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smuttaburger · 4 days ago

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"Keep Talking"

choi san. your sweet, obsessed boyfriend. always calling, always craving. you thought it was just a late-night check-in—until you realized what he was doing on the other end of the line. and when he shows up at your door? he’s not holding back. it gets breathless. possessive. messy. and the next morning? he still can’t keep his hands off you.

wc : 5.4k

tags : explicit content, phone masturbation, softdom!san, fingering,oral , praise kink, light degradation, dirty talk, teasing, overstimulation, established relationship intimacy, aftercare, reader is clingy, san is obsessed with you in the softest filthiest way, fluff.

a/n: this man calls you while he’s jerking off, shows up 20 mins later, wrecks you again, and then has the nerve to wipe your makeup off like you’re his entire world??

Your phone buzzes just as you’re settling into bed.

Incoming Call : San 🏔

You smile immediately, warmth blooming in your chest. You put him on speaker and curl into the covers, voice soft and sleepy.

“Hi” you murmur.

There’s a pause on the other end. A breath.

Then:

“…Hey.” His voice is low. Rough. Just a little hoarse.

You frown softly. “You okay?”

“Mhm.” A sharp inhale, followed by a quiet exhale. “I just… wanted to hear your voice.”

That makes you smile again, soft and unsuspecting.

You rinse your mouth, crawl into bed, and tuck the phone against your cheek.

You laugh softly, cheek pressing to the pillow. “You miss me that bad already?”

“So bad,” he murmurs, almost too quiet.

“I missed you too.” You roll onto your side, voice warm. “How was your night?”

Another pause.

“…Fine.”

There’s something in the way he says it.

It’s not unhappy, just… distracted.

Like he’s somewhere else entirely.

You squint, sensing it now — the air between you feels thick.

Like something is happening, and you haven’t caught up yet.

Your brows knit at how breathless he sounds. “Are you… working out or something?”

“…Sort of.”

“Sort of?” You giggle. “You sound weird,” you tease, voice gentle.

There’s a pause. Long enough to notice.

Then you hear it — the tiniest sound.

A slick sound.

Wet. Rhythmic. Subtle.

Your mouth parts slightly. “San?”

“Keep talking,” he says quickly. Breathlessly. “Don’t stop talking.”

Your heart skips.

Your voice falters. “Wait… are you —”

“I miss you,” he cuts in, voice heavy, strained, and definitely aroused. “I’ve been thinking about you all day.”

“You’re—oh my god, are you touching yourself?”

He groans — low and unfiltered. Like your voice alone is enough to drag him under.

“Yes,” he whispers. “Fuck, I couldn’t wait anymore.”

You blink at the ceiling, suddenly burning everywhere. “You called me… to jerk off?”

“I called you because of you,” he murmurs.

“Because I kept thinking about your mouth. Your voice. The way you sound when I—” His breath stutters. “When I’m buried deep inside you.”

Your breath catches.

“Tell me something,” he whispers.

“What?” you breathe.

“Remind me how you taste.”

Your thighs press together instinctively.

“San—”

“I’d be on my knees for you right now,” he murmurs. “You don’t even know. Tongue deep in you, hands keeping you open. I miss the way you shake.”

You press a hand to your chest. Your heart’s racing.

“Your voice, baby. I swear.” His breath catches. “You’re so soft when you’re sleepy. It drives me insane.”

You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

“.. Are you close?” you ask, voice barely a whisper.

“Mhm,” he moans. “Keep talking, please. I’m—shit—I’m right there.”

You bite your lip. Then slowly, softly:

“You’d ruin me if you were here, wouldn’t you?”

He lets out a desperate noise.

“I’d take you so slow,” you whisper. “Just to hear you beg.”

He groans again, sharp and broken. His breathing gets faster.

You hear the subtle, unmistakable sound of his release — his moan is raw, whispered, like he’s trying not to be loud. Like he’s completely wrecked.

You lie there, blinking, flushed all over, heat rolling through you.

There’s a silence on the other end. Just the sound of his breathing, finally slowing.

“…I’m coming over,” he mutters eventually, voice low and raspy.

You laugh softly, heart still racing. “San…”

He groans. “I need you.”

And something tells you this night isn’t over yet.

–

You’re still in bed when your doorbell rings.

Your whole body stills.

You climb out of the covers, heart thudding in your chest, and tiptoe barefoot to the door.

When you open it, the hallway light spills over San — his dark hoodie pulled over his head, eyes shadowed, lips parted.

His chest rises and falls like he ran here, not drove.

He doesn’t say a word. He just looks at you.

Then?

He steps in, shuts the door behind him, and grabs you.

You gasp as your back hits the wall.

His mouth crashes against yours, hot and desperate, like he needs to taste you just to breathe.

“You,” he growls between kisses. “You make me lose my mind.”

His hands roam everywhere — under your shirt, across your hips, gripping your ass like it’s his. You’re lifted onto the wall in one smooth motion, legs wrapping around him on instinct.

“San—” you try to catch your breath, but he kisses you again, rough and deep, before pulling back just enough to speak.

“You sounded so fucking sweet on the phone,” he murmurs, dragging his nose along your jaw.

“That little sleepy voice. All shy. You knew what you were doing.”

“I didn’t,” you whisper, flushed and breathless.

He bites down gently on your neck. “Liar.”

You squirm in his grip, heat pooling between your legs.

His hands slide up your thighs and you realize — you’re still not wearing underwear.

He realizes it too.

“Of course you’re not,” he mutters, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“I didn’t know you were actually coming over—”

“You think I care?” His voice is gravel now, thick with need. “You think I can sit at home after hearing you like that on the phone?”

One of his hands slides between your legs, fingers dragging through your slick folds.

You cry out, head falling back against the wall.

“Fuck,” he groans. “Already soaked.”

You nod, breathless. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

That’s it. That breaks him.

He carries you towards your bedroom, mouth on your throat the entire way, and you cling to him like your life depends on it.

When he lays you down, it’s with more reverence than you expect — like even in his desperation, he still wants to worship.

He peels your shirt up, kissing each inch of skin he reveals.

Your ribs. Your chest. He brushes his nose over your nipple and groans low in his throat, like he’s trying to memorize you.

“Look at you,” he whispers. “So fucking perfect.”

You reach for him, and he comes willingly, laying his body over yours, slotting between your legs.

You can feel how hard he is — straining through his sweatpants — and your hips twitch up, chasing friction.

He kisses you again, slower this time, deeper. Like he wants to feel how badly he missed you.

Then he pulls back just slightly. His forehead rests on yours. His breathing's still ragged.

“You want me?” he murmurs.

You nod.

“No. Say it.”

“I want you,” you whisper. “I want you so bad it hurts.”

He groans, like the words physically affect him, and his hand trails between your thighs again.

“I’m not gonna be gentle this time,” he mutters. “I can’t be.”

You whimper. “Then don’t be.”

And then he sinks two fingers into you — slow but firm, curling just right — and your whole body arches off the bed.

He watches your face, eyes dark. “This is what you wanted, right? To drive me crazy? To have me aching for you?”

You nod again, mouth open, gasping.

He leans in close, lips brushing your ear.

“Well, baby,” he murmurs, voice like velvet and smoke, “you got me.”

“Take this off,” San growls, tugging at your sleep shirt, not even waiting for you to comply.

He peels it up and over your head like he owns it — like you’re his — and throws it somewhere behind him without looking.

You’re bare now. Completely.

And he just stares.

Chest heaving, jaw clenched, like he’s trying to hold himself back — but he can’t. Not anymore.

“You drive me so fucking insane,” he mutters, running both hands down your ribs, to your hips, spreading your legs wide with his knee. “You know that?”

You whimper when his fingers return to your center, teasing just barely. Your back arches. His eyes drop to watch every reaction.

“Already soaked for me again,” he whispers. “And I’ve barely even touched you.”

You reach down, grabbing at the waistband of his sweats.

“Please,” you gasp.

“Please what?”

“San—”

“Tell me,” he snaps, voice low and commanding. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want you in me,” you cry, breath shaking. “Please, San. I need you.”

He exhales hard through his nose — then strips.

His hoodie and shirt go first, then his sweats and boxers in one tug, revealing his hard, leaking cock, already red at the tip.

Your mouth waters.

He strokes himself once, twice, eyes still locked on you.

“Turn around.”

You blink. “..Huh?”

“I said turn the fuck around.”

The edge in his voice sends shivers down your spine.

You scramble onto your hands and knees, and he grabs your hips immediately, pulling you back toward him until your ass is pressed to his cock.

He drags the head through your folds, just once — and groans like it physically hurts to hold back.

Then he thrusts in.

Hard.

You cry out, head dropping to the mattress as he bottoms out in one deep, punishing stroke.

His hand grips your hip, the other tangling in your hair, pulling your head back so he can lean down and growl into your ear.

“This is what you wanted, huh?” His hips slam forward again. “Wanted me so desperate I couldn’t wait another second?”

You moan, hands fisting the sheets. “Yes—”

“Wanted me to ruin you?”

He sets a pace that’s relentless — deep and unrelenting, every thrust dragging across the most sensitive part of you.

Your body jerks forward with each one, and you swear he’s somehow deeper than ever before.

“San—fuck, yes—” His grip crushes you tighter. “Say my fucking name.”

You sob it again and again, lost in the rhythm, and he keeps pushing.

Keeps driving into you like he’s chasing something buried inside your core.

Your legs start to shake. You're so close.

“Not yet,” he growls, he growls, yanking you upright so your back presses hard against his chest “I said—not yet.”

He keeps fucking into you while his hand slides between your legs, rubbing your clit in fast, devastating circles.

“Hold it,” he growls. “Hold it until I say.”

You’re gasping now, practically sobbing from how full you feel — how stretched and raw and desperate you are.

“I—I can’t—”

“Yes you can.” He licks the shell of your ear. “You’ll come when I tell you to. Be good for me.”

And somehow… you obey.

He fucks you through it — deeper, harder, his hand still working you mercilessly — and just when you feel like you can’t take it anymore, he growls:

“Now. Let go. Fucking come for me.”

Your orgasm hits like a wave breaking, loud and wet and devastating. Your entire body arches, thighs trembling violently as you convulse around him.

You don’t even hear yourself scream his name — too lost in the pleasure — but he does.

And it snaps something in him.

He pulls out and flips you over, not even giving you time to recover before he thrusts back in — face-to-face now, eyes burning.

“I’m not done,” he whispers

You can barely breathe, so overstimulated, so full. But you take it — you want it — because the way he’s looking at you? Like he needs to own every piece of you?

It’s worth everything.

He chases his own release now, hips slamming into yours at a punishing pace, his mouth all over your throat, jaw, chest.

“I love this fucking pussy,” he grunts. “You’re made for me. You know that?”

You nod, crying out again as he fucks into your oversensitive cunt. “Yes—yes, I’m yours, I’m—”

“That’s right.”

He buries himself deep one last time — so deep you swear he’s in your soul — and groans your name as he spills inside you, his body trembling against yours.

For a long moment, he doesn’t move.

Just breathes. Heavy, ragged, still inside you. One hand on your jaw. The other clutching your waist.

Then?

He kisses you. Deep, slow, reverent.

And when he finally pulls back, eyes soft, he strokes your cheek gently.

“You okay?” he whispers.

You nod, dazed. “I think you rearranged my spine.”

He laughs softly, presses a kiss to your forehead, and pulls out slowly, careful with your sore body.

Then he disappears into the bathroom — and comes back with a warm towel.

He wipes between your legs so gently it makes you tear up a little.

Then he crawls back into your bed with a whispered, “C’mere, baby.”

And you fall asleep wrapped in him — ruined, wrecked, and held like something precious.

—

That morning you wake to the smell of butter and maple.

The early morning light is filtering in soft and slow, and the sheets are tangled at your waist, your body sore in all the best ways.

Your thighs ache. Your neck has faint bite marks. You feel like you were worshipped… and maybe a little destroyed.

You blink sleepily.

And then you hear it — a gentle clatter from the kitchen. Something sizzling. Then a muttered curse.

You smile. San.

When he appears in the doorway — shirtless, sweats low on his hips, hair pushed back from his face — he’s holding a tray.

Plates stacked, two mugs, something golden and syrupy filling the air behind him.

He’s grinning like he knows he’s being hot about it.

“I made you breakfast,” he says, voice raspy with sleep, setting the tray on your lap. “Don’t freak out.”

You blink at it. Pancakes. Eggs. Fruit. Even whipped cream??

Your brows knit. “…San.”

He’s climbing into bed beside you, already grabbing a strawberry off your plate and popping it into his mouth like he didn’t just cook a five-star brunch.

You narrow your eyes. “How do you even know where my whipped cream is? You’ve literally been here like .. twice.”

He smirks around the bite. “What, you think I don’t pay attention?”

You stare him down.

He leans closer, hands slipping under the blanket over your lap. “I paid attention to a lot last night.”

You swat at him. “San! I’m eating!”

“You’re trying to eat,” he murmurs, kissing your shoulder. “But I made the mistake of seeing you like this — hair all messy, no bra, all cute and sore — and now I’m distracted.”

You flush, tugging the blanket up to hide the fact that you are, in fact, still completely naked beneath it.

He feeds you a piece of pancake — literally feeds you — and you groan at the taste.

“This is so good.”

He hums. “Yeah?”

You nod through your bite. “You’re annoyingly good at this. I was prepared to lie to protect your pride.”

San chuckles and presses a kiss to your cheek. “I’ll take that as a win.”

You’re halfway through eating when his hand starts creeping again — under the blanket this time, fingertips grazing the top of your thigh like it’s casual.

You shoot him a look. “Don’t.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You are literally touching my thigh right now.”

“I’m admiring it.”

“San.”

“Mhm?”

You squint at him. “You’re obsessed with me.”

“I literally am,” he says, no hesitation, dipping down to kiss your bare shoulder again. “Is it that obvious?”

“Yes,” you say. “And it’s so distracting.”

He bites back a smile and leans in close, lips brushing your ear.

“You wanna know what’s distracting?” he whispers, hand slowly sliding higher. “The fact that I spent all night in you — and I’m still hard just thinking about it.”

Your stomach flips.

You grab your fork again with shaky fingers and murmur, “Eat your pancakes.”

But you already know this breakfast-in-bed is about to become a part two of last night — once again… you won’t be finishing your meal.

—

After the breakfast-that-you-did-not-finish (because San decided you were the real meal), he finally lets you rest — for like, ten minutes.

You’re still under the covers, half-limp with sleep and soreness when you feel him climbing out of bed again. You hear the water start in the bathroom.

Then he comes back to the doorway, shirtless, damp towel in one hand.

“Come shower,” he says gently.

You crack one eye open. “You go. I’m dead.”

He smirks. “If you’re dead, then you won’t mind if I carry you.”

You narrow your eyes. “You wouldn’t.”

And then he does. Pulls the blanket off of you and lifts you like it’s nothing, making you yelp as you cling to him.

“SAN!!”

“You left me no choice,” he teases, voice smug in your ear as he carries you into the steam-filled bathroom.

The water’s already perfect — warm, a little hot — and when he steps in with you, he moves so carefully, hands steady at your waist.

You let the water hit your back, sighing at the heat, and close your eyes for just a second — until you feel his fingers in your hair.

Your eyes blink open. “…What are you doing?”

“Washing your hair.”

You eye him skeptically. “Are you washing my hair or do you just want to touch me again?”

San blinks, expression a little too innocent. “Can’t it be both?”

You groan, laughing despite yourself. “I knew it.”

He smiles as he lathers shampoo in his hands and starts working it into your scalp with surprisingly gentle, practiced fingers.

The way he massages your head, runs his fingers through every strand, careful not to tug — it feels so soothing you actually sway into his chest.

“Mhm… I take it back,” you murmur. “You can do this forever.”

“I plan to,” he says softly, voice near your temple. His hands slow a little, sliding down, rinsing out the shampoo as you lean back.

He keeps going — conditioner, a few more forehead kisses, and now his thumbs are brushing under your eyes, wiping away the faint smudges of leftover makeup.

He does it like it matters. Like he’s memorizing you.

“Why are you looking at me like that,” you ask softly, heart hiccuping.

“Because I’m lucky as hell,” he says without even blinking.

And just like that, you’re melting all over again — but not because of the hot water.

You wrap your arms around his neck, pull him in slow, press your lips to his under the falling spray.

It's slow, slow — the kind of kiss you sink into with your whole body.

He hums against your mouth.

The kiss deepens, steam curling around you both, and you feel him grip your hips like he might forget what he was doing.

You pull back just enough to whisper, teasingly: “You're getting distracted again.”

San smirks. “You literally taste like vanilla and warm water. How am I supposed to focus?”

You laugh into his shoulder. “Finish rinsing me, San.”

And he does.

But the way his hands keep slipping a little lower? You’re pretty sure you’re not leaving this shower untouched.

—

The shower ends with your back pressed lazily to his chest, both of you reluctant to step out into the cooler air.

You’re the one who finally reaches for the knob, sighing. “We should get out before we start round 2 just from steam.”

San grins behind you, shameless. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

You swat his thigh without looking.

He helps you out first, careful with his hands as always — but the moment your feet hit the mat, he’s already reaching for a towel.

“Sit,” he murmurs, patting the bathroom counter like he owns the place.

You arch a brow. “I can dry myself off.”

“Please?,” he says with a glint in his eyes, already kneeling a little to start at your legs.

You give in — because you're sore, and he’s impossibly warm like this.

Gentle and full of affection. His hands work slowly, drying every inch like he’s mapping you all over again.

He glances up at you, curls damp and stuck to his forehead. “Still mad I carried you in here?”

You give him a small smirk. “No. But only because your massage game is elite.”

“Elite, huh?” He drags the towel up your thigh, fingers lingering too long before he slides it higher. “Do I get a trophy?”

“You’re already trying to earn one,” you mutter.

His only response is to kiss the inside of your knee.

You twitch slightly. “San…”

“Just drying,” he says — entirely unconvincing, because his hand stays exactly where it doesn’t need to be.

“You’re ridiculous,” you murmur, blushing.

But still — you don’t stop him.

He stands slowly, now using the edge of the towel to press soft, careful dabs to your chest, your arms, your neck.

He trails it up to your face, and your breath hitches at how gentle he gets — like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

His thumbs brush beneath your eyes again, drying what little water clings to your lashes.

Then he leans in and kisses your temple. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your mouth.

You're smiling now. You can’t help it. “I thought you were drying me off.”

“I am,” he murmurs against your skin. “But you’re very… distracting.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re the one making this impossible.”

He hums and wraps the towel around your body fully now, pressing it snug at your back like he’s hugging you and drying you at the same time.

You lean into him. “You really can’t keep your hands off me, can you?”

He pulls back just enough to look at you — eyes soft, adoring, almost like you’re something rare and glowing. His voice is quiet but honest: “Nope. And I don’t plan to learn how.”

Your chest squeezes, heat curling all the way down your spine.

He presses a kiss to your nose now. Then your lips. Then murmurs: “C’mon. Let me get you into something cozy.”

You smile, letting him lead you — wrapped in his towel, in his arms, in his attention.

And the truth is: You don’t want him to stop touching you, either.

—

That evening, your living room is dim, the only light flickering from the soft glow of your TV — low volume playing some show neither of you are watching.

You’re straddled on San’s lap, facing him, your thighs resting on either side of his hips, one of his old hoodies swallowing you whole.

The fabric smells like him — faint cologne, detergent, that warm scent you know better than your own by now.

He’s shirtless beneath you, just lounging in some gray sweats, all tanned skin and quiet muscle, his arms looped loosely around your waist.

Your fingers are tangled in his hair, gently twirling one around your finger as you talk — about nothing, really.

Something dumb. Something comforting. You don’t even remember how the topic started.

And you’re not really paying attention to your words anyway — not when he looks like this.

His bare face is unfairly beautiful. His jaw is sharp and clean from shaving.

The light catches the slope of his nose, the tiny beauty mark just beside his left eye, the sleepy droop of his lashes as he listens to you — and God, his lips. Full, soft, kiss-bitten from earlier.

You feel like you could cry just from looking at him.

You run your thumb gently across his cheek. He closes his eyes briefly under your touch.

And then — too soon, too cruel — he shifts slightly beneath you and murmurs,

“I have to leave soon.”

Your smile fades. “What? Why?”

He exhales slowly, rubbing his hand down your back like he’s trying to soften the blow.

“I have work in the morning. Early.”

Your heart drops a little.

You blink at him, lips parting. “But… can’t you stay tonight?”

“I want to. I really do.” His voice is soft. Regretful. But firm.

You feel your chest tightening already, throat beginning to ache with the heat of unshed frustration.

“I barely get to see you anymore,” you whisper.

“I know.” He brushes his knuckles against your thigh. “I hate it too.”

Your arms slowly wind around his neck, pulling yourself into him, burying your face into the crook between his shoulder and jaw.

You don’t say anything at first — just hold him there like if you’re quiet enough, he’ll change his mind.

He strokes your back gently.

“I’m not leaving yet,” he says, voice quieter now. “I’ve got a little time.”

You cling tighter. “Can you sleep over again? Just for tonight?”

A pause. It lasts too long.

“I can’t,” he says, and this time it sounds like it hurts him more than you. “If I don’t go home, I’ll be late.”

You nod, but you’re not ready to let go. Your arms stay locked around his neck. You hate how warm he is. How safe. How rare.

“I’m gonna miss you,” you murmur brokenly.

His hand slips under the hoodie, spreading wide across your back. He cradles you there, holds you tighter.

“Aw, baby…” he whispers, leaning his head into yours. “I’m gonna make time for us. I promise. This isn't always going to be like this.”

You sniff, but you don’t cry. Not yet.

“Don’t promise if you can’t keep it.”

His voice cracks. “I will. Even if it means losing sleep. I’ll be here. I want to be here.”

There’s a long silence between you two.

Just the sound of his breathing against your neck and the quiet, creaking shift of the couch when he leans back again.

Then you whisper something, voice soft and a little bitter:

“…And stop calling me when you’re jerking off, okay? It makes me want you even more.”

That surprises a low chuckle out of him — hoarse and heartbroken.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, a soft, rueful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“But I love calling you,” he admits. “It’s the only way I feel close to you when I can’t be here.”

You sigh, cupping his jaw, thumb brushing over the faint stubble.

“You don’t need to call me to feel close to me, San. You are close to me. Always.”

He nods once, eyes shimmering just slightly.

Then you both fall into a long, warm silence. He holds you.

You stay in his lap, hoodie swallowing your bare legs, his fingers tracing soft circles on your thigh like he doesn’t want to let go.

You know he’ll leave soon.

But not yet.

So you press your lips to his cheek. Then his nose. Then his mouth.

You whisper, “I’ll wait for you.”

And he says, “You don’t have to wait long.”

But still — the ache stays.

Because even when love is strong… it still hurts to say goodbye.

—

Masterlist

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smuttaburger · 4 days ago

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Bunnies!!

I've been planning to do this for a long time and here I am. So, I officially created a NSFW account in X.

Now, no limits for hot porn, more previews of my future and current stories, links for erotic videos and audio, moodboards and all the most sinful and depraved things you could think of.

Come take a seat in your fantasy, bunny

https://x.com/Holy1360097?t=5nI2HpEwWRzXWVq8IRNgzg&s=09

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smuttaburger · 6 days ago

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‘Can’t you, Angel?’

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✦ synopsis ; seonghwa just wants you so bad, even after he’s made you cum more times than you can count. just one more thing for him, please?

✦ pairing(s) ; bf!hwa x f!reader

✦ genre; smut

✦ tw.; MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!, cussing, softdom!hwa x sub!reader, petnames (pretty, darling, angel), reader is referred to as a “little thing”, mentions of rough sex, dacryphilia (if you squint), oral implied (f & m), creampie, overstimulation, dumbification, big dick!hwa, Imk if I missed anything!

✦ notes; seonghwa in the In Your Fantasy MV needs my mouth around his dick❤️

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seonghwa couldn’t help it, couldn’t help wanting you, even after all you’ve done for him. after you’ve been such an obedient little thing for him.

so as he pulled out of your cunt, watching his cum drip from your tight, used hole, he groaned, stroking his cock softly, slowly.

“pretty girl, look at you, huh? all messed up for me, hm?” he hummed gently, flipping you onto your back. your face was covered in tears and running mascara, a tell to how long seonghwa had been using you, pleasing you.

“so pretty, tears all over that face f’me, hm?” he whispered against your sweat-slick skin, listening to your soft whimpers with a curve to his lips.

his fingers brushed between your thighs, the same ones he had been between just minutes ago before he fucked into you like he’d never get another chance to. you shivered, thighs clamping shut.

“can’t, hwa, s’too much,” you cried, pleading with him silently, using those big, beautiful eyes to trap him into feeling bad.

only for a little bit, though. seonghwa did not crumble easily. in fact, in his mind, you must’ve wanted more, right? must’ve wanted his cock down your throat, right?

seonghwa breathed out a soft laugh, cunning like a sly fox. he pulled you up to your knees, standing before you, his cock already hard at the sight of you.

tears streamed down your face, your lips mumbling something about how you can’t do it, how whatever it was would be too much. seonghwa could care less, though, a small, sinister smile making its way onto his lips.

“must’ve fucked you dumb, hm? asking for silly things you know the answer to, darling,” he chuckles, running his fingers through your hair. he pressed his tip against your wet mouth, your eyes big as you looked up at him.

“you can do this for me. can’t you, angel?”

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smuttaburger · 6 days ago

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at the same time. three in one.

all I see is arms, sans dimple, and cutieful smiles

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smuttaburger · 6 days ago

Text

Heat of it

Pairing: Bang Chan× fem!reader

Genre: smut(drabble)

Summary: Angry words were exchanged, but he knew exactly where to touch you to make it stop and you let him.

The silence that lingered after the argument wasn’t cold—it was heavy. Not angry anymore, just thick with all the words they didn’t say but still felt. You stood at the bedroom door, arms loosely crossed, pulse drumming in your ears. His eyes were already on you, dark and unreadable, one hand running through his messy hair as he sat on the edge of the bed.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

Because when you stepped toward him, Chan stood and that was all it took.

His hands were on you instantly. A rough grip at your waist, his mouth crashing into yours like he was starving. Frustration poured from every touch—possessive, unforgiving. He tugged your clothes off in quick, practiced motions—shirt, bra, panties gone within seconds...stripping you bare with quiet determination.

Now you were sitting at the edge of the bed, bare and buzzing, while his fingers traced lazy lines over the inside of your thigh like he had nowhere else to be but right there, tormenting you.

He stood between your spread legs, eyes dark and locked on your pussy, like he was trying to memorize the way it glistened for him.

“So fucking wet already,” he murmured, dragging two fingers through your folds. Then he looked up at you, smirking. “You really got this wet just from our little argument that we had?”

You didn’t answer—not because you didn’t want to, but because you couldn’t. Your brain was already going fuzzy, legs tensing as his fingers brushed your clit with maddening slowness.

His touch was expert—broad strokes at first, then featherlight flicks. You tried to grind into it, chase more, but he grabbed your thighs and held you still.

“Stay right there,” he muttered, voice low. “I’ll take care of you.”

He flattened two fingers together and dragged them slowly down your folds, coating them in your slick, then circled your clit again—slightly firmer this time. Still not enough. Still teasing.

“You’re really soaked, baby,” he whispered. “You like when I’m rough with you, don’t you? You need it.”

Then—his middle finger pushed in.

You gasped, hips jerking forward, but he kept his other hand firm on your thigh.

“Relax,” he said, curling it inside you. “Let me in.”

He pulled back slowly, then slid in again, dragging that finger across every spot that made you twitch. Then a second finger joined it—stretching you, filling you better, deeper.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “You always get so tight around me. It’s like your pussy knows exactly who it belongs to.”

His thumb grazed your clit again, and the sudden dual sensation made you cry out.

Your hips rolled forward, and this time...he let you.

He fingered you slow, deep, controlled—curling just right every time. His thumb never left your clit, rubbing tight circles, pressing when you gasped, easing when you whimpered.

“You hear that?” he groaned. “That messy little sound? That’s you, baby. So wet you’re dripping down my hand.”

Your whole body clenched. You were close already. His fingers were relentless, his pace unforgiving in the most perfect way.

“I know this pussy,” he said, breathless. “I know exactly what it wants.”

Thats all it took for you break on him—thighs shaking, mouth open in a helpless moan, hips grinding into his hand as your orgasm snapped hard and fast. But even as you whimpered through it—Chan didn’t stop.

He kept fingering you. Same pressure, same angle. Over and over.

Your legs twitched. “Wait-Chan-fuck-it’s-”

“Oh, I know,” he said, smug. “You’re gonna give me another one.”

His palm slapped against your clit with every thrust now, and it built faster than you could take it.

And then—

You burst.Your body jerked and a gush of liquid sprayed from between your legs, soaking his hand, the bed, your thighs.

You squirted.

“Fuck,” Chan hissed.He looked down at the soaked sheets, at your trembling thighs, then at the way his fingers glistened. His smirk spread wide, eyes gleaming.

“You just squirted for me?” he said, cocky and stunned. “Holy shit.”

He dragged his fingers up your thigh slowly, still wet and slick, and then licked his bottom lip.

“You made a fucking mess, baby. Look at you-wrecked. Could barely take it.”

You whimpered, brain foggy and legs twitching. He leaned in, kissed your neck, and whispered against your skin.

“You’ve got no idea what you do to me.”

Your chest was still rising and falling, skin damp with sweat, body limp and wrecked beneath him.

A few moments passed in the quiet, your breath finally starting to slow...until you mumbled softly, voice thick with the afterglow,“…Are you still mad at me?”

He paused, lifting his head slightly. “Mad?”

You gave a tiny shrug, wincing when your muscles twitched. “For nagging you. About skipping meals again. And working till stupid o’clock like you don’t have a body that needs rest.”

Chan blinked, then let out a short laugh—deep, warm, amused.“You’re seriously bringing that up now?”

You tried to glare. It came out more like a pout. “I was worried Channie!!”

He leaned back enough to look down at you—hair messy, eyes glittering with something soft behind the smug.

He smirked. “If getting scolded ends with you soaked and shaking under me... I might start doing it on purpose.”

You rolled your eyes, too tired to do more than flick your fingers weakly at his chest.“Brat.”

He grinned and leaned in, kissing you slow...like he had all the time in the world. Like he hadn’t just fingered you into oblivion.

“I’ll eat dinner,” he murmured against your lips. “But only if you keep letting me eat you like this.”

You gasped, cheeks going hot again. “Chann!”

He smirked, pulling back just enough to graze his nose against yours.“What? You started it.”

Taglist: @pochacco-baby

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smuttaburger · 6 days ago

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How he fucks after a long day | Bang Chan Edition

Bang Chan x Reader | post-schedule, possession-heavy, overstimmed, voice-ruined, filled to the brim, worshipped after

🔞synopsis: Bang Chan comes home at 12:47AM—jaw tight, eyes dark, body stretched thin from hours of forced smiles and endless demands. He doesn’t speak much. Doesn’t have to. You open your arms. He falls into them. And then he takes you—slow at first, then all at once. He fucks like he’s trying to empty himself inside you. Like you’re the only thing keeping him from shattering. Like he’s owed this. You let him use you, fill you, break you. And afterward? He holds you like you’re the most precious thing in the entire world, which you are. Because when Chan’s had a long day, he doesn’t need rest—he needs you.

💌a/n: WOW OKAY HI UM. I'M SO SORRY THIS WAS POSTED LATE WTFFFF 😭😭😭 This was originally gonna be like... an OT8 blurby mini thing??? But then I sat down to write Chan’s part and my brain was like “haha what if he broke your back and your brain and then bathed you tenderly after” and I blacked out. So yeah. This is now a per-boy thing. Because apparently I want to be spiritually rearranged 8 different ways. If you made it to the end... I love you. And I hope you’re hydrated. And sitting down. Or not. Maybe you need to pace the hallway like a Victorian widow. Same tbh. p.s. Reblogs > love & forehead kisses, always. Pls feed the beast. p.p.s. I will be posting more of this series every week, my new filthy friday shit p.p.p.s. If you’re hoarse and can’t say his name anymore… good. That’s canon.

�� Please read responsibly. Hydrate. Stretch. Let Chan carry you to the bath when you're done sobbing.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » I Need a Girl — Taeyang ft. G-Dragon « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:40 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

The door clicks open at 12:47AM.

No keys jangling. No voice calling out your name. Just the low creak of the door and the soft thud of sneakers being toed off in the dark.

You don’t move from the couch, blanket pulled tight around your legs, phone abandoned on the side table. You heard the schedule ran long. Knew the photoshoot got pushed back, the meeting extended, the practice ran into overtime. Knew it from the unread texts he didn’t send. Knew it from the heaviness in the air before he even walked through the door.

Chan appears in the hallway light like something out of a warzone. Hoodie half-zipped, beanie pulled low, jaw tight, and eyes so dark you almost flinch.

He doesn’t look at you right away. He leans forward, hands braced on the entryway wall, head bowed like he's holding himself together through sheer will. A few seconds pass. He breathes in deep—slow, through his nose—and finally lifts his head.

“Hey,” he says, low and raw. “You’re still up.”

You nod. “Was waiting for you.”

And that’s when it breaks.

Not loudly—not with shouting or slammed fists or messy tears. No, Bang Chan unravels quietly, with purpose. He kicks off his shoes, shrugs off his hoodie, and moves toward you without hesitation.

The blanket slips from your legs as he sinks to his knees between them, dragging your body forward by the hips until you’re teetering on the edge of the couch, his face pressed into your stomach, breathing you in.

His voice is muffled. “I needed you tonight.”

Your hands find his hair, carding through the sweat-damp roots at the nape of his neck. “You have me,” you whisper. “I’m right here.”

He exhales, shaky and long, and it ghosts against your skin like he’s been holding his breath all day. One arm wraps fully around your waist, anchoring himself. The other slides up your back beneath your shirt, palm searing hot and slightly trembling from exhaustion.

You feel it in the way his body leans into yours, not just wanting contact—needing it, like he’ll collapse if he doesn’t touch every inch of you.

“I was so close to losing it today,” he murmurs, voice gravel-low. “Everyone pulling at me, asking for more, expecting me to smile, to lead, to fix everything like I’m not already falling apart.”

He tilts his head up slowly, eyes locking with yours. And that’s when you see it. Not anger. Not frustration. But that quiet, dangerous edge that only surfaces when he’s past the point of tired—when he’s empty, spent, and still expected to give.

“I didn’t even text,” he says. “Didn’t have the energy. Just kept thinking about you. About this. About your mouth. Your skin. The sound you make when I get deep and slow, when I don’t let you cum until I’ve had my fill.”

Your breath catches. Heat coils low in your stomach. But you don’t speak. You just nod.

And that’s all he needs.

Chan rises without a word, scoops you into his arms effortlessly, and carries you to the bedroom like you weigh nothing at all. He sets you down on the mattress gently, but there’s nothing soft in the way he pulls his shirt off—like he’s peeling off the day. The tension in his shoulders, the bite in his jaw—it’s all still there, carved deep.

You reach for him and he’s on you in seconds, slotting his body over yours, mouth finding your collarbone, your neck, your pulse point—sucking, not kissing. Leaving evidence.

“You’re gonna let me fuck the stress out, right?” he murmurs. “No teasing. No bratting. Just you, taking everything I give you.”

You nod, gasping when his hand slips under your shirt and cups your breast. He hums, pleased, and rolls your nipple between his fingers until your back arches.

“Say it,” he growls into your skin. “Say it’s mine tonight.”

“It’s yours,” you whisper, voice already breathy.

“No,” he says, pushing your shirt up and tugging your shorts and panties down in one fluid motion. “I want to hear it begged.”

His palm slides between your legs, fingers barely brushing your folds—and even that light touch has you twitching. You’re already wet. He smiles against your stomach.

“Oh baby,” he whispers, kissing down the inside of your thigh. “You missed me that much?”

You nod, but it’s not enough. He drags a single finger up your slit, slow and precise, watching the way your thighs jerk.

“Say it.”

“Yours,” you pant. “I’m yours, Chan—please, please just touch me—”

“Oh, I’ll touch you,” he murmurs, licking a stripe up your inner thigh, so close it hurts. “I’m gonna ruin you first.”

His mouth replaces his hand without warning, tongue sliding over your clit with practiced pressure. He holds your thighs down with iron grip, not letting you move, not letting you close your legs. It’s brutal. Precise. Ruthless.

And you’re already shaking.

Chan doesn’t moan when he eats you out. He growls. Low, animalistic sounds that rumble against your soaked cunt, the kind that make your head fall back and your fingers claw into the sheets.

He drags the flat of his tongue up and down your folds, slow and fucking thorough, before circling your clit and sucking it into his mouth. His lips seal around it, pressure perfect, tongue flicking rapid-fire. It’s overwhelming.

“C-Chan—fuck—” You arch off the bed and he slams your hips back down, forearm pressing you into the mattress.

“No running,” he mutters against you, lips wet, beard-stubbled chin glistening. “You said you were mine—prove it. Take it.”

He flattens his tongue and licks you open, slow and wide, groaning like he’s addicted to the taste. Then—without warning—his fingers replace his mouth.

Two.

Thick.

They sink in easily, your walls fluttering around the sudden stretch, and he doesn’t ease you into it. He fucks them in deep and curls them instantly, grinding them right against your front wall with unholy precision.

“God—Chan, wait, I’m—!”

“I know you’re close,” he snaps, thrusting his fingers harder. “You think I can’t feel you squeezing me like that? Go ahead, cum. Right on my fingers.”

And you do. With a sharp cry, your back bows off the bed, legs shaking violently as you cum around his hand, his name torn from your throat like a confession.

But he doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t even slow.

Your vision’s still going white when he dives back in, mouth and fingers working in tandem now—tongue flicking your overstimulated clit while his fingers piston into your cunt with vicious rhythm, fucking you through the high and straight into another.

You sob, eyes fluttering, chest heaving. “Too much—wait—Chan, I can’t—!”

“Yes, you can,” he says darkly, gaze burning as he lifts his head just enough to speak. “You will. Gonna make this whole bed smell like you. Gonna make sure your body doesn’t forget me tomorrow when you can’t sit right.”

He spits on your cunt, spreads it with his thumb, and licks it all back up again. You're wrecked. Legs trembling, thighs twitching, jaw slack.

Then—a third finger.

You gasp, back arching off the bed as he eases it in with a filthy moan.

“Ohh, baby,” he breathes, curling all three. “Look how good you take me. So fucking tight still. This pussy was made for me.”

His tongue returns to your clit, relentless. His hand thrusts harder now, fingers scissoring, finding every nerve-ending inside you and setting it on fire.

Your second orgasm crashes into you with no warning—louder, messier. You cry out, legs jerking, and this time you try to pull away—

But Chan’s not done.

“Don’t you dare run,” he snarls, gripping your thighs and forcing you open again. “You’re gonna give me one more. Be good and give me one more, and then I’ll fuck you full, yeah? That’s what you want, right?”

You sob, nodding frantically. “Yes—yes, Daddy, please—”

He grins, fucking his fingers in deeper, curling right into that spot that makes your vision split.

“There she is,” he whispers. “There’s my good girl. Ruin for me, baby. Just once more.”

And you do. You break for him. Again. Completely.

Your thighs squeeze around his shoulders, your voice shatters, and your cunt gushes around his hand as he fucks you through your third orgasm, slower now, working you through the comedown.

And only then—only then—does he finally pull back.

He drags his soaked fingers from your body, glancing down at the mess with unfiltered hunger, and then sucks them clean, tongue slow, eyes locked on yours.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You taste like you missed me.”

You try to answer—try to speak—but it’s just a moan. Your hips roll, desperate and aching for him, and he smiles. That slow, smug curl of his lips that only appears when he knows he’s got you undone.

He stands.

Fists the waistband of his sweats. And pulls them down.

His cock springs free—thick, flushed, already leaking. Heavy and hard, it slaps up against his lower stomach, veined and angry with need. He fists it immediately, pumping once, twice, with a groan that sounds like he’s been holding back for hours.

“Fuck, look at you,” he growls. “All open and messy for me. You want it?”

You nod frantically. “Want it, want you, need you inside—”

“You’re gonna take it,” he says through clenched teeth, lining himself up. “And you’re gonna keep still while I fuck you like I’ve been dying to.”

He doesn’t tease.

Doesn’t drag it out.

He presses the blunt, swollen head to your soaked entrance and sinks in slow, forcing your walls to stretch wide around the thick, burning push of him. Inch by inch, and every second of it feels like you’re being split open in the best possible way.

You moan, legs trembling, eyes fluttering. “So big—fuck, Chan—”

He grits his teeth. “Yeah? Feel me now, baby?”

He bottoms out in one final thrust, hips flush to yours, the base of his cock grinding against your sensitive folds. You gasp at the fullness, at the pressure, at how deep he is—like he’s in your fucking stomach.

And then he starts moving.

It’s not gentle. It’s not slow.

He pulls out halfway and slams back in with a sharp growl, setting a rhythm that’s punishing, relentless, animalistic. His hands lock around your hips, dragging you into every thrust as his cock splits you open again and again.

“S’fucking tight,” he hisses. “Even after all that—you’re still choking me.”

You cry out, your hands scrabbling for purchase, grabbing fistfuls of the sheets as he pounds into you.

“Chan, I’m gonna—can’t—too much—”

“No,” he snarls, eyes wild. “You can take it. You will take it. You’re mine, remember?”

His hand wraps around your throat—not tight, just enough to ground you, to own you—and he leans down, fucking you even deeper.

“You think I don’t dream about this?” he growls against your mouth. “You think I don’t fucking ache to come home and bury myself in you? To hear you moan my name while this pussy milks me dry?”

You sob his name. Broken. Desperate.

And he loses it.

Chan switches, pulls out of you and flips you over in one motion, dragging your hips up and plunging back into you from behind. One hand fists in your hair, the other comes down hard on your ass.

“Arch that back. Just like that. Fucking perfect—”

You’re a mess. Drool on the sheets. Tears streaking your cheeks. Your body trembling, slick gushing with every thrust as he ruins you from behind, his cock hitting deeper, harder, brutal in its precision. Chan grabs a fistful of your hair and yanks you back into his chest, forcing your spine into a perfect arch. The shift in angle punches a moan from your lungs so loud it startles even him.

“There it is,” he growls, voice vibrating against your neck. “That’s the spot, yeah? Right fucking there—where I split you open just right?”

You sob. There are no words left. Just sounds—guttural, broken, high-pitched gasps every time his cock slams into your sweet spot. You try to speak. Try to say “yes,” try to say “more,” but it comes out slurred, useless. Just wet, incoherent babbling as spit leaks from the corner of your mouth and stains the sheets.

“Can’t even talk,” he chuckles darkly. “Already cock drunk? But I’m not done yet, baby.”

He slams in once, hard, deep—and then smacks your ass again, harder this time, the sound ricocheting off the walls. You jerk forward, whimpering, and he doesn’t let you run.

Another slap. And another. Your ass stings, heat blooming where his palm leaves its mark. Your legs quake.

“This what you wanted?” he snarls, yanking your head back by your hair. “Waiting for me, dripping and desperate, just begging to be fucked stupid?”

You moan something—nonsense, vowels, his name maybe—and he grins against your shoulder.

“That’s right. All you can do is moan and take it. My perfect little fucktoy.”

He shoves your head back into the mattress and folds over your back, hips still pistoning in relentless rhythm. You’re choking on the air now, gasping, broken, tears wetting the sheets below you.

“Feel that?” he hisses. “That’s me, right here.” He presses a hand to your stomach, feeling the outline of his cock pushing up through your guts.

You moan so loud and that only spurs him on more. Those pretty sobby moans of yours. He slides his hand back down between your legs, fingers rubbing your swollen clit in cruel, fast circles as he pounds into you harder—so hard you feel the bedframe shake.

“Cum again,” he pants. “Soak my cock, baby. Let go for me.”

You sob, body convulsing, legs giving out as another orgasm crashes into you full-force—violent, pure nerves. You squirt, slick gushing out around his cock, and he groans, hand tightening on your hip.

“Fucking hell—yes, just like that. You’re so messy for me—so good—fuck—”

You collapse face-first into the mattress, body twitching from overstimulation, and Chan finally slows.

But doesn’t stop.

He grinds now, deep and slow, still buried inside your fluttering cunt, letting you feel every thick inch drag against hypersensitive walls.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Cock-drunk little mess. Can’t even lift your head.”

He pulls out slowly, and you whimper at the loss—but then he spreads you with both hands, watches your hole pulse and clench on nothing, leaking everywhere.

“Oh, baby,” he groans. “You can take more. I’ll make it so good—fill you up till you’re leaking for hours, promise.”

Your throat works around a whimper, drool still pooling on the sheets, legs useless, mind white-noise and static. You try to lift your head, try to respond—you can't.

And Chan fucking loves that.

“God, you’re so far gone,” he breathes. “You don’t even know your own name right now, do you?”

You manage a broken, garbled sound—it might be “no,” might be “Chan,” might be nothing at all.

He fists his cock at your entrance, rubbing the head through the slick dripping down your thighs. You jolt. Twitch. Cry out. He shushes you with a gentleness that doesn’t match the way he ruts forward again, cock forcing its way back into your swollen cunt with a slick, filthy sound.

“Shhh, I know,” he coos. “You’re sore, baby, I know. Just let me in. I’ll take care of it.”

You’re shaking. You feel everything. Every vein, every pulse, every drag of his thick length through oversensitive, spasming walls.

“You’re taking me so well,” he groans. “Still so tight. So good. Gonna make me fucking cum—fuck, you feel too good—”

He folds over you again, chest to your back, lips right at your ear. One arm wraps under your body, hand sliding up to cup your throat, the other pulling your hips back into him like he’s anchoring himself inside you.

“You’re mine, yeah?” he whispers, voice cracking. “Say it.”

“I’m—yours,” you sob, voice barely there. “Always—always yours—”

That’s all it takes.

His rhythm breaks. Hips stutter. A strangled noise rips from his chest as his cock jerks deep inside you—and then he’s cumming, hard, deep, spilling hot inside your pulsing cunt as his breath shudders against your neck.

“F-fuck—yes—yes, take it, baby, take all of it—mine—”

You feel it fill you.

Hot. Heavy. Endless.

And he doesn’t pull out.

He stays buried deep, hands trembling now, forehead pressed to your shoulder as he rides the aftershocks in low, shallow thrusts, grinding his release deeper, forcing it to stay, until he stills. Stills for a second to catch his breath and then finally, slowly—slowly—coming back to himself.

His trembling exhales even out. His lips brush your shoulder once, then twice, softer every time. He presses a kiss to your spine. Then one behind your ear. Then to the crown of your head, murmuring into your hair:

“Breathe with me, baby. Just like that. That’s it.”

You’re limp beneath him. Boneless. A little teary. You feel sticky and sore and full—but also safe. Because Chan never lets go.

He finally pulls out, and you both whimper at the same time—you from the emptiness, him from the sensitivity. He cups between your thighs, tries to catch the cum that’s already starting to drip out.

“Fuck,” he whispers, in awe. “I really stuffed you, didn’t I? It’s still warm inside.”

You make a small, broken noise that could be a laugh—or just the air leaving your lungs. He leans down and kisses your temple again.

“Don’t move, angel. I’ve got you.”

He disappears for only a second, then returns with a clean towel and warm water from the ensuite. You blink blearily as he lifts one of your thighs, murmuring apologies as he wipes between your legs with the gentlest touch, catching every drop of the mess he made with soft, rhythmic circles.

“So good for me,” he says, more to himself than to you. “So, so good.”

He helps you sit up slowly, presses a bottle of water to your lips, and watches as you drink—holding the back of your head like you might fall apart again. When you're done, he slips his hoodie over your head, and it swallows you whole.

You feel tiny inside it. But so warm.

He kisses your nose. “Gonna run a bath, alright? I want you warm and floating. You’ll feel better in the water.”

The lights in the bathroom are dimmed. Steam rises off the tub. He sinks in first, and then pulls you in with him—your back to his chest, thighs folded over his, your head tucked beneath his chin.

There are no words for a long while.

Just his fingertips gliding over your arms, your legs, tracing circles over your hips beneath the water. His lips press to the back of your shoulder, then to your cheek.

Then softly—brokenly—he whispers: “I didn’t mean to go that hard.”

You turn your head slightly, looking up at him. His eyes are filled with something too deep to name—something that looks like guilt and devotion tangled together.

“You needed it,” you rasp. “I wanted it.”

“I was rough,” he says, kissing your wet lashes. “You cried.”

You smile—barely. “You always make me cry.”

“Yeah,” he whispers, nose brushing your hair. “But not like that.”

You twist slightly in his arms, enough to face him now. Your hand cups his cheek. “I felt loved. Even when it hurt. Especially when it hurt.”

His eyes flutter shut, and he nods once—like it cracks something open in him. “You’re my safe place,” he murmurs. “The only thing I want to come home to.”

You nuzzle into his chest. “You can fuck me into the mattress whenever you need to. Just don’t forget to kiss me after.”

He lets out a shaky breath—half laugh, half relief—and kisses you now, long and slow and soft.

“I’ll never forget to kiss you.”

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

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smuttaburger · 7 days ago