everything I did last night…”

You gasped as he slid in deeper, your arms locking around his neck. “M-Mingi… ah—nghh—s-still sore…”

“I know, baby,” he cooed, kissing your cheek. “But you can take it. You always do. My good girl.”

His hips began to move, slowly at first—just enough for you to feel the stretch all over again. You whimpered into his shoulder, legs trembling, but your pussy clenched around him greedily.

“Making those cute noises again…” he muttered, voice almost desperate. “Say something for me, baby.”

“F-feels good,” you managed, your voice slurred, high and breathy. “So big—s-stretching me again…”

“You’re dripping,” he whispered against your ear. “Fucking leaking around me, and I’m not even moving fast yet.”

You let out a sob, your fingers tangling in his wet hair. “Please—Mingi—feels too good—don’t stop—”

And he didn’t.

He began thrusting harder, the sound of wet skin slapping echoing in the shower, water spraying off his back while he fucked you raw against the tile. You whimpered, moaned, your head rolling as he hit that same deep, sweet spot over and over until your body was convulsing in his arms.

“Cum for me,” he grunted. “Wanna feel you fall apart again.”

And you did—your eyes rolled back, your mouth fell open in a silent cry, your whole body shaking as you came hard around him. And right after, with a strangled groan, he buried himself deep and spilled inside you again.

For the fourth time.

You both panted, clinging to each other as the water kept pouring over you. Mingi kissed your temple softly.

“I should get a gold medal for this,” he muttered playfully.

You mumbled into his shoulder, barely coherent. “Mm… just feed me breakfast…”

He grinned. “After I eat you for breakfast again.”

After the shower, your legs barely held you up, so Mingi wrapped you in a towel and carried you straight to the kitchen like you weighed nothing. You were wearing one of his oversized shirts now—still damp and clinging to your soft curves, the hem brushing your thighs with every step you took.

Mingi was shirtless, sweatpants slung low on his hips, his hair still damp and messy. And the way his eyes kept dropping to your bare legs as he cooked? That hungry look never left.

“You know,” he muttered, flipping the pancakes in the pan, “I could bend you over this counter right now. Bet your pussy’s still twitching from the shower.”

You whimpered into your glass of juice, squirming in the stool you sat on. “Mingi…”

“What? I’m just saying,” he smirked, setting the plate down in front of you. “You looked so cute, all dumb and crying on my cock. How am I supposed to not talk about it?”

You pouted, hiding your red face behind your fork. “You’re so dirty…”

“And you love it,” he whispered as he leaned down, lips brushing your ear. “You love when I talk to you like that, don’t you? Gettin’ all shy now, but you were begging me to spank your pussy five minutes ago.”

Your thighs clenched automatically, eyes fluttering. “That was… different…”

He kissed your temple and slid into the stool beside you. “Nah. You’re just my pretty little pillow princess who gets shy after being ruined.”

You shoved his arm playfully, cheeks hot. “Eat your pancake, pervert.”

But your voice was so soft, your smile too wide—because you did love it. Every filthy word, every dirty look he gave you like you were his favorite thing to ruin.

Mingi leaned on his elbow, watching you eat with that same smirk tugging at his lips.

“After this… I’m putting you back in bed,” he murmured lowly. “And you’re gonna sit on my cock nice and slow while I kiss you. Let’s see how many times I can make you cum without moving my hips.”

You choked on your juice.

He patted your back, completely unbothered. “Careful, baby. Can’t have you dying before I ruin you again.”

#🔞 — smut

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setralinehoe · 2 months ago

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Bucky catches you snuggling with Alpine.

a/n: Just a short, fluffy drabble. I am finishing up a Valentine's day fic with Bucky but wanted something posted while I work on it. Not very long because it's just a small, short thing. Tried to keep reader gender neutral for this but nickname 'doll' is used. Not proof read.

Bucky trudged through the door, his heavy footsteps echoing in the quiet space. His shoes felt like they were made of lead, each step requiring more effort than usual after the long and demanding day he'd had.

All he wanted was to come home and see you. You were the one bright spot that made everything worthwhile. The mid-afternoon sun cast long shadows through the windows, and with the distinct late-winter chill in the air, he reasoned you would be somewhere inside, wrapped up warm and cozy. "Doll?" His voice carried through the apartment as he called out, "I'm home." The silence that greeted him was unusual, and he waited a moment longer, straining to hear any response. He sniffled, his rosy nose slightly runny from the temperature change.

His brow furrowed with mild concern as he made his way deeper into the apartment. The living room stood empty and still, showing no signs of your presence. He made his way to the bedroom, where his eyes fell upon the familiar sight of a mountain of blankets piled on the bed, creating soft peaks and valleys in the dim light trying to peek through the curtains.

There you were, peacefully lost in slumber, your features relaxed and serene. But what caught his attention and made him pause in the doorway was the unexpected sight beside you, tucked away as if it was the most natural thing in the world...Alpine.

His mischievous, very picky feline had always been something of a challenge when it came to you. She had maintained a careful distance, showing what could generously be called tolerance of your presence in her domain. Unlike her usual affectionate behavior with him - the classic cat moves of weaving between legs or offering loving headbutts - she had kept her interactions with you to a minimum, typically just offering distant meows of acknowledgment or the occasional allowance to pet her after you fed her.

But now, she had broken all her usual patterns. There she was, curled up against your body, her small form nestled perfectly into the curve of your chest, both of you peacefully lost in shared dreams.

He smiled to himself, feeling a warmth blossom and spread through his chest, effectively combating the lingering winter chill that clung to him from being outside. Bucky carefully approached the bed where you both laid, making sure to keep his footfalls as silent as possible on the wooden floor.

Reaching into his pocket, he retrieved his phone, a device he had despised but grown to tolerate through your patience and help to learn how it worked, and positioned it to capture this precious moment. To his delight, he managed to take several perfect shots of you and Alpine peacefully curled up together, both lost in contented slumber.

Despite his best efforts at stealth, Alpine's keen senses detected his presence. Her long, elegantly pointed ear twitched ever so slightly before her blue eyes slowly fluttered open. She fixed her gaze directly on Bucky, lifting her head from its cozy resting spot with graceful deliberation. "Mrrow..." she vocalized softly, the sound barely more than a whisper.

"Shh, don't wanna wake my pretty doll, do you?" He whispered with tender affection, extending his hand to gently scratch under Alpine's chin. His fingers found that perfect spot she loved so much.

The white ragdoll purred contentedly in response, her small body gracefully rolling from her side onto her back in a fluid motion, exposing her plush, cloud-like belly to the air. Her silky tail twitched rhythmically at her side as she stretched her limbs languorously, her delicate pink paw pads becoming visible as she playfully extended her paws toward him. Bucky couldn't resist as she gently pulled his hand down, and he obliged by scratching her chest and belly with gentle, circular motions, thoroughly spoiling his precious cat.

"My sweet girl... looks like you're finally getting more comfortable with daddy's partner, huh? That makes me so happy to see," he whispered affectionately. Alpine responded with a soft meow, rolling back onto her belly before curling her body snugly against yours, instinctively seeking out your natural warmth.

Not wanting to miss a moment of this perfect opportunity to cuddle with both you and his beloved cat, he quickly changed into some loungewear and carefully slipped into the bed beside you, maneuvering the blankets over himself until he could feel the cozy warmth you had been contentedly hoarding to yourself. "Now, we have to keep quiet, okay?"

"Mrrow," came her soft, response as her pretty sapphire eyes closed once more.

"Good girl, don’t be a hog now…” Bucky smiled as he positioned as close to you as possible without waking you, Alpine continued to lay snugly and contently between you both.

Ty for reading <3 | Image taken from Pinterest | Dividers by @/saradika-graphics

#domestic fluff

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setralinehoe · 2 months ago

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Sugar Plums. | W.S

summary: The soldier has an attachment to you.

a/n: This came to me randomly but thought it was cute and somewhat spicy. I added some fluff to balance it all out and tried to keep the sexy scenes sweet too. I see so many fics of him being super aggressive in bed and those are great, but for me I think he'd be a little more like this. Takes place after the events of CA:TWS. Contains roughly translated Russian, native speakers can correct me if anything was translated wrong. Ty. ;; wc: 5.5k

It was so awkward.

Everyone sat frozen in place, their eyes locked on the imposing figure of the Winter Soldier as he towered behind you, his piercing blue eyes methodically scanning the room and studying each occupant with an intensity that made them shift uncomfortably in their seats.

"Absolutely not!" Tony was the first to break the suffocating silence, his voice sharp and decisive as he beat Steve to speaking by a mere second. There was absolutely no way he would even consider allowing the fist of HYDRA to take up residence in his tower, treating him like he was nothing more than some lost stray that needed sheltering. "He's not staying here, no way in hell - this isn't a halfway house for reformed assassins."

"Tony, come on. HYDRA is gone, their control over him is broken," you reasoned desperately, your voice taking on a pleading tone as you gestured toward the silent figure behind you, "He's been surviving on his own for weeks, barely getting by. Just look at him...he's exhausted, malnourished, and clearly needs somewhere safe to stay and recover."

"Uh, how about no?" Tony fired back, staring at you like you had grown a second head...or like you had a towering sleeper soldier looming behind you.

Tony wasn't your favorite person in the world, but he was usually somewhat reasonable.

"There's absolutely no way that he's staying here. Have you completely lost your mind? What if he suddenly snaps or loses control and goes completely berserk, hm? What if one night those sleeper triggers buried in his brain suddenly activate and he systematically takes us out one by one in our sleep?" Tony added emphatically, his hands gesturing wildly in the air as he attempted to visualize the gruesome scenarios playing out in his mind.

"Your state-of-the-art security cameras can't give us a heads up before that happens?" You asked with dry sarcasm, your tone deliberately flat and unimpressed, clearly making a joke while you tried to find some kind of middle ground that would get the agitated, self-proclaimed playboy to calm down and think rationally.

"No chance in hell, sweet cheeks," he folded his arms and glared at you with sternness that etched across his features. "Too dangerous."

"He's staying, whether you like it or not," you replied in the same unwavering tone, standing your ground with resolute conviction. "He's hurt, weak, completely vulnerable. There's absolutely nothing he could possibly do in this state. He needs somewhere warm and safe to stay, especially since he's been struggling to survive out on the streets for weeks now. Besides, winter is coming fast and there’s no way he won’t get hypothermia or something." You added with concern, knowing full well that while the soldier hadn't been entirely helpless during his ordeal, he certainly hadn't managed to secure any kind of stable shelter.

His temporary refuges consisted only of cold spaces beneath bridges, dark corners tucked away in forgotten alleys, or the remains of abandoned buildings - not a single place where he could truly let his guard down or feel protected from the harsh elements. With winter's rapid approach and already light dustings of snow, the temperatures would only get more brutal as the nights went on.

You continued to argue with Tony, Steve butting in every so often, luckily siding with you, desperate to have his old friend somewhere safe. It was a long, frustrating argument that lasted much longer than need be.

Earlier that day, while you had been making your way down the frost-covered street of New York's downtown district, his eyes had caught sight of your familiar form. Something deep within him told him to follow you, a magnetic pull that he couldn't explain. He obeyed the instinct, trailing silently behind you all the way back to the tower. When you finally became aware of his presence, he was thoroughly drenched from the steadily falling snow, his cheeks and nose having turned a bright, rosy color from the biting cold as he tried to suppress his constant shivering.

The moment you made your sudden turn to approach him, he visibly startled, immediately taking a defensive step backward as his mind raced through all the possible scenarios and potential threats. His eyes darted across your face with obvious wariness as you fully turned to face him, his entire body subtly shifting its weight from foot to foot, muscles tensed and ready to bolt away.

"It's okay...you look cold..." You spoke softly, your voice barely above a whisper, trying not to startle him as you took in his disheveled appearance. The soldier, the one whose face had practically been plastered across every news channel, the same one Steve had spoken about with such raw emotion in his voice.

You remembered how Steve had mourned his best friend, utterly confused and devastated about why he had saved from the river, while Bucky fell to what should have been his death. Steve held onto that grief, that guilt, like a lifeline. He held onto it so desperately, clinging to the faintest hope that a sliver of Bucky was still somewhere deep inside the persona of the Winter Soldier.

Looking at him now, you couldn't see any trace of the man from Steve's stories - the soldier's eyes were too wild and wide, filled with fear and confusion.

But despite everything you'd heard, despite the destruction you'd witnessed on the news, despite the intense warnings from everyone in the tower, there was something about his presence that didn't trigger your fight or flight response.

He didn't make you feel unsafe.

He looked absolutely beat down, exhausted to his very core, his shoulders slumped in a way that made you wonder when he'd last had a moment's rest. You weren't even sure he could take you down if he tried in this state, though you knew his reputation suggested otherwise. He was shaking from the cold air as it blew in a stinging breeze, his metal arm gleaming dully in what little light remained, while the incoming winter storm brought with it a thick haze and countless tiny pinpricks of needle-like snowflakes that seemed to cut through the air.

"Come inside with me, I'll take care of you." You offered quietly, your voice gentle and reassuring as you extended your hand towards him. Your body language remained open and non-threatening, shoulders relaxed and posture deliberately casual to help put him at ease and to show him you felt no fear.

After a few silent moments where his piercing blue eyes studied you through the thick haze, he finally shifted his weight forward and took a step in your direction.

The water in the shower had set a steady steam in the bathroom, the mirror had fogged and the tiles sweat below your bare feet.

You could hear the gentle splashing of water against the bathtub as he cleaned himself. The mechanical whirring of his metal arm caught your attention, hopefully that thing was waterproof, but it must be, right?

After setting out a fresh towel and clean clothes for his use, you quietly excused yourself to provide him with privacy. The state of his current attire was awful, every piece was thoroughly saturated and carried an unmistakable stench that made you wrinkle your nose. The clothes were in such poor condition that you couldn't help but wonder if they had been scavenged from someone who no longer needed them.

You wouldn’t put it past the soldier to steal from a cadaver.

His shower routine was notably brief, years of conditioning taught him to minimize the time spent on his personal care. Upon finishing, he emerged from behind the curtain and efficiently dried himself with the provided towel. His gaze fell upon the fresh clothes you had thoughtfully placed by the sink, while his previous garments had been discreetly removed.

The soldier hesitated momentarily before donning the clean outfit. It wasn’t anything fancy, a pair of grey sweatpants emblazoned with the Avenger's logo along the side and a simple yet comfortable black tank top. When he finally emerged from the bathroom to face you, his body language betrayed his uncertainty as he stood there, not sure what to do now. Comfort was completely foreign to him, and care was a dream away.

"Tony finally gave in," you replied softly, your voice sounded in the quiet stillness of the bedroom. "He said you could stay here with us."

He remained motionless, his expression blank and unreadable as he stood there, offering neither response nor the slightest hint of acknowledgement to your words. You weren’t sure what to expect but that seemed pretty in character for him at the moment.

"You'll be staying in my quarters since no one else is comfortable having you in their space just yet...but don't worry too much about that," you reassured gently, though you could tell from his demeanor that others' opinions held little weight in his mind. "They'll come around after some time, I'm sure of it."

His gaze fixed upon you then, his brow creasing ever so slightly with an unspoken question as he began to move. Each step was deliberate and measured as he crossed the room, closing the distance between you until he stood directly in front of you, close enough that you could see the water droplets from his freshly washed hair beading at the ends and falling onto the fabric of your top, leaving dark spots where they landed.

"Everything's going to be fine," you said with gentle reassurance, trying to ease the tension in the air. "Why don't we head to the kitchen and get you something to eat? You must be hungry." You offered, hoping to bring some normalcy to the situation.

The soldier shadowed your every movement, following closely behind like a faithful companion who refused to stray from their master's side.

Upon entering the expansive kitchen, you immediately made your way to the industrial-sized refrigerator, searching through its contents for something suitable to offer him. The kitchen was perpetually stocked to the brim with an array of foods, snacks, and ingredients, practically anything one could imagine or desire. It was like having a private, fully-stocked grocery store.

Though with a the ravenous super soldier with enhanced metabolism, the mighty Asgardian god whose appetite matched his status, and Banner's surprisingly hulk-ish consumption…the team still depleted their food with an efficiency that would put a pack of famished wolves to shame.

"Hm...what should you have...do you want anything specific?" You turned over your shoulder to address him, but he maintained his characteristic silence. Unmoving, and completely stoic, like a statue carved from marble.

"Нет [No]," came his quiet response, the Russian word rolling off his tongue deeply. He remained perfectly still, observing with careful attention as you continued your search through the refrigerator's contents, trying to determine what would be most appropriate for him to eat. Your mind was working quickly, knowing you wanted to avoid anything too time-consuming to prepare. You wanted to get some food into him sooner rather than later.

"How about...I could make some soup real quick? Tomato and grilled cheese might be a safe option for you. Shouldn't upset your stomach too much if you haven’t been eating a lot, and it will warm you up if you're still feeling cold." You turned back toward him once more, studying his features carefully for any hint of reaction or preference to your suggestion, any subtle change in his expression.

But, he didn't provide even the slightest indication of his feelings.

You decided on tomato soup and a grilled cheese anyway, you figured it was best and immediately set to work in the kitchen.

Although you typically prided yourself on preparing meals completely from scratch, this particular circumstance called for something different. You assembled the sandwich, buttering the bread before placing it in a heated pan to get a golden-brown crust while keeping a watchful eye on the pot of soup simmering beside it, occasionally stirring for even heating.

Once everything reached the perfect temperature and consistency, you transferred the meal onto clean dishes, relieved it didn’t take too long. You presented him with the steaming bowl of soup and perfectly grilled sandwich, watching as the soldier deliberately took his place at the counter, his eyes fixed intently on the rising steam from the bowl before him.

You watched him, noting how his entire body remained unnaturally rigid and motionless, as though every muscle was locked in place and braced for something. His lips bore a slight sheen of moisture, like he had licked them at some point when you weren't watching. Yet despite his obvious hunger, he hadn't made even the slightest attempt to reach for the food. His eyes held intense longing and hesitation, briefly meeting yours before quickly darting away, as if making eye contact was somehow forbidden.

"What's wrong?" You asked with growing concern etched across your features, "You're hungry aren't you? I can tell you haven't eaten in a while. Especially not anything warm, at least. I know it can be hard out there, all by yourself…"

His response came in the form of an almost imperceptible nod, his gaze remaining firmly fixed on the bowl and sandwich before him, as though they were the most important and most dangerous objects in the room.

"So why aren't you eating? The food's getting cold, it won’t be as good if it cools too much."

"Я не могу совершить действие без приказа. [I cannot perform an action without an order]," the soldier responded in barely more than a whisper, his voice carrying the weight of years of conditioning.

You stood there, completely lost in the language barrier between you. Your limited knowledge of Russian extended only to the most basic words - 'да' and 'нет' - leaving you clueless by his response and worried about the implications of his behavior.

You didn't want to wake Natasha, even though she would certainly understand what he was saying in Russian, but disturbing her sleep for something as simple as a quick translation seemed unnecessary and might put her in a bad mood. Instead, an idea popped into your head that would avoid an angry widow. You reached for your phone and placed it on the smooth counter surface, navigating to a translator app before looking up at him again. "Can you repeat that?"

The soldier's eyes flickered briefly to the phone screen, taking in the sight of the translation app with what seemed like recognition, before his gaze deliberately returned to the untouched food laid out before him. "I cannot perform an action without an order," he stated in perfect, albeit mechanical English this time.

You blinked in surprise, thoroughly caught off guard by the sudden switch to English when he had been persistently speaking Russian up until this point. "Okay...well...eat then, you can eat freely here, you don't need an order to do that." You slowly tucked your phone away into your pocket as his right hand gradually lifted from where it had been resting in his lap, reaching out to pick up the sandwich.

You weren't sure what you were expecting, but he wolfed down his food within a minute, that sandwich was gone within maybe three bites. The soup swallowed just as fast.

God, he was starving, and the realization made your heart ache.

"Better?" You asked gently, to which he only nodded, swallowing the last of the food in his mouth.

This became routine, the soldier stuck by your side like a duckling imprinting on its mother.

He followed you diligently around every corner of the tower, his protective instincts activated as he positioned himself like an ever-vigilant guardian. His eyes constantly scanned the surroundings, noting how others would cast uncertain and sometimes suspicious glances in his direction.

These looks made him increasingly self-conscious and anxious, as though he were some exotic creature put on display at a zoo for others to gawk at. But in your presence, he seemed a bit more at ease. He genuinely liked being around you.

Gradually, the rigid tension that had defined his existence began to melt away, and he started allowing more intimate gestures of care. He let you gently brush his unruly hair into place, carefully wash his face with warm water, or trim his growing stubble for him.

He accepted these tender ministrations without the slightest resistance or complaint, though a nagging worry lingered in your mind that his compliance stemmed from years of conditioning to submit to others' wishes. Each time you worried about that, you’d see a genuine warmth and contentment in his gaze rather than submission, showing you that he truly found comfort and pleasure in your gentle touch.

It was evening, the room reflected the warm glow of festive holiday lights emanating from a miniature Christmas tree nestled in the corner. The soldier found himself transfixed by the small decorated tree, his eyes lingering on each twinkling light as their vibrant colors danced and shimmered. The sterile, monotonous walls he had grown accustomed to during his confinement were nothing compared to the colorful lights. The gentle play of red, green, and gold seemed to awaken something long dormant within him, he almost wanted to plant himself in front of the tree and just stare at it.

Tony may have allowed his stay, but that didn’t mean there weren’t restrictions. He was stern about where and when the soldier could go anywhere with you, and he demanded that he not leave your room afterhours. It wasn’t hard to follow, the solider showed reluctance to leave your room at all, having been so accustomed to being kept in one room. You didn’t push him, but you felt bad for him because he was missing how the tower had been decorated for the holidays. So, you got a smaller tree for the bedroom to provide some kind of festive look for him to take in.

You emerged from the bathroom, wisps of steam following in your wake, your damp hair leaving little droplets on your shoulders as you continued to towel it dry with scrunches. He remained motionless on the edge of your bed, his attention immediately shifting as he turned and blinked up at your approaching figure.

His icy eyes traced a deliberate path across your form, which was barely concealed beneath the thin fabric of your sleep shirt, the hem teasingly brushing against your mid-thigh with each movement. "I am beat," you sighed heavily, your voice carrying the weight of the day's festivities. The marathon of holiday activities had clearly taken its toll, leaving you thoroughly drained. The tower often held an array of things to do because Tony loved to show off what he could afford, and it wasn’t like anyone else would object.

He observed with rapt attention as you made your way onto the bed and settled back against the pillows, releasing a deep exhale that seemed to melt away the day's tension. His unwavering gaze remained fixed on the rhythmic, hypnotic motion of your chest rising and falling with each breath.

You felt the bed shift beneath you as he moved, his weight causing the mattress to dip and creak softly. He crawled over to where you lay, his arms positioning themselves on either side of your body, caging you in. Your eyes fluttered open to find him hovering directly above you, his presence overwhelming in its proximity. This was something new…he had always maintained somewhat of a distance before, never daring to position himself so intimately over top of you.

"Я скомпрометирован. [I'm compromised]," the soldier spoke in a hushed tone, his voice carrying that distinctive gravelly pitch that made you feel tingly. The tension between you had become damned near impossible to ignore. What had started as a subtle pull had grown into an overwhelming force of attraction that seemed to draw you both together like magnets.

Still, you forced yourself to hold back, maintaining that last thread of restraint. You had no way of knowing the depth of his emotional capacity, if he was even capable of genuine feelings, or wanted to experience them at all after everything he endured.

"Soldat...?" The whispered word escaped your lips as you noticed the subtle shift in his demeanor, the way his muscles tensed as he remained suspended above you, perfectly still. "You know I don't understand-"

"I am compromised," he repeated, switching to English this time. His voice had dropped even lower, carrying an edge of frustration that vibrated through the minimal space between your bodies.

"Comprom..." You sat up slowly on your elbows and shook your head in confusion, your brow furrowed as you tried to process his words. That’s what you’d say about a machine or computer, not a man. "What are you talking about?" Your eyes wandered downward, suddenly drawn to an unmistakable tent in his fitted briefs that became obvious from your new viewing angle, causing you to freeze in place as your breath caught in your throat.

So, he could feel things.

"Oh..." You felt a wave of embarrassment wash over you as you remained frozen in place, your cheeks growing warm. "I think I understand now...you're feeling a bit pent up, aren't you?"

His metal arm whirred softly, the sophisticated machinery humming as he moved to adjust his hand placement. "Да. [Yes]," he responded in a low voice, his gleaming titanium fingertips delicately ghosted across the bare skin of your thigh, just barely grazing beneath the hem of your thin sleep shirt. Goosebumps erupted along your body in response to the contact, the cool metal sudden against your flushed skin.

"Мне не нравится делиться вашим вниманием. [I don't like sharing your attention]," he muttered with an undertone of possession, his lips curling into a slight frown as he gradually leaned closer to you. His silken hair delicately tickled your face as he slowly lowered himself, the tips of your noses barely grazing against each other in an intimate gesture. His lips parted ever so slightly, revealing a glimpse of anticipation before he dipped his head down, warm lips pressing a tender, lingering kiss to your jawline.

You swallowed reflexively, your breath catching in your throat as you felt his warm, steady breath caress your sensitive skin, sending a visible shudder of growing excitement through your body.

He continued his gentle exploration, encouraged by your acceptance and the absence of any resistance. He pressed a trail of soft, purposeful kisses along the curve of your jaw, each one more intimate than the last, before gradually working his way down to your neck. His lips carefully followed the rhythmic flutter of your pulse beneath your skin, his tongue peeking out shyly to touch against you.

"Ah-" You voiced softly, feeling him settle on a particularly sensitive spot, right against the delicate side of your neck. It was nestled perfectly between the graceful junction where your neck connected to your collarbone, the skin there warm and inviting, holding a faint trace of blood flow from the intricate network of smaller veins positioned just beneath the surface.

He kissed many times with increasing intensity, clearly finding this spot ideal for his attentions. The soft, tentative pecks gradually became more passionate, open-mouthed kisses as each one was placed. His tongue began gently pressing against your skin with each lingering kiss, the pressure slowly growing in need. You felt your cheeks flush with warmth when he finally latched on, your eyes widening in surprise as the soldier's strong arms held you a little tighter.

Soldat began to suckle a mark, his ministrations gentle and teasing at first, but quickly growing in force and intensity as his skilled tongue swirled expertly around the trapped skin between his lips and teeth. The sensation drew a breathy moan from deep within you, making your entire body feel as though it were engulfed in flames of desire. Though you were completely helpless beneath the assassin, you had absolutely no intention or desire to push him away.

This felt too damned good.

Without thinking, your leg came up and hooked around his hips, drawing him closer until your bodies were flush against each other. The heat between you grew and you felt his painful erection trapped in his briefs, straining against the fabric as his arousal was staining them. Soldat exhaled sharply through his nose, his grip tightening possessively, but he did not let go.

His suckling grew increasingly intense, the sensitive skin tingling and starting to sting and burn with each passing moment. Still, he didn't release the bruised skin just yet.

Instead, he just bit down harder, ensuring the mark he left would last for days. You moaned loudly, your fingers gently tangling in his thick hair as your pleasured sounds encouraged his attention. He became more attentive when your little sounds of pleasure turned into sharp, quiet hisses - clearly indicating that the sensation had crossed from pleasure into discomfort, silently telling him to ease off.

When he did finally relent, he pulled back to admire his handiwork, looking down at the deep purple mark blooming on your neck. His breath came in heavy pants through his parted lips as he stayed quiet, watching intently as you struggled to catch your own breath too. The sight of you beneath him, disheveled and vulnerable, with flushed skin and labored breathing, was enough to draw him right back in.

He dipped back down with renewed hunger, his metal hand slowly threading through your hair before gently fisting it at the base of your skull, though his careful control ensured it wasn’t painful, just firm. He tugged just enough to guide your movement, encouraging you to expose more of your neck to his hungry gaze.

"E-easy..." You whispered, a note of anxious anticipation in your voice. You wanted more, god you wanted more, but his sudden change of behavior was a bit surprising for you.

"Понял. [Understood]," he whispered against your skin, pressing a soft kiss of reassurance to your jaw before returning his attention to your neck. Those soft kisses began again, trailing along your skin, but his restraint didn't last long as he quickly sought a new canvas for another mark. He latched onto a spot just a little bit higher on your neck, alternating between sucking and carefully controlled bites to gradually darken and bruise the sensitive flesh.

You felt bite after delicious bite, hickey after possessive hickey.

He marked the tender flesh of your neck in several deep, purple marks that bloomed like violent flowers across your skin...each one throbbing with a sweet ache when he pulled away. His tongue always swirled over the mark with care to soothe the sting of it, making you arch into his touch as you fell into a complete daze.

"S-Soldat," you muttered breathlessly, cheeks flushed crimson and eyelids heavy with desire. Your pupils matched his own - completely blown with hunger and desperate need. Those bermuda swirls meeting yours as he continued a torturously slow trail of hot kisses down your chest, nipping your collarbone with just enough pressure to make you gasp before following the gentle dip of your sternum.

He paused deliberately, pulling up so he could lift the thin sleep shirt over you and expose more of your bare chest to his hungry gaze, giving him better access for his heated kisses and teasing nips. Once your top was discarded somewhere on the floor, his hands gently but firmly held your sides, trailing up with reverent touches until settling against your ribcage. His larger hands completely encompassed your torso, making you feel small but protected.

The soldier was absolutely transfixed at the sight of your breasts, eyeing the soft mounds and peaked nipples as they hardened in the cool air, growing increasingly sensitive and rosy with your mounting arousal. It was like he was completely mesmerized by the sight before him, the fucking Winter Soldier, the most dangerous assassin in history, stopped dead in his tracks at the mere sight of your bare breasts.

You felt in charge now.

"What is it? Do you like them?" you purred softly to the soldier, your body swaying in a deliberately teasing motion that made them gently move. His eyes remained fixed, drinking in the sight before him as his lips parted ever so slightly. Slowly, his head tilted down again, surrendering to the moment. He let his face nestle against your chest, his lips trailing a constellation of unhurried kisses across your skin.

He began to nip and suckle the tender skin of your breasts, his mouth working to create deep, purple love bites on that delicate flesh. The bruising blossomed easily beneath his ministrations, almost like they were eager to show themselves.

His lips would find a promising spot, then he would begin lapping at the skin with gentle strokes of his tongue until he felt you squirming. The soldier took the sensitized flesh carefully between his teeth, rolling the captured skin while his talented muscle swirled and sucked.

Your chest displayed his passionate handiwork when he finally drew back to admire his creation. The plum-colored bruises created an intimate pattern across your skin, their rich hues made even more striking by the soft glow of the holiday lights that danced through the room, highlighting each carefully placed love bite until they seemed to shimmer like twilight stars against your flesh.

"Soldat...I think you covered enough surface area," you breathed, feeling overwhelmed by the intense throbbing that radiated from each mark he'd left. The sensation pulsed in waves across your skin, making it difficult to focus. Your neck was thoroughly covered in the passionate marks, and now your chest bore an equally impressive collection.

The soldier gazed down at you with intensely, his eyes taking in each little sugar plum bruise that decorated your skin like a masterpiece. Though they were scattered without any deliberate pattern, the overall effect clearly pleased him. You lay there looking thoroughly affected by his attention, hair mussed and breathing uneven, cheeks beautifully darkened with a dust of blush, just from his careful application of bites alone. The sight of you in such a state, marked so thoroughly, brought deep set satisfaction in his gut.

"Моя теперь. [Mine now]," he muttered softly, his warm breath ghosting across your skin as his lips hovered mere millimeters from your own. The almost-kiss was delicate, just the faintest brush of contact that sent electricity dancing through your nerves. He almost seemed nervous to close that final distance, his confidence faltering despite the passionate trail of marks he had already left scattered across your skin.

He drew back slightly, seemingly snapping out of a trance, and you could see the vulnerability written plainly across his features as that nervousness flickered in his eyes. Shifting his weight, he settled back onto the bed, his right hand finding your knee and tracing gentle, soothing circles there with his thumb. The tender gesture matched his hushed voice as he spoke, "Я не хочу идти дальше. [I don't want to go any further]," the words carrying both certainty and a hint of apology.

Your brow furrowed deeply as you struggled to understand what he was trying to stay, the confusion evident in the slight crease between your eyebrows and the questioning tilt of your head. You really needed to study Russian. "Do you not want to continue?" you asked slowly and carefully, focusing more on interpreting the subtle nuances in his tone rather than trying to parse the exact words he was using.

His facial expression held hesitance and uncertainty, the slight downturn of his lips and the way his eyes wouldn't quite meet yours telling you what you needed to know. Body language was his primary mode of genuine communication, and you had become very good at reading these silent signals he unconsciously broadcast.

"It's okay, we can stop," you replied with a reassuring tone, making sure to keep your voice soft to help dissipate any lingering tension he might be feeling. "Let's just lay here, okay? We can cuddle without any kind of pressure to do anything else, if you want." You offered with a warm smile, wanting him to feel that his comfort and boundaries were completely respected and that there was no expectation or obligation to continue.

This was a lot of good progress with him, you typically just cuddled or he kept to his side of the bed but he had shown you a lot of sweet affection tonight, and you loved it, it meant he was growing more confident in himself and your relationship. The evidence of his passionate yet tender attention remained visible in the form of gentle, plum-colored marks that decorated your neck and chest as you lay beside him, watching as his silent form trembled slightly beneath the heavy warmth of the thick blankets that enveloped you both.

You opened your arms, offering him a warmer space, and he quickly scooted forward, tucking himself against you. Prone to being cold, he liked being under many layers of blankets, so you made sure to provide plenty for him to not only feel warm but secure. Plus...having you to hold him always helped.

Without the worry of being a soldier, he could rest easy like this.

Thanks for reading. -em 🌿

Dividers by @/strangergraphics | Images found on Pinterest.

#My soldat

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setralinehoe · 2 months ago

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Pov: you're reading fanfiction and suddenly y/n starts to call him daddy

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setralinehoe · 2 months ago

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me staring at my ceiling after y/n does the most FLABBERGASTING thing ever

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setralinehoe · 2 months ago

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Always, Again | C.JH x Reader

SUMMARY | After a vulnerable conversation about intimacy, you and Jongho begin to rediscover each other—emotionally and physically. When distance and routine threaten your connection, a spontaneous lakeside getaway becomes the turning point. Through slow mornings, quiet nights, and deep, healing intimacy, you rebuild trust and affection. What began as tension transforms into something steady and real—a mutual promise to keep choosing each other, not just in love, but in the everyday moments that matter most.

PAIRINGS | Jongho x Fem!Reader

RATING | Mature, 18+, NSFW, MDNI!!!

CONTENT WARNINGS | One Shot, Smut, TON OF SMUT, FLUFF, Teasing, Unprotected Sex (Don't do it), Creampies, Multiple Orgasms, Shower Sex, Office/Work Setting Sex, Public Sex (Kinda), Aftercare, Some Internal Anxiety, Overwhelmed Work, Some Stress, F L U F F. S M U T.

WORD COUNT | 12.7k

AUTHOR NOTE | Yes, Another Jongho Fanfic. :] This one is a bit long but a bunch of smut. :3 a TON of smut. He can't keep his hands or thoughts off of you ;)

•

You and your husband Jongho were out for a late dinner. Normally, you'd be completely drunk by this point, but tonight you'd only had enough to feel a comfortable buzz. Jongho, meanwhile, focused on his food and only took a few small sips—he typically reserved his drinking for when he was home.

The car ride home had been quiet, your earlier conversation still hanging heavy in the air. You and Jongho had somehow drifted into a discussion about your relationship—about the things left unsaid, about boundaries neither of you had dared to push until now.

And then he said it.

“I was wondering… would you be okay with me having sex with you whenever I want? Even if you're not in the mood… or if you're busy?” His voice was calm—too calm. The car rolled to a stop in front of the house, but he didn’t move. Instead, he turned to face you fully.

Your pulse spiked. “What… what is this really about, Jongho?” you asked, your voice barely steady. Heat bloomed across your cheeks, your chest, down to your fingertips. He didn’t answer right away—just blinked, slowly, like he was choosing his next words with care. Or hesitation.

You exhaled, the silence stretching. “Seriously. What are you trying to say?”

“That’s it,” he said plainly, before opening the door and stepping out.

You followed quickly, heart pounding, that tight knot twisting deeper in your stomach. Inside the house, everything felt louder—the quiet hum of the fridge, the soft click of Jongho’s keys hitting the counter, your own breath.

He made his way to the kitchen without missing a beat, poured himself a drink with a steady hand. “Want anything, Y/N?” he asked, voice low, eyes flicking toward you.

You shook your head as you dropped onto the sofa, still reeling. “No, thanks,” you murmured, but your mind was racing—circling back to his words, the question, the implication behind it.

He returned, the drink in his hand barely touched, and stood across from you. The silence between you thrummed with tension. And finally, you spoke.

“I’ll do it… but only on one condition,” you said, your voice sharp with nerves but laced with something else too—something daring.

He shrugged off his coat slowly, deliberately, and you couldn’t help but follow the motion—the slide of fabric, the way his shirt clung to his frame, the unreadable expression carved into his face.

He caught your gaze. “What condition?” he asked, eyes narrowing slightly.

You took a breath and met his eyes, heart pounding. “If I’m not in the mood… you owe me dinner. Every single time. Before or after. No exceptions.”

He stepped closer, towering over you, and leaned in—close enough for you to feel his breath fan across your cheek. His lips curved into a slow smile.

“Deal.”

Jongho’s smile lingered, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. There was something else there—something thoughtful, almost hesitant. He stood above you for another second before finally sitting down beside you, the cushion dipping slightly under his weight.

Neither of you said anything at first. The air was thick, not with anger or discomfort, but with the weight of honesty that had nowhere else to go.

You glanced over at him. “Was that hard for you to ask?”

He let out a quiet laugh, low and dry. “You have no idea.”

You studied his profile—his jaw tight, eyes forward like he was still trying to figure out what your answer really meant. You reached for the hem of your sleeve, fidgeting.

“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” you said quietly. “It’s just… something about that question—it caught me off guard. Like you were asking for more than just sex.”

“I was,” he said without missing a beat.

That surprised you. Your eyes met his, and this time, he didn’t look away.

“I’m not trying to take something from you,” he continued. “I just want to know that I don’t have to tiptoe around you. That if I want you—if I need you—I don’t have to wait for the stars to align.”

Your throat tightened a little. “So, you’re asking for permission to be selfish sometimes.”

“I’m asking for trust,” he said simply. “Even when it doesn’t make perfect sense.”

You nodded slowly, his words sinking in. It wasn’t just about control, or desire—it was about closeness. Safety. The kind of intimacy that didn’t always look romantic but meant everything.

“Okay,” you said again, more certain this time. “But the dinner rule stays. No skipping it.”

His mouth curved into a real smile this time—quiet, genuine, and full of that rare softness he rarely showed. He reached out and brushed a knuckle gently along your jaw.

“Deal,” he murmured.

You leaned into his touch without meaning to, your body responding to the unspoken understanding between you.

And in that moment—no urgency, no pressure, just the quiet hum of everything unspoken—you felt something settle inside you. A kind of closeness that had nothing to do with proximity.

Just presence.

Jongho’s hand lingered at your jaw, his thumb brushing along your skin like he wasn’t ready to pull away. His gaze softened, searching your face—not for permission, but for understanding.

You tilted your head slightly, letting your eyes close for a brief second, just feeling the warmth of him. When you opened them again, he was still watching you. Still there.

“Why now?” you asked, voice quiet but steady. “Why bring this up tonight?”

He exhaled through his nose, sitting back a little, though his knee still touched yours.

“I think… I needed to know if I could be seen. All of me. Not just the parts of me that are easy to love.”

That answer sat in your chest for a moment, heavy in the best way. You nodded slowly, your fingers tracing the seam of a throw pillow in your lap, grounding yourself.

“You are,” you said. “Even when you’re being a little reckless with your words.”

A soft laugh escaped him, and he leaned his head back against the couch. “Yeah, I know that wasn’t the smoothest way to ask.”

“It really wasn’t,” you smirked, nudging his leg with yours. “But I get it. And I’m still here, aren’t I?”

He looked at you again—really looked this time—and you could feel it, like something unspoken passed between you. Something real.

Jongho shifted closer, his hand moving to rest on your thigh, fingers light but steady. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t need to.

His voice dropped, quiet and serious. “Can I kiss you?”

That question hit differently—because he didn’t assume, didn’t lean in without asking. He waited.

You nodded once, your voice caught somewhere between your heart and throat. “Yeah.”

He leaned in slowly, giving you time to change your mind. And when his lips met yours, it wasn’t rushed or demanding. It was warm. Intentional. Like a promise, not a possession.

Your hand found his wrist as the kiss deepened just slightly, his fingers flexing on your thigh. When you parted, he didn’t pull away completely—just rested his forehead gently against yours.

“Still okay?” he asked.

You nodded, voice a breath. “More than okay.”

And for a moment, everything else fell away—just the two of you, close and honest, finally meeting each other in that in-between space where desire and care blurred into something else entirely.

Jongho’s forehead still rested against yours, and then you felt it—that subtle shift in his energy, the slight smile ghosting his lips.

“Well, I took you out tonight…” he murmured, voice low and warm. “Do you think you’re ready to be in the mood?”

The question wasn’t pushy. It didn’t carry any weight of expectation. Just a quiet invitation wrapped in familiar teasing. His breath tickled your cheek as he leaned back slightly, eyes flicking between yours.

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head. “Wow. You’re really trying to cash in on that deal already?”

He shrugged, playful but calm, his fingers still resting gently on your leg. “I’m just following the terms. Dinner first. I held up my end.”

Your lips curled at the corners despite yourself. He was ridiculous—but there was something about the way he was looking at you. Patient. Present. Like if you said no, he’d pull back without a word of complaint, but if you said yes… he’d make sure it meant something.

You reached up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as you studied him. “Maybe,” you said slowly, “but I don’t think I’m there yet.”

Jongho nodded, no disappointment in his expression. “That’s fine.”

He leaned in again, pressing a kiss to your temple—soft, lingering. Then he stood, stretching slightly, his shirt lifting just enough for your eyes to catch a sliver of skin before he turned toward the kitchen.

“I’m getting some water. Let me know if you want anything else,” he said casually.

You watched him walk away, the weight of his presence still clinging to you. Your body buzzed—not just from desire, but from the kind of intimacy that didn’t rush or demand.

And maybe… maybe you weren’t fully in the mood yet.

But you were close.

---

Later that night, the house was quiet.

The soft hum of the air conditioner filled the silence, along with the occasional creak of floorboards as one of you moved around. You were curled up on the couch, blanket wrapped loosely around your legs, scrolling absently through your phone—not really reading anything, just passing time while your thoughts drifted.

Jongho had disappeared into the bedroom after the kitchen, saying something about changing and giving you space. He hadn’t pushed. He hadn’t hovered. But the look in his eyes before he left still lingered in your mind—calm, but undeniably full of want.

When you finally stood and padded down the hall, the bedroom door was cracked open, soft light spilling out into the dark. You paused, your hand resting on the edge of the door.

Inside, Jongho was sitting at the edge of the bed, head tilted back, one hand resting loosely on his thigh. He looked over when he heard you step in.

“Hey,” he said, voice low, almost cautious. “You okay?”

You nodded, stepping in quietly. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”

He gave a soft hum, like he understood without needing the explanation. You walked over slowly, then sat beside him, close enough that your knees touched.

“You weren’t wrong earlier,” you said after a beat, not quite looking at him. “About needing to be seen. I think I needed that too.”

Jongho turned to face you fully, his eyes softening. “I see you. Even when you don’t say much… I do.”

That did something to you. Your breath caught for a second, and before you could talk yourself out of it, you leaned in and kissed him again.

This time it wasn’t careful. It was intentional. Your hands moved up to his shoulders, and his instinctively slid around your waist, grounding you against him. The kiss deepened slowly, heat curling at the edges of every movement.

You shifted, climbing onto his lap without breaking contact. His hands gripped your hips like he needed to be sure you were really there.

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. “I’m in the mood now,” you whispered.

His breath hitched. His fingers flexed against you. But still, he asked, “You’re sure?”

You nodded, your voice steady this time. “I want this. I want you.”

That was all he needed.

He kissed you again, deeper now, the kind of kiss that carried all the tension from earlier—the uncertainty, the vulnerability, the ache. His hands slid under your shirt, warm against your skin, but still gentle, still asking.

And as you moved together—slowly, deliberately—it wasn’t about claiming or taking. It was about choosing each other. Meeting in that space where desire met care, where you didn’t have to explain or hold back.

Just be.

Your breath mingled with his as the kiss pulled you deeper—slow and aching, full of everything unsaid. Jongho's hands moved up under your shirt again, fingertips brushing the curve of your waist with a reverence that made your chest tighten.

He didn’t rush, even though you felt the tension in his body—the restraint. His touch was firm, but patient. Like he was learning you all over again.

You reached down, tugging your shirt up and over your head in one smooth motion. Jongho’s eyes followed every movement, and when you looked at him—truly looked—there was no trace of dominance, no assumption. Just want. Just care. And a kind of quiet awe, like he couldn’t believe you were right there with him, saying yes with every breath.

His hands slid up your back as he leaned in, lips moving from your mouth to the edge of your jaw, down the side of your neck. Every kiss was slow, almost hesitant at first, until you let out a soft sigh and your fingers tangled in his hair.

That was all the reassurance he needed.

He shifted, gently laying you back against the bed, following your body down. The mattress dipped beneath you, and his weight—solid and familiar—settled over you just enough to feel grounding. His mouth returned to yours, deeper now, hungrier, and you responded with a soft noise in the back of your throat, your legs parting to welcome him between them.

Clothes disappeared piece by piece between kisses and small, murmured words—nothing urgent, just small anchors of intimacy that made the space between you feel sacred. His hands roamed like he was memorizing you, and you let him—touched him in return, feeling his breath catch when your fingers grazed over his ribs, the dip of his waist, the line of his hip.

When he finally pressed into you, it wasn’t rushed—it was slow, deliberate, eyes locked to yours as if he needed to witness every flicker of feeling across your face. You gasped softly, your body arching to meet his, and he stilled, giving you that moment to breathe, to adjust, to feel him there completely.

“You’re okay?” he whispered, voice hoarse.

You nodded, hand resting against his cheek. “Yes. Please don’t stop.”

So he moved—slow and steady at first, building rhythm like a shared breath. It wasn’t about friction. It wasn’t about power. It was about being known, completely, and still being held with care.

Every sound you made pulled him closer. Every whisper of his name made his movements just a little more purposeful. And when the pace deepened—his hips pressing into yours, the warmth pooling low in your belly—it felt like your entire body was answering a question you didn’t even know had been asked.

You came apart with his name on your lips, your hands gripping his back, nails biting just slightly into his skin. He followed not long after, breath ragged, a quiet curse whispered against your collarbone before he stilled above you, trembling slightly from the intensity.

Silence settled between you, not awkward, but full—rich with the weight of everything that just passed between your bodies.

He didn’t move right away. Just rested his forehead against yours again, both of you catching your breath, your heartbeats gradually syncing like they were remembering how to slow down together.

“I’m glad you said yes,” he murmured, his voice barely a breath.

You smiled, fingers brushing over the back of his neck. “So am I.”

---

The morning light filtered in through the curtains, soft and golden, casting faint lines across the sheets. The room was quiet, save for the occasional bird outside and the slow, even sound of Jongho’s breathing beside you.

You blinked your eyes open, body still heavy with sleep and warmth. The blanket had slid low on your hips, the air cool against your skin, but his arm was still draped around your waist—loose, protective, like even in sleep he wasn’t quite ready to let go.

For a moment, you just lay there, staring at the ceiling, heart strangely calm.

There was no rush of panic, no second-guessing. Just the quiet realization that something had shifted last night. Not in a dramatic way, but in the kind that settles deep—like trust being laid down brick by brick, quietly, steadily.

You turned slightly to face him. Jongho was still asleep, his lips parted just barely, hair a little messy from your hands. He looked peaceful. Honest, in a way people only ever look when they’re unguarded.

You smiled faintly, reaching up to trace a finger gently along his brow, then down the side of his face. His eyes fluttered open a moment later.

“Hey,” he rasped, voice low and rough with sleep.

“Hey,” you whispered back.

He shifted closer without thinking, tucking his face into the crook of your neck. His breath was warm against your collarbone. “What time is it?”

You glanced over his shoulder at the clock. “A little after nine.”

“Mm. Still early.”

You didn’t respond right away. Instead, your fingers moved through his hair slowly, like it was the most natural thing in the world. And after a few breaths, you spoke.

“Last night… felt different.”

He pulled back just enough to see your face, eyes still a little unfocused, but attentive.

“Different good?” he asked carefully.

You nodded. “Yeah. Good. Real. I didn’t feel like I had to perform or prove anything. It just… was.”

Jongho reached up, brushing a thumb across your cheek. “That’s how it should be.”

There was a long pause, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Just thoughtful.

Then he added, quietly, “You know, I wasn’t sure if you’d still want to be close to me this morning.”

You blinked. “Why?”

“Because I asked for something selfish. Even if I meant it with care.”

You stared at him, then shook your head. “It wasn’t selfish. It was honest. And you gave me room to choose. That’s not selfish—that’s intimacy.”

He exhaled, eyes softening again. “You really see me, don’t you?”

“I do,” you whispered, leaning in to kiss his temple. “Even the hard parts.”

His arms tightened around you just a little, anchoring you to him. “Then I think we’re going to be okay.”

And in that quiet morning light, wrapped up in each other and a stillness that felt anything but empty, you believed him.

Neither of you said much after that. There didn’t need to be words—just the quiet rhythm of breathing, the warmth of skin against skin, and the rare comfort of feeling completely known. You stayed wrapped up in each other for a few more minutes before reluctantly pulling away, the real world already beginning to call you back.

Jongho stretched as you slid out of bed, offering a sleepy grin. “Don’t stay in the shower too long. You’ll make me miss you more than I already do.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled anyway, the lingering heat in your chest making it hard to say anything back. So you just tossed a towel at him and made your way to the bathroom.

The water helped clear your head, but it didn’t wash away the echo of last night. You could still feel it—like it lived under your skin now. A memory that wasn’t just about pleasure, but about being seen. Chosen. Held.

By the time you finished getting ready, Jongho was already in the kitchen, fixing himself a quick breakfast. He looked up as you passed, his eyes following you with a softness that wasn’t there the day before.

“I’ll text you later,” he said as you grabbed your keys.

“You better,” you replied, your tone light but full of something deeper.

Then you were out the door, the warmth of the house giving way to the chill of the outside world.

The moment you stepped into work, though, the energy shifted. The fluorescent lights, the low hum of chatter, the ping of notifications and looming tasks—it all felt heavier than usual. You walked in, shoulders a little tense, your mind reluctantly snapping into focus.

You sighed as you reached your desk, setting your bag down with a little more force than you meant to.

Back to reality.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket just as you sat down. You pulled it out, half-expecting an email or some early task waiting—but it was a message from Jongho.

Jongho: I know you're at work, but just wanted to say... last night meant everything. And so do you.

You stared at the screen for a second, lips parting slightly.

That tight feeling in your chest loosened a little.

Maybe the day would still be long. Maybe work would still be draining. But you weren’t going into it alone. Not really.

You started to type back, your fingers moving before your brain could catch up.

You: Meant everything to me too. I’ll be thinking about you.

And you would.

All day.

You stared at the message, the words echoing in your head as you whispered them under your breath.

"Thinking about you while in a meeting. I might be in the mood."

Your lips parted slightly, and you blinked at the screen, heat blooming in your cheeks before you could even stop it. Of course he’d text something like that now, right as you were packing up to leave. You looked around instinctively, making sure no one could see the way your expression had just shifted—or hear the sudden rush of air you quietly exhaled.

You typed back quickly, fingers still tingling:

You: Is that so? Bold of you to start something when I’m still on the clock.

Your phone lit up with his reply before you could even tuck it away.

Jongho: Timing is everything. You said dinner first, right? I was thinking of ordering in… unless you’d rather I cook.

You bit your bottom lip, smile pulling at the corners despite your best efforts. He was doing it again—walking that line between teasing and thoughtful, making you feel wanted in a way that didn’t pressure, just invited.

You grabbed your things and headed for the door, your heart beating a little faster now, the drag of the workday already fading behind you.

You: You cook, I’ll bring dessert. And maybe something else if you're still “in the mood.”

There was no immediate reply, but the typing bubbles started flashing, stopped, then flashed again. You could picture him reading that text—one eyebrow raised, lips twitching into that amused smile you’d seen a thousand times. Except now, it felt different. Closer. Warmer.

Jongho: Deal. But don’t be late. Mood’s already growing.

You stepped out into the evening air, the sky tinted with soft orange and purple, your pulse still tapping quick beneath your skin.

And just like that… you were in the mood too.

You didn’t even bother going home first.

Something about the way Jongho texted you—the timing, the subtle heat tucked behind his words—had shifted your whole trajectory. Instead of your usual routine, you turned your car in the opposite direction, toward the building you’d only been to a few times before. His office.

By the time you pulled into the parking lot, the sun was low in the sky, streaks of deep orange painting the tops of the windows. The building itself was quieting down—people filtering out, some lights off already. But you knew he’d still be upstairs. He always worked late when things got busy.

Your phone buzzed just as you stepped inside.

Jongho: Elevator’s waiting. 6th floor. Come find me.

You rolled your eyes, a small laugh escaping under your breath. The man had a flair for the dramatic, even in texts. Still, your heart thumped a little faster as the elevator doors closed behind you, humming softly on the way up.

When you stepped out onto the sixth floor, the office was mostly dark—just the low glow of ambient light and a few scattered desk lamps. You followed the faint sound of music playing from somewhere deeper inside, a soft instrumental track that echoed through the open space.

And then you saw him.

Jongho stood by the window in his office, shirt sleeves rolled up, jacket draped over the back of his chair. He was nursing a glass of something dark in one hand, phone in the other. He looked up the moment you appeared in the doorway.

His smile was slow and warm. “You came.”

You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely. “You tempted me.”

He set the glass down and took a few steps toward you, eyes scanning your face like he was memorizing it all over again.

“Wasn’t sure you’d actually show up here. Thought maybe you’d wait until I got home.”

“I figured I’d save you the trouble,” you said softly, stepping inside and closing the door behind you. The sound echoed lightly through the otherwise empty office.

He reached out, his fingers brushing along your wrist before taking your hand gently. “You always do have good timing.”

There was something charged in the quiet, like the stillness before a storm—intense, but unhurried.

“Are we alone up here?” you asked, your voice dipping slightly.

He nodded. “Everyone’s gone. Just us.”

A beat passed. Then another.

You stepped closer, standing in the glow of his desk lamp now, the soft light casting shadows across his face. “So…” you said slowly, “about that mood of yours…”

He smiled, eyes dropping briefly to your lips, then back to your eyes.

“It just got a lot stronger.”

You didn’t say anything right away. Neither did he.

But the silence between you wasn’t empty—it was thick with anticipation, like every breath was a step closer to crossing some invisible line. You watched each other, waiting to see who would move first.

Jongho’s hand was still holding yours, his thumb lazily brushing over your knuckles. It was such a small thing, but it felt intimate, grounding. Like he was saying I see you without needing the words again.

You broke the quiet first, your voice soft but laced with something unmistakable. “So this is where you think about me during your meetings, huh?”

He let out a low chuckle, his gaze never leaving yours. “This is where I try not to think about you during my meetings. Doesn’t always work.”

“Clearly.” You smirked, stepping forward until your bodies were nearly touching. “Sending me that kind of text while I’m trying to finish work? Dangerous move.”

“You liked it.”

You raised an eyebrow, challenging. “You sure about that?”

Instead of answering, he reached up and gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered at your jaw, tracing the curve of it, then sliding down to your neck, slow and deliberate.

“Your face said everything,” he murmured. “You lit up when you read it. I could practically feel it from here.”

You inhaled, steadying yourself against the way your pulse jumped at his touch.

The air between you shifted—denser now. Like gravity itself had tilted, pulling you together without either of you having to move. His other hand found your waist, resting lightly, as if asking for permission without saying a word.

“I’m still in the mood, by the way,” he added, his voice dipping just above a whisper.

You looked up at him through your lashes. “And what happens if I am too?”

Jongho’s smile curved, slow and sharp, but his eyes stayed soft—grounded. “Then I lock that door,” he said simply, “and take my time showing you just how much I’ve been thinking about you.”

You didn’t respond immediately. Instead, you stepped even closer, so that your chest was brushing his, your voice barely a breath against his skin.

“Then what are you waiting for?”

His jaw tensed just slightly, and without another word, he turned toward the door and clicked the lock into place. The soft click sent a pulse down your spine.

He turned back to you, slower this time, like he was savoring the moment—letting the tension stretch just a little further. Then he walked toward you, purposeful now, and cupped your face with both hands, tilting your head up as his lips hovered just over yours.

“I missed you today,” he murmured.

“You’re about to make up for it,” you whispered back.

And when his mouth finally met yours, it wasn’t rushed—it was deep, full of quiet intensity, all the anticipation from the day melting into a single, breathless moment. His hands slid to your back, pulling you flush against him as the office—cold, professional, quiet—faded completely from your awareness.

Now it was just him. Just you.

And the way everything felt like it was about to unravel in the best possible way.

Jongho's kiss deepened, his hands spreading heat across your back as he pressed you closer, every inch of him saying you’re mine tonight. The air between you was thick now, laced with everything you’d both been holding back all day. Your fingers tangled in his shirt, pulling at the fabric, needing to feel more of him, needing less space between you.

He groaned softly against your lips when your hands slid under the hem, palms running over the warmth of his skin. You could feel his muscles shift under your touch—tense, coiled with restraint—but he didn’t rush. He let the moment build, slow and deliberate, until your legs brushed the edge of his desk.

You broke the kiss long enough to glance behind you. “Here?”

His eyes didn’t leave yours as he murmured, “Don’t tempt me unless you’re ready.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

That was all he needed.

In one smooth motion, Jongho guided you back until you were perched on the edge of the desk, his hands gripping your hips as he stepped between your legs. He kissed you again—rougher this time, more urgent—while his fingers worked at the buttons of your blouse, each one undone with care, not haste. Like he wanted to take you apart piece by piece.

You shrugged out of the fabric, letting it fall beside the stack of reports and office supplies. His jacket soon followed, then his shirt, both landing on the floor with soft thuds.

The contrast of your bare skin against the cold surface of the desk made you shiver, but his body was warm, grounding, as he leaned into you. His lips moved along your neck, your collarbone, teeth grazing lightly before soothing the sting with a kiss.

You gasped softly when his hands slid under your skirt, fingers pressing into your thighs. “Still in the mood?” he asked against your skin.

You tilted your head back, breath shallow. “It’s not even a question anymore.”

He smirked and lifted you just slightly, sliding you further onto the desk before lowering you gently onto your back. Papers scattered, pens rolled to the floor, but neither of you cared.

His fingers teased along the inside of your thigh, slow and deliberate, watching your expression shift with every movement. And when he finally pushed your underwear aside and touched you—truly touched you—you arched off the desk, a breathless sound escaping your lips.

“You’re already so wet,” he murmured, voice rough with want. “Were you thinking about this on the drive over?”

“Maybe,” you breathed, barely able to focus as his fingers worked you open with excruciating care. “You made it really hard not to.”

Jongho leaned down, kissing you again—this time slower, like he was savoring the way your body reacted to every stroke, every shift of his touch. And when he finally slid inside you, it was with a low groan and his forehead pressed to yours, both of you breathless at the sudden, overwhelming closeness.

You clung to him, legs wrapping around his waist as he began to move—steady, deep, building rhythm that made your entire body tighten. The sound of your breath, your skin meeting his, the soft creak of the desk beneath you—it all blended into something rhythmic, heady, almost sacred in its intimacy.

Every thrust sent a new wave crashing through you, each one tethered to the way he held you, looked at you, whispered your name like a vow. And when you finally came undone beneath him, your nails dug into his back and your voice broke around his name.

He followed not long after, burying himself deep inside you with a groan, the kind of release that left him trembling as he collapsed against you, his arms braced on either side to keep from crushing you completely.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

Just the sound of breathing, bodies slowly coming down from the high, skin slick with sweat and limbs tangled together on a desk that had definitely not been designed for this.

Then, finally, Jongho kissed your shoulder and whispered against your skin, “Definitely the best meeting I’ve had in this office.”

You laughed, breathless and dazed. “I’m not even mad about the paperwork we destroyed.”

“I’ll handle it tomorrow,” he said, grinning as he looked at the mess around you. “Worth it.”

He helped you sit up, smoothing your hair back, his hands lingering on your waist like he wasn’t quite ready to let go. And as you sat there—half-dressed, flushed, still catching your breath—you realized something.

It wasn’t just the heat that left you trembling.

It was the way he looked at you now.

Like you were more than a moment. Like you were his choice.

---

The city was quieter by the time you made it back to the apartment.

Jongho had insisted on driving, one hand on the wheel, the other resting over your thigh the entire ride home. Neither of you said much. You didn’t need to. The silence between you wasn’t awkward—it was full, content, still humming with everything you’d just shared.

When you stepped inside, the apartment smelled faintly of the morning’s coffee and Jongho’s cologne that still clung to the air. You slipped off your shoes and stretched, your body sore in the best kind of way.

Jongho set his keys down, then turned to you with a crooked smile. “Hungry?”

You gave a soft laugh. “After that? Absolutely.”

He nodded toward the kitchen. “You sit. I’ll cook.”

“You sure?” you asked, watching him already roll up his sleeves like he had something specific in mind.

“I owe you dinner, remember?” he said with a teasing glint in his eye. “That was the deal.”

You smiled and padded over to the couch, curling up beneath the throw blanket while he moved around the kitchen. The sound of him pulling pans from cabinets, chopping vegetables, humming softly to himself—it was a kind of domestic peace you didn’t realize you needed.

Every now and then, he glanced over at you, eyes soft. And every time, you felt your heart squeeze just a little tighter in your chest.

It wasn’t just the sex. It was everything that followed. The way he cared. The way he listened. The way he moved through a shared space like he belonged there—with you.

Dinner was simple—rice, stir-fried veggies, a fried egg on top, and a little sauce drizzled just the way you liked it. He placed the bowl in front of you and sat beside you with his own, legs brushing yours under the coffee table.

“Not bad for an after-hours meal,” you said after the first bite, savoring the warmth.

He smiled, watching you eat more than he touched his own. “You always make that face when you like something.”

“What face?”

He mimicked it—eyes half-lidded, exaggerated sigh—and you burst into laughter, nearly choking on your next bite.

“Okay, rude,” you said, swatting at him playfully.

“Rude but accurate,” he grinned, leaning in to kiss your cheek. “You’re cute when you’re happy.”

The words landed in your chest and stayed there, warm and lingering.

Before you could respond, he stole your fork and scooped up the last bit of rice from your bowl. “Say ‘ah.’”

Your face turned pink as you narrowed your eyes at him, but you leaned in anyway, taking the bite as he watched with way too much satisfaction. “You’re ridiculous,” you mumbled around your food.

“And you love it,” he said smugly, brushing a thumb over the corner of your mouth to wipe away a grain of rice.

You chewed and shook your head fondly. “I should take a shower.”

“Why don’t I join you?” he said instantly, that familiar smirk tugging at his lips.

You gave him a look and rolled your eyes. “The last few times you joined me in the shower ended with me needing another shower.”

He just laughed as you stood, patting his shoulder on your way to the sink. “I regret nothing.”

You started washing the dishes while he hovered nearby, not helping, just watching you with a sleepy kind of affection that made your stomach flutter more than it should’ve. Once you finished and wiped your hands, you turned toward the bedroom to grab some clothes.

You’d barely opened the drawer when you felt arms wrap around your waist from behind. Jongho pulled you back gently, resting his chin on your shoulder.

“I promise,” he murmured into your skin, “I won’t do anything in the shower.”

You arched a brow. “That’s a bold promise.”

“I just want to keep you company,” he said, nuzzling his nose into the crook of your neck. “I swear.”

You turned your head slightly, just enough to catch his expression. His eyes were soft, not scheming this time—just sincere, maybe a little sleepy, and entirely too endearing.

“Fine,” you said with a sigh, grabbing a towel and your clothes. “But if you so much as look at me funny in there, I’m kicking you out.”

“No funny business,” he said, grinning. “Scout’s honor.”

You scoffed, heading toward the bathroom with him trailing after you like a shadow. “You’ve never been a scout.”

“I was for five minutes once,” he said proudly. “Got kicked out for trying to light a fire indoors.”

You snorted, turning on the water and stepping inside as steam began to fill the space. He followed, true to his word—for now—keeping a polite distance even as his eyes occasionally wandered.

And as the water ran down your bodies and the quiet sounds of your breathing filled the small space, there was a kind of comfort there. A rhythm. The kind of moment that wasn’t about desire or teasing, but about simply being—together, close, and safe.

Still, as you rinsed your hair and turned to grab your towel, Jongho leaned in, eyes glinting.

“You know,” he murmured, voice barely above the sound of the water, “technically... you haven’t kicked me out yet.”

You paused.

And then sighed.

“This is why I always end up needing two showers.”

He laughed, wrapping his arms around you once more, pressing a kiss to your wet shoulder as the water poured down. “But you never really complain.”

And the truth was—you didn’t.

Not when it was him.

You turned to face him fully, water slipping down the curves of your body, and met his eyes—already darker, the shift subtle but unmistakable. That quiet heat you’d thought might be settled for the night was rising again, slow and steady like the water sliding down your spine.

"I guess I can't have a break with you," you sighed, wrapping your arms around his neck with an exasperated smile.

Before you could even blink, Jongho’s hands were on your thighs, lifting you effortlessly as your back pressed up against the cool glass of the shower door. The temperature contrast made you gasp, but his body was there, grounding you, holding you like you weighed nothing.

“We are having a break,” he smirked, his lips brushing your cheek, then trailing to your jaw. “A really... refreshing one.”

Your breath hitched as you tilted your head, granting him more access, feeling his mouth move along the side of your neck—slow, deliberate. He wasn’t teasing now. He was tasting.

“You said no funny business,” you murmured, though your legs had already instinctively wrapped around his waist, your fingers curling tighter at the nape of his neck.

“This isn’t funny,” he whispered against your skin. “I’m dead serious.”

He rocked into you gently, not quite giving in—but close enough to make your breath stutter. The way he held you—firm, controlled, yet reverent—sent a wave of heat rolling through your already sensitive body.

“Jongho—”

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, his expression half-mischief, half-need. “Tell me to stop,” he said, voice low, rough around the edges. “Right now, and I will.”

You stared at him, your heart pounding, water dripping between your bodies like a soft metronome.

But you didn’t want him to stop.

Not when he was looking at you like that. Not when your body was already aching for more of him.

Instead of answering with words, you leaned in, pressing your mouth to his with a slow, heated kiss that left no room for doubt. His grip on you tightened instantly, a quiet groan rumbling deep in his chest.

That was the answer he’d been waiting for.

He shifted you slightly, adjusting his hold, and began moving against you again—this time more deliberate, more focused, the space between your bodies filled with friction and breathless tension. Each roll of his hips sent sparks up your spine, and your back arched, pressing further into the door, into him.

The steam around you thickened, but you didn’t feel the heat of the water anymore. Only his touch. His mouth. The sound of your name on his lips, raw and full of want.

What started as a joke turned into something else entirely.

Something slow.

Something electric.

Something only the two of you could make feel like both fire and home, all at once.

Jongho's mouth moved hungrily against yours, his breath hot and ragged between kisses as he pressed you harder into the glass. Your fingers threaded through his wet hair, tugging gently as your hips rolled instinctively with his, chasing friction you both already craved.

His grip under your thighs tightened, grounding you as he shifted again, positioning himself with practiced ease. You could feel the weight of him between your legs, hard and ready—his restraint slipping more with each second, but still holding back, just barely.

Your foreheads touched, breaths mingling in the thick steam, and he looked at you like he needed to memorize this version of you—flushed, soaked, trembling, completely his.

“You still sure?” he asked, voice husky, reverent.

You didn’t hesitate.

“Take me.”

The last thread of control in him snapped.

He adjusted his stance and pushed into you with one deep, smooth thrust, your back arching against the glass as he filled you completely. The stretch, the depth—it made you gasp out his name, your hands clawing at his shoulders as your entire body lit up from the inside.

“Fuck,” he groaned, head dropping to your neck. “You feel—so good.”

His hips started to move, slow at first, almost teasing despite how desperate he clearly was. Each thrust rocked you gently against the shower door, water cascading over your bodies, mixing with the heat of your breath, your moans, the soft slap of skin meeting skin.

He held you like you were something precious, even now—one hand gripping under your thigh, the other trailing up your back, fingers splaying across your shoulder blades like he wanted to touch all of you.

And you clung to him just as tightly, nails biting into his damp skin, your body moving with his as he built a rhythm that was deep and steady and so intimate.

You buried your face into his neck, your voice muffled and breathless. “Jongho—faster.”

He obeyed instantly, pace increasing just enough to make your thighs tighten around his waist, your moans turning into soft, broken sounds with every thrust. The tension coiled low in your belly, rising fast, sharp and overwhelming in the best way.

“Look at me,” he whispered, his voice cracking with want.

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes—and the look in them nearly unraveled you. It wasn’t just lust. It was something deeper. Like he couldn’t believe he got to have you like this. Love, raw and unfiltered, behind the heat.

Your release hit you suddenly, your entire body clenching around him as you cried out his name, head tipping back, mouth parted in a silent gasp as everything inside you pulsed.

Jongho held you through it, fucking you through every wave until your legs were shaking, his own breath hitching as he lost himself in you.

He groaned your name against your neck, thrusting deeper, rougher, and then finally stilled—buried in you to the hilt as he came hard, his whole body shuddering as he spilled inside you, arms locking around your waist to keep you from slipping.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Just the sound of water, your breathing, your hearts pounding together.

Jongho rested his forehead against yours, eyes closed, still inside you, still holding you like he never wanted to let go.

Eventually, he smiled—soft, dazed. “So… that break went well.”

You let out a breathless laugh, forehead tipping to his. “You’re insufferable.”

“Yeah, but you love me anyway,” he whispered, kissing you one last time, slow and deep.

And you did.

Every bit of him.

Even like this—naked, soaked, and holding you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

Because right now… you were.

Eventually, the water ran lukewarm, and Jongho leaned forward to press a gentle kiss to your shoulder—no longer hungry, no longer teasing. Just there. Soft. Present.

You both stayed tangled for a few more moments, your bodies still catching up with your heartbeats, before he slowly let you down, his hands steadying you as your feet touched the shower floor. Your legs felt like they might give out, but he didn’t go far—he stood with you, close, letting you lean on him while you steadied yourself.

He reached past you for a towel, wrapping it gently around your body before grabbing one for himself. He ruffled his hair a little, the ends sticking up in every direction, and you couldn’t help but smile at how boyish he looked now—damp, flushed, and half-drunk on affection.

“You, okay?” he asked, voice quieter now, a different kind of tender.

You nodded, glancing up at him as you clutched the towel closer. “More than okay.”

He kissed your forehead in response, then tugged you by the hand toward the bedroom. The lights were low, the covers still warm from earlier, and the only sound was the faint hum of the city beyond your window.

You both dropped the towels without much ceremony, pulling on just enough to be comfortable—his soft cotton tee and your favorite sleep shorts—and slid beneath the blankets. You curled into his side naturally, your head resting on his chest as his arm wrapped around your shoulders, holding you close like he didn’t want the night to end.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of this,” he murmured, pressing his lips to your damp hair.

“This?” you asked sleepily.

“This… feeling. Coming down from everything and still getting to hold you like this after.”

Your eyes fluttered shut as you snuggled closer, your hand resting over his heart. “It’s the best part.”

He smiled against your skin. “Yeah. It is.”

You laid there for a while, letting the silence stretch—his fingers tracing idle circles on your arm, your breathing syncing again. There was no rush now. No tension. Just comfort. The kind that comes after being known, touched, seen.

“You think we’ll always be like this?” you asked quietly, not really expecting an answer—just voicing the thought as sleep tugged at the edges of your mind.

Jongho didn’t hesitate. “If I have anything to say about it? Yeah. We will.”

You didn’t reply. You didn’t need to.

You just smiled softly against his chest, let your fingers find his, and drifted off in the safety of his arms—wrapped in the kind of warmth no shower, no heat, no flame could ever match.

Just him.

Just you.

Just this.

---

Morning came gently.

The soft gray light of dawn crept in through the blinds, casting quiet shadows across the room. The world outside was beginning to stir—but inside, everything was still. Still, and warm.

You blinked your eyes open slowly; the weight of sleep still heavy on your body. Jongho’s arm was slung lazily over your waist, his chest pressed to your back, breath steady and slow against the curve of your neck. His body molded perfectly to yours, like even in sleep, he couldn’t stand to be far away.

You didn’t move—not at first. Just let yourself lie there in the silence, your fingers lightly brushing over his forearm. You could feel the subtle rise and fall of his breathing. The warmth of him. The way his fingertips unconsciously flexed against your side, like even now, he was holding on.

He stirred a little, burying his face into your shoulder with a sleepy groan. “Morning already?”

“Unfortunately,” you whispered, voice still husky with sleep.

He made a low noise in protest and pulled you in tighter. “Let’s call in sick. Just stay here. Just us.”

You smiled; eyes still closed. “You say that every time we wake up like this.”

“And I mean it every time,” he murmured, lips brushing your skin. “You feel too good to leave.”

You turned slightly in his arms to face him, your hands finding the soft space between his chest and shoulder. His eyes were half-lidded, hair a wild mess, and he looked at you like you were still a dream.

“You’re staring,” you teased, tracing a line over his collarbone.

“Can you blame me?”

You leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth—soft, lingering, and sweet. “I’ll make coffee if you make breakfast.”

He groaned again, dramatically this time. “Why do I feel like I’m getting the harder deal?”

“Because I know you’ll do it anyway,” you grinned, slipping out of bed with a stretch. You padded to the kitchen in his oversized shirt, still smelling faintly of him, and started the coffee while Jongho shuffled in a minute later, yawning like he hadn’t just spent the night wrecking you against a shower door.

While he cracked eggs into a pan and started humming to some quiet tune in his head, you leaned against the counter, watching him with a quiet fondness that filled your chest.

It wasn’t the sex.

It wasn’t even just the comfort.

It was this.

The quiet mornings. The easy laughter. The casual intimacy of making breakfast side by side in the kind of silence that feels like home.

And when he turned to you with two plates, hair still sticking up and eyes still sleepy, you thought:

Yeah. I could do forever like this.

“Call in,” he said suddenly, eyes soft but insistent.

You blinked. “What?”

“Call in sick,” he repeated. “Let’s go somewhere. Just us.”

You stared at him for a long moment. The idea was so unlike your usual routines—both of you always a little too responsible, a little too tethered to your obligations. But today? You saw something in his eyes you hadn’t seen in weeks.

Peace.

Hope.

Something that said: We’re okay now. Let’s make it count.

So you nodded. “Only if you do it too.”

He smirked. “Already texted my boss. Told him I need time to breathe.”

Within the hour, bags were packed with too many snacks, not enough clothing options, and one playlist that made you both laugh and groan at the nostalgia. Jongho drove with one hand on the wheel and the other occasionally brushing your thigh. The windows were down. Music pouring through. Wind in your hair. And for the first time in weeks, maybe months, you both felt like you could breathe.

The road led you to a small lakeside town—quiet, unbothered by tourists this time of year. You found a rustic little Airbnb cabin with a wraparound porch and string lights that twinkled like magic when the sun dipped low.

You tossed your bags onto the bed, already barefoot and wandering through the place like you were meant to be there.

“This is perfect,” you said, peeking out at the still lake just beyond the trees.

Jongho wrapped his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder. “You’re perfect.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away.

That afternoon passed in quiet joy—grocery shopping in a sleepy town, cooking side by side in the tiny kitchen, sipping wine on the porch while the sun slipped behind the trees. Jongho pulled a blanket over both of you, pulling you into his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I like us like this,” you whispered, your voice barely carrying over the soft chirp of crickets outside the open window.

“Me too,” Jongho replied, his fingers gently trailing along the inside of your wrist as if memorizing you again. “No noise. No pressure. Just you.”

He leaned in, brushing his lips against your temple—a touch that said I’m here, not just in body, but fully, heart and soul.

Later that night, wrapped in the soft amber glow of the bedside lamp and the scent of pinewood lingering in the air, you lay together beneath a tangle of sheets. The world beyond the cabin walls faded into quiet. There were no deadlines, no unspoken frustrations or missed moments. Just the hush between breaths, the heat of shared skin, the feeling of being chosen again.

Jongho's hand slipped beneath the hem of your shirt, fingers tracing the curve of your waist, not with hunger, but reverence. You watched him as he hovered above you, his gaze sweeping across your face like he didn’t want to miss a single expression. No teasing, no smirking—just quiet devotion in his eyes.

His lips met yours—slow, warm, unhurried.

It wasn't rushed.

It wasn't about release.

It was about remembering.

How your breath hitched when his fingers ghosted over your ribs. How his body curved instinctively into yours. How he whispered your name like it held meaning deeper than language.

Your fingers curled against his back as he moved within you—slow, reverent, like every motion was a question he already knew the answer to. His breath stuttered against your lips with every thrust, his body syncing with yours in a rhythm that felt more like a heartbeat than anything else.

There was nothing rushed here.

Only the hush of shared breath.

Only the weight of his body pressed to yours—not heavy, but grounding.

Only the way your eyes stayed locked, even as your bodies moved, like the most important thing was not the pleasure, but the closeness. The knowing.

Jongho kissed you again, deeper this time, and you felt it in every part of you—the apology, the devotion, the wordless I’m still yours whispered between mouths and moans. His hands framed your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks, anchoring you in the moment like he didn’t want either of you to forget this—this return, this softness, this love.

“I’ve missed this,” he breathed into your skin. “Not just this—you. The way you feel. The way you look at me.”

You didn’t need to say anything. The way your body arched into his, the way your hands gripped his arms, said it all. You missed this too. Missed him. Missed what it felt like to be touched like this—like you were still magic in someone’s hands.

“Jongho...” You let out a shaky moan letting your body melt underneath him. He looked deeply into your eyes not wanting to let you go.

You felt your release build slowly, not a climb but a gentle swell—waves gathering just beneath your skin. You whispered his name and he heard it like a prayer, like a promise, his pace shifting just slightly, more focused now, more sure.

Your body trembled beneath him as pleasure bloomed, slow and consuming, your head tilting back, lips parted in a quiet gasp. He followed right after, stuttering his breath against your throat, his whole body tensing, pressing deeper one final time before unraveling with you.

And then everything stilled.

You were left tangled together, chest to chest, legs still wrapped around him. His breath was warm against your collarbone, his hands smoothing over your sides like he needed to reassure himself you were still here.

“I love you,” he said again, voice raw and quiet.

You turned your head, pressing a soft kiss to his damp hair. “I never stopped loving you.”

You stayed there like that—hearts slowing, breath settling, wrapped in the kind of silence that only comes after two people strip themselves down to nothing but truth.

And as the night deepened outside the cabin walls, inside, something mended.

Something healed.

Not all at once—but enough.

Enough to begin again.

---

The soft rustle of sheets and the early chirp of birds outside the window stirred you from sleep.

Your body ached in that delicious, satisfied way—reminders of the night before blooming in every muscle. The cabin was quiet, wrapped in the kind of stillness that only existed in places far from the noise of the real world. And beside you, Jongho was still asleep—barely.

He lay on his stomach, one arm stretched across your waist like some kind of sleepy claim. His hair was a mess, his face pressed into the pillow, and a faint snore rumbled from him every few breaths.

You shifted slightly, stretching under the covers, and that small movement had him groaning low and half-consciously pulling you closer.

“You’re awake,” you whispered.

“No, I’m dead,” he mumbled into the pillow.

You grinned. “Wow. Even in the afterlife you’re clingy.”

That got you a lazy arm flopped entirely over your chest, pinning you down.

“You loved it last night,” he mumbled with a crooked smile, eyes still closed.

You laughed, flicking the back of his head. “You’re impossible.”

He cracked one eye open and peeked up at you. “Impossible, but irresistible.”

“Debatable.”

“Is it?” he asked, finally rolling over and stretching like a cat. “Because if I remember correctly… someone was moaning my name like I was their favorite dessert.”

Your face flushed immediately. “Okay, we don’t have to do a play-by-play.”

Jongho grinned, reaching out to poke your side. “I think we do. For posterity.”

You squeaked and tried to wriggle away, but he was already climbing on top of you, pinning your wrists with a ridiculous grin.

“You’re so annoying in the morning,” you said, trying to sound stern despite the way you were biting back laughter.

He leaned in close, nose brushing yours. “And yet… you let me sleep in your bed.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You bribed me with a fireplace, a lake, and your soft sleepy eyes.”

“My charm,” he whispered dramatically, “is undefeated.”

You finally broke, laughing loud and open as he flopped beside you again, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face into your neck. You tangled your fingers in his hair, holding him there, breathing him in.

Eventually, he murmured against your skin, “Let’s make pancakes. But the lazy way.”

“What’s the lazy way?”

“We make the batter, you do all the flipping, and I offer moral support while eating chocolate chips straight from the bag.”

You snorted. “Sounds like a scam.”

“Sounds like a partnership.”

You rolled your eyes, but when he pulled away with that sleepy, boyish grin and laced your fingers with his, you let him tug you out of bed.

Because mornings like this—where the teasing came easy, where the air felt light and love was woven into the smallest gestures—were proof that you weren’t just healing.

You were happy.

And maybe, just maybe, that was the best part of all.

---

The sun was already climbing high by late morning, spilling golden light through the trees and warming the weathered wood of the porch. After breakfast—and a mess of flour, chocolate chips, and a few pancake casualties—you and Jongho stood barefoot outside, sipping orange juice and squinting toward the lake.

The surface was calm, the light shimmering across it like glass.

“We should swim,” you said, leaning against the railing.

Jongho looked over at you, one brow raised. “Now?”

You smirked. “Scared?”

He scoffed, setting his glass down. “Please. I’m just trying to decide how dramatic I want my entrance to be.”

“Try not to slip and die.”

He gave you a fake look of betrayal. “Wow. No faith in me at all.”

You just grinned and walked back inside to grab your swimsuit. A few minutes later, you met him at the edge of the little dock, both of you barefoot, towels slung over your shoulders, the sun warming your skin.

Jongho looked at the water, then at you. “On three?”

You nodded. “One… two—”

But you jumped on two, cannonballing into the water with a splash that sent tiny waves lapping at the dock.

He laughed, shaking his head as you resurfaced. “Unbelievable. Cheater.”

“Should’ve seen it coming,” you said, brushing wet hair from your face.

He dove in after you, smooth and clean, his body cutting through the water like he belonged there. When he popped up beside you, he slicked his hair back, eyes glinting under the sun.

You splashed him.

His jaw dropped. “Oh, it’s like that?”

You laughed and turned to swim away, but he was already chasing you, catching your ankle and pulling you back with a yelp. You shrieked, laughing too hard to care as he tugged you close, his arms wrapping around your waist in the water.

“Say mercy,” he teased, breathless.

“Never,” you giggled, trying half-heartedly to wriggle free.

He leaned in until your noses almost touched, both of you panting, grinning, water dripping between you.

“I could hold you here all day,” he said softly, the playfulness in his voice fading into something warmer.

Your smile faltered—but in a good way. In that way your heart did when it realized, over and over, that you were loved like this. Chosen like this.

“Maybe I’ll let you,” you whispered.

He pulled you closer, your legs floating beside his in the water, your bodies barely moving as the lake lapped softly around you. And when he kissed you—sunlight on your skin, water clinging to your lashes—it was slow and sweet and full of that rare, quiet joy that only came when nothing else in the world was asking for your attention.

Just him.

Just you.

Just the stillness between waves.

You eventually drifted toward the dock, limbs relaxed and skin glistening under the sun. Jongho pulled himself up first, offering you a hand with a dramatic flourish.

“Milady,” he said, completely soaked and grinning.

You rolled your eyes but took it anyway, letting him help you up, water dripping from both of you as you stepped onto the dock, toes curling against the sun-warmed wood. You flopped onto one of the towels, your body sighing with relief at the warmth beneath you.

Jongho joined you, spreading out beside you with a groan. “This might be my new favorite kind of tired.”

“Better than work stress?”

He laughed softly, eyes closing as he stretched his arms above his head. “By a thousand percent.”

You turned on your side to face him, propping your head on your hand. The sun cast golden shadows across his face, and little droplets clung to his lashes and jaw. He looked younger like this. Softer. Happier.

You reached over, gently brushing a few strands of damp hair away from his forehead.

He peeked one eye open. “What?”

“Nothing,” you said. “Just… soaking you in.”

“Should I flex for you?”

You snorted. “Ruin the moment and I’m pushing you back in.”

He laughed but didn’t move, just reached out and found your hand, fingers intertwining with yours. The breeze swept over you both, cool against your drying skin. The birds nearby chirped lazily, and somewhere across the lake, a dragonfly skimmed the surface.

You both lay there, drying in the sun, fingers linked, the silence comfortable and close.

“I wish we could freeze this,” you murmured after a while. “This exact feeling.”

Jongho squeezed your hand gently. “We kind of are.”

You turned your head.

“Moments like this,” he said, “they stay. Even when the world speeds back up. We just have to remember how to slow down and come back to them.”

You didn’t say anything right away—just let his words settle somewhere deep. Then you scooted closer, resting your head against his chest. He shifted to wrap an arm around you, holding you steady as your breathing matched again.

No rush.

No plans.

Just a lazy dock, drying skin, and the kind of quiet that only ever belonged to people who truly saw each other.

And for a while, that was everything you needed.

---

The sun dipped low behind the trees, casting the lake in hues of soft gold and amber. After a light dinner—nothing fancy, just grilled veggies, some wine, and more laughter than necessary—you and Jongho made your way back to the fire pit beside the cabin.

He carried a blanket under one arm and a half-full bottle of wine in the other. You followed barefoot, your hair still slightly damp from the lake, sweater slipping off one shoulder as the night air turned cool.

He set everything down, crouched to arrange the kindling, and with a few practiced movements, coaxed a flame to life. It started as a flicker, then grew into a warm, steady fire—crackling softly, casting dancing shadows across the wooden porch and your legs curled beneath you.

Jongho settled beside you on the outdoor bench, tucking the blanket around both your shoulders. The warmth of the fire and his body beside you made everything else disappear. No notifications. No obligations. Just the quiet pop of firewood and the sound of the wind in the trees.

He handed you your glass, his pinky brushing yours. “To choosing this.”

You clinked your glass to his. “To us, coming back to us.”

The wine was sweet on your tongue, but it was the moment that really tasted good—ripe with comfort, full of something steady and deep.

You leaned into his side, head resting against his shoulder. He rested his cheek on your hair.

For a long time, you didn’t speak.

Not because there was nothing to say—but because everything that needed to be said was already there. In the way his fingers absentmindedly traced slow, lazy lines on your thigh. In the way your body curved toward him naturally, like it belonged there. In the way your breaths synced with the rhythm of the flames.

After a while, Jongho spoke, voice low and thoughtful. “You know… I’ve been thinking.”

“Dangerous,” you teased, your voice a sleepy murmur.

He chuckled, nudging you with his shoulder. “I’m serious. About… us. About how easy it is to drift. And how lucky we are that we didn’t.”

You sat up slightly, turning to face him.

“You were never far,” you said gently. “We just… stopped reaching for a while.”

His gaze lingered on you, firelight flickering in his eyes. “But we’re reaching now.”

You nodded. “And holding on.”

He reached up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “I don’t ever want to stop.”

“Then don’t.”

You felt his head rest against your shoulder, a soft exhale brushing your collarbone as he settled into the chair in front of the fire. The flames cast a gentle glow across his features—highlighting the curve of his jaw, the tired peace in his eyes, the faintest trace of a smile playing at the corner of his lips.

Without a word, you shifted.

He opened his eyes as you moved to straddle his lap, your legs settling on either side of him, knees tucked into the cushions. His hands instinctively came to your waist, warm and steady, thumbs brushing over your sides like they belonged there.

You hovered above him just slightly, your hands resting on his shoulders as you looked down at him. He tilted his head up, watching you with that lazy, knowing smirk—the one that always said I’ve got you.

“Is this your idea of fireside cuddling?” he teased, voice low and thick with affection.

“It’s a very effective version,” you murmured, your fingers tracing lazy lines across the back of his neck.

He hummed, his grip on your waist tightening ever so slightly. “You keep looking at me like that, and I’m gonna forget all about how peaceful this evening was supposed to be.”

You smiled, leaning in until your noses almost touched, your forehead resting lightly against his.

“Maybe that’s the point,” you whispered.

His smirk faltered, softening into something deeper—something that lived in his chest, not just his mouth.

“You’re dangerous when you’re like this,” he murmured, sliding one hand up your back, fingers splaying between your shoulder blades.

You tilted your head, brushing your lips over his jaw. “When I’m like what?”

“When you’re calm… and close… and looking at me like I’m something you already decided to keep.”

Your lips curved. “That’s because I did.”

Jongho leaned in then, kissing you slow and full—like he had all the time in the world. No rush, no pressure, just the heat between your bodies and the fire crackling beside you.

You deepened the kiss, your hands tangling in his hair as you shifted just enough to feel him respond beneath you—his body stirring, his breath hitching. Still, he didn’t push. Didn’t rush. He just held you tighter, kissing you like you were the only thing that had ever steadied him.

You pulled back slightly, both of you breathless.

“Still want to keep the night peaceful?” you asked, voice teasing, a little husky.

Jongho looked up at you, eyes dark with affection and something quieter. “Only if I get to keep you like this.”

Your smile softened as your fingers traced his cheek. “Then we’re already exactly where we’re supposed to be.”

And you stayed there—wrapped in firelight, in each other, in the space where love didn’t have to prove itself anymore.

It just was.

Jongho’s fingers flexed gently on your waist, grounding you in place as he looked up at you—your faces lit softly by the glow of the fire. The silence between you was charged now, humming with want and affection, neither one outweighing the other.

You leaned in again, slower this time, your lips brushing his like a question he’d already answered.

The kiss deepened gradually, your mouths molding to each other in a rhythm that was patient and familiar. Jongho’s hands slid beneath the hem of your sweater, fingers skimming up your back, sending a slow shiver rippling down your spine. You arched slightly into his touch, your hands threading through his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan quietly against your mouth.

“You feel so good like this,” he murmured, voice rough, reverent.

Your hips rolled instinctively against him, slow and steady, and you felt the tension build between your bodies—warm, alive, and pulling you closer with every movement.

“You’re sure?” he asked, eyes flicking up to meet yours—checking in, always.

You nodded, forehead resting against his. “Completely.”

That was all he needed.

Jongho stood, lifting you with him in one smooth motion, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. He carried you inside the cabin with ease, kissing you between steps, like he couldn’t bear the distance even for a second.

Inside, the room was dim except for the golden flicker of the fire behind you, casting shadows against the wooden walls. He laid you down on the rug in front of the hearth, the warmth of the flames kissing your skin as he hovered above you.

His hands were unhurried as he helped you out of your sweater, his lips following the path of every inch he uncovered—shoulder, collarbone, the curve of your chest. His touch was reverent, like he was worshipping you with each kiss, each brush of his fingers.

You tugged his shirt off in return, your hands roaming the expanse of his back, your lips trailing along the line of his jaw and down his throat. The heat between you built slowly, like an ember being coaxed into flame.

When he slid into you, it was with a gasp shared between your mouths, your bodies fitting together with practiced ease. He moved slow, deep, his hands cupping your face, your waist—holding you like you were something precious, not fragile.

You wrapped yourself around him, matching his rhythm, your moans soft and breathless, spoken into the hollow of his throat. The fire cracked beside you, painting golden light over your tangled limbs, your flushed skin, the way your eyes locked on his.

It was slow and deep and present—a rediscovery, a claiming, a soft surrender to everything you’d both been holding back for too long.

Your release came in quiet waves, your body trembling beneath his as you whispered his name like something sacred. He followed moments later, his forehead pressed to yours, voice breaking around a low groan as he poured himself into you, both of you shivering with the weight of it.

And then—stillness.

He collapsed beside you, pulling you close instantly, your legs still tangled, your heart racing under his palm as it rested on your chest.

Neither of you spoke for a long moment.

Just breathing. Just holding.

The fire crackled quietly beside you, its warmth soft against your bare skin, your body still tingling in the aftermath of everything—emotion, closeness, release.

Eventually, Jongho shifted, pressing his lips to your temple with the gentlest of kisses. “You feel like home.”

You smiled, eyes fluttering closed, your cheek brushing against his chest. “So do you.”

A few beats passed, and then you felt his arms tighten around you, like he didn’t want even a sliver of space between you.

“I’m glad you accepted this deal with me,” he murmured, voice low, full of affection.

You let out a soft, sleepy laugh. “You mean the ‘dinner for whenever-you-want-me’ contract?”

“That one.” He grinned, the edge of his teeth brushing your shoulder. “Still think I got the better end of it.”

“I don’t know,” you teased. “I’ve been eating well and getting all the extra attention.”

He hummed thoughtfully. “Okay, maybe we’re both winning.”

You turned your head just enough to meet his gaze, and what you saw there wasn’t mischief anymore—it was soft, sure, full of something weightier. Something that felt like forever, said in silence.

His hand found yours, fingers weaving between yours again like muscle memory.

“Do you ever think about what this looks like… long-term?” he asked, his voice almost shy.

You studied him for a second, the firelight dancing across his face, making him look golden and real and completely yours.

“I do,” you whispered. “More than I let myself admit.”

Jongho brushed his nose against yours, his voice a little steadier now. “I think about waking up next to you every morning. About building something together that feels like this… all the time.”

“Even when it’s hard?” you asked.

“Especially then,” he said. “Because I want to keep choosing you. Even on the days it’s not easy.”

You leaned in and kissed him—slow, deep, and full of everything you didn’t have to say out loud.

When you pulled back, your forehead stayed pressed to his.

“Then let’s keep choosing this,” you whispered. “Keep choosing us.”

And in the quiet flicker of firelight, tangled together on that worn cabin rug, the future didn’t feel like a question anymore.

It felt like a promise.

And in that quiet, exhausted, love-drenched stillness… nothing else mattered.

•

A/N: Sorry if there wasn't much depth in the smut :'3 I am with family today and I was wanting to finish writing this LMFAO...

#Yummy

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